The archbishop’s voice rose as he came to the end of his tale. “...so, the townspeople finally recognized the Devil’s work when they found the ruffian suicided in the morning. The lord of the manor then (quite rightly) had the corpse chopped up, threw the pieces into the river, and everyone watched as monsters devoured the remains.”
Monachus, surprisingly, turned from Genevieve to look directly at Fatima. Clarinda didn’t need the Norn Sight to perceive an almost physical wrench in Fatima when Monachus had spoken the word suicided.
Monachus saw it, too, and asked her, “An upsetting, but necessary tale, Lady Fatima. Instructive wasn’t it, about having to ultimately pay a price for the mistakes we make in life?”
Fatima said nothing, and an awkward silence fell at the table. Clarinda trusted her instincts that told her a double game was suddenly in play here. Something was very wrong, and that wrongness oriented around Evremar, Monachus, and Kenezki.
The other guests realized that the sermon was apparently over, and all clapped and murmured approving comments. The Venetians and Greeks simply looked at Monachus in confusion.
Khalil and Fatima, however, gave each other a long meaningful stare that expressed so much disgust that Clarinda knew that the archbishop must have noticed. She looked at Monachus, and saw him smiling with mock innocence at Fatima before leaning forward to say something to Evremar in front of the startled Queen Sibylla.
Kenezki nodded at Clarinda, seeming to read her thoughts, and then looked mirthfully at Genevieve, who had visibly paled and appeared to be waiting for more explanation of the story.
“Ha! Chopped up, cast into a river, and torn apart by water-monsters!” The pirate boomed, giving a pronounced wink to the Greek girl. He drained the rest of his goblet. “Oh, that was well done, Archbishop! That’s how to tell a tale at dinner and whet the appetite — for food and... ahem, for other things, if you know what I’m saying.”
He guffawed and made an obscene gesture of a woman’s figure as he nodded toward Clarinda with a wink.
“I’m saying you’ve had too much to drink, and —” Alex angrily started to reply, but the woman seated next to him interrupted.
“My Lady Genevieve,” Eschiva, the wife of Aimery interrupted, using the proximity of her seat beside Alex to join the conversation, “if you can somehow pry my husband’s lips from your ear, do you share your brother’s ‘let come what will’ attitude about the new political order in Constantinople?”
Genevieve almost leapt from her chair, blushing so deeply red that she surprised Clarinda by not bursting into flame. She then turned guiltily from Aimery to look at his wife while Aimery smoothly began saying something to Evremar, ignoring both women.
Clarinda groaned again. Bad enough having to contend with Kenezki’s horrific behavior, but now Genie was acting up? Obviously, Eschiva had caught Genie flirting with her husband, and now the devil was coming for her due.
Why did I let Genie come with us? This isn’t turning out to be anything like the ‘growing experience’ line that she used on her father to convince him. She acted sensibly on the voyage, but at the first contact with civilization she’s returning to form. It’s just a different location for her to make the same kind of mistakes she was making in Constantinople! There she was engaged to an old goat thrice her age; here, she’s already flirting with a married man while his wife’s sitting at the other end of the table watching her!
“Your father’s a magistrate of some kind in the city, isn’t he?” Eschiva continued, the coldness in her eyes not matching the smile on her lips. “I’d imagine this kind of change could affect your father’s position quite dramatically.”
“I…,” Genevieve began, and then collected her thoughts with a straightening of her shoulders. “It’s...as my brother said: in Constantinople, emperors come and go, but the army and bureaucracy remain.”
She took a breath, and impressed Clarinda with her next words. “I imagine you’re all familiar with this kind of transition, though, Lady Eschiva. Weren’t all of you in power in Jerusalem just a year ago? And now, you’re what? A touring troupe of some kind, taking notes of troubled areas in your former kingdom?”
Eschiva’s scowl became a benign, playful thing in the force of Guy’s laughter next to her. Her brother-in-law nodded in approval at Genevieve’s riposte, then reached across Alex’s plate at the corner of the table to clasp a reassuring hand over Eschiva’s own.
