Last time he’d seen Jerusalem he’d been too bitter to notice. How could you enter Jerusalem without a thousand stories for company? All those bible stories and crusading veterans’ tales. For a minute, Dragonetz imagined how the first Crusaders must have felt when they claimed the Holy City for Christian rule. Their pride and awe at fulfilling their sacred mission, the miracle of their success. Then he remembered the pride of those same veterans in ‘dispatching’ the thousands of Jewish and Muslim families who lived in Jerusalem.
He was no longer the young Crusader who’d come to fight the Infidel and he would never again be able to go to war without counting the cost in human lives. Human, not just Christian. He shook his head, like a dog shakes off a shower, willing away the unwanted images, knowing he made his life complicated by such heretical thoughts. Instead, he let his soldier’s experience automatically signal the city’s defensive strengths and weaknesses to him, as he rode towards it with the vantage point of an attacking army.
Everything about Jerusalem was square, from the four-walled shape of the city to the battlements and towers. Squarest of all was the Tower of David, a keep dominating the skyline, apparently impregnable. It would be to the Tower of David that the important residents would retreat if the outer walls gave way to mangonets, trebuchels, or force of numbers scaling the walls. He appraised the city again and corrected his first impression. Not all buildings were square. He recognised the Dome du Rocher. Not as high as the tower, the huge gold roof, curved like a Saracen helmet even to the decorative peak, proclaimed the city’s Arab history. Its neighbour, in duller grey, also built as a mosque. No doubt their names had been different in the past, to suit their previous use.
Then the great walls loomed close and Dragonetz lost sight of the city interior. The train stopped outside the city walls, breaking formation and performing the usual undulation of camels kneeling and men dismounting. Although no longer afraid he’d topple off, Dragonetz couldn’t say he was used to the extreme motion as his beast dropped to its knees.
Horses and wagons came out to meet them, to carry high-born riders and goods into the city. Servants were accompanying their masters on foot, filing past the guards at the Damascus gate and through the city walls, out of sight. Dragonetz mounted, feeling a little strange at first on the Frankish saddle after days on a camel, preceded by horse-riding for months with Moorish tack. Bar Philipos and Yalda rode beside him, while Muganni loped easily in the rear, alongside the other servants and the laden pack-horses. No doubt there was more than one wagon with Bar Philipos’ goods, following them into the city.
The Damascus Gate opened into the quarter dominated by the ex-mosques and Arab-style housing but they quickly moved past these and headed to the right, amongst many churches and few houses. Clean, paved streets stretched out in every direction but the impression of well-organised design was disrupted by equal numbers of relic-sellers, food vendors, their customers and the numerous beggars who littered the streets. Dragonetz had never seen so many people.
‘Thank the Lord we’re here out of the season for pilgrims,’ murmured Bar Philipos, kicking away a man whose cupped hands and whining plea for a coin had intruded on the Syrian’s physical space.
‘The thigh-bone of Saint John,’ offered a peddler dressed in monkish garb. ‘Guaranteed to cure all ills.’
‘And the third such thigh-bone in this street alone,’ muttered Dragonetz, any remaining illusions about the holiness of the city taking a severe beating. ‘Could there really be more people in this city in the summer?’
‘From April to October, the pilgrims come in their thousands. Every pilgrim lodging is full, at triple the usual price, and any accommodation in the city is hard to find. I’ve heard that Rome is no longer as efficacious, and Santiago de Compostela was always a poor-man’s choice, so, now the Church of the Holy Sepulchre can be visited, what Christian would not choose Jerusalem?’
It was so easy to fall into easy habits of conversation with Bar Philipos, learning from his extensive knowledge of these lands and their peoples. Since he’d been a captive, because he’d been a captive, Dragonetz had put unsavoury facts about the Syrian to one side of his mind and had profited from their contact. Anyone watching them would have thought them friends. That habitual relationship had become second-nature to Dragonetz, even though he now felt dirty at the contact.
How was it possible for him to chat in this way, knowing the Syrian’s abuse of boys just like the one who gambolled along, protected by, and protecting, his new master? Knowing that he had dosed his captive with slow death, smiling throughout? Dragonetz felt sick at his own capacity for mummery. This, he told himself, is about survival and alliances, when deep in enemy territory. I could whisper this man’s name, with the password, into the right ears, and his life would be over. This is not me, who makes polite conversation with such a man. And yet.
