Bladesong

by Jean Gill

  ‘Effendi.’ Muganni’s face closed up into that of the perfect serving-boy, humouring his lord, and he went about his business. Dragonetz was left with the verbal equivalent of a signed contract for a man’s murder, to be used when and on whom he chose; and with a body that was destroying itself, minute by minute. The only thing to do, as he’d already decided, was to mount his camel and ride for Jerusalem and its widow-queen, following where the train led.

  Chapter 16

  Last time he’d seen Jerusalem he’d been too bitter to notice. How could you enter Jerusalem without a thousand stories for company? All those bible stories and crusading veterans’ tales. For a minute, Dragonetz imagined how the first Crusaders must have felt when they claimed the Holy City for Christian rule. Their pride and awe at fulfilling their sacred mission, the miracle of their success. Then he remembered the pride of those same veterans in ‘dispatching’ the thousands of Jewish and Muslim families who lived in Jerusalem.

  He was no longer the young Crusader who’d come to fight the Infidel and he would never again be able to go to war without counting the cost in human lives. Human, not just Christian. He shook his head, like a dog shakes off a shower, willing away the unwanted images, knowing he made his life complicated by such heretical thoughts. Instead, he let his soldier’s experience automatically signal the city’s defensive strengths and weaknesses to him, as he rode towards it with the vantage point of an attacking army.

  Everything about Jerusalem was square, from the four-walled shape of the city to the battlements and towers. Squarest of all was the Tower of David, a keep dominating the skyline, apparently impregnable. It would be to the Tower of David that the important residents would retreat if the outer walls gave way to mangonets, trebuchels, or force of numbers scaling the walls. He appraised the city again and corrected his first impression. Not all buildings were square. He recognised the Dome du Rocher. Not as high as the tower, the huge gold roof, curved like a Saracen helmet even to the decorative peak, proclaimed the city’s Arab history. Its neighbour, in duller grey, also built as a mosque. No doubt their names had been different in the past, to suit their previous use.

  Then the great walls loomed close and Dragonetz lost sight of the city interior. The train stopped outside the city walls, breaking formation and performing the usual undulation of camels kneeling and men dismounting. Although no longer afraid he’d topple off, Dragonetz couldn’t say he was used to the extreme motion as his beast dropped to its knees.

  Horses and wagons came out to meet them, to carry high-born riders and goods into the city. Servants were accompanying their masters on foot, filing past the guards at the Damascus gate and through the city walls, out of sight. Dragonetz mounted, feeling a little strange at first on the Frankish saddle after days on a camel, preceded by horse-riding for months with Moorish tack. Bar Philipos and Yalda rode beside him, while Muganni loped easily in the rear, alongside the other servants and the laden pack-horses. No doubt there was more than one wagon with Bar Philipos’ goods, following them into the city.

  The Damascus Gate opened into the quarter dominated by the ex-mosques and Arab-style housing but they quickly moved past these and headed to the right, amongst many churches and few houses. Clean, paved streets stretched out in every direction but the impression of well-organised design was disrupted by equal numbers of relic-sellers, food vendors, their customers and the numerous beggars who littered the streets. Dragonetz had never seen so many people.

  ‘Thank the Lord we’re here out of the season for pilgrims,’ murmured Bar Philipos, kicking away a man whose cupped hands and whining plea for a coin had intruded on the Syrian’s physical space.

  ‘The thigh-bone of Saint John,’ offered a peddler dressed in monkish garb. ‘Guaranteed to cure all ills.’

  ‘And the third such thigh-bone in this street alone,’ muttered Dragonetz, any remaining illusions about the holiness of the city taking a severe beating. ‘Could there really be more people in this city in the summer?’

  ‘From April to October, the pilgrims come in their thousands. Every pilgrim lodging is full, at triple the usual price, and any accommodation in the city is hard to find. I’ve heard that Rome is no longer as efficacious, and Santiago de Compostela was always a poor-man’s choice, so, now the Church of the Holy Sepulchre can be visited, what Christian would not choose Jerusalem?’

  It was so easy to fall into easy habits of conversation with Bar Philipos, learning from his extensive knowledge of these lands and their peoples. Since he’d been a captive, because he’d been a captive, Dragonetz had put unsavoury facts about the Syrian to one side of his mind and had profited from their contact. Anyone watching them would have thought them friends. That habitual relationship had become second-nature to Dragonetz, even though he now felt dirty at the contact.

