The Red King, page 21
part #2 of Roger of Huntley Series
“Burgundy’s the one who surprises me,” Alart said. “I thought Philip left him here to slow you down, but he’s the one leading the charge to march on Jerusalem.”
“He’s for doing the opposite of what I want, no matter what it is. If I’d wanted to march on the Holy City straight away, he’d have been against it. His job is to sow dissension in the army, and he’s doing it well. He and that blockhead Conrad. I summoned Conrad to come down here and help us, and he refused.”
“Just like him,” Alart said.
“Now Burgundy and half the army have buggered back to Acre, complaining that I haven’t paid them. Why do I have to pay them? They’re Philip’s men, shouldn’t that be his job?”
Richard shook his head. “For all their talk, neither of those fools knows aught of war. I intend to make Ascalon the strongest fortress on the coast. When that’s done, Saladin will be cut off from Egypt. Nothing will move north or south without our say. We’ll have effectively split Saladin’s empire in half. The old goat will have no choice but to come down here and try to take Ascalon back from us. That’s when I’ll bash him with the axe.”
“Statecraft,” Alart said.
“Exactly.” Richard smiled, “And after that, Jerusalem will fall like a new-plucked fruit.”
They made their way out of the castle, Richard stopping to speak with the men working on the walls, slapping backs, calling some by name, joking with them. Alart envied Richard’s ability to connect with the common soldiers. It wasn’t done for show, he genuinely liked the fellows. That puzzled Alart, who had rarely spoken to a foot soldier—why would he?—but it was part of the reason the men loved Richard.
They reached the little shelf of beach adjoining the castle. Because Richard was still bantering with some footmen, Alart got there first and studied the approaching boat. He looked over his shoulder as Richard joined him. “It’s Mello.”
Richard said nothing.
The boat beached and William of Mello stepped out, splashing through the wavelets. With a practiced flourish, he bowed to Richard. “Sire.”
Richard embraced him. “William. It’s good to have you back with us. I always feel better when you’re around.”
William must have lost twenty pounds since he had reached the Holy Land. His once jowly figure had grown lean and hard. “Thank you, sire, but I’m afraid I bring bad news.”
“Is there any other kind?” Richard sighed. “Go on.”
“Rioting has broken out in Acre. The—”
“Are my wife and sister safe?” Richard interrupted.
“Yes, sire. They’re well guarded.”
Richard motioned him to continue.
“It’s the Pisans and Genoese doing the rioting. The Pisans support us, meaning King Guy and yourself. The Genoas are for Conrad, and they’re being egged on by the duke of Burgundy. The Genoas are fair to overrunning the city, and King Guy asks for your help.”
Richard looked at Alart. “This whole enterprise is falling apart. Now I’ll have to go up to Acre and waste still more valuable time.”
William of Mello went on grimly. “That’s not all, sire.”
Richard gave him a look.
William went on. “Humphrey of Toron was in Saladin’s camp, as you instructed, to discuss new peace terms. While he was there, he encountered the lord of Ibelin.”
Richard and Alart glanced at each other in surprise. “Balian?” Alart said.
William nodded. “Humphrey says Ibelin was there as Conrad’s emissary.”
Richard’s brow darkened like a thunderhead. His jaws worked. “How dare Conrad send an emissary to Saladin, how dare he send an emissary to anyone? He can’t admit that he’s not king, that he never will be king. Well, it’s time to end his meddling once and for all.” To Mello, he said, “You’re returning to Acre?”
“I am, sire.”
“Summon my ship and suitable escort vessels. Have them meet me at Jaffa.” He turned. “Alart, prepare my Norman guards and two companies of footmen—those Death’s Heads and whoever else you choose. We’re going to Acre.”
Chapter 51
THE BELL over the door rang, announcing a customer. Outside, from the direction of the plaza, came the sound of the rioting that was threatening to tear the city apart.
Fauston made his way to the front of the shop and there he stopped.