And yet, that is exactly what disturbed Dragonetz most. There was a part of him that respected Bar Philipos’ passionate commitment to Damascus, a city that - thanks to the Syrian - Dragonetz had grown to love. That same part of him could appreciate Bar Philipos as a politician, while despising him as a human being. How was it possible to distinguish between the two? How could you hate a man, for what he’d done to others and for what he’d done to you, and also admire him as a strategist?
‘Our roads must part here.’ Bar Philipos broke into his thoughts as if reading them. ‘See.’ He nodded towards the grand walls and entrance to their right. ‘The Church of the Holy Sepulchre.’ Confused, wondering whether he was supposed to perform a pilgrim’s thanks for safe journey, Dragonetz waited. That such a suggestion should come from Bar Philipos! ‘And opposite,’ the Syrian continued, looking left, ‘the hospital, where the knights of Saint John are expecting you. They have lodgings for pilgrims, some empty in October, and you are expected. I go to stay with family.’
The Hospital could easily be recognised as such by the crowds of people, some being carried, many with makeshift bandages and in varying stages of sickness and bodily weakness, all gathering round the entrances to a long building, almost as grand as the holy monument opposite. Dragonetz saw flashes of the characteristic, monkish tabards worn by the knights Hospitaler, black with white, eight-point crosses. The Hospitalers were organising their would-be patients, sending urgent cases one way, holding others in waiting. The original structure of the building was that of a monastery but there were additions, including a small but beautiful church, dedicated to John the Baptist. Just past the complex of Hospital buildings was a private entrance and it was here that Bar Philipos stopped.
Dragonetz could not move a limb, lost, uncertain. The Syrian told him, ‘I gathered that the Templers have been over-zealous in trying to recruit you, and that the Hospitalers would offer a more restful place to stay.’ Adolescent resentment filled Dragonetz. What else did the man know about him?! From Yalda, no doubt! Or from the poppy dreams, over which he had no control. Still, he sat there. ‘You are a free man,’ said Bar Philipos and it was only then, with those five words, that Dragonetz felt his imprisonment, the weight of it shackling his mind as much as his movements, the daily constraints. He felt the tremors starting in his hands and caught Muganni’s eye. The boy nodded imperceptibly.
Bar Philipos gave a curt order to one of his servants, who brought a pack-horse towards them, laden with what Dragonetz instantly recognised as his own saddle-bags, with extra goods stacked above them. ‘You will find everything is there, all your possessions,’ the Syrian told him, ‘and we will have audience together with Queen Mélisende, two days from now, to discuss the matter of Damascus. You have been my guest for several months and we have much information to share with the Queen. And of course I have told her of the special gift you bring for her.’
‘You don’t fear for what I might say?’ Dragonetz ventured.
‘I trust your judgement, my Lord,’ was the smooth reply, and if Dragonetz hadn’t known of the contingency plan to dispose of him, he would have admired the other’s confidence more - or perhaps less. Bar Philipos kicked his horse on, and the last Dragonetz saw of the party was one sullen glance from the swathes of black fabric hiding all but Yalda’s eyes.
‘My Lord Dragonetz.’ A young Hospitaler smiled his greeting, then ordered black-clad servants to take the horses and show Muganni to the prepared lodging. ‘It is such an honour to have you here. We have all heard of your crusade, how you became Commander on Mount Cadmus and so young!’ Wearily, Dragonetz suffered the starry-eyed young man to lead him to a clean, sparse chamber where Muganni had already aired the bed and placed a night chemise on it.
‘What am I thinking?!’ The Hospitaler, who’d introduced himself as Francis de Blaincourt, stopped mid-flow. ‘You must be so tired after the journey.’
‘I am,’ Dragonetz responded shortly. ‘Please excuse me but I think I must sleep as long as I can this night.’
‘I see your boy has prepared a posset for you already,’ smiled de Blaincourt. ‘Then I wish you good night and will see you at matins.’ Before he had pulled the heavy oak door to, Dragonetz had already lost control of his hands. Muganni held the ‘posset’ to his master’s lips and helped him drink, ignoring the tears forcing their way out of closed eyelids, then he supported Dragonetz to the bed. ‘You will be yourself in the morning,’ Muganni promised in soft Arabic, but no-one heard him. Dragonetz was already deeply elsewhere.
Not at matins, nor prime, but closer to terce and lunch-time, Dragonetz emerged from his stupor. After sluicing himself awake at the wash-basin, with the pitcher provided, he unpacked the saddle-bags and parcels, letting Muganni fold unwanted clothes into the chest. ‘The crates!’ he exclaimed.
