The Red King, page 24
part #2 of Roger of Huntley Series
The prior was even more travel stained than his escort. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes. He dismounted and dipped a knee into the gravelly mud before Richard. “Sire.”
With the crook of a finger, Richard bade him rise. “It is good to see you again, Prior Robert.” Puzzled, he added, “But I thought you were in England.”
“I was, sire,” the prior said. “I am here at the behest of the bishop of Ely.”
“Yes?” Richard’s tone indicated that he knew the news, whatever it was, would not be good.
The prior swallowed. “It is about your brother, Prince John.”
Richard let out his breath in resignation. “Come to the hall. There is a fire burning, and we can get out of the rain.”
Inside the hall, the prior warmed his hands at the fire. “Now what’s this about John?” Richard asked sharply.
The prior glanced at Alart and Chauvigny and said, “He amasses more power by the day, sire. He dispenses justice as he pleases, ignoring the law, and raises taxes as the whim strikes him. He confiscates estates that have been held for a hundred years and bestows them upon his friends. He treats the royal treasury like it is his own purse; he loots churches and abbeys and imprisons anyone who questions his acts. Your chancellor has fled to France in fear of his life.”
He paused dramatically. “Bishop William instructed me to tell you that your bother has usurped so much power that if you do not return to England soon, you’ll have no kingdom to return to, because John will be the king.”
Richard’s face betrayed no emotion, but he stood straighter, held his head higher. This news changed everything. Richard’s destiny, his place in history, was intertwined with the success of the crusade, fate had decreed that. But . . . but he could not afford to lose England. England’s wealth kept the Angevin empire going. It kept the crusade going. Without England, Richard was lost.
“Thank you for bringing me this news, Prior Robert,” he said politely. “Lord Andrew will see that you and your escort are provided refreshment and suitable quarters.”
As Chauvigny led the tired prior away, Richard turned to Alart. “John promised me that he would be on his good behavior when I gave him charge of England, but he has obviously reverted to his old ways. We must depart the Holy Land as soon as possible. Summon a grand council of the barons, to be held here a week from this day. They must decide who is to lead the crusade when we have gone.”
Chapter 59
Tattered and worn, the banners of the crusade’s leaders decorated the walls of Ascalon—all save that of Conrad of Montferrat, who had as usual refused to come. From the castle’s highest tower, the French fleur-de-lis hung beside the three lions of England. King Philip was not present, of course, but his representative, the duke of Burgundy, had against protocol claimed the right to display Philip’s banner.
There was a time when Richard would have flung the fleur-de-lis from the walls, as he had done with the flag of Leopold of Austria. Given his mood, he might have flung the duke of Burgundy from the walls as well. Now he no longer cared. His mind was on England, and on his duplicitous brother, John. Richard liked John—they had always gotten on well together—but the fellow had no self-control. Richard had known that, yet he’d left John in charge of England anyway. The resultant situation was as much Richard’s fault as it was John’s, and that was what upset Richard most.
The council was held in the great hall. Men packed themselves in. The weather had turned warm, and even with the windows open to the sea breeze, it was sweltering inside. Precious fabrics were splotched with sweat stains; the air reeked with the perfumes men wore to cover their odor. Men were present from every county in Europe and every barony in Outremer. There were bishops and archbishops, dukes and counts and earls. There were men four years from their homes and men who had arrived in the Holy Land that week.
Richard sat on the dais. Sweat glistened on his broad forehead; it flattened his copper-colored hair to his neck and temples. With him were the Grand Masters of the Temple and Hospital, as well as Guy of Lusignan, with the ever-present gold circlet in his hair.
As Richard looked out on the crowd, one figure caught his eye. He bounded from the dais and pumped the man’s hand. “Geoffrey!” he exclaimed with delight. “I did not think to see you here. I was told you were near death.”
