“For what? Speaking Arabic? Balian’s always had a gift for languages. They come naturally to him. He learned Latin and a smattering of Arabic even as a boy. That he speaks Arabic so well now is because the Archdeacon of Tyre insisted on teaching King Baldwin. I don’t have the patience for languages—or the time to learn them. I’ve more important things to do.”
Aimery nodded; he felt much the same way about learning languages himself. But he had to admire someone like Balian, who could speak three languages well enough to make himself understood in all of them. All in all, this incident made Aimery revise his opinion of the younger Ibelin. Barisan, as Baron of Ramla, Ibelin, and Mirabel, might be the more useful friend in the short run, but Balian would bear watching.
Krak de Chevaliers, County of Tripoli
Reynald de Châtillon was having more trouble getting his bearings than he was prepared to admit. He abhorred weakness in anyone, especially himself—and so he could not admit to it, but things were happening too fast even for him. Fifteen years in a dungeon had taken from him much of the flesh on his bones and some of his vision as well. He still could not stand naked sunlight, and he instinctively sought shadows or shaded his eyes with a broad straw hat tied over his coif. He might look ridiculous, but Reynald had left vanity behind in the dungeon at Aleppo.
The Wheel of Fortune, he thought to himself, ought to be on his coat of arms. Born to a family of no consequence, he had come out to Outremer in the train of Louis VII of France, but rather than returning humiliated like his master, he had risen to become Prince of Antioch by seducing a sex-starved and stupid widow. Knowing he’d have nothing after her son came of age, he’d tried to take the Island of Cyprus from the Greeks—and he’d succeeded! But then the Emperor sent a fleet and robbed him of the fruits of his labors. After that he’d groveled in the dirt at the Greek Emperor’s feet in a display of abject submission, but the lesson Reynald took away from the incident was only that it was foolish to attack an island without control of the sea. So in subsequent years he’d turned eastward for new conquests—only unfortunately, through no fault of his own, he’d been captured by the Emir of Aleppo and thrown into a dungeon.
The dungeon was deep underground, with no windows to let in daylight. Air came, dank and foul, smelling of death and decay, from long, dark tunnels that led to other cellars, or possibly beyond the walls. Reynald never knew where all the tunnels led, because they were barred to him by iron grilles anchored in bedrock. Only one had seemed important: the one by which he’d entered and—fifteen years later—departed.
In the intervening years, he had lived like the rats in that dungeon: drinking the water that seeped from the walls and collected in dank pools on the stone floor, fighting over the bread and other scraps thrown to them, and shitting where he pleased. He’d seen more than one prisoner die in that dungeon, and he’d contributed to the death of others to be sure that rations never got too short—or when their ravings got on his nerves. Many men went mad in that dungeon; Reynald just became harder.
When he emerged from the dungeon, the Arabs had covered their noses and mouths at the stench of him, and even the bath slaves had made faces when ordered to clean him up. They had shaven off his filthy, matted hair, oiled him, and then scraped and scrubbed him until his white, sun-starved skin was as pink as a boiled crab. They had clipped and filed his toenails and fingernails, and then dressed him in a fine white robe with a turban and returned him to the King of Jerusalem.
It was only after he had been delivered to the Hospitaller castle of Krak des Chevaliers that he learned Baldwin III was dead; that was a bad shock. The second shock was hearing that Amalric, his brother and heir, was also dead. But the third shock had been the worst: learning that Amalric’s heir, Baldwin IV, was a boy suffering from leprosy. “So who the hell’s in charge?” Reynald demanded, already wondering if there were a widow to be seduced here as well.
“Tripoli.”
“Raymond?” Reynald asked, incredulous. Then he sniffed in contempt.
The feelings were mutual.
In a gesture of gratitude, the Emir of Aleppo had freed all the Christian prisoners in thanks for the Christian attack on Homs that had forced Salah-ad-Din to lift the seige of Aleppo. The gesture was a generous one, but to the end of his days Tripoli wondered if the Emir of Aleppo had known what he was doing when he released Reynald de Châtillon along with the others. Reynald was to be a thorn in his side until they both died—and he would be the cause of the fall of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.
