by Jack Whyte
“No, it will not. That is what we ourselves would have said until mere weeks ago. But then the ship that I mentioned earlier arrived in Marseille, with tidings that altered everything we knew. The man who brought the information to us was familiar with what he described, and he bore written testimony from others to reinforce his claims. And here is what we now know to be true.” He nibbled at his clean-shaven upper lip as he sought the proper words for what he would say next.
“From all that we have been able to gather from reports, we have become convinced that Guy de Lusignan, the King of Jerusalem, is a fool and a weakling. Guy was driven into the folly of the fight at Hattin by conflicting advice, all of it bad, from the Master of the Temple, Gerard de Ridefort, and his arrogant and disgusting cohort Reynald de Chatillon. Had Guy been anything less than a poltroon, he might have ignored both of them and made his own decisions, but he did not. And his folly did not end at Hattin. He was captured there by Saladin, who treated him well and later released him, upon Guy’s promise to fight no more but to return home to France.
“No sooner was he free, however, than he broke his promise, on the unsurprising grounds that an oath issued under duress to an infidel cannot be binding. He then proclaimed himself King in his own right. But he was already late and feckless yet again, because a new player had arrived in Outremer. Do you know anything about Tyre?”
St. Clair shrugged. “It is a city. I know no more than that.”
“A coastal city and a great port. It was once an island, until Alexander the Great captured it by building a causeway to it from the mainland. That causeway is still there, forming an isthmus and straddled now by a great defensive wall that makes the city almost impregnable from the landward side. Saladin besieged Tyre hugely within days of winning the fight at Hattin, and so hopeless were the defenders that they were already negotiating terms of surrender when a ship sailed into the harbor there. Aboard that ship was an adventurer called Conrad of Montferrat. He and his companions were headed for Jerusalem and knew nothing about the war, nor about Saladin or Hattin. They had sought to land at Acre the previous day but had been warned off, with word that the Saracens had captured the city four days earlier, and so they had sailed for Tyre.
“As soon as he learned what was going on, Conrad took charge. He immediately cut off the surrender negotiations and prepared the city for a long defense. Saladin, who saw that he was now facing a long, sustained siege rather than an easy capitulation, promptly left Tyre and marched off southward with his armies to capture Jerusalem and Ascalon. He knew that Tyre was isolated and posed him no immediate threat, whereas Jerusalem was a prize ripe for the picking.
“Conrad, now the acknowledged commander of Tyre, became the de facto leader of the Franks, but Guy himself arrived in Tyre, having broken his oath to Saladin, and demanded to be acknowledged as King. Conrad shut the gates against him. The kingship issue was unresolved, he said, and should await resolution when the armies of the Frankish kings arrived in Outremer.
“The following spring, Guy led a tiny army, supported by a few ships, in an attack on Acre, further down the coast.” The old Master paused and shook his head, looking at no one in particular. “That was sheer stupidity, a gesture fully worthy of Guy of Lusignan, whom no one, even in his finest moments, ever accused of being either sensible or wise. The Acre garrison alone, I am told, was more than twice the size of his entire army, and Saladin, who was resting but a short march to the south, could have stirred at any moment and annihilated the upstart King and his followers as one might swat a fly. But Guy had no other option available to him. If he failed to attack Acre, making a last defiant and insane attempt to engage the enemy and win, he faced extinction. And so he did the only thing he could do, stupid though it might appear to be. Perhaps he had hopes of a miracle. He certainly had need of one. And by the living God of Moses, he found one.”
“As the sole conflict being waged directly against the Muslims in Outremer, Guy’s silly little siege attracted attention. A fleet of Danish and Frisian ships arrived later in the year, followed quickly by another from Flanders and northern France, and then Louis, the Margrave of Thuringia, arrived from Germany, leading another contingent. They all went directly to Tyre to Conrad, but it seems that Conrad, for no reason anyone can name, somehow made himself intolerable to all of them, so that eventually they all marched and sailed south to join Guy outside Acre, where Saladin had finally moved to attack the tiny Frankish army. It was then that our informant left to bring home the tidings of what had occurred, and the last word he heard before leaving Outremer was that Conrad had finally condescended to join the other Franks and lend Guy his support against Saladin.”
