Just who was Balian d'Ibelin? - Excerpt 6

Ascalon, Kingdom of Jerusalem

Disappointed, Maria Zoë went to one of the chairs between the arches and slowly sank down onto it. From habit she folded her hands in her lap, and the image she presented to the outside world was one of a patient queen, awaiting the refreshments promised. Behind that façade, however, her emotions were teetering on the brink of panic. She had ridden all this way, mystifying those around her, for a confrontation with what? A ghost from her past? A figment of her imagination?

Just who was Balian d’Ibelin?

In this functional room, shorn of all her dreams and wishful thinking, she realized that she did not know him at all. He had never said one word about himself―about his feelings, his plans, his dreams. He had always spoken of Baldwin. Baldwin had been their shared interest. Nothing more.

There was a knock on the door and she caught her breath, turning toward it expectantly. But the tall young knight who entered was not Balian. He looked vaguely familiar, but Maria Zoë could not place him. He came toward her, smiling, and bowed deeply from two feet away before announcing, “My lord was out in the lists, but he will return shortly. Meanwhile, is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable, your grace? Sherbet is being prepared even as we speak, but perhaps you would like something more substantial?”

“At the moment, no, aside from learning your name, sir.”

“Oh, I’m Sir Walter. You’ll remember me as Sir Balian’s squire.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Now that he said it, she did recognize him, although he had matured significantly; his lean body had filled out and his face looked like it could now grow a beard. “So you’ve been knighted,” she noted politely. Two years was a long time for a youth on the brink of manhood.

Walter grinned at her. “Sir Balian didn’t have any choice. He felt the city was inadequately defended, so he doubled the number of knights in Ascalon by knighting me.”

Maria Zoë looked suitably shocked, and Walter laughed. “And even so, he’d rather tilt with the quintain than with me. I fall off the horse from just thinking about the lance hitting me. Ah! Here’s the sherbet.” Walter went to open the door wider for a servant carrying a silver tray, laden with two glazed pottery bowls packed with sherbet, a bowl of cashews, and spoons. The servant set the tray down on the table beside Maria Zoë and offloaded it. Rahel motioned to Walter to sit with her lady, but he shook his head, adding graciously to the waiting woman, “Refresh yourself, my lady. You’ve had a hot ride, while I’ve been comfortable in the shade. But I will keep you company, if you like?” 

The question was directed to the Queen.

“By all means,” the latter assured him as Rahel sat down, and Walter grabbed a stool to sit astride at Maria Zoë’s feet.

Maria Zoë’s head was filled with questions that Walter could undoubtedly answer. For example, was Balian looking for a wife? And if so, where? And if not, why not? But she dared not ask.

“Did you come directly from Jerusalem, your grace?” Walter asked in the vacuum left by her own silence.

“Yes, we did.”

“Then could you be so kind as to tell us the latest news? Is it true Salah-ad-Din has left Damascus?”

“Yes, he has returned to Egypt. Our spies suggest there was a revolt, but Salah-ad-Din is said to have ruthlessly suppressed it with terrible bloodshed.” Maria Zoë had been with the King when this word was brought to him by a Syrian Christian who traded in ivory between Cairo and Damascus. “Our source says that he sealed off the quarter of the city in which the rebels lived and sent his men in to slaughter the women and children house by house until none survived.” Maria Zoë shook her head in aversion at the story, adding,

“And now he is preaching jihad and threatening us with the same fate. It is said Salah-ad-Din has vowed to drive the Kingdom of Jerusalem into the sea.”

“Then this is an odd time to visit Ascalon,” Balian remarked softly, coming in the open door.

Maria Zoë started at the sound of his voice and looked up with racing pulse. He was exactly as she remembered him―no, he was much more handsome. Two years ago he had been a knight in her husband’s service: young, strong, tanned, and earnest, as befitted the only knight who dared serve a leper. Now he commanded a city, and his new position gave him stature. But the eyes were still the same molten bronze. No, they weren’t. They were much bolder. He looked her straight in the eye as he approached, and it took her breath away.

Balian’s skin was flushed from the steam bath and glowed with oils, and he smelled of balsam. His hair was still wet and looked almost black, but the drying strands looked as soft and silky as Maria Zoë’s own when her hair was freshly cleaned, only straight rather than curly. Balian’s chin was slightly darkened with the promise of a beard to come, as he had not taken the time to shave. Maria Zoë heard her heart thundering in her ears―and registered that this must be what the troubadours meant when they sang of a knight making his lady’s blood burn.

Balian had crossed the room, and he bowed deeply over her hand. “Welcome to Ascalon, your grace. I regret that without warning, we could not provide you with a more suitable welcome. I hope Sir Walter has been behaving himself and has made you feel at home?”

“Sir Walter is a paragon of chivalry, my lord,” Maria Zoë answered smoothly, too conscious of the turmoil of her emotions to realize how cool and aloof she sounded.

Walter had jumped to his feet when Balian arrived, and Rahel had stood, too. She again gestured to the seat she had occupied.

Balian shook his head to Rahel, gesturing for her to resume her seat. He looked over his shoulder and found a smaller chair, which he grabbed and placed before the table. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence in Ascalon, your grace?”

Balian could not have been more formal, and Walter wanted to kick him. That’s no way to court a lady, he wanted to shout at his lord, not any lady―much less one of the most beautiful creatures on God’s earth, with a queen’s dower portion on top!

Walter was right, of course. Maria Zoë felt as if she had been burned by ice. Balian had always been meticulously polite to her, of course, but before, it had been a façade. Hadn’t it? He had been polite to disguise how much he really felt for her, hadn’t he? She had been so sure of it at the time. She had believed in his affection for the two years she had been with the Carmelites. It was the conviction that he would be pleased to see her that had brought her here―two days’ ride from Jerusalem to the most vulnerable city in the Kingdom.