Meanwhile, Reynald might have been released from the dungeon in Aleppo, but he was welcome nowhere. The Greek Emperor had accepted his groveling years before, but he had not forgiven the ravaging of Cyprus. Reynald thought the Emperor might concoct some justification for a new arrest—or just poison him. In Antioch, now that his wife was dead and his stepson was in control, he was even less welcome; Bohemond was bitter about the alleged “misrule” of his kingdom and the “plundering” of his coffers by his mother’s second husband. Tripoli, meanwhile, had banned Châtillon outright from his own territories, so he was only safe here as long as he was in the care of the Hospitallers. To go to Jerusalem, however, meant doing homage to a leper! Châtillon spat.
But here was this young knight, begging him to leave Krak des Chevaliers for Kerak in Oultrejourdain and attend upon the widow of his old friend Miles de Plancy. “Sylvia’s her name, isn’t it? Or, no,” he snapped his fingers in irritation at his poor memory, “not Sylvia, something with “ie” on the end. Melanie? No, Stephanie, that was her name! No?” Henri d’Ibelin nodded, and Châtillon scratched deeper in the dark corners of his benumbed memory. “She wasn’t much to look at, if I recall rightly.”
“She is not a conventional beauty, my lord,” Henri conceded. “But she has many other qualities.”
“I’m beginning to remember now. Miles said she could curse like a sailor, scream like a fishwife, and scratch like a cat—sometimes in fury and sometimes out of ecstasy when he rode her.” Châtillon laughed to see the young knight blush at his bluntness. “You’re not one of those fools who pledges yourself to a lady and vows chaste love, are you, boy? Let me tell you, chastity will get you nowhere. Rutting in the right place at the right time will.”
Henri flushed a darker shade of red, but replied stolidly: “My lady requests that you attend on her at Kerak, my lord. I have been asked to escort you. I know no more.”
“The hell you don’t!”
By the time they reached Kerak, Henri d’Ibelin was completely under Châtillon’s spell. He had never met a man so irreverent of everyone and everything Henri had been raised to think of as holy. Compared to Châtillon, Plancy had been a saint. Châtillon had no respect for secular authority, and even less for the Church. “I’d as soon piss on a holy relic as kiss one,” he told Henri as they rode past the holy sites on the Sea of Galilee and down the Jordan, making for the fortress of Kerak east of the Dead Sea. “And I’d as soon kill a priest as dine with one. Ever hear about what I did to the Patriarch of Antioch when he refused to contribute to my Cypriot campaign? I had him flogged and tied to a stake in the middle of the exercise ground where there wasn’t a slice of shade. Then I smeared honey all over his tonsured head and left him there until he begged me to strip him of his last obol, just to stop the flies from swarming into his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth—not to mention the open wounds on his back! They were so thick by afternoon, he nearly gagged on them!” Reynald laughed heartily at the memory. “In fact, there were so many flies he didn’t even get a sunburn on his skull, although he held out most of the day. Stupid man!” Reynald shook his head in disgust, and Henri was awed beyond comprehension.
At Kerak, Henri was ordered to escort Châtillon to the spacious and well-furnished suite once used by Miles de Plancy. He had been instructed to make sure Châtillon knew these rooms belonged to the Lord of Oultrejourdain, just as he had been instructed to point out all the lands that belonged to the barony as they rode through them. Step
hanie wanted Châtillon to understand just how rich she was, even if she didn’t bring him a princely title.
On arrival at Kerak, Henri organized a bath for Châtillon and provided him with fresh clothes from Miles de Plancy’s own wardrobe. They hung on Châtillon, who had grown thin in captivity, but they were finely woven with golden borders. Châtillon looked down at them and nodded in satisfaction. He had survived living like a rat for fifteen years, but he preferred this. He took a deep breath of air scented with crushed rosemary and thyme, considered the finely carved chests and cabinets, the wall tapestries, and the thick rugs, and nodded. Yes, this was definitely better.