Geoffrey of Trent looked pale and drawn; he had lost a lot of weight. His once-red beard was completely grey now, and his hair half so. He said, “My wife purchased a relic for me. It has—it has seemed to help. I have recovered some of my strength. As one of your senior commanders, I did not think I should miss this council.”
“Well, I’m glad you came. It’s good to see you up and about. Maybe I should get your wife to purchase a relic for me. God knows I could use one the way things are going.”
He gripped the earl’s shoulder companionably and ascended the dais once more. He gave a signal and trumpets blew, bringing the noisy room to silence. The packed crowd knelt while Richard’s chaplain blessed them, then Richard rose and faced the assemblage. “My lords, I regret to inform you that urgent business requires my return to England.”
That set off a buzz round the hall.
Richard had expected more noise, but he guessed that the news must have leaked out. He raised a hand for quiet, and the hall gradually fell silent.
Richard went on. “I have called you here so that you may decide who will now lead the army.”
There was whispering and talking, but it was conducted calmly, as if all this had somehow been discussed beforehand.
Richard raised his voice above the noise and continued. “We must end the arguing that has divided us for so long. For the sake of unity, I propose that Guy of Lusignan be formally crowned king of Jerusalem and named commander of the army.”
Sitting in his chair nearby, Guy preened as much as he could while still trying to seem modest.
Another buzz ran round the room. Then, as if it had been rehearsed, spade-bearded Balian of Ibelin, most influential of the native barons, stepped forward. “Sire, you say that Lusignan should be our king, but that is not your choice to make. It is a choice for the barons of this kingdom, and the barons of the kingdom will have no one for their king but the marquis of Montferrat.”
Before Richard could reply, the grizzled duke of Burgundy stepped forward as well. “And the army will have no one but the marquis for its commander.”
Guy leaped to his feet. “Traitors!”
One-eyed Henry the Lion, lord of Deraa, eyed Guy balefully. “ ‘Twere best you leave the country, Lusignan. You are no longer welcome here.”
Guy snorted. “You’ll have to kill me first.”
Henry smiled. “As you wish.”
Guy flared with anger but was wise enough to make no further comment.
Richard was caught off guard; he had not expected this. All of the barons, save for his own vassals, seemed to be in predetermined accord. This rebellion, for that was what it was, must have been in the works for some time, probably under Conrad’s direction, with Ibelin’s assistance. Richard’s imminent departure had precipitated it into the open.
Burgundy went on, “We are tired of dithering, Richard. We wish to march on Jerusalem, then go home.”
The bishop of Beauvais added, “Whether you leave or stay, sire, the army desires a new commander. We should have been in Jerusalem by now. Instead we fortify Ascalon, to what purpose no one can say, save as a waste of time and money.” This statement was a huge blow to Richard, as Beauvais had always been one of Richard’s staunchest supporters.
Richard would have defended his Ascalon stratagem, but he never got the chance, as noble after noble—Raynard of Sidon, the counts of Dreux, Chalons and Holland, the archbishops of Ravenna and Mainz, even the Papal legate, the bishop of Verona—stepped forward to announce their support for Conrad and their discontent with Richard’s handling of the crusade.
Richard endured it stoically, at least on the outside. When all was done, he turned to the one great noble who had yet to speak. “And you, Earl Geoffrey? What say you?”
Geoffrey of Trent drew himself up as best he could, given his weakened condition. “I am sorry, sire, but it is my belief that, with your departure, the crusade would be best served by making Marquis Conrad king of Jerusalem and commander of the army.”
There were cries of approval from Trent’s friends. Even the earl of Leicester, Richard’s most loyal vassal, showed a thin smile of admiration at Trent’s courage in going against his king.
Guy was open mouthed. “Are you going to let them do this?” he demanded of Richard. “This is defiance of my authority—of your authority. As king, it is my right to lead the crusade. You must—”
Richard silenced him with a wave of the hand. Guy was Richard’s kinsman and Richard had assisted him as best he could. Ultimately, it was not enough, and nothing was going to change that.