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Salah-ad-Din! - Excerpt 5

Ascalon, November 1177

“Salah-ad-Din!” the man shouted up to the lookouts on the ramparts of the barbican. “With his whole army!” He gestured wildly to the south with one hand while trying to drag a reluctant overloaded mule toward the closed Gaza Gate with the other. It was nearly midnight and the gates were locked and barred, but the watch peered down at not just one man with a mule, but dozens of people streaming toward the city by the light of the setting moon.

The captain of the watch squinted into the darkness, trying to estimate the number of refugees. Then he turned to the man next to him and said, “Better rouse Sergeant Shoreham. I’m not opening these gates without his orders.” He leaned over the ramparts and shouted down to the man with the mule, “Patience! We’ll let the lot of you in at once, not piecemeal.”

By the time Roger arrived, his hair sticking up in all directions, the crowd at the gate had grown to an angry, milling mob of nearly a half a hundred people, including squalling babies, whimpering children, and pleading women. “Salah-ad-Din!” the men kept shouting and gesturing. “He’s coming with his whole army!”

Roger gave the order to admit the refugees and, after hesitating a moment, also ordered the sounding of the alarm to call the garrison to the walls. The men stared at him in shock, but then one of them grabbed the bell cord and began vigorously ringing the heavy brass bell on the Gaza barbican with all his might. The sound seemed paltry in the vastness of the night, but it was quickly answered by the bells on the other gates―and slowly, haphazardly, as priests and deacons were roused from their sleep, the bells of the city’s churches took up the clangor. Within minutes St. Paul’s added its deep, heavy voice to the chorus of bells, and St. Mary’s, the main Orthodox church, seemed to be competing for the loudest clang.

The sound brought Balian from his sleep with a start, trying to remember what saint’s day it was. Then he registered that it was pitch dark, and he sat bolt upright in his bed as he realized the bells could only be ringing alarm. He had been Constable of Ascalon for fifteen months now, but this was the first time he had heard the bells rung in earnest. He flung off the light covers and jumped out of bed. “Arms! Bring my arms!” he shouted at a bewildered Dawit, just dragging himself out of his own sleep.

Balian flug off his nightshirt and grabbed his braies. He pulled them on and tied the cord, while Daniel stumbled to his feet to bring him his shirt. Balian pulled this over his head and snapped his fingers for his hose, which Daniel brought and helped him draw on and make fast to his braies. Balian was already in his gambeson and stuffing his feet into knee-high suede boots by the time a servant knocked on the door, shouting: “Sir Balian! Sir Balian! Sergeant Shoreham requests your presence at the Gaza Gate!”

“I’m coming!” Balian answered, and bent so Dawit could slip his hauberk over his head. He pushed his arms through the slack chain-mail sleeves while Daniel waited with his surcoat. He pulled this on, grabbed his sword from Dawit’s outstretched arms, and selected the lighter, open-faced crevelier rather than the heavy helm Daniel offered him. Finished at last, he ordered his squires to dress themselves, wake Sir Walter, and join him on the Gaza Gate.

By the time Balian reached the Gaza Gate, the number of refugees had swollen to nearly a hundred, and the ten Hospitaller knights had also mustered on foot. “They’re saying Salah-ad-Din is on the move with his entire army!” one of the Hospitallers called out to Balian as the latter jumped down from Jupiter to mount the stairs onto the barbican.

Balian handed his reins to one of the Hospitallers, asking: “How far away is he supposed to be?”

“Not more than twelve miles, they say. Most of these people fled early in the morning and have been making for Ascalon all day.”

“That would mean he’s marched past the Templar castle at Gaza,” Balian countered.

“These people are reporting one hundred thousand soldiers with Salah-ad-Din; the Templars only have five hundred fighting men at Gaza. Even they wouldn’t be mad enough to attack against those odds.”

“These people are panicked refugees. I’ll believe this is Salah-ad-Din’s whole army, and not just a raid, when I have better evidence than the panicked claims of fleeing peasants. How soon can you be ready to ride?” he asked the Hospitaller.

The man glanced back at his troops and then replied, “Ten minutes.”

“Good. Make ready,” Balian ordered (although he had no right to do so), and then plunged into the darkness of the narrow spiral stairwell leading up to the ramparts of the barbican.

When Balian stepped out of the stairwell onto the roof of the barbican, he quickly counted double the number of men usually stationed there, and recognized George Smith and Joachim Zimmermann among them. They were wearing leather jacks with hoods and had swords at their hips. Just as Roger had promised, it wasn’t just the garrison that had responded to the clanging of the bells.

Roger caught sight of Balian and went over to him. “You’ve seen the refugees, my lord? They’re saying Salah-ad-Din is on the march with his whole army.”

“What makes you think this is an invasion and not a raid?”

“I don’t know, sir. I would just rather be safe than sorry.”

Balian nodded his approval, but his guts were twisting themselves in knots. Salah-ad-Din had assembled his army to counter a threat posed by a Byzantine fleet sent to support the troops of the Count of Flanders and the Army of Jerusalem, but Flanders had quarreled with the Byzantines (ignoring Zoë’s advice, she confided in him), and now the Byzantine fleet had withdrawn and the Count of Flanders had gone campaigning in the north. This left Salah-ad-Din with his assembled forces on the southern border of the Kingdom at a time when it was virtually denuded of troops. The Saracens would be mad not to take advantage of the situation and attack, Balian thought as he followed Roger to the parapet. And Ascalon made the most tempting target. The Sultan must be itching to take it back and regain a base for his own fleet.

“There! Do you see the pinpoints of light on the horizon?” Roger broke into his thoughts.

Balian had to look very hard, but then he nodded. “Burning villages?”

“That’s my guess, my lord.”

Balian nodded again. “Roger, I want you to put the city on the defensive.”

“Yes, my lord, that’s what we’ve done.”

“Yes. What I meant is: I want you to take command of the defense.”

