Standard of Honor

by Jack Whyte

  “No more unlikely, surely, than that we should speak Arabic?”

  Alec’s answering grin was tiny and brief, accompanied by a shake of the head. “Different thing, Cousin, believe me. You and I learned their language so that we could converse with them for our own purposes. These people have no such incentive. They are simple and unlettered, for the most part, seldom leaving these heights, and atop all that they are zealots. They despise us and everything we represent. They see us as godless infidels, damned eternally for our refusal to accept Allah and His Prophet. Why would they wish to sully themselves by speaking our foul infidel tongue? These men do not speak or understand French, upon my oath.”

  “Then I shall tell you what I thought of your Old Man of the Mountain. I thought he was one of your perfect men of God. He is a zealot, but he is also a fanatic on the scale of a Nero or a Tiberius, consumed by self-love and convinced that only through his personal intercession can men ever hope to achieve salvation, and therefore he will do all in his power to foment war for his own purposes and to his own ends. He is filled up with self-righteousness and intolerance and hatred. He preaches bigotry and slaughter in the name of God. He is insane with the need to make other men insane in fighting for their gods and his own ambitions. I loathed him at first sight, and the mere prospect of having to treat with him at any time, for any purpose, makes me want to vomit. Apart from that, I found him quite impressive, in a flat-faced, inhuman kind of way.”

  Alec quirked one eyebrow. “Well, he certainly seems to have made an impression on you. I wonder what thoughts you inspired in him.”

  André tried unsuccessfully to cover a quick grin. “I believe in first impressions, Cousin, and they seldom lead me astray. As for what he thought of me, I could not care less. What did you and he talk about?”

  Alec was quiet for several moments, as if deliberating whether or not he wanted to challenge André’s opinions, but then he shrugged and answered the question in a voice filled with disgust. “More than I wanted to talk about. First thing I found out was that I had stepped into a mess I didn’t even know was there. I didn’t do what any fool knows you have to do—I did not check my understanding against reality before jumping into the action, and placed myself at a disadvantage by not knowing everything I should have known. And, as it always will, that failure undid me when the last thing I needed was to be undone. Damnation! I’m still angry, but the truth is there’s no one to blame but myself.”

  “Like what? I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Conrad and the Templars … De Montferrat and de Ridefort. I thought to distance them from each other, for my own purposes, one of them now being dead, but as soon as I brought the matter up, Sinan became incensed, and I knew I had missed something. Sure enough, he told me all about it, and I was taken completely by surprise. It mattered nothing that I was still a prisoner of war when all of it took place, because I am a dealer in information first and foremost and should know better than to make such errors.”

  “I still don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “I know. I know you don’t … But I don’t want to discuss it right at this moment. I’m hungry and I can smell roasting goat. Let’s find some food and a place where we can sit and eat it and talk privately, and then I’ll tell you all about the debacle.”

  A short time later, fortified by roasted goat and freshly baked bread, washed down with cold water from a nearby stream, the two Franks settled themselves by the side of a dying fire and stirred it into life. No one paid them any attention at all, and eventually Alec Sinclair sat up straighter and brushed crumbs from the front of his robe before starting to speak.

  “What I found out was that Conrad crossed Rashid badly, months ago before I was released from my captivity. Rashid is still so angry about it that he would not even allow Conrad’s name to be mentioned, and I ended up looking like a fool. Apparently one of Sinan’s ships, laden with treasures of various kind, was forced to seek sanctuary in Tyre from a violent winter storm early in this new year. I am told there are protocols governing such situations, and that the laws of sanctuary offered by harbors to visiting ships are quite as stringent as those offered to sinners by churches, but for a variety of reasons on this occasion the laws were suspended by Conrad. He had opted some time before, for reasons of his own, to shun the call to arms sent out by Richard of England to all the knights and men of Outremer. We all knew that, but somehow failed to pay it the attention it deserved, for Conrad is German, kin to Barbarossa, and newly named but not yet solidly established as the Count of Tyre.