The boy’s teeth gleamed as he reassured his master, ‘The pigeons are in the care of the knights’ falconer. I went back to the camel-herders last night to have them brought here.’ Dragonetz breathed again, glad he’d paid handsomely for his cargo to be kept safe. The Khatun’s gift - for she would never have insulted him with the word ‘bribe’, whatever she hoped - was only partly in the pigeons themselves and was irreplaceable.
Inspecting his armour for rust or damage, Dragonetz was pleased to find it had been oiled and had no stiffness in the joints. Unlike himself. He donned his mail hauberk over his long-sleeved linen under-tunic and britches, then paused, looking at the tabards and chemises, belts and stockings. They looked so foreign to him.
Instead he reached for one of the loose, striped robes that had been his daywear for months, slipped it over the hauberk and tied a cord round his waist. Another day wearing the comfortable garb of Damascus would harm no-one, he thought as his feet made their habitual way into leather sandals. He probably looked much like a Hospitaler, or a pilgrim. His Damascene sword belted round his hips, he was ready for Jerusalem. He let Muganni find young Francis de Blaincourt, who was only too happy to escort Dragonetz to the refectory, where unleavened bread and sheep cheese tasted as good as any banquet, especially washed down with good red wine from the hill-vineyards of Homs.
Silence did not appear to be one of the vows taken by the Hospitalers but, with a full stomach, Dragonetz found de Blaincourt’s chatter entertaining rather than irritating, and he was able to turn it to his advantage. By the end of the meal, he knew that Queen Mélisende’s good-looking Constable was rumoured to be more than her right-hand man. Dragonetz was also fully informed as to the Hospitalers’ organisation into knights, men-at-arms and chaplains, and the strength of the newly formed militia, an army to rival the Templars - so de Blaincourt informed him with pride. The rivalry between Hospitalers and their red-cross brethren, the Templars, was not news to Dragonetz and he was not sure whether lodging with the Hospitalers would weigh in his favour or against him.
The Templar Grand Master would be none too pleased when he heard but Bar Philipos was quite right. Because of their work in the Hospital, the Knights of St John still preserved a reputation for adherence to their vows, and for neutrality. Whether this would change as their militia grew stronger, was a good question. What was certain was that the Templars’ power had already grown well beyond neutrality; their ingenious banking system, from which Dragonetz had profited in the past, made their vow of poverty a joke. They were an easy target for tavern jokes regarding their other vows too, but such jests were rarely made in front of the Templars themselves. Their skill at arms was not a joke.
Dragonetz had been approached several times by Templar Commanders, including the Grand Master himself, Everard des Barres, when they were Crusaders together, but the offers had never convinced him. Not that the offers hadn’t been tempting! But he could never shake the feeling that he would be signing away his soul, even with de Barres, a man after his own heart, in a way beyond anything he had known with Aliénor as his liege.
De Barres had rescued King Louis from his own folly more than once in the first year of the crusade and then, like Dragonetz, returned home with the defeated army, disillusioned. Whereas Dragonetz had invested his energy in a paper mill, De Barres’ reaction to the humiliating campaign had been to retire from the world and join the monastery at Clairvaux. Dragonetz didn’t know his successor, Bernard de Tremelay, but he did know that the new Grand Master had been leader in all but name since de Barres left the Holy Land, and the title had been ratified by vote four months ago.
Given the fragile relationships between the two orders of knights, and his own reputation (of which he was informed hourly by de Blaincourt) it was no surprise to Dragonetz that the Hospitalers’ Grand Master, Raymond de Puy, requested his presence.
When he entered the austere chamber to which de Blaincourt escorted him, Dragonetz found himself alone with one of the most powerful men in Jerusalem. A man in his sixties, with a bald head and a curly grey beard, the Dauphinois Raymond de Puy addressed Dragonetz in their native Occitan, which instantly created a feeling of intimacy. This was reinforced by de Puy’s Hospitaler garb, the same as all the knights wore, and his unassuming manner.
Inviting Dragonetz to draw up a stool and sit with him, de Puy spoke with a twinkle in his eye. ‘De Blaincourt tells me we have a legend among us, a cross between the Lancelot of the new Frankish ballads, and a Perseus, who dispatched the Damascene minotaur while hanging upside down from a stirrup.’
Dragonetz smiled. ‘I fear he exaggerates, most worshipful master. The stirrup acrobatics were separate from the killing of the minotaur.’
‘Nevertheless,’ de Puy returned the smile but showed the steel within, ‘this makes your choice of allegiance interesting to my order.’
Dragonetz let the silence speak.