“But, my lord―”

Balian held up his hand and turned to Walter, Dawit, and Daniel, who had just arrived together. “Dawit, tack up Gladiator―with battle gear, the chain reins―and bring him here.”

“Do you need your lance and helmet, sir?” Daniel asked with breathless excitement.

“Yes.”

“You aren’t going out there, my lord!” Roger gasped.

“The Hospitallers and I will ride reconnaissance,” Balian answered.

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The Battle of Hattin

July 4 marks not only U.S. Independence Day but also the anniversary of 

the Battle of Hattin, fought in 1187.

 The Battle of Hattin

The devastating defeat of the combined Christian army at the Battle of Hattin on July 4, 1187, was one of the most significant disasters in medieval military history.  Christian casualties at the battle were so enormous, that the defense of the rest of the Kingdom of Jerusalem became impossible, and so the defeat at Hattin led directly to the loss of the entire kingdom including Jerusalem itself. The loss of the Holy City, led to the Third Crusade, and so to the death of the Holy Roman Emperor Friedrich I “Barbarossa”, and extended absence from his domains of Richard I “the Lionheart.” Both circumstances had a profound impact on the balance of power in Western Europe. Meanwhile the role of the critical of Pisan and Genoese fleets in supplying the only city left in Christian hands, Tyre, and in supporting Richard I’s land army resulted in trading privileges that led to the establishment of powerful trading centers in the Levant. These in turn fostered the exchange of goods and ideas that led historian Claude Reignier Condor to write at the end of the 19^th Century that: “…the result of the Crusades was the Renaissance.” (The Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem 1099 to 1291 AD, The Committee of Palestine Exploration Fund, 1897, p. 163.)

The importance of Hattin to contemporaries was not just the magnitude of the defeat, but the unexpectedness of it.  In retrospect, the victory seems inevitable. Muslim states had always surrounded the crusader kingdom (as they hem in Israel today) and the Muslim rulers could always been able to call on much larger military forces than their Christian opponents.  In the early years of Latin presence in the Holy Land, the divisions among the Muslim leaders, most especially the rivalry and hatred between Shiite Caliphate of Cairo and the Sunni Caliphate of Damascus, had played into Christian hands.  However, once Saladin had managed to unite Syria and Egypt under a single, charismatic leader the balance of power clearly tipped to the Muslims.

This ignores the fact that Christian armies under Baldwin IV of Jerusalem and Richard I of England defeated Saladin on the battlefield more than once.  Saladin was a powerful, charismatic and clever commander, who knew how to deploy his forces effectively and use terrain to his advantage — but he was not invincible. Indeed, he was dealt a defeat every bit as devastating as Hattin in November 1177 at the Battle of Montgisard. His invading army was annihilated, and he himself had to flee on the back of a pack-camel. In July 1182, the Christian army under Baldwin IV stopped another full-scale invasion by Saladin, forcing him to withdraw across the Jordan with comparatively few Christian losses. In June the following year, 1183, the Christian army confronted yet another invasion on an even larger force and again forced Saladin to withdraw — this time without even engaging in an all-out battle.

Despite these apparent successes, it was clear to the King of Jerusalem that Saladin was getting stronger with each new invasion attempt.  Saladin had increased his own power base from Cairo and Damascus to Aleppo, Homs and Mosul, while the Christians had no new infusions of blood, territory or income. In consequence, in 1184 Baldwin IV sent a frantic plea to the West, begging for a new crusade and offering the Western leader — whoever he might be — the keys to the kingdom. The lack of response reflected Western complacency about the threat to Jerusalem and implicit confidence in the ability of Baldwin and his barons to continue to defeat Saladin’s attempts to push the Christian kingdom into the sea.

It was because of Baldwin’s earlier successes against Saladin, that the news of Hattin and the loss of Jerusalem shocked the West, allegedly causing the immediate death of Pope Urban III. How was it possible that a young and vigorous king, Guy I, could lead the same army to defeat that a youth suffering from leprosy (and only commanding his armies from a liter) had led to victory again and again?  

Rarely in human history has a defeat been so wholly attributable to poor generalship on the losing side as at Hattin. To be sure, Saladin set a trap for the Christian armies. The bait was the citizens and garrison of Tiberius under the command of the Countess of Tripoli, who were besieged in the citadel after the fall of the city on July 2.  The Christian army was mustered at Sephorie, only some 15 miles to the west. The pleas for help from the Countess and Tiberius naturally evoked a response from the Christian army, most notably her four grown sons.  But the Count of Tripoli himself warned that it was a trap and opposed the decision to go to the aid of Tiberius. Tripoli’s reasoning convinced the majority of his peers and the council of war composed of the leading barons agreed to stay where they were and force Saladin to come to them. However, the Grand Master of the Temple went separately and secretly to King Guy after the council dispersed and convinced him to order the advance for the following day. In short, although warned, King Guy took the bait.

To relieve Tiberius, the Christian army had to cross territory that was at this time of year devoid of fodder for the horses and where water sources were widely dispersed. With Saladin’s forces already occupying the springs at Cafarsset, on the southern route from Sephorie to Tiberias, the Christian had no choice but to follow the northern track, which led via the springs of Turan. Intense heat and harassment by the enemy slowed the Christian march to a crawl, and by noon on July 3, the Christian army had advanced only six miles to the springs of Turan.  With nine miles more to go, it was clear the army could not reach Tiberius before nightfall and prudence alone should have dictated a halt at Turan, where men and horse could rest and drink. Instead, King Guy against all reason ordered the advance to continue. Immediately, Saladin sent his troops to occupy Turan, thereby not-only blocking the Christian retreat but harassing the Christian rear-guard and further slowing the rate of advance.

A depiction of the Christian army advancing toward Hattin carrying the “True Cross”

from the film “The Kingdom of Heaven”

When darkness fell on July 3, the Christian army was still six miles short of its objective and forced to camp in an open field completely surrounded by enemy forces.  The Christians had been marching and fighting for hours without water in the intense heat of a Palestinian summer. Men and horses were exhausted and further demoralized by the sound of Saracen drums surrounding them and the countless campfires advertising the enemy’s strength. 