He demanded a mirror and considered his face critically. He had been a handsome youth, handsome enough to seduce a princess. Now his face was like a ravaged desert, cut deep with dry gullies. His eyes were sunken, glittering pools of burning ambition under a jutting forehead filled still with plans. As a youth he’d worn his hair shoulder length, but after the initial shock of seeing his reflection with a shaved head, he decided bald suited him better. “Henri! Send me a barber to shave off this fuzz! I’m not going to grow my hair back. Too much trouble to keep it clean, and bald is cooler in the summer heat.”
At last Châtillon was ready for his interview, but to his annoyance he was not admitted. “My lady will send for you when she’s ready, my lord,” Henri informed him.
“I thought she already had!” Châtillon snapped back. “We’ve been riding nigh on a fortnight because she sent for me. Take me to her now!” he ordered.
Although Henri admired Châtillon’s spirit, he had pledged himself to Stephanie. “When she’s ready, my lord.”
Châtillon raised his hand to strike Henri or shove him out of the way, but then their eyes locked, and he changed his mind. “Right,” Châtillon agreed. “When she’s ready, she can send again—but tell her I might not be here if she waits too long.”
Henri withdrew, and Châtillon was left to stew in his own impatience. He paced the wide chamber as if measuring it. He stepped into the windows to look out across the wide, arid valley dominated by Kerak—but the sun had set, and with it any hope of seeing anything beyond the uncertain points of light that marked villages or Bedouin camps.
Oultrejourdain was a frontier, Châtillon reminded himself. A borderland without a border. The richest caravans in the world passed along just out there—in the darkness beyond the last flickering light. The caravans carrying all the riches of Arabia, the Red Sea, Egypt, and the very source of the Nile. If Miles’ widow was too stupid to take him to her bed, he’d just go out there and make his own fortune!
But he needed horses, armor, and weapons for that. And at least a half-dozen men as desperate as himself. The Holy Land was filled with such men, and weapons and armor, too. Why, there were probably enough weapons and armor buried in the sands of the desert to fit out a host ten thousand strong! Horses would be the hardest thing to come by, but not impossible.
“Are you drawn to the darkness, my lord?” a voice asked, startling him from his thoughts, and Châtillon spun around.
She was standing by the fireplace, and for the life of him Châtillon could not see how she had crossed the room without his hearing her—for if his eyes had dimmed, his hearing had sharpened in the darkness of the dungeon. He guessed there was a disguised door beside the fireplace—a secret passageway by which the lady could come to her lord, or vice versa. She had planned this well, he thought appreciatively, and his opinion of her increased.
“I have come from the darkness, my lady,” he answered her cautiously. “Let us say, I have grown accustomed to it.”
“And to having nothing but your naked life, I believe.” It was not a question.
Châtillon could not deny what she said, but he did not like admitting it, either, so he remained silent, considering the woman opposite him. She was indeed no beauty. She was hefty as a cow as well, but to her credit she made no pretense of being what she was not. She had not adorned herself in some futile attempt to make herself appealing. Her dress was black, her wimple as tight and heavy as a nun’s, her face unrouged. She wore no jewelry except her wedding band and a signet ring that looked like one Miles had worn. No doubt it was the one he had worn.
“Why do you think I sent for you, my lord?”
Châtillon was not a man who liked dissembling unless he knew it was to his advantage. Seduction could be very advantageous; but how do you seduce a woman built like a battle-ax, dressed like a nun, and as welcoming as the Sinai Desert? He took a chance on flippancy. “Because you can’t wait to get my cock up your lap?”
Stephanie did not even flinch. “I can be a lot cruder than that, so don’t try to shock me. I sent for you because I have been told you are the most ruthless, godless, and brutally ambitious man the Kingdom of Jerusalem has ever seen—and it’s seen more than its share of ruthless and godless men.”
“You flatter me, my lady.” Châtillon mimicked a courtly bow.
“You are also a penniless adventurer.”