As Master Bernard’s words faded away, André had a vision of the scene before the towering stone walls of Acre and the tents and banners of the besieging Franks, but he had no time to dwell on it before another voice demanded his attention.
“So there you have the situation now in force—at least as far as we may perceive it.” The young Count of Champagne had risen to his feet. “The situation appeared to be tolerable when all we had to concern ourselves over was the advancing threat of Barbarossa, still half a thousand miles distant. But the addition of this new element has altered everything.”
St. Clair was aware of feeling stupid, as though he had missed something self-evident, and on the spur of the moment he decided to confess his ignorance. “Pardon me, my lord Count—”
“Your lord nothing, address me as a brother. We are all brethren here.”
“Aye, forgive me. But I am missing something. What is the relationship between Guy’s siege of Acre and the threat of Barbarossa?”
Henry grinned, a wide, attractive flashing of white teeth, dipping his head to one side at the same time. “I am glad you asked that. I knew you ought to ask it, but I was beginning to wonder if you might not. Good man. On the surface, there is nothing at all connecting the two, until you think about it, Brother. We here have had time to do that. You have not.
“The siege of Acre itself is not important to us, but the people involved in its execution are, and most particularly the newcomers: Louis, the Margrave of Thuringia, and Conrad of Montferrat himself. Both are high born, German, and proud in the arrogant ways of their kind. Both, by birth and feudal loyalty, are sworn vassals to Barbarossa. Conrad is a cousin. Their mere presence in Outremer ahead of his arrival paves the way for his conquest and for our dispossession.” He raised a hand quickly to forestall any questions St. Clair might have.
“You must bear in mind that the Templars in Outremer hold the line of battle on our behalf, but they are no longer the Army of Jerusalem, as they have been for eight decades. Now they are merely warriors fighting for a victory and a homeland, like everyone else in the field. And no matter what the people here at home might think of them and their supposed invincibility, the Templars have competition now that did not exist in earlier times: Barbarossa’s Teutons. He created them and shaped them. Here in the West we know little about them, but what we do know is troublesome. We have no yardstick with which to take their true measure at this time, but we know that he modeled his Teutons specifically upon the Knights of the Temple and the Hospital and we know that among their own kind their reputation is unsullied. But their motivations, obscure to us but dictated by Barbarossa, are, we fear, greatly different from those upon which they were originally modeled. The loyalty of both Templars and Hospitallers is to the Pope and the Roman Church, and the Teutons are loyal to Barbarossa and the Orthodox Church. And nothing, Brother, nothing on God’s earth is more dangerous than military campaigns based upon religious differences.”
Count Henry crossed his arms over his chest and cocked one eyebrow at André, almost but not quite smiling. “You said that it would take an open act of war by Barbarossa to dispossess the Temple, but you said it in a tone that made it clear you think that could not be. My suggestion now is that you might wish to review that opinion and consider clearly what is at stake here, when
all is said and done. Do you really believe such a war to be impossible, while openly recognizing the current war between Christianity and Islam, and the ongoing internecine war between the Sunni and Shi’a branches of Islam itself? You believe it to be impossible that Roman and Orthodox Christians might clash in the same way and for more or less the same reasons—mere form and ceremony—that Sunni and Shi’a do? How can you think in such an illogical manner? Remember, we are discussing a potential struggle for ultimate hegemony, Brother André, with the prize being the minds and souls of all the world’s Christian folk—plus, of course, all that they possess in worldly goods—and the winner’s strength will surely rest upon the stewardship and possession of Jerusalem and the Holy Land.”
The Count eyed St. Clair again with the same amused expression he had used earlier. “Are you convinced of that now? Or must I seek other words to bring you to understanding?”