By morning, those fires were brush-fires intentionally set ablaze to windward of the Christian army in a maneuver that dried their already parched throats further while half-blinding them with smoke. Out of the smoke came volleys of arrows, and again “some of the Christian lords” urged King Guy to charge Saladin’s position at once, in an attempt to win the battle by killing the Sultan.  King Guy instead chose to try to march the entire army toward the springs of Hattin, still some three miles away and cut off by one wing of Saladin’s army.

While the Christian cavalry tried to drive off the Saracen cavalry in a series of charges and counter-charges, the infantry stumbled forward until, half-blinded by smoke, constantly attacked by the enemy and near dying of thirst, the morale of the Christian infantry broke.  As casualties mounted, some of the infantry retreated up the slopes of the “horns” of Hattin, two steep hills that flanked the plane on which the army had camped and now marched and refused to fight any more. 

Meanwhile, the Count of Tripoli with his knights and Lord Reginald of Sidon finally broke-through the surrounding enemy, charging east toward the Lake of Tiberius.  The Christian infantry that had not fled up the slopes tried to follow in the wake of the cavalry, but the Saracens under the command of one of Saladin’s nephews stepped aside to let the armored knights through and then closed ranks again, cutting off the Christian infantry that was cut down or taken captive.

By now it was later afternoon, and with the infantry either already slaughtered or refusing to come down from the hilltop, King Guy ordered his knights to retreat up the slope as well. By now, many of the knights were fighting on foot because their horses became vulnerable once the infantry cover was withdraw.  It was probably at this stage in the battle that the relic, believed to be a piece of the cross on which Christ was crucified, was lost. The Bishop of Acre, who had been carrying it, was killed, and the effect on Christian morale of the loss of this most precious relic — believed to have brought victory in dozens of earlier battles was devastating.

The final stages of the Battle of Hattin as depicted in the film “The Kingdom of Heaven”

But still King Guy did not surrender.  What few knights were still mounted made one (or two) last desperate charge(s) to try to kill Saladin, who was mounted and clearly identifiable among his troops.  This charge was probably lead by Balian d’Ibelin. While the charge came close enough to Saladin for him to have to shout encouragement to his men, like Tripoli before him, once Ibelin was through the enemy, he had no chance of fighting his way back up-hill through the ever thickening ranks of the enemy closing in on their prey. Within minutes, King Guy’s last position was over-run and he along with most of his barons were taken prisoner.

Of the roughly 20,000 Christian soldiers who had set out from Sephorie, only an estimated 3,000 infantry managed somehow to escape into the surrounding countryside and eventually take refuge in the castles and walled towns then still in Christian hands. Of the 1,200 knights and barons that mustered for the battle, only four barons, Tripoli, Sidon, Edessa and Ibelin, escaped capture along with maybe 100 - 200 knights. The remainder including the King of Jerusalem, the Masters of the Temple and Hospital, the Constable Aimery de Lusignan, the Lords of Oultrajourdain, Toron, Gibelet, and others — effectively the entire nobility of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. While the majority of these lords and knights were held for ransom, the 230 Templars and Hospitallers that survived the battle were executed at Saladin’s orders.

Medieval painting of prisoners being led away (here by a Christian king)

As a result of these losses, both killed and captured, the kingdom was effectively denuded of defenders. King Guy had issued the equivalent of the “levee en masse” of the Napoleonic era, the arriere ban, and every able-bodied fighting man had mustered at Sephorie. Left behind in the castles, towns and cities were women, children, the old and the ill. There were no garrisons capable of offering an effective resistance. Worse, even if there had been, there was no point to resistance since there was no army capable of coming to the relief of a city under siege. Thus when Saladin’s army appeared before the walls of one fortress or city after another, the citizens had the choice of surrender in exchange for their lives and such valuables as they could carry or hopeless resistance. Since the rules of contemporary warfare dictated that resistance justified massacre, rape and enslavement, it is hardly surprising that the Christian cities and castles capitulated one after another, starting with Nazareth, and the Acre on July 8, followed by Haifa, Caesarea, Arsuf, Jaffa, Ramla, Ibelin, Darum, Sidon, Beirut, Gibelet, Nablus, Beirut and Ascalon.

By mid-September only isolated castles and two cities defied Saladin: Tyre which was particularly defensible and to which he barons of Tripoli and Sidon and the garrisons of the surrendered cities withdrew, and Jerusalem itself.  But the siege of Jerusalem is material for another post….

The Fisherman: Excerpt from St. Louis' Knight

What am I doing here? Geoffrey asked himself with a searing flash of guilt.  The images from Mansourah clamored in the back of his brain. The screaming of the wounded horses, the shouts of the triumphant enemy, the gasping of Master de Sonnac in his arms… They were all dead. All of his comrades, and the King of France was a prisoner…. How could he be standing here on a peaceful beach listening to the laughter of simple fishermen, as if there had never been a crusade? Much less a catastrophic defeat?

The most dangerous thing on earth is a man who thinks he talks to God, Master de Sonnac said inside his head.

Geoffrey reached for the hilt of his sword, wrapping his hand around the crystal vial holding St. John’s bones and tried to feel the presence of the Saint. But how could he expect the saint to favor him with Grace and presence, when he was still so bitter about what had happened in Egypt? When he did not want to accept God’s Will? Because that was the real problem: he didn’t want to believe that God could want what had happened….

Someone seemed to be approaching him from the beach. Had another boat put in later than the others? Geoffrey made a quick count. Yes, there were now seven boats moored side-by-side.

The man coming towards him was dressed like the other fishermen in a loose linen shirt, bound with twine at the waist, over baggy trousers rolled up to the knee. He walked barefoot toward Geoffrey with an uncanny self assurance, as if he met armored knights at the village shed every evening. “God be with you, my friend,” he greeted Geoffrey in a deep, melodic voice.