  How was it possible for him to chat in this way, knowing the Syrian’s abuse of boys just like the one who gambolled along, protected by, and protecting, his new master? Knowing that he had dosed his captive with slow death, smiling throughout? Dragonetz felt sick at his own capacity for mummery. This, he told himself, is about survival and alliances, when deep in enemy territory. I could whisper this man’s name, with the password, into the right ears, and his life would be over. This is not me, who makes polite conversation with such a man. And yet.

  And yet, that is exactly what disturbed Dragonetz most. There was a part of him that respected Bar Philipos’ passionate commitment to Damascus, a city that - thanks to the Syrian - Dragonetz had grown to love. That same part of him could appreciate Bar Philipos as a politician, while despising him as a human being. How was it possible to distinguish between the two? How could you hate a man, for what he’d done to others and for what he’d done to you, and also admire him as a strategist?

  ‘Our roads must part here.’ Bar Philipos broke into his thoughts as if reading them. ‘See.’ He nodded towards the grand walls and entrance to their right. ‘The Church of the Holy Sepulchre.’ Confused, wondering whether he was supposed to perform a pilgrim’s thanks for safe journey, Dragonetz waited. That such a suggestion should come from Bar Philipos! ‘And opposite,’ the Syrian continued, looking left, ‘the hospital, where the knights of Saint John are expecting you. They have lodgings for pilgrims, some empty in October, and you are expected. I go to stay with family.’

  The Hospital could easily be recognised as such by the crowds of people, some being carried, many with makeshift bandages and in varying stages of sickness and bodily weakness, all gathering round the entrances to a long building, almost as grand as the holy monument opposite. Dragonetz saw flashes of the characteristic, monkish tabards worn by the knights Hospitaler, black with white, eight-point crosses. The Hospitalers were organising their would-be patients, sending urgent cases one way, holding others in waiting. The original structure of the building was that of a monastery but there were additions, including a small but beautiful church, dedicated to John the Baptist. Just past the complex of Hospital buildings was a private entrance and it was here that Bar Philipos stopped.

  Dragonetz could not move a limb, lost, uncertain. The Syrian told him, ‘I gathered that the Templers have been over-zealous in trying to recruit you, and that the Hospitalers would offer a more restful place to stay.’ Adolescent resentment filled Dragonetz. What else did the man know about him?! From Yalda, no doubt! Or from the poppy dreams, over which he had no control. Still, he sat there. ‘You are a free man,’ said Bar Philipos and it was only then, with those five words, that Dragonetz felt his imprisonment, the weight of it shackling his mind as much as his movements, the daily constraints. He felt the tremors starting in his hands and caught Muganni’s eye. The boy nodded imperceptibly.

  Bar Philipos gave a curt order to one of his servants, who brought a pack-horse towards them, laden with what Dragonetz instantly recognised as his own saddle-bags, with extra goods stacked above them. ‘You will find everything is there, all your possessions,’ the Syrian told him, ‘and we will
have audience together with Queen Mélisende, two days from now, to discuss the matter of Damascus. You have been my guest for several months and we have much information to share with the Queen. And of course I have told her of the special gift you bring for her.’

  ‘You don’t fear for what I might say?’ Dragonetz ventured.

  ‘I trust your judgement, my Lord,’ was the smooth reply, and if Dragonetz hadn’t known of the contingency plan to dispose of him, he would have admired the other’s confidence more - or perhaps less. Bar Philipos kicked his horse on, and the last Dragonetz saw of the party was one sullen glance from the swathes of black fabric hiding all but Yalda’s eyes.

  ‘My Lord Dragonetz.’ A young Hospitaler smiled his greeting, then ordered black-clad servants to take the horses and show Muganni to the prepared lodging. ‘It is such an honour to have you here. We have all heard of your crusade, how you became Commander on Mount Cadmus and so young!’ Wearily, Dragonetz suffered the starry-eyed young man to lead him to a clean, sparse chamber where Muganni had already aired the bed and placed a night chemise on it.

  ‘What am I thinking?!’ The Hospitaler, who’d introduced himself as Francis de Blaincourt, stopped mid-flow. ‘You must be so tired after the journey.’