“No, Brother, I understand. How could I fail to, after that? But it is nonetheless disheartening to hear.”
“Aye, it is, but the fact that you should say exactly that makes it heartening that you are one of us. So, now that you have a basic, albeit hazy, understanding of what is involved, here is what will happen next. You will spend the next three days listening to all of it again, related from other perspectives and made relevant by others among our brethren here, so that by the time you leave, even should you be disinclined to believe me at this moment, you will be completely aware of what you are about and what you must do when you arrive in Outremer. From the moment you leave here after that, you will deal with one man alone, in everything related to this task that we have set you. You already know that man. He is Robert de Sablé and he will be your liaison with this Council. He himself will have two deputies, neither of whom will know your name unless something happens to de Sablé, at which point the first of them will open written instructions and learn your identity.
“In the meantime, you will return to your own detachment bearing documents that exonerate you completely of all charges and explain, officially, that you were taken in a case of mistaken identity. You will then leave for Outremer as scheduled, and your primary task will begin the moment you set foot in Outremer. By that time you will be a fully fledged knight of the Temple, your acceptance formalized on the journey, most probably in Sicily, where Richard is scheduled to stop for reprovisioning. But you will have another duty, too, and its importance will be paramount to you. As soon as you embark for Outremer, even before you leave Marseille, you will begin to learn to speak and read Arabic. That has been arranged, and we already know you have a quick ear and a gift for learning languages.” He paused and looked around at his companions. “Does anyone wish to add something, or may we set Brother André’s schedule for the next few days before we adjourn again?”
No one had anything to add, and so André St. Clair received his instructions and fell into a world of intense tutelage the like of which he had never imagined.
THE ISLANDS OF SICILY AND CYPRUS 1190–91
ONE
The shipboard voyage from Marseille to Sicily was miserable for everyone, and André had sailed among his peers as a Temple novice, the lowest of the least, assigned to the very bowels of an ancient, rancidsmelling vessel, to live in penitence, filth, and squalor for every moment of their confinement, save only for a single period of one hour each day when they were allowed to go up onto the deck for fresh air and exercise.
Below decks, in theory, he and his fellow novices were supposed to spend their time in prayer, listening to readings from the scriptures and from the Temple Rule, and in reciting and learning the articles and sections of the Rule itself by rote. In reality, however, all of the brothers who were to do the readings fell seasick, unable to sit still and read, head down, in the stinking, fetid, heaving hell of the lower deck. And so most of the men aboard spent the entire voyage groaning, vomiting, retching, and squirming in agony.
Although André St. Clair was spared the worst of this, by the time they dropped anchor off Messina, he had not spoken sensibly to a living soul for weeks. And when he was finally permitted to go ashore, to the Temple Commandery in Messina, he went with no idea where he might find his father. He did know, however, that Sir Robert de Sablé, the Grand Master of the King’s Fleet, was the liaison assigned to him by the Council members at Aix en Provence, the man who would direct him in all that he did on the Order of Sion’s behalf in Outremer; he knew, too, that de Sablé would know where to find Sir Henry. Accordingly, with permission from Brother Justin, he made his way directly to the Master of the King’s Fleet.
And so it was that he came to dine that night in the refectory of the great building that had been commandeered for the administrative staff of the army and the fleet, with his father, and with the King himself.
The King was restless—too long at sea, he said, and too long cloistered since then with kings, princes, and churchmen. Sir Henry smiled at hearing this, but said nothing, and Richard half turned towards him.
“Grin if you like, Henry, but I can see in your eye that you know exactly what I’m talking about. It was bad enough at sea, but ever since we landed I’ve been choking for air, surrounded by puling priests and bleating bishops. I swear by the smile of Christ, too much incense can block a man’s lungs, leave him gasping, unable to breathe. God’s balls, but I thought I might go mad out there at sea, had we been cooped aboard ship for another day. People puking and heaving everywhere, and the smell of it threatening to taint every bite of food we had. But now, thanks to the sweet and gentle Jesus, the praying and the prating seems to be behind us for a spell.