“And also with you,” Geoffrey replied automatically.

The man smiled gently. “Will you not join me for the feast?” He asked.

“Of course,” Geoffrey answered confused. How could the late comer know about the feast? Then again, the smell of roasting kid reached all the way to here, as did the laughter and the voices. Geoffrey looked around for Petrus and fisherman answered his gesture by pointing to the shadow of Petrus already scampering up the incline to the village, “the boy has gone ahead.”

Geoffrey nodded absently and fell in beside the fisherman.

When they reached the tables, the fisherman gestured to an empty space at the very end of the table, and asked, “Will you break bread with me?”

“Of course,” Geoffrey answered without thinking.

“Wait for me here, I’ll be right back.”

Geoffrey did as he was bid, while the fisherman withdrew into the darkness beyond the range of the lamps on the table.... 

The fisherman returned to Geoffrey. “You are Sir Geoffrey de Preuthune?” He asked.

“Yes,” Geoffrey conceded.

“Ah! Then I beg you to bless me, sir.”

“Bless you? I’m a knight, not a monk. I did not take my vows,” Geoffrey admitted, nervously aware of his guilt.

The man smiled, “But you carry St. John the Baptist’s hand with you. I would be honored to be blessed by the hand that has held the saint’s in his.”

Geoffrey was embarrassed, conscious of his unworthiness. “I assure you, good fisherman, I am not fit to bless you. The sword was only loaned to me until it can be returned to its rightful owner. I am a sinner.”

“As are we all,” the man answered knowingly. “Here,” he had brought a loaf of bread with him and a jug of wine. He tore the end off the loaf and handed it to Geoffrey. “Eat this in remembrance of Him that gave His flesh for the sake of all sinners.”

Geoffrey was so startled by this mockery of the Mass that he knocked over his cup. The red wine splashed onto the table and splattered his white surcoat with bright red drops. “His blood that was shed for thee,” the fisherman intoned.

“This is not the Mass!” Geoffrey reproached the fisherman sharply.

“Isn’t it?” He answered calmly. “Didn’t Christ break bread on the banks of Galilee with the fishermen Simon Peter, Andrew, James and John? Didn’t he drink wine with them and laugh together as the stars grew bright in the night sky?” He gestured to the glittering heavens overhead. “Do not seek God only in the houses men have built for Him, sir; seek Him rather in the cathedral He built Himself,” the fisherman opened his arms wide in a gesture that took in the world around them.   

Daughter of a Cathar Heretic: Excerpt 4 from "St Louis' Knight"

Eleanor leaned her head back against the padded rim of the tub and closed her eyes, her hands clasped together between her breasts. Returning, Rosalyn nodded her approval, then stepped beside the tub to pour just a thimbleful of the precious essence into the steaming water. A moment later the smell of lavender wafted up on the steam, and tears started streaming down Eleanor’s face.

No one noticed. Lady Rosalyn had turned away to return her vial to her own chamber, and the maids were collecting the buckets to go fetch more water, leaving Eleanor alone in the now cozy chamber.

Eleanor put her hands over her face and held them there, trying to calm herself. She felt as if she had been tortured all day, and then this sudden vivid memory of home – the lavender fields in the sunshine. It was too much!

“Hush, child!” The voice came from the timber roof above her head and wafted down to settle upon her like petals shaken from a dying rose. “Relax, little one. There’s nothing to be afraid of any more.”

Nothing? Eleanor asked, opening her eyes. Nothing?

“You’re with good people now,” her mother assured her. “Good people, who mean you no harm.”

Was that possible?

“And you, Mother?” Eleanor asked the voice, with all the pent-up fury of half a dozen years. “Did you mean me no harm when you abandoned me at fourteen? Preferring your sick religion to your own child!” Eleanor was so agitated that she sat upright, looking for her mother in the darkness of the rafters, sloshing water over the edge of the tub. She turned to look over her shoulder first in one direction, then the other.

“Child, child!” her mother protested in an anguished voice. “I never thought they’d harm a little girl, a child as innocent as you!”

“Never thought they’d harm a child?” Eleanor mocked back. “Never thought they’d harm a child?” she raged. “Hadn’t they slaughtered children at Beziers? At Minerve and Lavour? What else did you expect, Mother? They put it in their very edicts ― that the parents and children of heretics were to be persecuted and punished. You must have known what they would do to me!”

To Eleanor’s distress, her mother did not protest. Instead, her voice fell to an almost inaudible murmur and pleaded, “You’re right. I should have known. I ― I deceived myself. Please forgive me, Nel.”

Eleanor didn’t want to forgive. It was easier to rage than to forgive. She shook her head. For a moment it seemed as if this negative answer had banished her mother, but then her mother spoke from so near at hand that Eleanor thought she felt her breath on her cheek.

“At least try to understand. I was a known heretic. All I would have achieved by abjuring my faith would have been to be branded on the forehead and forced to live as beggar ― a beggar that Christians were forbidden to support. Worse, I would have endangered the good people who followed Christ’s commandments and showed me Christian charity. I would have died of hunger and cold eventually, but my soul would have been condemned to hell. And you ― you would still have fallen into their hands.”

Eleanor shook her head again and brought her hands out of the water to stare at the palms. On the left hand, beneath the broken blisters from today’s ride, was a hideous, puckered scar. A single flame had caused it, and she had screamed loud enough to wake the dead. She had been unable to endure the flame for more than a second, but her mother had let them burn her alive ….

“You were never there when I needed you,” Eleanor told her mother bitterly.

“How could I be?” her mother answered, already farther away. “They encircled you with their evil. I couldn’t break through, not until today ….” Eleanor had to strain to hear her mother’s voice. The sound of Lady Rosalyn’s footsteps returning were obliterating her mother’s voice. “You’re with …” thump, thump, “trust …” thump, thump, “Sir Geoffrey ….”

