The Red King, page 13
part #2 of Roger of Huntley Series
As if reading Richard’s thoughts, al-Adil went on. “The sultan instructs me to tell you that what you seek may be obtained without fighting.”
Richard took that cryptic remark to mean that Saladin wanted to surrender Jerusalem, but was looking for a way to do it that did not make him appear weak. Which made sense. Acting as though he did not care one way or another, Richard shrugged. “Very well, we can talk.”
“Shall we say, two days hence?”
“I am prepared now,” Richard said.
“Alas, the sultan must take council with his emirs to make sure we are agreed on our position.”
On your terms of surrender, you mean. “And that will take two days?”
Al-Adil held out his hands helplessly. “It is our way.” He cleared his throat. “Plus, some of our emirs who fled the battle have a distance to travel for their return.”
Richard laughed heartily. “Very well, then—two days.”
“Good. I will have a pavilion erected.” Al-Adil waved a hand. “Here, if it suits you.”
“How many men are to be involved on each side?” Richard said.
“As many as pleases your highness, though I must say my preference would be to speak with you alone, as you are the commander of your army, as well as its greatest warrior. I find that involving too many people in this sort of thing leads to arguing, and nothing gets accomplished.”
“It sounds like you’ve attended some of our council meetings,” Richard joked. The last thing he needed was Philip’s creature Burgundy or hotheads like Leicester and Beauvais, or even a popinjay like Lusignan involved. “I shall be more than happy to come alone. But will the sultan not come himself? His fame is great, and I should very much like to meet him.”
“Sultan Yusef desires to meet you, as well, but that is for a later date. For now, he prefers that I do the talking.”
Richard wasn’t happy with that, but he nodded agreement.
“Excellent!” said al-Adil. “At noon, shall we say? It will be the heat of the day, but I assure you we will make it cool for you.”
“Very well,” Richard said. “I shall see you in two days.”
Al-Adil salaamed, Richard bowed, and the two men rode back to their armies.
Chapter 33
“Why are we stopping?” the bishop of Beauvais complained to Richard. “We just got started again.”
The council of barons was being held outside this evening, to take advantage of the cool sea breeze. Balian of Ibelin spread his hands pleadingly, “Saladin’s playing for time, sire, can’t you see that? We can negotiate after we’ve taken Jerusalem.”
“Conrad wouldn’t negotiate,” Henry of Deraa added.
There was a loud growl of assent to that remark.
Richard reddened and, with difficulty, held his temper. “A few days cannot hurt,” he said. “We may save time in the long run if Jerusalem can be taken without a siege.”
“We may not need a siege,” the duke of Burgundy said. “There may not be anyone left to defend the place.”
“We don’t know that’s the case,” Richard snapped. “Besides, my lord, I thought you would have welcomed a delay. Didn’t Philip put you here to prolong my stay in the Holy Land as long as possible?”
Now it was Hugh’s turn to redden. With his gruff voice and burly physique, he resembled an old bear. “I swore a vow to liberate the Holy City, sire. The city is ripe for the taking, and every minute we sit here talking makes its capture more difficult. We’re wasting time. Were Conrad in charge, we’d be there by now.”
And so it went. Others could speak of bold action and say that Conrad would do this or that because the responsibility wasn’t theirs. Four days earlier, these same men had called Richard the greatest commander who ever lived; now they complained about his caution. Richard would be glad when the waiting period was over, and he could get away from these people and meet al-Adil again.
Two days later, as promised, a pavilion—more of a huge silk awning, really—was set up at the spot where Richard and al-Adil had met previously. “Red,” al-Adil told Richard, waving a hand at the pavilion, “in your honor.”
“You are too kind,” Richard said, though he was secretly flattered.
In the welcome shade, thick carpets had been laid down, along with plush cushions to sit or recline upon. Servants handed al-Adil, Richard, and their interpreters plates of fruit and cups with cool drinks.
“It is good to see you again,” the handsome al-Adil told Richard.
