by Jack Whyte
The unexpectedness of this denunciation, and the ferocity with which it was delivered, rendered St. Clair speechless, for he had been witness, no matter how unwillingly or unwittingly, to a statement that would be deemed worthy of death had anyone in power overheard it. Moreover, it was a statement with which he agreed in every sense, and in his enthusiasm he came close to saying so. He opened his mouth to speak, but discovered in doing so that there was nothing he could dare to say, and so he closed it again, quickly, his mind reeling with the revelation that had just occurred to him.
He had spent months now believing that this woman was a spoiled, malevolent, self-centered child with no thought in her mind except debauchery and sensual pleasures, but in the space of moments she had shown him another, entirely unsuspected facet of her nature: a fiery passion allied with a withering contempt for the powerful men of her acquaintance. He was convinced, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, that he was out of his depths in this confrontation, if, in fact, it was a confrontation. He shook his head, as if trying to clear the clutter of his thoughts, then made a valiant attempt to redirect the conversation, which had become far too dangerous for comfort.
“I cannot find it in my heart to disagree with you, my lady, but the sin is not all one-sided. The men against whom my brethren and I fight are not devout Muslims. They are godless and they are murderous, bandits and marauders and more than deserving of the justice meted out to them when we find them. Were they Christian Franks, guilty of the same transgressions, we would treat them no differently.
“But I suspect that has nothing to do with why you sent for me, although I may be wrong. Was it this you wished to speak with me about? If so—”
Alice smiled again. “No, Brother Stephen, it was not, so you may set your mind at rest, even on this matter of my treasonous speech. I am a dutiful daughter and I love my father dearly, as a just and indulgent parent. It is only with his kingship that I struggle—his manhood, masculinity, male pride, call it what you will. I think of it as that element in his nature that prevents him from seeing the world through a woman’s eyes. And since you are a monk, self-sacrificingly severed from such worldly things, and devoted single-mindedly to the pleasure and the glory of doing God’s real will, I may not include you in my general condemnation of men.”
St. Clair blinked. “You condemn all men, my lady?”
“Most men, Brother Stephen, and most particularly the majority of those men with whom I have to spend much of my life. The more powerful a man becomes, I find, the less pleasurable is his company, and those men involved in acquiring power, like our admirable Bishop of Fontainebleau, are totally intolerable. I abhor men who are grasping for power, because all of them crush lesser men beneath their lusts.” She saw the expression on his face and continued. “Yet I know too, believe me, that lesser men, ordinary men, can be just as swinish and as evil as their so-called betters, so do not misconstrue what I am saying. All that I mean is that our system of feudal tenure exists solely for the benefit of those men who hold power. That means, Brother Stephen, that it exists to the detriment of everyone, for even those on the pinnacles of power are all too often destroyed by being atop the pinnacle. I would change that, if I could, but I cannot. I am a mere woman, and women are more powerless than serfs in this world of men. What is it? You look as though you have something you would like to add.”
“No, my lady. Nothing at all.”
“Very well, then, let us begin to begin, you and I.” She raised her hands and clapped sharply, and an old man entered through the doors at the far end of the room and came to her. “Ishtar,” she said, her eyes still on St. Clair, “this is Brother Stephen, of the brotherhood from the stables on the Temple Mount, but he is here this day as Sir Stephen St. Clair, in order to assist me. Conduct him to the baths, if you will. Sir Stephen?”
Her right eyebrow had risen high on her forehead, whether in challenge or in curiosity St. Clair had no idea, but he permitted nothing to show on his face as he debated with himself. He had gone through all this in his mind before even entering these rooms, knowing that she would, in all probability, insist upon his bathing, and he was well aware of the dangers to his chastity—a chastity already compromised to the point of risibility—that were involved therein. She would not approach him while he was unwashed, rank and offensive to her nostrils, but once he had emerged from the hot water baths, all steamed and scrubbed and perfumed, he would face another reception altogether. She would not scruple to approach him then, and he had but little confidence in his own ability, or even in his willingness, to withstand the blandishments she might bestow upon him. And this time, if he succumbed to her, there would be no matter of intent to debate.
Having bathed within the previous month, and therefore being less rank than usual, he thought he might stand upon his vows and refuse her invitation, and he had earlier surmised that he would probably be able to win the confrontation that would undoubtedly follow, depending upon how badly she needed and wanted his cooperation and whatever information she thought she could obtain from him. Against that, he now had to weigh the astonishing attitude Alice le Bourcq had so newly revealed to him. If he refused now to bathe at her request, he would incur her hostility and forfeit the amiable, forthright, and unprecedented reception she had accorded him so far.
And there came the crux of the matter, because he could imagine nothing more important—to himself and to his brothers in the Order of Rebirth—than to discover as much as he could about what she knew and what she hoped to discover. It made sense, then, that he should accede to her wishes in this matter of bathing and use the goodwill generated by that to extract whatever information he could amiably, rather than hope to glean it in an adversarial encounter.