“Are you feeling better now, My Lady?” the cheerful voice of Lady Rosalyn asked as she re-entered the chamber.

Eleanor lifted her head and smiled at her. “Thank you. I am feeling much better. I never knew ― that riding could ― be so exhausting. But then I’m so out of practice ….”

“Of course you are. I’m sure you haven’t been on a horse since your accident.” Lady Rosalyn settled herself in the armed chair on the other side of the fireplace. “And you mustn’t think of continuing tomorrow. You need to rest and regain your strength. You can stay here as long as you please. I’d be glad of the company.”

“That’s very kind,” Eleanor answered, overwhelmed by a sense of safety. She hadn’t felt this safe in half a decade – except for that moment in Sir Geoffrey’s arms ….

“Do you mind telling me where you were headed in such a storm?” Lady Rosalyn continued, curious more than reproachful.

“A pilgrimage,” Eleanor answered defensively, knowing now how very foolish she had been and how easily her escapade could have ended in disaster. “My guardian, the Comte de Poitiers, was taken captive with his brother, King Louis of France. I wanted to pray for his safe return.”

“Yes,” Lady Rosalyn replied, crossing herself. “May God hear our prayers!” Rosalyn’s cheerful face was instantly clouded with worry, and Eleanor realized she was thinking of her son. Eleanor felt a surge of sympathy for the older woman and reached out a hand to her, promising, “I will pray for your son, too, Madame.” For him more than for the Comte de Poitiers, she added mentally.

 Lady Rosalyn was too distressed to speak, but she took Eleanor’s hand and clasped it, nodding in thanks, thinking that she would ask Geoffrey to pray for her son as well. Geoffrey was practically a monk, after all, and a crusader. God would surely hear his prayers ….

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Meet My Main (Female) Character

Welcome to today's installment of the "Meet My Main Character" Blog-Hop! 

Last week I introduced the main character of my recently released novel, St. Louis' Knight, Sir Geoffrey de Preuthune. This week I want to introduce the the female lead, who is as much a "main" character as Geoffrey, even if she didn't make it into the title.

Now to the introductions!

1) What is the name of your character? Is he/she a fictional or historical person?
Eleanor de Najac is a fictional character, born from holidays in "Cathar Country" (the Languedoc) and particularly visits to the spectacular village and castle of Najac.

2) When and where is the story set?
The novel is set in the Seventh Crusade, 1250 AD, in the Holy Land. The Seventh Crusade was led by King Louis IX of France and ended in a terrible debacle, with the King of France and virtually all of his nobles, knights and troops captured.  While the common troops were slaughtered if they refused to convert to Islam, and enslaved if they did, King Louis and his knights and nobles were held for ransom. It is also just six years after the final erradication of the last Cathar stronghold at Montsegur.

3) What should I know about him/her?
Eleanor is the last child of the Sire de Najac, born late in his life.  After his death, her mother joins the Cathar faith and one of her brothers joins the struggle of the independence of Toulouse against the French crown. When the forces of the French King finally seize Montsegur, her mother chooses to be burned at the stake rather than abjure her Cathar faith, and one brother is executed while the other is arrested -- along with Eleanor. Although only 14 years old, as the daughter of a heretic, she is turned over to the Inquisition.  After her brother's death in prison, however, she becomes the hieress to Najac.  Her feudal overlord, the Count of Poitiers and Toulouse, does not want to see her convicted of heresy since then her property would fall to the Church.  He therefore sends for her to join his wife's household as she follows him on crusade.  Her ship wrecks on the coast of Cyprus and her leg shattered when fisherman take her off the wreck. She is left lame and alone on a strange island among strangers.

4) What is the main conflict? What messes her life up.
Eleanor's life has been shattered three-fold, first by the brutal repression of Toulousan independence that has cost her the lives of her mother and brothers, by the hounding of the Inquisition after her own arrest, and by the ship-wreck that has left her a semi-cripple. At the start of the novel she is physically alive, but only her hatred of the Inquisition and the King of France spark her spirit.

5) What is the personal goal of the character?
Eleanor has survived by her wits and an inner strength that defies reason. Her determination to outwit her tormentors, not hope for a better a future is what has enabled her to escape the Inquisition.  At the opening of the novel, it is joy at the defeat of her worst enemy, the King of France, that gives her new spirit and courage. She ventures out of her defensive, emotional cacoon and starts to tentatively spread her wings.

6) Is there a working title? Where can I find out more?
The title is final: St. Louis' Knight. It is the first of a three part series titled The Templar Tales. You can find out more on this blog, or on my website: http://talesofchivalry.com.

7) When will the book be published?
The book was released March 31, 2014 and can be purchased on amazon.com here.

The Grand Master's Squire: Excerpt from "St Louis' Knight" 3

Geoffrey was seeing it again in his head. The confusion in a darkness lit only by the unsteady light of smoking torches. Wounded men and horses seemed to be staggering about everywhere, and the moans and cries of man and beast punctuated the night. Other men wandered about asking after one friend or another. Abandoned Saracen equipment, clothing, and weapons still littered the ground, tripping the unwary, while those with the strength left in them were trying to erect tents. The stench of open latrines and foul water combined in Geoffrey’s mind with the constant beating of the enemy drums as they shouted “Allah is Great!” from the ramparts of Mansourah. They must have lit huge bonfires, because the city appeared aglow from the inside; the men on the walls shaking their swords and bows triumphantly were silhouetted against that orange light.

Geoffrey had been dazed, unable to grasp what had happened in such a short space of time. All his brothers from Limassol ― knights, squires, and sergeants ― were dead. They had been one hundred strong when they sailed for Egypt, a significant contingent of the Templar force, and they were no more. Geoffrey had lost the one man who gave him a chance when all others spoke against accepting him into the Temple. He’d lost the men who’d taught him fighting and the ethos of the Temple. He’d lost his best friends ― and there would not even be a Mass for their souls, because their bodies were all in the hands of the heathens shouting “Allah is Great!”