“That should be instructive for reminding you not to play games with true imperials,” Guy said good-naturedly, and then shouted to his brother at the other end of the table. “And you, Aimery! Stay on your own cushion with your lips where we can see them! Your flirtations with young Genevieve is driving your wife to distraction down here!”
His brother drunkenly waved him away and kept talking with Evremar. Guy turned his attention and the conversation to Fatima.
“Since we’re speaking of fathers, Milady, how fares yours?” Guy asked Fatima. “I haven’t seen Master Ibn-Khaldun in years, but I hear that the Krak des Chevaliers is growing as a fortress and library under his watch.”
Before Fatima could say anything in reply, Guy raised his drinking vessel to make another toast. “To Khajen ibn-Khaldun,” the ousted king said, “the Saracen complement to our own Archbishop William of Tyre, and perhaps even his equal in matters of manuscripts and histories of the kingdom.”
All at the table participated in the toast, except for Monachus, who stared straight ahead. Guy noticed and raised a hand at Fatima, interrupting the conversation he was going to begin with her.
“I’m sorry, Monachus,” Guy commented with steel in his tone, “but I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t raise your glass. Do you take issue with Master Ibn-Khaldun in some way?”
Clarinda looked across her seat at the man, Khalil, whom Guy had nodded toward, and she found that that man was looking at her with a faint smile on his dark face. A well-groomed goatee dominated an otherwise clean-shaven and handsome face, whose black eyes beneath thick eyebrows seemed to miss little of the people around him.
“I think,” Monachus said, his eyes flitting from Guy to settle on Fatima, “that we ought to follow the words of Saint Paul when he enjoins us to ‘avoid obscene talk or absurdities.’ No, no, no. Instead of praising an infidel librarian like Ibn-Khaldun, I suggest we simply take a moment and give thanks to God.”
“Well, that’s rather rude,” Queen Sibylla said, regarding him severely. “Father Monachus, you owe the young lady and her husband an apology. Master Ibn-Khaldun is a long-standing friend of our family.”
“In Church matters,” Monachus replied, “I apologize only to the Pope or God.”
“Excuse me, Archbishop,” Fatima said, her words softly but intelligently spoken, “has my father personally offended you in some way? I don’t recall him ever mentioning you.”
“Offended me in some way?” the archbishop repeated slowly, each word a hurled stone. “His presence at one of the greatest libraries in the world offends Christendom itself.” He shook his head and made the sign of the Cross. “Heathens at play in the gardens of the Lord, if you ask me — is it any wonder that the Crusaders have trod you Saracen scum beneath our heel?”
“One ought to be careful of claims of strength, Father Monachus,” Clarinda found herself interrupting, her personal distaste for this archbishop causing her to defend Fatima’s father. She’d known the woman for less than an hour now, and had absolutely no idea who this Ibn-Khaldun was, but enough was enough.
“Oh?” Monachus’s face was a study in snobbish affront. “Pray, instruct us, Merchant’s Daughter.”
“Well, I wouldn’t presume to instruct one so learned as you, of course, Father,” Clarinda said, “but I believe that the cautionary tale about ‘strength’ that one finds in the martyrdom of Saint Cecilia has much to offer here.”
Monachus frowned, confused, but when he sensed all eyes turning to him for an explanation, he returned cautious attention to Clarinda.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve heard this particular sermon, Archbishop,” Clarinda interrupted, taking in as many eyes as she could, the moment reminding her of the times late at night in the Maritina’s galley when sailors would swap jokes and tell tall tales. “But, what I do remember has something to do with the sweet, martyred Cecilia being asked by her torturers about why she doesn’t seem to respect their strength.
“Well, during a break when Cecilia’s torturers were killing her — I think that this was after they were trying to suffocate her in a closed steam bath, but before they started stabbing her…,” she laughed disarmingly, intent not to reveal her fury at these distractions from talking about her father, but also not passing up a chance to insult this overweening man. “I mean, I always get mixed up on the parts in the story where the female saint is getting maimed or killed by men. Who doesn’t? Well, in any event, Blessed Cecilia said that the ‘strength’ of men can sometimes be compared to a bladder that one sews up and blows full of wind until its completely inflated.” She leveled her gaze at Monachus. “In some instances, Cecilia reminded those men, all it takes is one prick to deflate the bladder and let that strength rush out.”