‘I will speak frankly. I am concerned, as are many others, at the way the Templars’ power grows, beyond any checks. They serve the throne because they choose to do so but they make it clear that they are above the law and own no authority but the Pope’s. The Pope is a long, long way from here and his authority weighs lightly. Until recently, the Templar army went unchallenged, which works well when we are united against the infidel; not so well in truce-times where power seeks more power, more land and more wealth.
There must be a balance to such power and we can provide it. I am at fault for letting our order concentrate on our hospices and development of skills in care of the sick, leaving the military duties to the Templars unless war called us to arms. No more! We are expanding our militia, and training them to be unbeatable, to offer the counter-balance. We need the best training, and you can give us that. Will you join us?
I can’t offer you wealth. Nor prestige or power such as you would gain with the Templars themselves. There is little earthly reward in doing God’s work but the knowledge that you fight for what is right. You would have a thousand young men like de Blaincourt, to shape for the good, with a knight’s skills, used for a knight’s purpose, not for greed. What do you say? Will you join us?’
Dragonetz bit his lips to prevent the ‘Oc’ of assent escaping. To say yes and give up the responsibilities he carried, to obey orders, doing what he did best, working for someone he respected... No wonder de Puy had reached the position he had, when he inspired such an urge in a stranger. However, the instinct to accept de Puy’s offer did not further his plan.
‘I take the question as a great compliment,’ he replied slowly, ‘and I will think seriously about it.’
Disappointment flashed across de Puy’s face. They both knew the answer was ‘non’ but the older man was wise enough not to press. Instead, he clasped both Dragonetz’ hands in his own, then blessed him, leaving a stronger feeling of guilt and debt than any recrimination could have done.
Dragonetz needed to dress for court. Several times he picked up the clothes he had worn in the past, then put them back down, while Muganni waited passively. Then he gave them to the boy, to fold and put back in the chest, and instead selected a clean robe, with long, loose sleeves and embroidered trim. It was so much more comfortable, left him so much more freedom of movement than his Occitan garb. He told himself that his attire was not so different from the Hospitalers and he knew that the court of Jerusalem had a far greater range of nationalities among its courtiers than that of Paris, where even a southern flourish in dress would attract disapproval. So Aliénor had found, to her cost.
Musing on the two courts, Dragonetz imagined the scene when Aliénor had been presented to Mélisende, three years earlier. That must have been some competition in jewels and entourage. How Aliénor must have envied the woman who was queen in her own right, not through some weak husband. Indeed, as a widow, whose king-son had barely reached majority, Mélisende held absolute power. This might not be what her father had envisaged when he left his throne jointly to his daughter and her carefully chosen Frankish husband, Foulques. No doubt the father had imagined his daughter supporting her husband, securing the throne until it could be passed on to her son Baudouin, on Foulques’ death. If so, Mélisende’s father had known little of his daughter, who fought inch by inch, surviving scandal and war, to rule as Foulques’ equal - more than equal, many said, as blood heir to the old king.
A hunting accident had ended Foulques’ reign two years before the Crusaders came Oltra mar but Mélisende was in no hurry to proclaim her son king in anything but name. His coming of age at fifteen came and went with no change to the balance of power. King Baudouin did his mother’s bidding, although he had more than proved his manhood, leading his army alongside Dragonetz in the crusade. Maybe Aliénor had taken another lesson from Mélisende’s example; a queen’s power could be extended and strengthened through a son and heir. Aliénor’s frustration at birthing only daughters was boundless, while Mélisende rejoiced in two sons, Baudouin and his younger brother Amaury. However, at twenty-one, King Baudouin was surely chafing at the bit.
When discussing politics with Bar Philipos, Dragonetz had asked the Syrian’s judgement on the King and Queen, if friction grew to a matter of choosing between the two. His reply had been that Mélisende was proven, an ally of Damascus, and Baudouin untried. For that, his mother must be blamed - she could not keep her son like a hunting cat on a leash. That he rebelled against this spoke for his manhood and his honour. Sooner or later Baudouin would come to power and, if he were to keep it, he would need to learn from Mélisende how to make an ally of Damascus while there was still time. If Mélisende would not resolve the growing conflict between her and her son, then her subjects must, and the sooner the better for all Christian Franks.
Having been Bar Philipos’ ‘guest’ for some months, Dragonetz would be expected to know and share the latest news from Damascus. As a Christian knight, he owed fealty to the court of Jerusalem, to both Queen Mélisende and King Baudouin. He had already heard and rejected de Puy’s invitation; whether the Templar Grand Master would also make his bid for Dragonetz, remained to be seen. Maybe all Dragonetz’ previous rejections of the Templar offers had left a clear message and he would not be asked again. That would be one less buyer in the marketplace to which Bar Philipos had brought him. Brought him and the book. Except that the book was not for sale. Whether he was, remained to be seen.