Suddenly someone was tugging at his sleeve and saying he must come to the surgeon’s tent. The Grand Master had regained consciousness. He had followed numbly, without a will of his own. Sonnac, a bandage covering the gaping hole in the right side of his face where his eye had been, was struggling to sit up. “Geoff!” he called out in a rasping, ruined voice at the sight of the young man. “Geoff, come kneel and put your hands in mine that I may take you into the Order at last.”

Sonnac knew how much that meant to his squire. Sonnac knew that, unlike other squires, Geoffrey wanted to be a Templar. He understood that Geoffrey wanted to be knighted, not for itself, but because it was the prerequisite for joining the Order.

That night in the camp before Mansourah, Geoffrey knew that Master de Sonnac wanted to reward him with that which meant most to him, but he also knew that the vows involved saying the Lord’s Prayer. He knew that the Knights Templar said the Lord’s Prayer in place of Mass when circumstances made it impossible to hear Mass. The Lord’s Prayer was central to their devotion. But what had, until that day, seemed self-evident, had abruptly been transformed into a demon standing between Geoffrey and what he wanted most in the world.

As Geoffrey stood in the tent staring at the wounded Grand Master, he became conscious of the blood drying on the links of his chain mail, his surcoat shredded and soiled, but between him and the Master crowded the ghastly ghosts of his dead brothers: some headless, some limbless, some gushing blood from wounds to their heads, others clutching their gutted stomachs or clinging to their disemboweled intestines.

Suddenly Geoffrey thought: if this is God’s Will, then I cannot say “Thy Will be done!” I cannot say it!

Sonnac, seeing him hesitate, tried to smile encouragingly. “Come, Geoff. If this is the last thing I do, let me make you a Templar.”

“No!” Geoffrey screamed back at him. “No! I don’t want to be servant to a senseless God! If this is God’s Will, than he is a monster! And Christ ― Christ died on a cross in Jerusalem, but he was not God’s son, and was not our Savior!”

Still full of fury, Geoffrey had spun about and fled, leaving the astonished Grand Master struggling to rise. He heard the exclamation of horrified priests and surgeons, and he was shocked by his own words as much as anyone. But there was no place to go in the crusader camp. There was no escape except out into the desert to be killed by the Bedouins.

Geoffrey could not remember what he’d done next. He’d stumbled about in the dark until he’d found himself at the horse lines. There he sank down in misery beside the remnants of a once-great cavalry, and begged forgiveness from his stallion. The tall, dark gray had not only carried him and his armor all the way here, to the middle of nowhere; he had today taken the burden of two fully armored knights, and with the strength of an angel, he had jumped over a barricade to bring both Geoffrey and the wounded Grand Master to safety. But now he stood with hanging head and swollen fetlocks, covered in cuts and probably bruises, too. We can’t even give you a decent meal, Geoffrey thought. What right have we, he asked himself, to take these gentle, loyal creatures into so much misery and almost certain death?

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A Fateful Encounter

At an agonizing pace, they had at last emerged from the gorge to find themselves on the coastal road. To the left the shore reared up in steep white cliffs to form a headland several miles to the east, and straight ahead the rocks had broken off from the cliffs already and spilled out into the little cove at the foot of the gorge. The sight was spectacularly beautiful at one level, but the sound of the waves and the wind reminded Eleanor all too sharply of the wreck, and to make matters worse, clouds seemed to have come out of nowhere to scud across the sky, low and ominous. The sea was an iron gray, except for a tiny sliver of silver far out to sea and fast retreating. The sound of breakers hammering the beach was so reminiscent of the wreck that Eleanor had to stop herself from holding her hands over her ears.

Even without her hands on her ears, fear deafened her. The archer had to shout at her to move out of the way of riders approaching from behind at a fast pace. Only then did Eleanor look over her shoulder and register two men in armor with a packhorse on a lead, approaching at a purposeful canter. Their chain mail chinked in rhythm with the canter, and their kit banged against the flanks of their horses. The shod hooves pounded the hard-packed surface of the road.

She tried to guide her mare to the side of the road, but the lame horse balked, as if this were one demand too many. Eleanor kicked her heels into the mare’s sides to no avail, humiliated by being reduced to such undignified methods. A lady shouldn’t have to ride a horse as insensitive as this, she thought to herself, tears in her eyes.

A dark horse loomed beside her. The smell of horse sweat and leather was overpowering, and she glanced left, keeping her eyes down out of embarrassment and modesty. What she saw were black suede over-the-knee boots with golden spurs studded with blue enamel fleurs-de-lis.

The King of France!

But it couldn’t be! He was a prisoner in Egypt. As were his brothers. But who else would dare wear spurs like these? She raised her eyes sharply and found herself staring at a young man with a neatly clipped brown beard and short hair ― something long since out of fashion in France. Next she took in his plain, unbleached, shabby linen surcoat. The surcoat was more suited to a common archer or a man-at-arms and completely out of place over the gold and enamel spurs. No knight in her experience ever dressed like this, but no one but a knight was entitled to golden spurs ― much less ones with the lilies of France.

The knight seemed hardly less astonished by the sight of Eleanor than she was surprised by him. He drew up sharply, his massive and heavy-boned European stallion flattening his ears and flinging up his head in protest. “My Lady! What are you ― May I be of service in some way?”

The question couldn’t have been more chivalrous, but the man’s tone was harsh and his expression forbidding. He certainly knew nothing of courtesy, Eleanor concluded, lumping him instantly with all the other brutes from France who had plundered her homeland and spoke the langue d ’oil as he did.

“My horse stumbled and came up lame, but my man will ride for a remount as soon as we reach the next village,” Eleanor told him haughtily.

This answer so astonished the knight that he was silenced for a moment. He turned and looked at the archer, who shrugged and whined, “I advised against it, sir. I told her we must turn back, but my lady wouldn’t hear of it.”