  ‘I am,’ Dragonetz responded shortly. ‘Please excuse me but I think I must sleep as long as I can this night.’

  ‘I see your boy has prepared a posset for you already,’ smiled de Blaincourt. ‘Then I wish you good night and will see you at matins.’ Before he had pulled the heavy oak door to, Dragonetz had already lost control of his hands. Muganni held the ‘posset’ to his master’s lips and helped him drink, ignoring the tears forcing their way out of closed eyelids, then he supported Dragonetz to the bed. ‘You will be yourself in the morning,’ Muganni promised in soft Arabic, but no-one heard him. Dragonetz was already deeply elsewhere.

  Not at matins, nor prime, but closer to terce and lunch-time, Dragonetz emerged from his stupor. After sluicing himself awake at the wash-basin, with the pitcher provided, he unpacked the saddle-bags and parcels, letting Muganni fold unwanted clothes into the chest. ‘The crates!’ he exclaimed.

  The boy’s teeth gleamed as he reassured his master, ‘The pigeons are in the care of the knights’ falconer. I went back to the camel-herders last night to have them brought here.’ Dragonetz breathed again, glad he’d paid handsomely for his cargo to be kept safe. The Khatun’s gift - for she would never have insulted him with the word ‘bribe’, whatever she hoped - was only partly in the pigeons themselves and was irreplaceable.

  Inspecting his armour for rust or damage, Dragonetz was pleased to find it had been oiled and had no stiffness in the joints. Unlike himself. He donned his mail hauberk over his long-sleeved linen under-tunic and britches, then paused, looking at the tabards and chemises, belts and stockings. They looked so foreign to him.

  Instead he reached for one of the loose, striped robes that had been his daywear for months, slipped it over the hauberk and tied a cord round his waist. Another day wearing the comfortable garb of Damascus would harm no-one, he thought as his feet made their habitual way into leather sandals. He probably looked much like a Hospitaler, or a pilgrim. His Damascene sword belted round his hips, he was ready for Jerusalem. He let Muganni find young Francis de Blaincourt, who was only too happy to escort Dragonetz to the refectory, where unleavened bread and sheep cheese tasted as good as any banquet, especially washed down with good red wine from the hill-vineyards of Homs.

  Silence did not appear to be one of the vows taken by the Hospitalers but, with a full stomach, Dragonetz found de Blaincourt’s chatter entertaining rather than irritating, and he was able to turn it to his advantage. By the end of the meal, he knew that Queen Mélisende’s good-looking Constable was rumoured to be more than her right-hand man. Dragonetz was also fully informed as to the Hospitalers’ organisation into knights, men-at-arms and chaplains, and the strength of the newly formed militia, an army to rival the Templars - so de Blaincourt informed him with pride. The rivalry between Hospitalers and their red-cross brethren, the Templars, was not news to Dragonetz and he was not sure whether lodging with the Hospitalers would weigh in his favour or against him.

  The Templar Grand Master would be none too pleased when he heard but Bar Philipos was quite right. Because of their work in the Hospital, the Knights of St John still preserved a reputation for adherence to their vows, and for neutrality. Whether this would change as their militia grew stronger, was a good question. What was certain was that the Templars’ power had already grown well beyond neutrality; their ingenious banking system, from which Dragonetz had profited in the past, made their vow of poverty a joke. They were an easy target for tavern jokes regarding their other vows too, but such jests were rarely made in front of the Templars themselves. Their skill at arms was not a joke.

  Dragonetz had been approached several times by Templar Commanders, including the Grand Master himself, Everard des Barres, when they were Crusaders together, but the offers had never convinced him. Not that the offers hadn’t been tempting! But he could never shake the feeling that he would be signing away his soul, even with de Barres, a man after his own heart, in a way beyond anything he had known with Aliénor as his liege.

  De Barres had rescued King Louis from his own folly more than once in the first year of the crusade and then, like Dragonetz, returned home with the defeated army, disillusioned. Whereas Dragonetz had invested his energy in a paper mill, De Barres’ reaction to the humiliating campaign had been to retire from the world and join the monastery at Clairvaux. Dragonetz didn’t know his successor, Bernard de Tremelay, but he did know that the new Grand Master had been leader in all but name since de Barres left the Holy Land, and the title had been ratified by vote four months ago.