She’d emphasized her words and timed her pauses well enough that most of the table laughed, with King Guy and Queen Sibylla even clapping softly.
Clarinda shrugged self-deprecatingly at the applause, ignoring the flushed face of her opponent as she concluded. “You’re probably the expert here on un cuzzo, or the kind of prick it takes to deflate a windbag, Archbishop — but, after hearing that sermon, I’ve tried to follow St. Cecilia’s cautions about strength, be it of the strength of men, or that of the Church.”
Clarinda almost jumped at Fatima’s grateful squeeze on her leg and she nodded at her with a smile. Guy laughed aloud and even Evremar chuckled as Monachus’s face turned beet-red with fury.
“Thank you, my friend,” Fatima whispered. “I don’t feel so alone in this place anymore.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Clarinda replied, her eyes unwavering on Monachus as she refused to be stared down by him. “He is un cuzzo, so the insult was easy.”
Fatima raised her goblet in silent toast to her new friend and Clarinda felt a twinge of envy at the woman’s beauty. Bronze-complexioned, raven-haired, and smoky eyes that — like her husband, Khalil — seemed to miss nothing, Fatima was simply one of the most beautiful people whom Clarinda had ever met.
The couple was dressed in traditional bedouin garb, accented by stylish flairs — Khalil’s blue-black cloak topped a long, loose-fitting white tunic, with a navy-blue keffiyeh on his head, while Fatima’s cotton indigo-purple galabeya had curvy and flowing lines that accentuated her fit and athletic body. But, Clarinda knew that Fatima’s feminine appearance was deceptive; for all the woman’s hooped earrings, heeled sandals, and head-scarf, as they’d both sat down to the mats for dinner, Clarinda felt the hilt of a dagger brush against her hip and spied another knife strapped to Fatima’s calf!
Both spouses kept exchanging brief glances that told the same story; they were mutually irritated with the host and direction of the dinner conversation. Clarinda’s gaze lingered on Khalil – she sensed that there was something about him just out of sight, as if her perception of him wasn’t complete.
Focus, Clare! Whatever he is, it’s good – that much I can sense. What are they doing here, though? Fatima said that all they want to do is get a writ from the Grand Master for their tribe to leave Caesarea, but they must realize by now that Evremar of Choques isn’t the kind of person to give anyone anything without a price.
The laughter at Clarinda’s mocking of Monachus had dwindled when Khalil leaned back and said to the archbishop, “Forgive me, Sire, but, getting back to my father-in-law. Didn’t Master Ibn-Khaldun create the library at the Krak des Chevaliers some forty years ago?”
“A trivial detail,” Monachus replied with a dismissive sniff, trying to regain his composure and avoid any eye contact with Clarinda and Fatima. “The library and scriptorium are henceforth the property of the Church. They ought to be run by a Christian of high repute here in the Holy Land.”
“Father has much to be proud of, I think,” Fatima asserted, keeping her attention on Guy and checking on her husband as she spoke, “and his efforts have yielded many manuscripts that otherwise might’ve been lost.”
Monachus shrugged with a bored expression. King Guy said, “Well, everybody, let’s just note the dissent of Monachus and move along shall we?”
Fatima took the cue and answered Guy’s original question, ignoring the rest of the table as she turned to the outcast regent of Jerusalem.
“Thank you for asking about, Abi, Milord. Father’s well, although he seemed somewhat distracted when we saw him a month ago at an oasis in the Nafud.”
“In the desert, eh?” Guy asked. “What was he doing there?”
“Returning from another of his acquisition trips. I believe he’d found some manuscripts for the Krak’s library, but he didn’t talk much about it.”
“I imagine that the children have all grown quite a bit since we last saw them in Jerusalem when we saw you at Christmastime,” Guy observed.
“They have, indeed,” Khalil answered.
Guy inclined a head toward Fatima and Khalil. “Our condolences for your mother’s passing. We heard the news last year from one of Khajen’s students.”
“Shukran,” Fatima said, her eyes welling, “we miss her much. I think that father’s latest trip was so long because he needed to get away.”
