Storms of Retribution

by James Boschert

  “Yes, it is,” the Count snapped, irritation plain in his voice. “But I have known him for a long time, and while I know much of his skills, witchery is not one of them!” he winked at Talon. “Or… is it?” Talon tried hard to remain impassive.

  Ibelin added his note to the discussion. “All I have ever heard of Lord Talon,”—he used Talon’s new title—“is that he is an exemplary warrior and has always remained true to our cause… despite the efforts of the bishop of Acre and others to gainsay him. King Baldwin IV gave public notice of this, my Lords.” His tone carried a warning.

  “This means that he is under my protection at all times. I do hope I am clear on this point?” The Count asked the unhappy bishops. His manner was polite, but there was an underlying steel.

  “Now you will hear from his lips what transpired yesterday, as Lord Talon here was my emissary not only to yourselves but to Lord Rideford and his Templars.” The Count showed them into his chambers, which were cool compared to the hall, well lit and comfortable, with a distinct Eastern flavor to them: low brass tables, and cushions distributed on expensive carpets. There were several thick, leather-bound manuscripts resting on one of the tables, denoting that the Count was a scholar as well as a warrior.

  A light breeze filtered through the slatted shutters and disturbed the window drapes. Talon noted they were made from Gaza cloth, an expensive material which almost transparent. The Count knew the bishops could not sit on the cushions, for neither would have been able to get up again without assistance, so he led the way to an alcove where there was a large desk and the rounded, carved wood and leather chairs that were popular with the Franks.

  Both Nazareth and Tyre, sweating after the climb to this floor, lowered themselves heavily onto their seats, one with a heaved sigh, the other with an audible expulsion of flatulence. Ibelin and Talon chose to stand. The Count took his place in a chair on the other side of the desk where he could, if he turned, see down into the courtyard.

  A silent page provided more wine and water, then vanished.

  “Lord Talon,” the Count emphasized Talon’s rank for the benefit of the bishops, “has told me of the encounter with the Master of Templars. He tells me you were there, my Lord Bishop.”

  “I was not there for the aftermath of the battle,” Talon said, looking directly at the Bishop of Tyre. “But you were there, were you not, my Lord?” he asked the bishop, who looked shifty.

  “We… we made our escape, and later in the day we ran into Lord Ibelin, who was trying to catch up with the van,” he muttered.

  Talon wondered how hurried that escape had been, with the nimble Arab cavalry chasing stragglers all over the countryside after their sudden victory. He almost smiled as the image of the plump man’s panicked retreat.

  “Did anyone else survive?” The Count interrupted his thoughts.

  “Lord Rideford and three other knights managed to escape. All were wounded, but by the grace of God they managed to escape,” Nazareth answered.

  Both Raymond and Talon were stunned into silence by his words. The Count was incredulous. “He lives?” He shook his head as though to banish the unwelcome thought from his mind.

  “Well then, where is he?” the Count demanded. “You say he is wounded?”

  “They all were, my Lord. Not seriously, but wounded nonetheless. God protected them by his good grace. Lord Rideford’s followers are now with the saints in heaven,” the bishop added piously.

  “And not much use to us of the living, are they?” the Count barked, his voice harsh and dripping with sarcasm.

  Both bishops looked offended, but wisely kept their mouths shut.

  Ibelin, who up to this moment had said nothing, stirred. “It was a disaster of huge magnitude that has weakened us badly, Raymond. Rideford stripped several of the local garrisons of their knights to go into this reckless venture. Now we must try to pull ourselves together to face the looming threat.” He paused to take a sip of wine; he savored it, appearing to think about what to say next.

  Finally, he placed his cup carefully on the desk and looked directly at the Count. “I know that your relationship with the King has been… difficult, even hostile, and even more so with Châtillon.”

  “Châtillon should have been gelded at birth!” the Count snarled. “He is the cause of all this mess. But I am listening. I believe I know why you are here, my friend.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Ibelin said slowly. “It is time for us all, all of us who are of the faith, yourself included, to put aside our animosities and join forces. We, myself and both my Lords of the Church here, have come from Guy de Lusignan, our King, to ask you to join us in holy battle against the Saracen. Will you join us, my Lord?”