  Given the fragile relationships between the two orders of knights, and his own reputation (of which he was informed hourly by de Blaincourt) it was no surprise to Dragonetz that the Hospitalers’ Grand Master, Raymond de Puy, requested his presence.

  When he entered the austere chamber to which de Blaincourt escorted him, Dragonetz found himself alone with one of the most powerful men in Jerusalem. A man in his sixties, with a bald head and a curly grey beard, the Dauphinois Raymond de Puy addressed Dragonetz in their native Occitan, which instantly created a feeling of intimacy. This was reinforced by de Puy’s Hospitaler garb, the same as all the knights wore, and his unassuming manner.

  Inviting Dragonetz to draw up a stool and sit with him, de Puy spoke with a twinkle in his eye. ‘De Blaincourt tells me we have a legend among us, a cross between the Lancelot of the new Frankish ballads, and a Perseus, who dispatched the Damascene minotaur while hanging upside down from a stirrup.’

  Dragonetz smiled. ‘I fear he exaggerates, most worshipful master. The stirrup acrobatics were separate from the killing of the minotaur.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ de Puy returned the smile but showed the steel within, ‘this makes your choice of allegiance interesting to my order.’

  Dragonetz let the silence speak.

  ‘I will speak frankly. I am concerned, as are many others, at the way the Templars’ power grows, beyond any checks. They serve the throne because they choose to do so but they make it clear that they are above the law and own no authority but the Pope’s. The Pope is a long, long way from here and his authority weighs lightly. Until recently, the Templar army went unchallenged, which works well when we are united against the infidel; not so well in truce-times where power seeks more power, more land and more wealth.

  There must be a balance to such power and we can provide it. I am at fault for letting our order concentrate on our hospices and development of skills in care of the sick, leaving the military duties to the Templars unless war called us to arms. No more! We are expanding our militia, and training them to be unbeatable, to offer the counter-balance. We need the best training, and you can give us that. Will you join us?

  I can’t offer you wealth. Nor prestige or power suc
h as you would gain with the Templars themselves. There is little earthly reward in doing God’s work but the knowledge that you fight for what is right. You would have a thousand young men like de Blaincourt, to shape for the good, with a knight’s skills, used for a knight’s purpose, not for greed. What do you say? Will you join us?’

  Dragonetz bit his lips to prevent the ‘Oc’ of assent escaping. To say yes and give up the responsibilities he carried, to obey orders, doing what he did best, working for someone he respected... No wonder de Puy had reached the position he had, when he inspired such an urge in a stranger. However, the instinct to accept de Puy’s offer did not further his plan.

  ‘I take the question as a great compliment,’ he replied slowly, ‘and I will think seriously about it.’

  Disappointment flashed across de Puy’s face. They both knew the answer was ‘non’ but the older man was wise enough not to press. Instead, he clasped both Dragonetz’ hands in his own, then blessed him, leaving a stronger feeling of guilt and debt than any recrimination could have done.

  Dragonetz needed to dress for court. Several times he picked up the clothes he had worn in the past, then put them back down, while Muganni waited passively. Then he gave them to the boy, to fold and put back in the chest, and instead selected a clean robe, with long, loose sleeves and embroidered trim. It was so much more comfortable, left him so much more freedom of movement than his Occitan garb. He told himself that his attire was not so different from the Hospitalers and he knew that the court of Jerusalem had a far greater range of nationalities among its courtiers than that of Paris, where even a southern flourish in dress would attract disapproval. So Aliénor had found, to her cost.

  Musing on the two courts, Dragonetz imagined the scene when Aliénor had been presented to Mélisende, three years earlier. That must have been some competition in jewels and entourage. How Aliénor must have envied the woman who was queen in her own right, not through some weak husband. Indeed, as a widow, whose king-son had barely reached majority, Mélisende held absolute power. This might not be what her father had envisaged when he left his throne jointly to his daughter and her carefully chosen Frankish husband, Foulques. No doubt the father had imagined his daughter supporting her husband, securing the throne until it could be passed on to her son Baudouin, on Foulques’ death. If so, Mélisende’s father had known little of his daughter, who fought inch by inch, surviving scandal and war, to rule as Foulques’ equal - more than equal, many said, as blood heir to the old king.