The customer was the earl of Trent’s wife, Bonjute. Bonjute had seen Fauston when he was the earl’s chronicler, but she had paid him no attention then and he doubted that she would recognize him now. In the spring warmth she wore a belted blue kirtle with long sleeves trimmed in gold thread. Her hair was concealed by a lace wimple held in place by a gold circlet. With her was a pretty, but snobby looking, serving girl. Fauston was about to offer a greeting, but Bonjute beat him to it.
“ ‘The Street of Bad Cookery?’ ”
“My lady?” Fauston said.
“The Street of Bad Cookery,” Bonjute repeated. “You couldn’t find a better-named location for your business?”
“I had no part in naming the street, my lady, and I assure you, this is a quite desirable—”
“Yes, I can see it’s a good neighborhood. I’m not blind.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
She cocked her head. “My God, is that an English accent I hear?” She pressed him. “Are you English?”
There was no point denying it. Fauston attempted to sound flattering. “I commend you on your—”
“It took no great skill. God knows I’ve heard that dreadful tongue enough. I’m surrounded by it in the wilds of Trentshire. How you people manage to communicate with all that grunting is beyond me. What is an Englishman doing calling himself Tolomei and Rico and selling relics in Acre?”
Fauston gave a well-rehearsed speech. “I’ve been in the Holy Land for a number of years, my lady. I inherited the firm from a distant cousin and, because it was well known, I kept the name. The firm originally started as goldsmiths but switched to relics because—well, because the Holy Land is a good place to find relics. That was before my time, of course.”
His speech seemed to make no impression. Bonjute scowled. “I was told this was a reputable shop, yet I find it run by an Englishman. That’s hardly a recommendation. You people can’t even run your own country.”
Fauston bit back his temper and replied smoothly. “Perhaps that’s because your people stole it from us.”
She made a dismissive noise. “It’s not like you were doing anything with it. At least we’ve put the land to use.”
“At the expense of good men’s lives.”
She stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re an impudent fellow.”
He smiled and bowed his head. “While you, my lady, are merely rude.”
The serving girl’s eyes widened; she had probably never heard her mistress spoken to like that. She gave Fauston a warning look as Bonjute flared with anger. “I should slap you for that.”
“You won’t,” Fauston said.
She glared at him, eyes wide, and he thought she was going to prove him wrong. At last she said, “You’re right. I would never soil my hand by laying it on a peasant.”
Fauston had wearied of this game. “Are you here for a relic?”
“No, I’m here to watch the sun rise. Of course I’m here for a relic, you idiot. You were recommended by Hugoline of Montjoie.”
“Ah, yes.” The countess of Montjoie, who was deeply religious, had become a regular customer.
Bonjute went on. “Hugoline said your merchandise was excellent. Does she know that you’re English?”
“I don’t recall her asking.”
She harrumphed.
Fauston said, “Are you looking for something specific?”
“I need something for my husband.” She hesitated. “He lies on the point of death.”
“The earl?” Fauston said, surprised.
She frowned. “You know him?”
“I know of him. I’m from Trentshire myself, years ago. I’ve seen him about many times as governor of the city,—and yourself, of course. I’m truly sorry to hear about his condition.” Fauston had always liked the earl. He remembered the earl saving him from the hangman in what seemed like another life. He went on. “The doctors can’t—?”
“The doctors are imbeciles. All they do is babble nonsense and smell Geoffrey’s urine. Now they tell me we should bleed him again. Can you imagine? The poor fellow is white as a sheet and they want to take what little blood he has left. The priests are no better. This crusade has become a nightmare. If Geoffrey lives, I’ll kill him myself for going on a winter campaign when he was sick.”
There was more noise from the plaza, louder this time, and Bonjute seemed to think she’d rambled on far longer than she had intended. She regained her cold dignity. “Hugoline reminded me that relics are sometimes known to work miracles and, a miracle is all I have left now. So are you going to dawdle here, or are you going to show me some relics?”