He stood up without speaking, and her head tilted backward, holding his gaze, that single eyebrow still raised—in what, he wondered, reflecting that if it were anticipation, he was incapable of guessing what prompted it.
“I remember, my lady.” He had not meant to say that. The words had sprung to his tongue and spilled out before he even knew he had formed them, and now he saw her eyes widen in surprise, mingled with something else—confusion, he thought, or perhaps consternation. When she spoke, however, there was no sign of any such thing in her voice.
“What do you remember, Brother Stephen?”
He smiled slightly, amazed at the ease with which his response came to him, and dipped his head. “What I had heard. Not that you dislike men, but that you dislike the stink of unwashed men.”
She continued to stare at him for a moment, her eyes narrow, then nodded. “You heard correctly, Brother. Go you now with Ishtar. And Ishtar, send Esther to me, if you will.” She looked back at St. Clair. “I shall be here when you are ready.”
St. Clair followed the old eunuch through the maze of passageways and courtyards within the walls of what had been the great al-Aqsa Mosque, looking about him as he went for anything that he might recognize. He saw nothing that was even vaguely familiar, however, which confirmed his own belief that he must have been barely conscious—or perhaps more accurately, barely aware of his surroundings—when he was confined here previously. The bathing rooms were completely unfamiliar, too, and that surprised him greatly, for among the most persistent memories he had were those of long, pleasant hours spent in the warmth and luxury of the baths.
“I do not remember this place.” He spoke the thought aloud, merely to express his confusion, if only to himself.
“And why should you? You have never been here.”
St. Clair, barely aware of the eunuch’s presence, had not expected a response, and so it took him a moment to realize that Ishtar was unsurprised to hear him hint, even as vaguely as he had, that he was aware of having been here before. He looked keenly at the old man. “Are there, then, other baths here?”
“Hah!” It was more of a bark than a laugh, but St. Clair could see that the old fellow was amused. “I imagine so. There are six more, all separate.”
“Then which one did I use?”
Ishtar gazed back at him, blank eyed. “Today, ferenghi, you use this one. Achmed, whom I will send to you, will be your masseur. I will wait for you outside and take you back when you are ready.” He bowed and moved away without another word.
Less than an hour later, bathed and pummeled, oiled and scented, and dressed in fresh clothing, St. Clair re-entered the princess’s audience room and found her deeply involved with several of her women in some project that involved countless lengths of bright fabrics and materials, strewn over every available surface in a riotous explosion of vibrant colors. She saw him enter behind Ishtar and dismissed the women immediately, sending them scurrying away, burdened with armloads of fabrics, and she stood up to welcome him back. He nodded politely but made no attempt at conversation, knowing that she knew she had won in the matter of the bathing, and that the conducting of this interview was hers to dictate. She waved him to a couch and sat beside him, facing him far more closely than she had before, so that the smell of her perfume filled his nostrils, tightened his chest, and set his blood stirring again.
“There, now I can approach you, at least.” She paused, awaiting a reaction that he successfully suppressed, and then she smiled. “Bravo! I expected you to move away when I said that, but you barely flinched. And yet I suspect you may be even more skittish and nervous around women nowadays than you were before, Brother Stephen, now that you are a monk in fact. Am I correct?”
He pursed his lips, wondering what was coming next, but nodded. “Aye, my lady, you are correct. I am.”
“And yet you were a knight for many years before you ever thought to turn monk. Surely you knew no lack of women in those years?”
That was a statement, he decided, not a question, and so he merely shrugged his shoulders.
“Well?”
It had been a question after all, and the princess wished him to answer it. He thought for a while, then said, “My mother died when I was but a babe and I had no sisters or female relatives, my lady. I was brought up in an unusual household, in England, a country where the people still hate us as the Norman invaders who conquered them no more than fifty years ago. It was a household lacking in women, yet one in which antique values and standards were espoused and nurtured, even revered. My upbringing was built around those values and was supervised throughout my boyhood by a group of wise, devout, and learned men.” He paused for a while before continuing. “They taught me many things for which I have been grateful for many years, but none among them, alas, was an adept in the knowledge of women, so my learning there was severely limited.”
Again he stopped, a tiny frown on his face, deep in thought now and unaware that the princess was watching him closely.
“Fortunately for me, I had the natural aptitudes of a soldier, in addition to being scholarly, and so I was knighted early. And then, being very, very young, I rushed out into the world, eager to fight for all the things that I had been taught to believe in and to revere. And that, I fear, was the end of my youth. I quickly discovered that I had little in common with my fellow knights, and even less with the women who surrounded them.
“That first year of knighthood outside of my home was a time of revelations, none of them pleasant. I quickly learned the difference between the world of ideas and ideals in which I had been raised, and the real world of bestial brutality within which most men live.