  “The Templars had left Tyre long before this happened, to lay siege to Acre with de Lusignan, and they had taken their war chest with them, which meant that Conrad had lost his largest and most ready source of funds. He was courting the good opinion of Philip of France at the time, too, and that was not an inexpensive endeavor. But he knew there was no love lost between the English and French Kings and he sought to turn that to his own advantage. The primary import of all that at the time, however, was that Conrad was almost bankrupt, and the Arab ship in his harbor was heavily laden with goods and cargo of great value. And so he impounded the vessel and killed its captain.

  “Well, when Rashid al-Din learned of what had happened, he sent envoys to Conrad, explaining who he was—a Shi’a prince—and requesting the return of his ship and its cargo and crew on the old basis that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Conrad refused, and the messengers were sent home with fleas in their ears. And needless to say, nothing was ever restored to Sinan.

  “It was a loss of great magnitude to the Assassins and they would have gone to great lengths to make sure that no hint of their discomfiture would ever filter back to amuse Saladin. By the time I was released, the story of the captured ship had long since been overshadowed by other events. But I should have known about it nonetheless. I was lazy, and I did not dig deeply enough before committing myself to a course of action I would regret.”

  “But what could you have discovered, and how would you have known where to look?”

  “I would have looked where I ought to have looked before doing anything else. I would have looked among our own Brethren of Sion here, the few who deal with such matters. And had I done that, I would have found out everything about the episode.”

  “So … Apart from the damage to your pride, if what I am hearing is correct, there had been no great setback to what you have been asked to do. Am I correct?”

  “Oh yes. Conrad is a dead man. He merely does not know it yet. No one makes a mortal enemy of Rashid al-Din Sinan and survives to talk about it. Conrad is now under fatwa. His death has been decreed, his killers dispatched. All that remains to be finalized is the manner and the timing.”

  “Then your duty is fulfilled. You have achieved your objective without even having to do anything. That seldom happens in life today.”

  Sinclair cocked his head and regarded his cousin steadily. “Aye,” he said. “I suppose that is true, save that we cannot dictate the timing of any of this, which could be a disadvantage.” He paused. “We never did talk about that aspect of my orders, you and I. How did you feel when you discovered my instructions in the dispatches? Have you anything you wish to say? Anything you would rather not do?”

  “Well,” André’s voice was musing. “I must admit I was dismayed that you should be asked, and by our own Council, to arrange an elimination—no, let’s call it what it is—a murder. I did not become either knight or monk to be set such tasks. But then I thought it through, and believe me, Cousin, when I tell you that I thought it through at great length and on many occasions, and I came to an understanding of it from other points of view than that dictated by my own dislike. All of this, of course, long before I caught the smell of Rashid al-Din.

  “There is far more at stake here than the life of one man. I understand that. What is really at hazard is the continuing existence of Christianity in the Holy Lands … and even should Richard’s host prevail ov
er Saladin’s and uphold Christianity, the very form of that Christianity, its essence, will be disputed between rival factions of Roman and Byzantine Christians just as bitterly as the true way of Islam is disputed between Sunni and Shi’a Muslims. Now, not being a Christian, that should concern me not at all, and it does not, except that our ancient Order requires the mantle of secrecy offered it by Roman Christianity, and most particularly by the Order of the Temple, in order to continue its sacred work. And as a loyal Brother of the Order and a student of its lore, I believe in the importance of that work and have sworn to do everything within my power to assist in its eventual completion, stripping a thousand-year-old veil of lies from the eyes of men and allowing them to see and understand the original Way to the Kingdom of God espoused by Jesus and his companions within the Jerusalem Assembly.