A full gathering of the court faced Dragonetz, when he was summoned to audience with the Queen. He had not been invited to court on his previous visit to the city and he noted the eastern décor of the palace, carpets and gilt statues, servants in livery, and all manner of people. He’d been right about the variety of dress, from baggy-trousered Arabs to sober clerics, from fully covering veils to flirtatiously slashed kirtles. This was indeed very different from Louis’ court in Paris.
The throne room itself was lined with people Dragonetz assumed to be the great and the fashionable of the city, who barely glanced at him as they competed with each other for attention. Regally tall - in that, she and Aliénor were well-matched - Mélisende was dressed richly but simply in a red robe, ruched all down the front. She wore the golden coronet of Jerusalem encircling a white wimple. Her olive face spoke of her Syrian mother but the blue Frankish eyes made a striking contrast. Her hair swung in a long reddish-brown rope below the wimple and hinted that widowhood weighed lightly on this woman, now in her forties, but still showing the beauty for which she was famed. She watched Dragonetz approach, then accepted his obeisance with easy grace and started the presentations with an introduction to the woman who stood beside her, equally tall but painfully thin.
‘My Lord Dragonetz; the Comtesse de Tripoli. My sister tells me your voice would make pets of the desert snakes, enslaving anyone who hears you sing. She regrets that she was indisposed and unable to thank you as you deserved for your exquisite performance on the journey from Damascus.’
Startled, Dragonetz recognised the mysterious woman from the camel train, the woman who had sobbed in the night as his song ended. The ‘far love’, the peerless woman for whom the song had been written, and who was standing here before him, bruises not yet faded on her face, eyes still fixed on some abyss.
Hodierne, Comtesse de Tripoli, would have looked very like her sister if her existence were happier but her hair had been allowed to grey and knot, her face was sallow with starvation and misery, and her drab robe hung loose on the thin frame. What had turned the beauty of the ballad to this shadow? He bowed deeply to Hodierne, choosing his words with care. ‘To inspire such a song is more notable than merely to sing it. Wherever there is song, the Comtesse de Tripoli is a byword for all that is fair in a woman.’
Then she did focus on him, tears in her eyes. Her voice barely reached him, as if she was afraid even to speak. ‘I think the Comtesse de Tripoli has indeed become a byword.’
Squeezing Hodierne’s arm, both in support and in signal that she need not exert herself, Mélisende spoke for her. ‘My sister has not been well and is come to court for a cure of some months’ duration.’
‘Some months!’ exclaimed Hodierne. Then her voice dropped back to its whisper. ‘No, no, I daren’t stay so long. My Lord of Tripoli would not approve. I must do as he wishes or ...’
Mélisende flashed fire and spoke to her sister in quick Armenian, presumably the language of their childhood. ‘My lord of Tripoli will accept whatever his queen orders! You will return to your ... lord... when you are well enough and not before!’ She spat Tripoli’s title as if it poisoned her tongue to pronounce it and suddenly Dragonetz understood the bruises, the fear, the anxiety to please. The Queen put a hand on the arm of the black-haired courtier beside her, as easy with him as she had been in touching her sister. ‘Manassés,’ she said, her tone once more husky and honeyed, ‘please see the Comtesse de Tripoli accompanied to her chamber.’ Mélisende smiled warmly at Hodierne, then apologetically at Dragonetz. ‘She wanted so much to meet you after hearing you sing but it is too soon after illness and journey for her to be abroad.’
Meekly, Hodierne followed her sister’s wishes, and her sister’s Constable, gathering enough force to breathe, ‘I hope you will sing for me again,’ as she passed Dragonetz.
‘It will be my pleasure,’ he responded, bowing. Then he was distracted from the mystery of Hodierne by a bear-hug that lacked all courtly procedure. ‘Dragonetz!’
‘Baudouin,’ replied Dragonetz, extricating himself from the enthusiastic greeting and studying a man who’d filled out from the young comrade-in-arms of three years ago. At eighteen, King Baudouin had led the army of Jerusalem in support of King Louis and the Emperor Conrad. He had proved himself in battle, a popular leader and comrade. The way he greeted Dragonetz now was a reminder of the time they were brothers-in-arms.
Did he imagine a frown darkening Mélisende’s expression at Baudouin’s exuberance? If so, there was no trace of it as she spoke. ‘I see you and my son, Baudouin, already know each other. I am sure you have much to discuss. Let me just present my son Amaury, before I leave you to talk of men’s matters.’