  The Count threw a glance at Talon that said, “I told you so.” He nodded his head once. “Yes,” he said, his tone reluctant. “I had already decided upon coming to Jerusalem and was making preparations when you arrived. I will throw my support and my army, such as it is, on the King’s side.”

  What Raymond refrained from saying was that his own men in arms were restive. Arabs had plundered his land and taken slaves, despite the treaty with the Sultan. There were murmurings of mutiny if he did not throw in his lot with his King. He had bowed to the inevitable and taken the only path open to him. He had shared this with Talon the night before, just prior to expelling the Muslims.

  There was a collective sigh from the three men. Talon watched as the bishops visibly relaxed and become more effusive. Then he realized just why the bishops had come to this meeting. It had been to add their weight with the threat of excommunication, should the Count have wavered. He frowned to himself. There were too many pressures on Raymond. The only other person in the room who considered the Count a friend was Ibelin, but he too had come for the sake of the King.

  The banners made a pretty sight fluttering in the light, warm breeze that came off the waters of the great lake. The knights were assembled with their squires at hand; the bishop of Tyre stood on the steps, waiting to bless the soldiers gathered in the great square of the citadel of Tiberius. Eventually the Count and his lady appeared, and all went to their knees for the blessing. When it was over, Raymond, Count of Tripoli and the lands of Tiberius, bowed over his wife’s extended hand and kissed it in a gesture of farewell, but hardly with affection. He turned, and without looking back he descended the steps to where his horse was held by a squire.

  At a signal from the Count the gates were swung open and the cavalcade of counts, bishops, knights and attendants rode out of the city towards the main road leading south to Jerusalem. Talon and Yosef rode just behind the Count, who was engrossed in a conversation with Count Ibelin. The bishops and their attendants were close behind him. Talon could almost feel their outraged stares burning holes in his back. Despite what the Count had said, these men feared what they did not understand, hence Talon remained to them a man of dark powers. He was sure that their rosaries were becoming worn out from all the fingering they were being subjected to.

  He ignored the bishops and focused on the road. This was the very one along which he and his companions had fled only days earlier. It was not long before they could see the macabre evidence of the battle of the Springs of Cresson. Despite the efforts of a burial party sent out by the Count the day before, there were many headless corpses yet to bury. The sky over the battlefield was dark with carrion birds, crows and vultures competing for the spoils of the slaughter. The stench of the rotting corpses wafted in the direction of the Count’s column, and men were forced to place cloths over their noses to mitigate the nauseous stink.

  Several of the younger, less calloused squires retched or lost their breakfasts. Older soldiers averted their eyes and rode by, while the bishops, looking sick, lifted their arms in pious benediction and made the signs of the cross in the air. Talon wondered how many men in this column of men realized what a hideous error of judgment had been committed by Lord Rideford. The Count of Tripoli shook his head as they passed and snarled, “God forgi
ve him because I cannot.”

  Leaving the gruesome slopes of the battlefield behind, the small army continued south, picking up the pace so that they could cover as much ground as possible. No one knew if there might be another army of Arabs lurking on the other side of the river, and all yearned towards the safety of numbers that Jerusalem would provide.

  They rode most of that day on the road parallel with the river Jordan, stopping sooner than the Count wished because the fat bishops were worn out from riding. The next day, the Count insisted that they hurry and complete the remaining distance. He was driven by the fear that Salah Ed Din would move earlier than he had anticipated.

  Towards evening they swung west and took the hilly road towards the ancient town of Fort St Job, a fortification held by the Hospitaliers which was just a few leagues from Jerusalem. Before long the country became hilly, with more cultivation than Talon had seen for some time. Proximity to the city of Jerusalem was enough to protect farming, which was important to the inland city. Supplies came regularly from Jaffa and Acre, but the essentials of food had to be grown locally.