Richard drew himself up and addressed the audience. “I will have King Guy renounce his claim to the crown—”
Guy protested. “You have no right to—”
Again Richard silenced him. “I will have Guy renounce the crown on one condition—that this council cede to him governance of Cyprus.” Maybe Cyprus’s wealth would assuage Guy’s hurt feelings.
Philip of France was Cyprus’s co-owner, and his representative, the duke of Burgundy, promptly said, “You may consider that done, sire.”
“Very well,” Richard said. Guy puffed himself up like he was about to protest again, but before he could, Richard turned to the count of Champagne. “Nephew, make all haste to the Marquis Conrad and inform him of this council’s decision. Let Conrad’s coronation be held in ten days’ time in the city of Acre.”
The hall erupted in cheering. Only Richard’s most loyal supporters failed to join in, as did Geoffrey of Trent and the bishop of Beauvais, both of whom looked sad. To the jeers and catcalls of the native barons, Guy of Lusignan stalked from the hall without a word, still wearing his crown.
Richard stood stone faced amidst the shouting. Had ever a man fallen so far, and so quickly, as he had?
When he had arrived in the Holy Land, he had been treated as a conquering hero. After Arsuf, he was a demi-god. Now he was no longer wanted. In a few short months he had gone from being the next Alexander to being discarded.
How had it all gone so wrong?
Chapter 60
THE LITTLE party crept through Qaymaz’s palace. They had waited till after isha, the nighttime call to prayer, when the building would be as quiet as it was ever going to get.
Qaymaz’s palace, which occupied more than half of the Blue Fort, was a maze of cleverly designed corridors with frequent turns, easy to get lost in. Ailith had never been in Bedford Castle at home, but she’d seen it from the outside, and compared with the Blue Fort, it looked like something a child had put together.
Ailith had been hoping that Lamiya knew a passage that would get them to the garden gate unobserved, and Lamiya had not disappointed. The plan was to exit the palace into the harim garden, then use a waiting ladder to go over the wall at the back of the garden and into the new gardens beyond. “There will be horses waiting in the new garden,” Hassan had told Ailith and Margaret, “tied to a fig tree near the head of the irrigation ditch the slaves are building. Roger will meet you there. Do not wait too long for him, however. If he does not appear, save yourselves and ride east. Hide by day, when Qaymaz’s men will be looking for you, and travel by night. May Allah look favorably upon your endeavors.”
Ailith had given Lamiya what remained of her fifteen marks. “This is enough to buy your passage south,” Ailith had told her. “After that, it’s a matter of luck. A lot depends on the shipmaster or caravan leader you attach yourself to.” She paused. “Are you sure you want to do this, Lamiya? An unscrupulous ship’s captain might sell you into slavery again, under much worse circumstances than you face now.”
“I am willing to take the risk,” the African girl had replied with determination.
Now the three women moved along, their way lit by flickering shadows from an occasional torch. Lamiya went first, followed by Ailith and Margaret. Lamiya and Ailith had to keep stopping and wait for Margaret to catch up. The one-time washerwoman was limping badly, a pained grimace on her face.
At last they reached a plain wooden doorway that opened onto the harim garden. As they did, Lamiya stepped back and shouted into the darkness. “Here they are!”
Chapter 61
AS IF by magic, torches blossomed into light around them. From out of the glare appeared Aysun, along with the chief eunuch Narcissus, and a quartet of armed guards.
Aysun gazed lazily at Ailith. “Going somewhere?”
Ailith said nothing.
Aysun tisked. “Caught in the act of escaping. Even Qaymaz could not defend you from this. I suppose you thought you were going to return to your pagan friends?”
Again Ailith said nothing.
“Obviously your show of fealty to our master was a sham,” Aysun continued, then let out an exaggerated sigh. “Qaymaz will be so disappointed.” She smiled. “But of course you will be a dim memory ere he returns, so that will soften the blow.”
She turned to Lamiya. “Impressive work, Lamiya. You have our thanks.”