No-one was fooled by the implication that Mélisende had no interest in ‘men’s matters’ but the withdrawal was graceful. Dragonetz bowed to Amaury before the young man followed his mother. He was a reserved youth, quietly observing others and staying in the background. Probably the background was a safe place to stay, for a younger son. Mélisende gave her parting orders. ‘We have a private audience this afternoon, my Lord Dragonetz. Yohana Bar Philipos will join us. I will send for you.’
‘Your Grace.’ Dragonetz bowed and was dragged off by Baudouin, past the throngs, along the corridors and into a pleasant ante-chamber where they could sit undisturbed. Although he had the energy of youth, Baudouin was as politically astute as he was physically hardened, and he cut to the quick of all the news Dragonetz brought from Damascus.
‘She won, over Damascus. We should never have laid siege.’ Dragonetz had no need to ask who ‘she’ was. Although she had allowed Baudouin and his troops to join the siege of Damascus, Mélisende had refused to join the Crusaders, keeping her truce with the city. Dragonetz now strongly suspected that many of Baudouin’s troops had worked against the siege, but there was no point accusing Baudouin of double-dealing. It was evident that he had lost popularity from leading his section of militia against the city. Any double-dealing had been either his mother’s doing, or individuals backing their own interests against the land-grabbing newcomers. Either way, Mélisende had profited.
‘So Nur ad-Din sits waiting for Damascus to fall into his hand, like one of the city’s juicy plums. But you don’t think he will use force.’ Dragonetz confirmed his view. ‘We can’t afford to lose access to Damascus. Its trade is too precious and its position too central,’ Baudouin mused aloud, ‘but we can’t take it by force.’
‘Definitely not. Even the attempt would be all the excuse Nur ad-Din would need to ‘protect’ the city and if Jerusalem pushed the citizens of Damascus to choose between armies, they would jump into the Muslim’s arms. The siege made no friends in the city and Jerusalem is dipped in the same crusading dye, even if Queen Mélisende has kept her personal reputation separate.’
‘So our best hope is to support the city’s independence?’
‘I think so but the attempt is doomed with Unur gone. The current Atabeg is too weak to hold the city together. Bar Philipos and his fellow-merchants are wielding the real power. While you have time, you need to make your trading links so intertwined that Damascus cannot do without Jerusalem.’
Baudouin’s frown deepened. ‘Not so easy as the other way round.’
‘You must find ways.’ There was no point putting honey on the pill.
‘I need to think, talk to some of our key merchants. This is a new way of thinking to me. The Grand Masters of both orders speak to me of armies, training, strongholds and castles. Their answer is always more knights and new fortifications.’ Dragonetz said nothing, reading the other man’s attraction to military solutions. He would have been the same at that age.
‘There is a need for training and armies,’ Baudouin continued. He hesitated, then the words came out in a rush. ‘By the rood, Dragonetz, I need to be honest with you or I can’t say this at all! If you carry tales then so be it. I cannot live like this any more.’ He got up and paced the room in his agitation.
‘There is no reasoning with her! She has me running errands wherever she wants to send soldiers, she lets me listen to ‘men’s matters’ but she holds the real power in a grip of iron. I’ve been pushing for six years now just to have my rights. She has stopped saying, ‘when you’re of age’, now I’m of age!
Instead, she asks what fault I find with the job she does as queen, says that she values any insight I care to give her. And that’s not it at all! I am just tangled even more in her threads. The worst of it is that she even uses my respect for her to keep me from what should be mine. I love her - damn her! - but she has gone too far for too long.
Then there is Manassés.’ The name hissed from Baudouin’s lips and Dragonetz had no need to ask how the man felt about his mother’s ... Constable. ‘She will not listen to anything I say about the man, or about what people think. She assumes I’m jealous! But he has tipped the balance and I am approached daily by one lord after another, begging me to put a stop to the situation, to take up the throne, my birthright. Dragonetz, I cannot continue like this and the day is coming when I must act, with force if need be. Sometimes I think that’s what she’s after, that she’s testing me, that she actually wants me to show force.’
Dragonetz’ unspoken fear must have shown in his eyes for Baudouin hastened to add, ‘Not violence against my mother’s person, but force against her men, starting with Manassés. I have armies at my disposal, I have the whole city of Antioch under my control, and more than half of Jerusalem would rise on behalf of my just claim. When I make my move, there can be no doubt of the outcome.