Fauston held aside a velvet curtain and ushered her into the middle room, where the better relics were kept—the front room held the cheaper material for tourists. The serving girl followed, turning up her nose at Fauston but managing to give him a saucy look at the same time. Fauston was still stunned by news of the earl. From what he knew of Bonjute, she bore no love for her husband, and her husband certainly bore no love for her. And yet here she was. He remembered the earl and Ailith, remembered poor Roger when he’d found out about it. Life was rotten sometimes.
“Would you care for a cup of wine, my lady?”
Bonjute nodded imperiously, and Fauston filled a pewter cup from a ewer on the sideboard and handed it to her.
The middle room was painted pale blue. Subdued candlelight rendered the scene reverential. Incense burned; a large crucifix hung on one wall. There were two cushioned chairs where customers could rest while they were being shown the merchandise, with carved stands upon which to place the cups they were given for refreshment. The relics occupied shelves and niches and pedestals around the room, with the very holiest grouped on display stands in the center of the floor. Another curtain led to a room in the back, where Francisco fashioned the reliquaries.
Bonjute walked around the room, taking it all in. “Are these relics genuine?”
Fauston pretended to take offense. “This firm has an impeccable reputation for honesty, my lady, going back long before I inherited it. If these relics were not genuine, I would not offer them for sale.”
“An honest Englishman—what is the world coming to? Jehan—take your hands off that!”
The serving girl had picked up a thorn from the Crown of Thorns, and she put it down hurriedly.
“How come you by your merchandise?” Bonjute asked Fauston.
“Sometimes people sell the relics to us, but most we obtain through our collector, Gregory, who travels the Holy Land in search of material. Right now, he is in Samaria.”
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally. Then she added, “I must say these reliquaries are exquisite.”
“Yes. They’re fashioned by an elderly fellow—been with the firm for ages.”
“What is this?” She indicated an enormous rock, centerpieced on a marble stand. The rock possessed an unusual, luminous gold color, with jagged black streaks running through it.
“That is the Star of Bethlehem,” Fauston said.
She stared at him.
“It fell from the sky on the day after Epiphany. It was found in the bottom of a well many centuries ago.” He spread his arms. “This is one of our most important items. We’re—”
“I want something that would fit in Geoffrey’s lap, where he could keep his hands on it and it could bring him comfort. Not something that’s going to crush him.”
“Yes, my lady.” This was the part of the business that Fauston hated. He was showing the earl’s wife these bits of bone and rock as though they were real, as though he and Gregory hadn’t concocted them in the back room, as though the “elderly fellow” who did the reliquaries wasn’t a young soldier invalided out of the army with a bad leg. Fauston understood the faith that people placed in relics, and he felt like a fraud. He was a fraud. At least when he’d been Brock the Badger, he’d been an honest thief, not a charlatan. Bonjute had come here seeking a miracle, and all he sought was her money.
Putting on gloves so that he wouldn’t mar the reliquary’s surface, he showed Bonjute an alabaster box carved in the shape of a cathedral. He opened the cathedral’s hinged roof. “This is part of the ass’s jawbone that Samson—”
“No, no. Nothing Old Testament.”
She indicated a jagged piece of wood, set in a casque of carved mahogany with gilt trim. Like many of the reliquaries, it had a glass lid, so the relic could be viewed without exposing it to air. “What is this?”
“That is a piece of the lance of Longinus, the lance with which the centurion Longinus pierced Christ’s side while he was on—”
“While He was on the Cross—yes, yes, I’m familiar with the Bible. What’s it doing here?”
“It came from the estate of a baron killed at Hattin. The baron left no heirs and we were able to procure this from his widow, who needed money. As you know, the lance was found by Peter Bartholomew in Antioch during the darkest days of the first crusade.”
She regarded him coolly. “I also know that the lance was whole when Peter found it.”