Lamiya bowed. “It was my pleasure, Preferred One.”
Ailith looked to Lamiya, her cheeks burning from betrayal. “How could you? All that talk about hating it here. You tricked me.”
Lamiya shrugged. “It was the price of being accepted in the harim.” She laughed scornfully. “Anyway, you tricked yourself. What kind of fool thinks I would want to go back and live in a hut made of sticks?”
Aysun addressed Ailith once more. “So what are we to do with you? Something slow, I should think. Don’t you agree, Narcissus?”
The big eunuch smiled with anticipation, but before he could say anything, Ailith grabbed Margaret’s arm and shouted, “Run!”
Ailith jerked open the door—thank God it was unlocked—and the two women dashed into the darkened garden with a surprised Narcissus and the guards steps behind, Aysun and Lamiya trailing them.
Ailith cut to the right, trying to throw the pursuing guards off track. She and Margaret ran through the garden—or as fast as they could run with Margaret lagging behind the way she was—then they slowed. The noise of their running would tell their pursuers where they were. There was no moon, so they were totally unseen. The guards’ torches cast cones of light into the darkness as they searched, but they illuminated little of the garden.
Stealthily, Ailith made her way toward the garden wall. She waited for Margaret to catch up. “The ladder is supposed to be at the northeast corner of the wall,” Ailith whispered.
Margaret replied with a shake of the head, her big chest heaving. “I’m played out, my lady. That last bit o’ runnin’ done for me. I’m finished. You go on, I’ll hold ‘em off.”
“No,” said Ailith, shocked. “There’s no way I’ll—”
“Go on, my lady, or I’ll curse you for a Trentshire peasant.”
“But—”
Margaret shoved her. “Go!”
Ailith hesitated, then started for the wall.
§
Margaret buried herself in the inky blackness behind the elaborately sculpted hedges near the fountain. Her ankle was on fire; she could barely put any weight on it—Christ knew what that bitch Aysun had done to it. She would have been a fatal drag on Ailith even had they reached the horses, so she had stayed behind, determined both to slow the pursuit and to extract some measure of revenge for what had been done to the two of them. She would have liked to have a go at Qaymaz, but that was not to be. God willing, someone else would do for him.
The entire palace was in an uproar now. More men poured into the garden. Margaret held her breath as two guards trotted past the fountain, wavering forms in the reflected light of their torches off the shimmering water.
She saw movement to her right. It was Aysun and a single guard. The guard carried a torch in one hand and his spear in the other. He held the spear lightly, not expecting trouble back here.
Another figure trailed them.
Lamiya.
Margaret waited until the guard was level with her. Quietly and with a quickness belying her size and the agony in her ankle, she stepped from the shadow and wrenched the spear from the startled man’s hands.
Aysun sensed the movement and turned. “What—?”
That was all she got to say because Margaret plunged the spear into her chest, just below the breastbone. She jerked the spear free, turned and thrust it into the startled Lamiya’s throat. She freed it once more and was looking to hurl it at the guard, but the guard’s curved sword cleaved into her skull first . . . .
§
The guards were just steps behind Ailith and gaining. She heard their footsteps. She would never make it, but she had to keep going.
She reached the far end of the garden, nearly running into the wall in the dark. Suddenly there was an anguished cry. Then another. The pursuing guards dropped away amid shouting and confusion, mixed with loud wailing. Margaret must have been successful. Ailith took advantage of the reprieve to move along the wall, using her hands to guide her, until she found what must be the northeast corner.
There was no ladder.
No time to think why, or to look for it. Behind her the torches were coming on again, anger in the guards’ voices now. Whatever Margaret had done, it had enraged them.
The wall was higher than Ailith was tall. She backed up, took a few steps and jumped. Her fingers caught the top of the wall, but she couldn’t hang on and fell off.
The torches were closer, the shouting confused. They hadn’t seen her yet, but that would change in a few seconds.