“It is good to see you, as well,” Richard replied sincerely. For some reason, Richard felt closer to this Saracen whom he had only known for a few days than he did to many of the nobles in his own army. He could picture himself and al-Adil hawking together, or hunting.
The two men made themselves comfortable, sitting cross legged on the cushions. They traded small talk about the weather, about horses and falcons, then Richard got down to business. He was affable but direct. “So, on what terms does your brother propose to surrender Jerusalem?”
Al-Adil pursed his lips. “I will be frank. Our army is intact, but we would prefer to avoid another battle. We suffered serious losses a few days ago, thanks to your skilled leadership.” He bowed to Richard in compliment. “A defeat like that makes the provinces . . .” he searched for the right word, “restive. Something we wish to avoid.”
“Yes,” Richard said. He knew all about pacifying restive provinces. That’s why he was in a hurry to get his crusade over with and go home before King Philip could stir up trouble.
Al-Adil went on. “The sultan hopes you and I may reach an arrangement suitable to both sides, with no more fighting.”
“Is the sultan willing to give back everything he has taken from us?”
“That is asking a bit much,” al-Adil said. Then, tantalizingly, he added, “At least, at first. We cannot be seen to be surrendering. It makes the provinces . . .”
“Restive,” Richard finished for him.
“Exactly. You must remember, al-Quds is a holy city to us, as well.”
Richard nodded. “I have heard that.”
Al-Adil said, “There are limits beyond which we may not go—again, at first. We have our share of religious . . . I will not call them fanatics, but they are extremely true believers. I expect you have the same problem.”
Richard thought of men like Leicester and the bishop of Beauvais, men who would kill a Muslim just because he was Muslim, and consider themselves blessed for doing it. “We do.”
Fresh drinks were brought, and Al-Adil said, “So, how do we reach a peaceful resolution?”
They proposed one solution after another, but none solved the core problem of Jerusalem to both party’s consent. Things seemed at an impasse when, of a sudden, Richard had an idea. He didn’t know where the idea came from, it popped into his head. But as Richard thought about it, it seemed like an idea that could end this crusade with no more bloodshed and get them all home by next Easter. He sat forward eagerly. “Tell me, my friend—for I consider you a friend—are you married?”
Al-Adil frowned slightly, as though that were a strange question to ask. “I am not.”
Richard raised a forefinger. “I have an unmarried sister named Joanna. She is quite beautiful. You could marry her and the two of you could be co-rulers of Jerusalem.”
Al-Adil was taken aback. “Are you serious?”
“Quite serious,” Richard said.
“This sister of yours—Joanna?—would she be agreeable to such a match?”
“Joanna will do what I tell her,” Richard said, though he wasn’t exactly sure that was true. Joanna was headstrong, like Richard himself, like all the Plantaganets.
Al-Adil stroked his short beard. “Would your sister be willing to accept our faith?”
“Would you be willing to accept hers?”
Al-Adil was apologetic. “A good Muslim may not stray.”
“Neither may a good Christian,” Richard admitted.
The proposal seemed a non-starter, then Richard had another idea. “What if . . . what if you both keep your religions and rule that way? That might even work better. Think of it—a city sacred to both faiths, with rulers from both faiths. There would be no need to ever fight over it again.”
Al-Adil smiled. “Muslims are forbidden to marry outside the faith. So, I believe, are Christians. And what about our children? What faith would they follow?”
“You raise good points, but I’m sure something could be worked out. It always can be if there’s will to do it.”
Al-Adil nodded and sipped his drink. “It is an intriguing offer, I admit, and as you say it would solve many problems on both sides without any more blood being spilled. I will take it to the sultan, and we can meet again to discuss it in—two weeks?”
“Two weeks?” Richard was dismayed. He wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. “Why so long?”
Al-Adil spread his arms. “A proposition such as this must be ruled upon by our religious authorities. I assume you have the same constraints?”