Dragonetz, will you join me? There is no-one I would rather have as my Commander. I know you have freed yourself from Aliénor’s service and I know your worth. The armies of Jerusalem and Antioch would be yours to train and command. I am Regent for Antioch since the Prince was killed and as yet the widow is free. When she marries again, I will have to hand over Antioch to her husband, as it should be. Marry Antioch and you will rule a state as powerful as my own. I can’t think of any man I would rather have as Prince of Antioch than you and I can make this happen!’
Dragonetz imagined himself at the head of King Baudouin’s armies, Prince of Antioch, successor to the golden giant, both in the kingdom and in the widow’s bed. Raymond of Antioch might have been older than his wife Constance, but there had been no doubting her passion for him. Dragonetz had seen the young wife, trying to hide her outrage at her husband’s behaviour with his niece, Aliénor. She had behaved with more dignity than Aliénor’s husband Louis, but who knew what had been said behind closed doors. After all, it was through marrying Constance, when she was still a child, that Raymond de Poitiers had become Prince of Antioch.
Constance was Mélisende’s niece and if she had a tenth of her aunt’s spirit, she would make a fiery wife, fit partner to rule a principality. Dragonetz racked his memory for more detail of his bride-to-be. A pretty thing, his own age. Four children, so she had proved herself. But that meant complications for any children they might have together. Still, a grand marriage that would bring a smile to his father’s face. His parents had been nagging him for years to choose a bride and an Oltra mar princess, with Antioch in her dowry, was a choice to take your breath away.
As to leading the Christian armies; Dragonetz had nothing but respect and liking for Baudouin. He would happily offer his sword to such a leader. Training soldiers, planning campaigns, weighing politics against battle, was what Dragonetz did best. With a pang he remembered his paper mill, his attempt to find something else he did best, something that would make the world a more civilised place. And where had that got him?! Maybe he should accept what his fate was telling him; he was a fighter. His only choice in life was who to fight for. Surely there could be no-one worthier than Baudouin; nor more on offer to him and his line, in reputation and wealth?
‘I will think seriously on it,’ he told Baudouin, and, this time, he meant it.
‘He’s not there, Effendi,’ Muganni said.
‘Hell and damnation! What do you mean ‘not there’?!’ Dragonetz had hoped for peaceful thinking time before he faced his private audience with the Queen but, instead, he was presented with another complication. He’d never expected the endgame to be easy. He’d been prepared for Bar Philipos to have him followed and to try to prevent him passing on the book but he’d not considered the possibility that his Jewish contact would not be there.
‘I followed all your orders, Effendi. I went to the dyeworks.’
‘Was it the right dyeworks?’ Dragonetz interrupted.
‘There is only one dyeworks in Jerusalem. The Jews pay the Queen to have the only dyeworks. So I went to the Jewish quarter, to the dyeworks and yes, your Abdon Yerushalmi works there. But he’s been in Egypt since January on family matters.’ Parrot-fashion, the boy recited what he had been told. ‘He’s supposed to be back for Chanukkah, their festival, which starts three days after the Ides of December.’ Muganni resumed in a natural voice. ‘He’s needed at the dyeworks because he’s overseer, and he promised he would be back for the festival, so, Allah willing, he will be back.’
Dragonetz started to laugh, a shrill cackling sound that escaped his control and spiralled higher, ugly. Muganni winced. ‘It’s the hash,’ he told Dragonetz. ‘Sometimes the hash laughs when there is nothing humorous.’
‘Oh but there is,’ wheezed Dragonetz. ‘Being kidnapped has made no difference to me at all. If I’d come straight to Jerusalem I’d still be waiting for Yerushalmi’s return, exactly as I’m doing now.’ He rasped to a calmer note, breathing heavily. ‘But I wouldn’t be living with this poison in me.’
‘Who can say, my Lord.’ Muganni shrugged. ‘The paths not written can never be taken. There is no virtue in thinking of them.’
‘I need to be here until Yerushalmi is back. You must check daily, to see whether he has returned. We might be lucky and he’ll be here tomorrow. We might be unlucky and he won’t be back till mid-December. Do you have enough poppy? Enough hash?’
‘It will not be cheap but I know where to get it.’ The boy hesitated. ‘That is not the problem...’
‘I know. You told me.’ Dragonetz was curt. ‘There is no choice. And the wherewithal is no problem, however much it costs. I have very rich friends.’ And then he began laughing again. Muganni hid his thoughts under long lashes, bowed and left his master giggling on the bed, taking what rest he could before facing Mélisende.