“I feel the need to bestride a horse and let God’s fresh air blow the salt out of my hair and lungs, and to forget about the tomfooleries of affairs of state for a while … Oh, I know they’re necessary and laudable for a hundred reasons, and they give the clerks and clerics all a reason to keep breathing, but they are intolerably tedious, Henry. Will you not grant me that? So! My horses were off-loaded days ago and my stable master tells me they are now recovered from the voyage and ready to be ridden, so I am taking a hunting party out at dawn, to bring back fresh, untainted meat, free of the smell of puke, for all of us. You two will join us, eh?” Both men merely nodded, not even glancing at each other. There was no point in attempting to demur or disagree once Richard Plantagenet had made up his mind on something like that.
The hunt went well, and the entire party—ten men, excluding servants—had acquitted itself well when Richard called a halt late in mid-morning and led them back towards Messina. They were less than halfway back, however, when they encountered signs of impending trouble. A messenger came galloping, his horse blowing and badly winded, to tell Richard that Philip of France had returned to Messina and was calling for an immediate parlay. That left the English King nonplussed, for Philip Augustus had sailed off for Outremer two days before in a fit of pique, angry at, and probably jealous of, the way in which the Sicilian crowds had flocked to welcome Richard’s flamboyant arrival two days after his own advent had gone unremarked. But Philip, who was notoriously prone to seasickness, had sailed into a violent storm mere hours after his departure, and it had taken his damaged ship almost two days to limp back into Messina, where he was now tapping his foot impatiently and awaiting Richard’s return.
Richard cursed under his breath, then turned to Sir Henry, who was riding at his knee. “Damn the man! Am I never to be free of his tantrums? I thought he was safely gone and out of my concerns for a while, and now he’s back, puling and whining that no one shows him the respect he demands. The damned fool simply does not know that you cannot demand respect, that you have to earn it. Blast him to Hades.”
Henry sat silent, well aware that Richard was merely giving vent to his frustration and needed no input from him, and the irascible King continued, warming to his theme and unaware, beneath everything, that Henry was even there. “God’s holy arse! As if I didn’t have enough on my platter, dealing with Tancred, the upstart idiot King
of Sicily. Now there’s an ample cause to make a monarch curse his lot. Tancred the King! Tancred the Tosspot, Tancred the Pisspot, Tancred the Thief! God damn his thieving soul, I’ll have his guts dried and strung to my new arbalest.”
He looked again at Sir Henry. “I cannot rest until I deal with the upstart fool and show him what he deserves. He stole the kingdom from my sister, threw her royal arse into one of his jails, and now refuses to return her dowry, to which he has no slightest right. I swear to God, I have been thinking upon ways to gut him, and now I can’t, until I have consoled my wayward cousin Capet. Philip Augustus indeed … I’ve seen crows that are more august than this foppish Frenchman.”
Sir Henry wisely refused to meet his son’s eye when he became aware of André staring at him. Tancred had seized the throne two years earlier, upon the death of King William the Good, husband to Richard’s younger sister, Joanna Plantagenet. On mounting his new throne, and never imagining for a moment that Richard would come to Sicily under any circumstances, Tancred had imprisoned Joanna and impounded her substantial dowry. He had hastily released her several days before, immediately upon her brother’s unexpected arrival, but he had ostentatiously failed to release her dowry, and Richard had been preparing for days now to redress that situation. Within hours of disembarking, he had dispatched squadrons of elite forces, some of them English, others Aquitainians, to secure several prime locations, defensive and aggressive, surrounding Messina itself. Simultaneously, in a lightning-fast and unexpected move the previous day, he had seized and garrisoned a strong monastery at La Bagnara, on the far side of the Straits of Messina, installing his sister Joanna safely there under guard. He already had nine-tenths of a fait accompli in his hands, and the last thing he needed now was an additional degree of difficulty like the one presented by the petulant reappearance of Philip of France.