“That’s the way I started out in life,” he pointed out with a shrug.
“But you’d rather be rich.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“I’m willing to cut a deal with you, Reynald de Châtillon.”
“Indeed. Why—if it’s not for my famous and very hungry cock?” Fifteen years was a long time to go without a woman, and to his own surprise, he found himself increasingly attracted by the idea of bedding this formidable female. Mounting a woman like her would be so much more exciting than mounting some simpering girl or jaded whore. It would be like winning a joust.
“It’s because I want a man who is not afraid of anyone.”
“Who on earth should I be afraid of, madame?” Reynald held out his arms in a wide, sweeping gesture.
Stephanie de Milly moved toward him slowly and deliberately. She did not smile, and her feet made no sound on the carpet. She glided forward until they stood only a foot apart. She was not much shorter than Reynald, and they looked eye to eye. “I am offering you the Barony of Oultrejourdain and all its wealth in exchange for one thing only.”
The look in her eyes at this range banished all banter and jesting. Châtillon found himself asking, “What?”
“Revenge,” Stephanie told him, her eyes locked on his, watching for the slightest hesitation, shock, or discomfort. “Revenge for my husband.”
Châtillon was not shocked. He could understand such a wish. “On whom, and how?”
“How is for you to decide, my lord; as for whom, I want you to destroy Raymond de Tripoli.”
That surprised Châtillon. “Tripoli? Why Tripoli?”
“Because he was behind my husband’s murder.”
Châtillon looked skeptical. He did not think Tripoli was the type of man to hire an assassin. Then again, he didn’t care if Tripoli were really to blame or not. If the price of Oultrejourdain was killing Tripoli, it was a small price. Châtillon shrugged, and stepped back so he could bow again. “At your service, madame. Do you want me to kill him before or after the nuptials?”
“Don’t mock me, Châtillon. I know killing a man like Tripoli will not be easy. I know it will take time, and murdering a man’s reputation can sometimes be better than murdering his mortal body. This is not a topic I take lightly, and it is not one you should take lightly—unless you intend to walk away from my offer.”
Châtillon considered the widow again. At this range he could smell the sweat and wood smoke clinging to the wool of her gown. No perfumes for this woman; but her very manliness aroused him—as did her passion for revenge. “You and I would make an invincible pair, my lady,” Châtillon told her slowly.
“We will see,” she answered practically. But then, for the first time, she gave him a fleeting echo of a smile when she added, “But I think we very well might.”
Chapter 6
Jerusalem, July 1176
THE PRIVY COUNCIL OF THE KING was collecting as usual on the first floor of the Tower of David.
The clerks were fussing with their ink pots and scrolls of paper, trying to get ready for any dictation they might have to take. One servant was wiping off the oak table, while another shooed away Tripoli’s dogs, which for some reason liked to lounge in this room more than any other in the palace. The Chancellor, now installed in the recently vacant Archiepiscopal See of Tyre, had pulled Tripoli into the window niche and was earnestly talking to him, while the lesser members of the Council took their usual seats.
Most chatted casually with one another in easy familiarity. Only the titular count of Edessa, Jocelyn de Courtney, sat apart from the others. Edessa no longer existed as an independent county (having been overrun by the Saracens more than thirty years ago), but Jocelyn de Courtney had been one of the many prisoners released by the Emir of Aleppo in thanks for Jerusalem’s support against Salah-ad-Din. Unlike Oultrejourdan, who had earned the Emir of Aleppo’s hatred for preying on Muslim pilgrims, the Count of Edessa had been treated courteously during his captivity. He was confined to a tower chamber rather than a dungeon; he had been well fed and even allowed books to read and servants and female slaves to look after his bodily needs. Nevertheless, the years away from court and the emptiness of his hereditary title set him apart from the others on the Privy Council. Most of all, there was unspoken mistrust between Tripoli and the men he’d appointed and the Count of Edessa. Edessa did not owe his place on the Council to Tripoli’s favor, but rather to the fact that he was the King’s closest surviving male relative: Baldwin’s maternal uncle.
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