Robes had many advantages, Dragonetz thought, as he hid a parcel in a pouch, underneath the loose folds. Bar Philipos had made it clear that Mélisende was expecting to see the Keter Aram Sola, so he would not disappoint either of them. It was well known that the Queen was a connoisseur and patron of the arts, owning one of the finest psalters ever created, a present from her husband. There was no doubt that she would be willing to pay a high price for the Torah, both in commitments to Damascus (Bar Philipos’ aim) and in tangible personal benefits to Dragonetz.
He sighed. In theory, he had not one solidus to his name, indeed was deep in debt until he delivered the Torah to Yerushalmi and earned the reward promised by the Jewish money-lender, Raavad. When he handed over the book, all debts due from his sabotaged paper mill would be cancelled, and a fat sum would acknowledge the success of a dangerous mission. He would be a free man, his oath fulfilled and honour restored, free to accept the amazing future offered him by King Baudouin. If he could get the poppy out of his system, and without losing his reputation in the process.
In the mean-time, he actually had rather more than one solidus to his name. The ‘very rich friends’ were no idle boast. Dragonetz was starting to lose track of the gifts reaching him, not ‘bribes’ of course. Perish the thought. In all courtesy, he could not refuse the gifts of his superiors, and still they arrived.
Bar Philipos had played the generous host throughout Dragonetz’ captivity and he knew that if he tried to tell Mélisende that he’d been kidnapped and held against his will, it would be difficult to explain the freedom or the largesse that had provided the Damascene sword at his hip. Another sticky thread in which he’d been tangled, Dragonetz realised bitterly. There was no accusation he could make against the Syrian that would not make him seem foolish or worse. So he accepted the coffers, full of jewels, brocades and best Damascene daggers, which arrived in his Hospital lodging, ‘to remind him of the good people of Damascus.’ So went the bid from Bar Philipos and the other merchants of that city.
Then there was the casket from de Puy, full of coins, ‘for your daily needs while you are our guest’, balanced by the case from the Templar Grand Master, containing the jawbone of St Roch, and accompanied by a promissary note to be drawn on the Templar bank, and naming a sum that made Dragonetz blench, so large was it. St Roch was no accidental choice and Dragonetz smiled, remembering that the Occitan-born saint had been born with a miraculous red cross birthmarked on his chest.
Latest offerings were more coffers, two from Baudouin and - again a pleasing symmetry - two from Baudouin’s mother. ‘To make your stay in our kingdom more agreeable,’ was the first message; ‘May you take Jerusalem to your heart as we do’ was the second. Never had Dragonetz been so cherished a guest to so many hosts, at the same time. Never had he felt the distinction between ‘guest’ and ‘prisoner’ so fine, not even when he was in Bar Philipos’ house.
Sticky threads indeed and he must test his footing every step of the way if he were to stay alive. Let one rich, powerful friend believe he had chosen one of the others, and he would suddenly find himself unpopular to all but the chosen one. Unpopular could well mean his name whispered with a password to a beggar on a street corner, a stranger with a cord or a knife on a dark night.
Bar Philipos, of course, knew he only had to wait. He would be wanting his money’s worth, short term; Dragonetz arguing for Damascan independence, and the book buying it. Bar Philipos was too afraid of the curse to take the book himself but if he ever realised he couldn’t manipulate Dragonetz, who knew what he would risk, for Damascus. The irony was that Dragonetz did support Damascan independence, did love that city and its people. If Bar Philipos had left him free, never bound him with the poppy, Dragonetz would have been an even stronger ally for the city.
A thought struck him. ‘When did you last intercept a poppy drink?’
‘In the house, before we left for the camels, Effendi.’
‘And how often were they being given?’
‘Every week, Effendi, but I can’t tell what the dose was. I only know what I give you and I try to keep it low.’
‘You do well, Muganni. I couldn’t manage without you.’ The boy beamed. ‘Bar Philipos thinks I’ve had no poppy for over a week. He won’t know for sure how soon I will react to lack of the poison. So in a week, maybe two, he will expect to see me ill, or he will know I have found the poppy elsewhere. Maybe we can pretend an illness, keep him guessing.’
‘Maybe, Effendi.’ Muganni looked doubtful but said nothing, his eyes large with pity.
‘Speak,’ Dragonetz ordered.
‘Feigning illness is easy. But if you recover, he will know you have found the poppy.’
‘If I stay out of view for a few days?’
‘No, Effendi. A man does not recover in a few days. Nor does he look well when he recovers.’
Dragonetz was on the verge of asking how long. Of asking how ‘not well’ But however horrifying the answer, he must go through the experience in the future, after the endgame. He could not afford the time, nor the illness, before he had delivered the book.
‘The Queen of Jerusalem expects me,’ he said shortly, and the subject was closed.