“Do we really need to spend time discussing infidels’ family trees?” Monachus interrupted with a shake of his head. “Perhaps if you miss your father so much and his wife is burning in hell for being a Muslim, this is a sign from our God that Ibn-Khaldun’s time at the Krak should end?”
“Monachus, that’s enough —” Guy started to say angrily, but then stopped when Kenezki elbowed the archbishop and almost knocked him off his mat.
“Oh, sorry there, Friend Monachus,” Kenezki slurred. “That wasn’t a kind comment, though, when these ‘children’ here are grieving. Wait.” He put a finger to his lips to motion the blustering priest to silence and turned his head slowly to Fatima and Khalil. “Wait. You’ve seen, what? Twenty-five, twenty-six winters? You’re not children anymore.”
“You’re a drunken fool,” Sibylla said coldly.
“In my cups a bit? Yes!” Kenezki said. “A fool? We’ll see.” He turned to look at Fatima. “We’ve heard of your father in Constantinople, you know. He’s got quite a reputation for scholarship and for producing beautiful manuscripts. I’ve also heard that he has a remarkable record in educating young monks who return to the European mainland.”
“Now, who’s his most recent prized student?” Kenezki mused, lifting his dinner knife and casually spinning its tip on the tabletop. “Let me think, let me think. A big fellow, I’ve heard. A survivor of Mecina. The name’s Santini, I believe?”
Clarinda couldn’t have been more amazed if Kenezki had just declared himself the heir-apparent for the lordship of Kievan Russia.
What in heaven’s name, she thought, does a Black Sea pirate know about European monasteries and, why would he think that Santini’s serving on the clerical staff of a godforsaken Middle Eastern castle?
Besides Clarinda’s unspoken questions, the pirate’s words seemed to affect Fatima, too.
This response startled Clarinda. No matter what the topic of conversation earlier in the afternoon, Fatima had been a study in relaxed composure. Now, Clarinda could sense her tensing.
She looked again at Kenezki, and found that the distorted feelings she’d experienced at the tavern back in Constantinople were returning.
Something beyond language was happening when he spoke, and besides losing the ability to track Kenezki’s words, she started to feel a nauseous, sweat-inducing sensation yawning in her stomach.
“Father has many students,” Khalil said casually. “The Krak’s
renowned for its school, and the only students that father ever talks about are my brother, Marcus, and some boys named Ríg and Pellion.”
“There are always students at the Krak.” Guy added with a smile at Fatima and Khalil. “You’ve had too much to drink, Kenezki. I suggest you go sleep it off.”
“I seem to have gotten some bad information,” Kenezki replied, pinning Fatima with a thoughtful gaze. “Didn’t your father serve the Hospitallers at Mecina? I mean, of course, before the time of the great battle and the killing spree of Servius Aurelius Santini?”
“I’d hardly call the Battle of Mecina a ‘killing spree’ for one side or the other,” Fatima corrected. “There were battles and losses on both sides, and, yes, Father was there.”
“Hmmm,” Kenezki murmured. “That’s interesting.”
“Really? In what way?” Khalil asked. “That Master Ibn-Khaldun served at a different Hospitaller fortress than the Krak? He’s always been interacting with the franj, there’s nothing interesting there.”
“No, no,” Kenezki said, “what’s interesting is that my contacts in Damascus insisted your father’s latest apprentice wasn’t any ‘Ríg’ or ‘Pellion,’ but, as I said, Servius Aurelius Santini.”
“Your sources seem to have misled you,” Fatima said. “Since that man died at Mecina, it’d be somewhat difficult for him to be a student, eh?”
“Yes, yes,” Kenezki said, “I’m sure it would be. I wonder how many of Ibn-Khaldun’s students followed him from the wreckage of Mecina, though? Strange that this Ríg would even want to remain in the Holy Land after Mecina.”
“How is it that a Black Sea...‘merchant’ knows so much about my father and the Krak?” Fatima countered.
“Everyone’s heard of the Battle of Mecina, my dear,” Kenezki protested softly, “and the legend makes any survivors of it all the more interesting, don’t you think?”
The Codex Lacrimae Page 12