“And where are you bound?” the knight asked the archer rather than Eleanor.

“The Lady Eleanor de Najac is on pilgrimage to the Shrine of St. George to pray for the safe return of her guardian, the Comte de Poitiers.”

“I see.” The knight twisted in his saddle and ordered his squire to off-load the packhorse and transfer Eleanor’s saddle to it.

Only then did the knight turn back to Eleanor and announce, “We will bring you to Paphos, My Lady. We should be able to reach it before nightfall ― if not before the rain breaks.” He glanced grimly at the gathering clouds. “You are with the King’s court in Nicosia?”

“No, I am temporarily in the household of the Dowager Queen. And just who are you, sir?”

“Sir Geoffrey de Preuthune, Mademoiselle,” he answered absently, not even looking at her as he spoke because he was already turning to her archer, ordering: “Take the lame horse back to Her Grace the Queen. I will see your lady safe to Paphos, where I’m sure Lord Tancred will be able to provide her with a suitable remount and an escort to Agios Georgios.” (He gave the shrine it’s Greek name, Eleanor noted.)

This solution clearly suited the Queen’s archer, who nodded and agreed with alacrity, “Very good, sir.”

Eleanor, however, felt like a child or a prisoner again. No one was even asking what she wanted, and that angered her. Besides, even if his name meant nothing to her, his spurs suggested he was closely associated with her enemy, the King of France. Certainly he spoke the French of her homeland’s oppressors. She did not want his services! “I have not accepted your generous offer, Monsieur,” she pointed out sharply, adding pointedly, “I do not travel with strange men.”

The archer groaned out loud and rolled his eyes. The Cypriot woman crossed herself and started praying. The squire suppressed a laugh, and Sir Geoffrey stared at her, baffled. Then, after a moment, he reasoned with her. “My Lady, you cannot continue on that horse, and it looks like it could rain any moment. If you are new to Cyprus, perhaps you do not know how violent the storms here can be at this time of year. I beg you to reconsider and allow me to bring you under the shelter and protection of the Lord of Paphos as rapidly as possible.”

His gesture toward the clouds and a renewed gust of wind made her look again at the dark, churning clouds gathering overhead. As she watched, a flash of lightning pierced them and she shuddered involuntarily. She could not stay here. She glanced toward the packhorse and noted with surprise that, stripped of its packs, it was a lovely fine-boned mare with a delicate face and large eyes. Indeed, it was a beautiful horse with the narrow legs of a racer and the arching neck of a proud palfrey.

Again Eleanor looked at the knight in confusion. The “packhorse” matched his spurs more than his plain surcoat. Something wasn’t right about this knight, but the threat of the storm was tangible, too. Her whole body was in a state of alarm, and reason told her it made more sense to accept the offer of a good mount and a strong escort than to insist on remaining here on a lame horse with a sullen archer and a native woman she could barely talk to. If only he hadn’t been wearing King Louis’ lilies on his heels …

Eleanor pulled herself together. “Your name means nothing to me, sir. Are you in the service of the King of France?”

“No, My Lady. I am Cypriot. My father was in the service of King Richard of England, and accompanied him on crusade, but remained here at the orders his liege lord.”

“The Duc d’Aquitaine? Coeur de Leon?” The legendary Lionheart was so much a hero of her childhood that it was as if this strange knight had been transformed into a long-lost friend by his association with the late English King. As soon as Geoffrey answered her question with a somewhat baffled, “Yes, Mademoiselle,” Eleanor nodded her consent and dismounted.

Within moments her saddle and the leather saddlebags with her modest belongings had been transferred to the knight’s “packhorse,” while Sir Geoffrey’s luggage was distributed between his own and his squire’s stallions. When all was ready for her, Sir Geoffrey swung himself down from his horse and went to hold the off stirrup, asking as he did so, “Do you ride well, My Lady?”

“I did as a girl,” Eleanor answered unhelpfully, as she approached the little bay mare, trying not to limp. She took hold of the pommel with her left hand, and facing back, turned the stirrup toward her with her right hand. Twice she pointed her toe in the stirrup, but it was no use. With a horrible sense of humiliation, she realized she did not have the strength in her right leg, the leg shattered in the wreck, to push herself up off the ground.

She withdrew her toe from the stirrup. “Sir, I have an injured leg; could we find something to use as a mounting block?”

“Forgive me, My Lady. I didn’t know. Ian, give the lady a leg up!”

The young squire cheerfully jumped down from his horse again and came to help Eleanor. He locked his fingers together and held them for her to step into. She held onto the pommel with both hands, set her foot in the squire’s hands, and he lifted her up until she could swing her right leg over the cantle of the saddle.

No sooner did her bottom settle onto the saddle than the mare started moving. The knight held her firmly just behind the bit, so she swung her haunches in first one direction and then the other. This mare was not like any “packhorse” Eleanor had ever seen before. She could feel the nervous energy of the animal, and was instantly alarmed. It was too long since she had ridden a horse like this. Ashamed of her own fear, Eleanor reproached the knight. “This is a very nervous packhorse, sir!”

“She’s not a packhorse, My Lady,” he answered candidly. “She’s an Arab warhorse. We killed her last master, but she refused to flee like the other horses. Should I take her on the lead?”

“No, of course not!” Eleanor answered without thinking. Only children ― and prisoners ― were led. “I can manage, sir.” Eleanor thought the knight looked skeptical, but he did not insist. Instead, he let go of the mare’s reins to return to his own stallion. At once the mare broke into a trot. Eleanor reined her in sharply, so she danced in place uneasily.

“We best hurry, My Lady, and try to get as far as possible before the rain breaks,” the knight told her.

“Of course,” Eleanor answered despite her inner alarm.

At once the knight took up a trot, and Eleanor’s mare followed without any urging, with the squire on her flank. Anna, crossing herself and lamenting in Greek, brought up the rear, while the archer set off in the opposite direction with the lame horse in tow, whistling happily.

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