“Yes,” Richard realized. Of course the priests would want to argue about it.
“It is a clever idea,” al-Adil went on. “Brilliant, even. I believe the sultan will like it.”
The two men rose. “We will meet in two weeks,” al-Adil said. “He placed a hand over his heart. “And tell your beautiful sister I send her greetings.”
They parted, and Richard returned to his army full of hope. It was an outlandish scheme, but it just might work. Joanna would be angrier than a hive of disturbed bees when she heard about it, but Richard didn’t care. She would come round in time, and even if she didn’t and he had to force her, it would be worth it for him to get out of the Holy Land quickly.
INTERLUDE
Chapter 34
Epiphanius looked smug. “Name the nine orders of angels, in rank from highest to lowest.”
“That’s too easy,” Anselm scoffed. “First Choir—Seraphim, Cherubim, Thrones. Second Choir—Dominions, Virtues, Powers. Third Choir—Principalities, Archangels, Angels.”
They were in a tavern near the cathedral of St. Thomas—Epiphanius, Anselm and abu Flath, who currently went by the name Michael. They were priests in training, attached to the house of a great lord, and tomorrow Father Manue was going to examine them on the nature of angels.
Epiphanius was compact and red haired. He had been born Rikard but had taken his present name because it sounded more religious. With his family connections, he would be a bishop one day—if the Muslims didn’t kill them all first. Abu Flath knew that Epiphanius would visit the tavern’s prostitutes later, something the ultra-religious Anselm would never consider. Epiphanius raised a forefinger and posed another question. “Can two angels occupy the same space?”
“Of course they can,” Anselm said. “Angels are pure intelligence, pure spirit. In theory, all the angels in Heaven could occupy the same space at one time. They could fit on this table top, they could fit in the palm of your hand. Why, they could fit on the tip of your finger, an it came to that.” Anselm was tall, dark and wide eyed, and it seemed as though it were impossible to satisfy his thirst for knowledge.
“Can angels assume corporeal form?” Epiphanius asked him.
“No one can say for certain,” Anselm replied.
“The Archangel Gabriel appeared to Mary,” Epiphanius said. “Surely he wasn’t a spirit then.”
“He could have been,” Anselm retorted. “Nothing explicitly states that Gabriel assumed a form that had substance and could be touched when he appeared to Mary. It’s never been proven one way or the other whether angels can assume bodily form.”
“So you’re saying that angels cannot assume corporeal form?”
“I’m saying it has never been proven.”
“Ah, but it has,” Epiphanius said triumphantly. “I myself have seen a feather from the wing of the Archangel Raphael.”
Anselm frowned. “You have? Where?”
“In a little church outside Rome, when last I was there.”
While Anselm mulled that over, abu Flath pretended to sip at his wine. Here, in the midst of war, these two were arguing about angels. There was a time when abu Flath might have enjoyed this kind of argument, especially as angels were a part of his own faith. Abu Flath had once aspired to be a Hafiz, one who had memorized the Koran, and as a boy he had loved to hear the holy men debate. Since he had been taken in by Sinan, however, all that had changed. Now the only angel he cared about was Azrael, the Angel of Death.
While Epiphanius had a long pull of wine to refresh himself after so much talking, Anselm, who drank sparingly, took his turn at playing Father Manue, tilting his head to one side and giving his voice an aristocratic drawl the way Manue did. “The angel who spoke to Moses through the burning bush is referred to both as ‘the Angel of the Lord’ and as ‘the Lord.’ How can this be possible?”
Epiphanius thought for a moment, twisting a finger absently though his hair. Like many redheads, he was going bald early, and he was constantly touching his hair, as though to assure himself it was still there. At last he came up with an answer. “He is called ‘the Lord’ because he is the messenger of God, and God speaks through him. So when Moses addresses the angel, he is actually addressing God at the same time.”
Anselm turned. “Michael, you haven’t said much. Father Manue will be hard on us tomorrow, you know.”