  “To that end, I will deal with the Assassins or with anyone else capable of helping us achieve our aims. And that in turn means that I can bring myself to condone, if not to carry out, the murder of the Count of Tyre, because since the death of the Emperor Barbarossa, Conrad of Montferrat now represents the single greatest threat to Roman Christianity in Outremer. If he marries Isabella, even if he does not become King of Jerusalem in fact, he will entrench the Orthodox rites in this part of the world more strongly than ever before, and he will replace the Order of the Temple with the Teutonic Order, emasculating the Western knights, both Templars and Hospitallers, and depriving them of any voice in the future of the kingdom. And in doing that, in dispossessing the Temple, he will disrupt the workings of our Order and interrupt, conceivably for another millennium, the progress of our sacred mission. And of course, he will become King of Jerusalem as soon as he weds Isabella.”

  “Then there is naught for us to do but pray he falls to the fatwa before he marries her,” Sinclair muttered.

  “Perhaps. But as you say, Cousin, we can exercise no control over that. And Rashid al-Din has no interest in assisting with any designs of ours, am I correct?” He waited for Sinclair’s nod, then added, “But answer me this: is it true that the Assassins see ritual slaughter of public officials in public places as a desirable means of spreading their own brand of terror?”

  “It is.”

  “And is it true that it will be to Conrad’s great advantage to consummate this marriage to Isabella just as soon as it can be arranged?”

  “Yes. What are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing yet. And when this wedding occurs, will it be a great gala event?”

  “A royal wedding? Of course it will.”

  “Well then, tell me why you should not go to Rashid al-Din and inform him of what is happening with Conrad and his overwhelmingly ambitious plan to consolidate all of Christianity under himself as King of Jerusalem? And while you are there, why should you not offer to keep the imam apprised at all times of Conrad’s movements and the development of his plans for the wedding? Thus informed, and when the time is right, Rashid would be able to send in his men to wreak the greatest possible havoc at the most propitious and appropriate moment, killing Conrad just as he is preparing to wed the Queen and take up the crown of Jerusalem. Now, there would be a statement of the power of the Assassin brotherhood, and it would fit our purposes to perfection.”

  “What d’you mean, to perfection?”

  “Well, if this wedding does not take place, for any reason, well and good and we need not be concerned with any of this.”

  “But in that case Rashid al-Din will kill Conrad anyway.”

  “He probably will, but at least under those circumstances it will be his decision, not ours.”

  Alec sat staring at his cousin in unblinking awe, his right hand frozen in the act of rising to scratch at his nose, but then he allowed his hand to fall against his face, fingertips touching his lips, and shook his head. “That, Master St. Clair, is a stratagem worthy of a pope. It is inspired—utter, uncomplicated brilliance. Perfection!” He slapped his hand on his knees and surged to his feet, towering over André.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back. Into the lion’s den. I intend to go and ask that he see me now, immediately, for I have matters of grave import to share with him. He knows we are leaving in the morning and his curiosity will not permit him to let us depart without squeezing every single thing we know out of us. Wait here for me. I should not be long.”

  He was back in less than half an hour, and as he came he lobbed a magnificently gaudy dagger for André to catch. “It’s yours, although the Old Man gave it to me in token of his high regard. I neglected to tell him that it was really you whom he now holds in such high regard. Enjoy the weapon, for you certainly earned it this night. The hilt is a stone called lapis lazuli and the metalwork is brass, not gold, but you could clean and butcher a full-grown camel with the blade and never dull it. That is a sheikh’s weapon, my son. Wear it with pride. And now I am sure you must be as tired as I am, and we’re to be on the road in the early morning, so let’s find our bed rolls.”

  “I will, I will, but what did he say when you outlined your plan?”

  “Nothing, not a word, but the miserable old sodomite actually smiled at me … one of the most frightening things I have ever seen. He listened rapt, and when I had finished he went and brought the dagger for me personally, giving it to me from his own hand. He liked your plan, Cousin. And now we control the reins. We have earned a sound sleep. Come.”

  “Gladly, but I cannot accept this.” André held out the dagger, its blue and gold hilt extended towards Sinclair, but Alec crossed his arms over his chest, his fingers flat beneath his armpits. André frowned. “Come, it is yours by any argument, and as you say, it is a weapon fit for a sheikh. Why won’t you take it?”