  At Fort St Job, as banners fluttered and men clad in chain and leather sweated. Talon noted with some interest the two leading lords at Guy de Lusignan's side were Rideford and Châtillon. The Grand Master of the Templars, who had somehow survived the massacre at Cresson, wore his arm in a sling.

  Just off to the side of the throne, Sibylla stood with her female attendants dressed in simple white. It enhanced her features, although Talon would not have said the queen was a beautiful woman. The column came to a halt and the Count of Tripoli, attended by Count Ibelin and the Bishops of Nazareth and Tyre, walked up the wide stone steps to kneel before the King, who smiled and took both the Count’s hands in his.

  Talon was too far from the group to hear the conversation that ensued, but before very long the King and Count Raymond exchanged the kiss of peace and embraced. This appeared to be the signal for cheers from the King’s attendants, which were taken up by the Templars, although with less enthusiasm, then spread to the men-at-arms and eventually the citizenry, who had no idea why they were cheering but it made them all feel better. The King led the visitors away, followed by his close advisers. The Count motioned to Talon to accompany him.

  “Lord Talon is with me, Your Highness,” he told the King, who glanced incuriously back at Talon. “Have we met before?” Lusignan asked.

  “My Liege, Lord Talon was responsible for bringing the Templars from Gaza to the battle of Montgisard.”

  The King didn’t respond.

  The gesture and comment from Raymond were not lost on Raynald de Châtillon, who started with surprise. He made a surreptitious sign of the cross and then nudged Rideford, who turned and glared.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, Talon. I hear you are a Lord now?” he added with what might have been a sneer. Bit young to be one of those, eh?” he added sarcastically.

  “I didn’t spend as much time in Arab prisons as some others, my Lord Rideford,” Talon retorted with a pointed glance at Châtillon, who sent him a venomous glare. The other two men turned with a swirl of their cloaks to follow the King’s retinue into the depths of the gloomy castle.

  After the “reconciliation” had been completed, the King and his entourage mounted up and together with the new arrivals they rode the short distance remaining to Jerusalem. As they approached that city it became evident that there was a huge encampment around its walls. The King had already gathered a large army.

  Their arrival was greeted with the blare of trumpets. The walls and streets were jammed with curious citizens, eager for firsthand news of the disaster at Cresson. Rumors were rife and fear was pervasive as the uneasy citizens watched the colorful cavalcade make its way along Furrier’s Street towards the Temple and the palace of the King.

  The last time Talon had been in this city had been just before leaving for Acre, and it had been a sad place then. Baldwin the Leper King had been about to die. Now the air was charged with tension. Servants scurried about, but they were markedly nervous and kept well away from the armed knights that strutted along the corridors. Talon guessed that many of these knights were part of Châtillon’s force.

  Rideford was in command of the Templars, who were generally well behaved and housed in their barracks at the Temple. Talon could tell that others were from Edessa and Antioch by their surcoats, while many men served minor lords who held small garrisons up and down the country. The King was clearly getting ready to counter the massed army that Salah Ed Din had assembled.

  In the wake of Count Raymond, Talon bumped into Sir Matthew and his large Saxon companion.

  “Lord Talon!” Sir Matthew said, with a smile of welcome to Talon and Yosef. “I had hoped that you would come in with us to the court, Sir. The Count is about to join the King in conference and asked that you be present.

  They were admitted to a crowded chamber filled mainly with lords and senior knights. The atmosphere was stuffy and full of tension, as loud, opinionated men drank wine and traded arguments. Both Grand Masters were there. Talon noted that Roger de Moulin’s replacement had already been chosen, but he didn’t recognize the man. Sir Matthew saw where Talon was staring.

  “That is Armengol de Aspa, the new Grand Master of the Hospitaliers. Lord Rideford is still with us.” He shrugged with a wry dismissive gesture. “The Lord God moves in unfathomable ways.”

  Talon walked through the crowd to join Raymond, who was in deep discussion with the King.