Abu Flath smiled. He had taken to his priestly training well, much as he despised the false religion it served. “Let me offer an alternate answer to your question. The prophet Isaiah termed Christ ‘the Angel of Good Counsel.’ So is it not possible that the angel of the burning bush was the Angel of Good Counsel—that Moses was speaking to Christ Himself? That way he could be both an angel and—” he caught himself, he had almost said “Allah”—“and the Lord.”
Anselm smiled at Epiphanius. “I like that.”
“I like it, too.” Epiphanius said. His future was assured, he could afford to be generous with his praise. “You will go far, I think, Michael. Perhaps you will become famous one day.”
Abu Flath shrugged modestly. “You are too kind.” He intended to become famous, but for a different reason.
Anselm and Epiphanius wrangled on about angels, but abu Flath paid slight attention. He had been told to bide his time and wait for the signal to fulfill his mission, but the waiting was difficult. He knew what his job would be, and he wanted to do it now. This moment. He wanted to enter Paradise and sample its delights. But he waited, because waiting was also his job, and he did not want to disappoint the master who had trusted him with so much responsibility.
PART III
Chapter 35
“In there,” the guard snarled.
He shoved Roger through the door of the crude hut. Roger stumbled, and by the time he looked back, the door was closed. The hut was constructed from poorly fitted blocks of baked earth. Inside were a dozen filthy straw pallets with thin, lice-ridden blankets that were stiff from age and lack of cleaning and were no doubt passed from one man to another as their owners died. The stench was overwhelming, combining the scent of unwashed men and unwashed bedding with the contents of a bucket that served the hut’s occupants as a latrine.
Roger wore only his shirt, braies and hose. His cloak and Death’s Head surcoat had been taken from him. He was still taking stock of his new surroundings when there were noises outside and the rest of the slaves returned from work.
The men shambled in. They were ragged and diseased, wasted by hard work and malnutrition. They regarded Roger with dull curiosity.
“Hullo, what’s this?” said a wiry, sharp-eyed fellow with thick forearms.
“Fresh meat,” said a short brawler who eyed Roger with what looked like anticipation.
An old man stepped forward. He had a long grey beard and was missing most of his teeth. His skin was covered with sores aggravated by heat and dirty clothing, and there was a white film over his right eye. He took Roger’s hand in both of his with a grip that was surprisingly strong. “Greetings, my son. I am Father Lambert. Who are—”
A big, dark-haired fellow shouldered his way between them. “What’s your name, boy?” he asked Roger.
Roger bristled at being called “boy,” but he didn’t let it show. “Roger,” he replied. Then he added, “What’s yours?”
The dark-haired man drew himself up with an air of authority. “I am Borchard. I am a man-at-arms and thus in charge of this hut. What is your rank?”
Roger gave a little smile. “Knight.”
The sharp-eyed fellow said, “Uh oh, he outranks you, Borchy.”
“Shut up, Pentecost,” Borchard said. He stared at Roger for a moment, as though digesting this information and what it meant for him, then he said, “Knight by birth?”
“Battlefield,” Roger said. “I was knighted by King Richard of England.”
A rippled murmur went round the hut. Borchard put his fists on his hips. “You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?”
“I don’t care what you believe, you buffoon,” Roger said. He was already tired of Borchard. He looked around the hut. “Unless anyone here is a knight of higher standing than me, I am now in charge.”
“What if we don’t want you in charge?” said the short brawler.
This was not the reception Roger had anticipated. He didn’t want to be in command, but there was no way around it. A knight could not take orders from a man of lower rank. “What you want doesn’t concern me,” he told the shorter man. To the hut at large he said, “My name is Roger of Huntley. I am English, and I command a company of footmen called the Death’s Heads. I was captured at the big battle outside the town of Arsuf.”
“We heard something about a battle,” said a young man whose dress marked him as a Turcopole. The Turco’s sweaty face was drawn and pale with illness.