Fauston thought quickly. “That is true, but unfortunately, the wood was brittle with age and several pieces of it broke off—one of which was this, which the baron’s ancestor obtained. If you look closely you can see several dried drops of Our Lord’s blood.”
“And Longinus became a Christian and died a martyr,” Bonjute mused. “Geoffrey has always liked that story—I’ve no idea why. How much?”
Fauston hesitated. He would normally have charged one hundred bezants, but he was so guilt ridden he felt like he shouldn’t charge anything.
“How much?” she repeated. “Money is not a problem.”
Despite his guilt, that irritated him. “I suppose not, since it comes from the sweat of English labor.”
“Sweat?” she scoffed. “Labor? I’ve yet to see an Englishman perform actual labor. They’re always dodging off somewhere and drinking ale. It’s our poor bailiffs who do all the work, making them get back to the fields.”
“I’m familiar with the ‘work’ your bailiffs do, my lady,” Fauston said. “I’ve seen it all too often. And while you feast on the bounty from our fields and forests, the common men starve.”
“Bah! Villeins live far better than they deserve.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d been one of them.”
She sneered. “I didn’t come here to be insulted by a—”
“You came here for a relic, and now you have one. That will be one hundred silver bezants.” Any guilt he had felt was gone now. He wished he had charged her two hundred.
She produced a purse from under her cloak and counted out the money.
Fauston took the coins. “Will there be anything else?”
“No.” To the serving girl, she said, “Come, Jehan. And put down that wine!”
Jehan had been drinking from the goblet Fauston had furnished to Bonjute.
The noise outside had grown louder, more insistent. Fauston felt compelled to say, “Begging your pardon, my lady, but the trouble outside sounds close.”
“I’m not concerned with that. It’s just part of the silly games you men play. You could have taken Jerusalem months ago, and we could all be back home now. Instead you spend your time like a bunch of roosters, preening and strutting and squawking at each other, all the while accomplishing nothing.”
“All the same, my lady, you ought to wait here until the trouble has passed.”
Jehan said, “I think we should listen to him, madame.”
“Oh, stop being such a crybaby.”
Bonjute might be an arrogant shrew, but Fauston didn’t want to see her torn to pieces by the mob. “Please, my lady, it’s too dangerous—”
“When I want advice from an Englishman, I’ll ask for it. Which will be never. Jehan, open the door.”
Jehan obeyed. The bell tinkled and the two of them went out.
Chapter 52
BONJUTE AND Jehan made their way back to the earl’s palace. Bonjute would be glad when they got there. The situation in the streets was getting out of hand. Why Geoffrey tolerated this sort of thing, she didn’t know. If she had been in charge of the city, she would have—
“I’m scared, my lady,” Jehan bleated.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Bonjute told her, “stop acting like a child. We’ll be home soon enough, and you can go back to swyving the stable boy—or all the stable boys, if that’s what amuses you.”
The Street of Bad Cookery debouched onto a plaza with a fountain in the center. Bonjute and Jehan reached the end of the street and stopped.
Across the plaza two mobs faced each other, yelling, chanting, waving banners and clubs. Now one group advanced and the other retreated; now the other group advanced and the first retreated. Rocks and paving stones flew between the two groups. A few bleeding men on each side dragged themselves to the rear.
Suddenly the group on the right launched a more determined attack. Most of the other group backed away safely, but those on the right caught one young man. They dragged him into their lines and began beating him with clubs. A counter charge from the left rescued the young man and hauled him away, his face red with blood, his embroidered green shirt torn and bloodied.
Before the young man could be passed to safety, there was another rush from the right. The group on the left fell back hastily, leaving the beating victim to his own devices. He staggered after his friends, but the other group caught him and pulled him back to their banners, where they began beating him again, stomping him, hurling paving stones down on him until he lay still, his legs splayed out.
Bonjute took an involuntary step back from the sight. She looked over at Jehan, but the little vixen wasn’t there. She had run away.