  “Ah, there you are, Talon,” he said, looking up. “Perhaps you can add your argument to mine.” Raymond sounded frustrated. “I have been telling his Majesty of our visit to Salah Ed Din and offered some ideas of strategy.”

  He turned back to the seated king. “My Lord, while it is good that we are assembling here, we must move the army to place it between the lake of Tiberius and Acre, both of which are vulnerable. Lord Talon knows both the terrain and the Sultan, as well as I do and better than most men. He speaks the Arabic and has spent time in their world.”

  “So much time that it is hard to decide on which side he is any more,” Rideford sneered from just behind Talon, who turned to face him.

  Raymond stepped in. “I know that reckless and rash decisions will lose any advantage we might be able to gain against the Sultan, my Lord. You yourself have just demonstrated that, and we have lost many good men as a result of your folly. Who, then, is the traitor?” Raymond was having difficulty controlling his temper by this time. He glared at Rideford as though daring him to violence

  Rideford’s bearded face flushed with anger “You left the field, like a coward, Lord Talon,” he ground out.

  “You and your kind are ignorant fools who come out here under the pretext of serving God when in reality you seek your fortunes like common mercenaries,” snarled Raymond.

  Rideford stepped closer and reached for his dagger. At this moment Talon slipped in front of Tripoli and seized the wrist of the hand that held the dagger. This placed him and Raymond between the King and Rideford. Talon fingers held Rideford’s wrist in a vice-like grip. He stared straight into the Master’s eyes and hissed, “You are inches away from death, my Lord. Both I and my man here will see to it if you harm a hair on Lord Tripoli’s head.”

  The silent confrontation continued for a moment more until Rideford’s maddened eyes slowly cleared and his strength gave way to Talon’s. “Sheath it! Do it now!” Talon whispered. Rideford shook his wrist free and sheathed his dagger. He stared across Talon’s shoulder with eyes filled with such hate as Talon had rarely seen before, nevertheless he stepped back, a sneer contorting his features.

  “Your heretic friends are here to protect you yet again, Tripoli!”

  A knight who had been near enough to see the silent battle of wills bared his teeth and moved to step forward as though to confront Talon on behalf of Rideford, but Yosef intervened, using the handle of his dagger enclosed in his fist to strike the man in his solar plexus. The
blow was unexpected and incredibly fast, and despite the man’s chain armor it had the desired effect. Abruptly the knight began to choke, and his knees gave way while he had a fit of coughing. The distraction this provided took away any further interest in the confrontation between Rideford and Tripoli, but Raymond still had one last word.

  “I should perhaps remind you, Rideford, that Lord Talon was my emissary when you foolishly sacrificed those precious lives,” Raymond snapped. “He was not yours to command. He was sent to warn you of the peril, but you chose to ignore him. As a result, many good men lie dead, their bodies dismembered by hyenas and dogs and their heads decorating the Arab spears. It was you who led those unfortunate men to their fate, and then abandoned them. He was under strict orders to return to me, not to throw his life away on that madcap charge, which I heard you personally ordered.”

  Rideford glared but held his peace for once, while others helped the breathless and confused knight out of the crowded chambers. “It must be the air in here, it is somewhat stifling,” someone nearby said with a small chuckle. Count Ibelin had witnessed the whole thing; his expression told of his approval without his saying a word.

  “Your Majesty,” Raymond turned back to the King, who was listening with interest, as was Sibylla, who sat to his left. Neither of them had witnessed the incident.

  “Lord Talon did his duty, and furthermore, he has the knowledge to counter the army of Salah Ed Din. We should listen to him.”

  “Anyone who has spent time with the Saracen has most probably been seduced by their heathen ways!” snarled another voice. Châtillon approached, with a short bow to the King. He swayed, and from the smell of him it was apparent to Talon that he had been drinking heavily

  “Why should we listen to these pullani, my Liege?” Châtillon sneered. “They have been here so long they have forgotten the whole purpose of our presence here, which is to carry the true cross to the infidel and send them to hell wherever we can.”