“I discovered that my fellow knights were not as I had envisioned them. They were barely civilized and lacked even the rudiments of what I had been taught was Christian conduct. I saw the undeniable reality of godlessness everywhere: hypocrisy, cynicism, venality, simony, and unbridled carnality even among priests and clerics. I could not approve, but neither could I disapprove too loudly, for I would not have lasted a month once the word of my disapproval was out. And so I held my peace and sought to live my own life for myself. I lived in solitary misery, by choice. I made no friends, and I knew no women. My sole companions were my own servitors. I fought much and volunteered for every task at every opportunity until I was sorely wounded and sent home to die. But even there, I went my own way. And soon after that, I came here, and I met you for the first time.”
He saw the princess staring at him in amazement and he was unsurprised, because he was equally amazed at himself. He had had no thought, before he began speaking, to say any of what had come spouting from his mouth, but then had found himself matching her candor with his own.
Alice looked down at her hands. “Aye, Sir Stephen, I remember that first meeting. And now we may be meeting for the last time.”
“How so, my lady?” He felt a surge of alarm, his mind connecting what she had just said with the reason underlying his presence here—the information she had uncovered.
“I will soon be leaving Jerusalem,” she said. “I am to be wed to Prince Bohemond of Antioch, who is on his way here now from Italy to claim his throne and to succeed his father.”
His first thought was that this might be a reprieve from the threat of being seduced, but he realized the true significance of what she had said immediately after that. He cleared his throat. “Then I am glad for you, my lady. How soon is the prince expected?”
She shook her head. “No one can tell me. It depends upon too many things other than winds and weather, which are of course the most important of all. He could be here in a week, or a month, or half a year. Only one thing do I know with certainty: when he arrives, we shall be wed. That is why there was so much cloth fabric in evidence here when you came in. My women are working at all hours to prepare my new clothing. What are you people doing in the stables?”
He opened his mouth and closed it again, taken aback by the swift change of subject.
“I have received reports that you and your fellow monks are involved in something within your stables, something nefarious, it seems, and although the reports vary, I am satisfied that I know what is going on.”
Her words hung in the air, and St. Clair could hear his heart thudding in his chest. She was watching him closely, scanning his face for some hint of what he was thinking, and he schooled himself to show nothing as he tilted his head slightly to one side. “I beg your pardon, my lady, but I do not … What do you believe is going on, as you say?”
“Digging. You and your brethren are digging in the earth, in the foundations there, in search of some treasure buried there long ages ago.”
“Wha—? What would make you even suspect such a thing, my lady?” He felt himself almost breathless.
“Information! I told you, I have heard reports that something is going on.”
“Aye, and I have no wish to contradict you, but you also said that those reports conflicted with each other, did you not, and that you had therefore drawn your own conclusions on what they said?”
“I did. What are you saying?”
He spread his hands far apart. “Simply that I would like to hear these conclusions at which you have arrived. May I ask that of you?”
“I spoke of treasure, Brother Stephen. I now believe that you and your brotherhood have somehow acquired secret information—ancient knowledge of some kind—and are using it to lead you towards some great discovery.”
St. Clair froze. His mouth went dry, his tongue cleaving to his palate as the words thundered in his head. All his convictions about the integrity of his brethren turned to ashy powder in his mouth, so that he barely heard Alice as she continued.
“I can only interpret that to mean that you are all apostate, ignoring and defying the sacred vows you undertook so recently, in the hope of unearthing riches that rightfully belong to others.” She stopped, eyeing him and pursing her lips. “This is the Kingdom of Jerusalem, Brother Stephen. Everything herein, above and below the ground, belongs to my father the King. Whatever treasure you seek belongs to him, no matter where or when you find it, and no matter whether or no he knew of it before you found it. But I suspect that means nothing to you, does it? When you and your associates uncover the
se riches, this treasure that you seek, you intend to abscond with it, abandoning all your duties and responsibilities.”
St. Clair could barely think, his mind was reeling so. They had a traitor among their tiny number. Who could it be? In a daze, he began to summon up the faces of his brother knights, gazing at each of them in his mind, trying to see some weakness, some hint of treachery.
“Answer me! Is that not what you intend?”
He blinked and focused his eyes on the princess’s angry face. “Forgive me, my lady, but what is it that you think we intend to do?”
“You are going to steal the treasure and make off with it. But I will not allow it.”
“Make off with it? Make off with it? With what, my lady? We are monks, not brigands.”
“Hah! Then I give you back your own words of moments ago, sir, when you were condemning the atrocities committed by priests and clerics. Am I to imagine, in the light of what I now know, that monks are different?”
“But we are, my lady! Do you not recall? A new order, different from any other.” Despite the angry edge to his voice, St. Clair was growing confused, because the sole denunciation he was hearing here centered upon the theft of treasure, of portable wealth. There was nothing of secret societies or underhanded plotting or treachery; nothing that bore directly upon the Order of Rebirth, or of which he truly needed to be afraid. Nothing, in fact, that threw any light at all upon the extent of the woman’s knowledge of what was truly going on in the stables. He rose to his feet, but kept his tone moderate.