  “Because it is not mine. You earned it with your wondrous idea. I merely passed the bait along to the Old Man. Besides, I have a dagger and I cherish it. See.” He reached to the waistband at the small of his back and brought out a weapon far more beautiful than the one given him by Rashid al-Din. This was a magnificently ornate, sheathed dagger with a hooked blade, its hilt and gilded scabbard chased with silver filigree and studded with polished precious stones in red, green, and blue.

  “I have never seen that before.”

  “Of course not. I keep it hidden, since otherwise I would have to forfeit it. Its very appearance makes a mockery of any vow of poverty and would excite the greed of anyone laying eyes on it. But I do not keep it for its monetary value, for in my eyes it has none. It once belonged to a young man called Arouf, who was brother to the wife of Ibn al-Farouch, my former captor. I found Arouf dead in the desert, after Hattin, and took the dagger from his body. Later, when I met al-Farouch, he recognized it, and later yet, when I became his prisoner, he took it from me. Then, once we had become friends and he set me free, he gave it back to me, as a memento of our time together, and I keep it in honor of that unexpectedly discovered friendship. So, keep you your dagger, and I will keep mine, both of them hidden from the eyes of acquisitive and avaricious men.”

  TEN

  Within days of their return to duty, the cousins were separated, with the knowledge that they were likely to remain so until the next pieces of the developing offensive against the enemy were well in hand.

  The unfortunate part of that was that no one could say how long that might take. The two Kings, Richard and Philip, were both laid low with leonardia, which the soldiery called scurvy. Richard’s condition was far worse than the affliction visited upon Philip, and perhaps because he could see for once that he looked physically better and more attractive than his English rival, whose hair was falling out in clumps and whose teeth were rotting and visibly loosening, Philip fought off his own infection uncharacteristically and made frantic preparations to attack Acre with his own army and bring an end to the siege once and for all through his own unsupported efforts. The major portion of Richard’s fleet, no longer under the command of Sir Robert de Sablé, was still locked in Tyre, unable to sail because of the troublesome and danger
ous winds known as the Arsuf, and stranded there with them was more than half of Richard’s army from Normandy. Philip wanted to press home his advantage and seize whatever glory he could in Acre while his rival was still sick and before these reinforcements could arrive from Tyre, and so he fought on alone, hammering relentlessly at the cornerstone of Acre’s defenses, the Accursed Tower, while Richard was rumored—the entire campaign in Outremer appeared to run on rumors—to be yet abed but negotiating fruitlessly with Saladin’s envoys over the terms of surrender for Acre.

  However, according to a report that André passed on to Alec from Ibrahim towards the very end of June, Saladin was playing a game of his own and was consequently happy to buy time by whiling away days and weeks overseeing pointless comings and goings between envoys from both armies. The Sultan, it appeared, was daily awaiting the arrival of a fleet from Cairo and an army supposedly approaching overland from Baghdad, confident that the advent of either one would be sufficient to deflect and disarm Philip’s army and its attacks on the walls of Acre. Alec took that information directly to his superior, Sir Robert de Sablé, Grand Master Elect of the Order of the Temple, only to have it set aside as unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

  That night, after dining with his cousin for the first time in more than a week, Alec passed those tidings back to André as they sat atop the defensive rampart above the Trench, staring out over the calm emptiness of the desert beyond.

  They had been disappointed on their arrival, for they had brought their arbalests along in hopes of finding something to shoot at. But the ground across from them that had been thronged with Saracen horsemen mere hours before lay empty and desolate, and their crossbows lay unused in the sand at their feet.

  Now, piqued by what his cousin had said, St. Clair turned to look at him sidelong. “It’s unimportant that we know what Saladin is thinking? That is insane.”

  “No, not so. I reacted that way, too, at first, but Sir Robert told me they already had that information and had planned accordingly. In the meantime, he said, he has larger fish to fry.”