A Game of Chess
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
Chapter 2: Trapped
Outrejordain: outside Kerak Castle
Kerak was an arrogant fortress marring the land of the Prophet's Night Journey. Villagers were fleeing inside, terrified of what the overwhelming Muslim force could do. 'Not even those high walls can save you now, Reynald de Chatîllon,' thought Imad as he surveyed the scene before him. 'You would do well to pray to God and hope that He will be merciful to your stained soul.' His eyes swept over the dry desert landscape.
What was that? A cloud of dust coming between him and Kerak? Frankish knights; it had to be. They drew closer. There weren't many of them. Imad estimated that there were about a hundred men, no more. They flew pennants of maroon and gold. He recognized those colours.
Ibelin.
Thinking of Ibelin made Imad remember the young man called Balian who had claimed to be the baron. They had met in the desert, under the most inauspicious of circumstances. Death had stained the hour of their meeting, but mercy had graced it also. Balian had spared Imad's life. Like any pilgrim, he had come to Jerusalem to seek forgiveness. During their days together in the wilderness when they had had no one to talk to but each other, Balian had told Imad why he needed redemption, and he had even confided in the Syrian lord about the belief that God did not love him.
'So we meet again, my friend, if you are indeed the baron of Ibelin,' thought Imad. 'Why must our meetings always be marred by bloodshed and death?'
The Frankish knights had gotten into formation. They really were a small group, but their courage was admirable. Against so many enemies, they had no chance of victory. It was true that they were very well armoured but once unhorsed, a Frankish knight became as cumbersome and useful as a snail. Their heavy armour prevented them from moving quickly and they tired easily.
Imad signalled for his eight hundred horsemen to charge. The air was filled with their cries and invocations for Allah to protect them. The small Frankish mounted contingent also charged in two straight lines. They divided ranks and attempted to flank the Muslim force but instead, they themselves were flanked and encircled. Horses somersaulted and flipped onto their backs as the two armies collided. Their screams mingled with those of the men. Dirt, blood and sweat mixed together. The flashing silver blades had no mercy. Imad watched the skirmish from some distance away. The Frankish force was quickly overwhelmed. He had expected that. The survivors were captured and made to sit in two straight lines, forming a path.
Four of Imad's soldiers carried an unconscious man between them. They had put his sword on his back. Imad frowned. He recognized that sword and its owner. It really was the Frank whom he had met in the desert. The soldiers carried him down the path formed by the two rows of captives and then dropped him unceremoniously down in the sand. The sword slid to the ground from his back. By rights, Imad should've killed him, but as he unsheathed his blade, he remembered how the Frank had spared him that time in the wilderness. One good turn deserved another.
Imad plunged his sword downwards and stabbed the sand next to the man's face. The other Frankish survivors watched on with utter disbelief.
The light reflecting off Imad's blade woke Balian. His entire body ached, and he was stiff. Suppressing a groan, he lifted his head to look at the man who loomed over him. To his surprise, he knew that smiling face. And he knew he'd been tricked that day in the desert.
"You were not that man's servant," he croaked.
"No," said the Saracen nobleman with a grin. "He was my servant."
Balian managed to lever himself onto his knees. He glanced up at Imad tiredly, his brown eyes admitting defeat. "What becomes of us?" he asked. There was no fear, only acceptance.
If anything, Imad's smile widened. He could be friends with this man. It was a pity that he was a Christian but then, Imad had a feeling that this friendship would transcend religion. "What you deserve," he replied. "You reap what you sow. You have heard of this, no?" He made a motion with his hand. "Get up," he said to Balian. The Frankish knight did so, leaning heavily on his sword for support. His face was caked with dust, blood and dried sweat. He swayed on his feet as if he was going to keel over any moment.
Imad looked to Kerak and swallowed a sigh. It really was a pity that Christians and Muslims were at war. He had no desire to meet his Frankish friend in battle again, but neither of them had a choice. They both had their own masters. Sometimes, it was impossible for a man to be loyal to both his friend and his master.
"You may go into Kerak," said Imad "but you will die there. My master is here." He jerked his head in the direction of the approaching Muslim army. Their marching feet raised a storm of dust. Only their proud standards and their glint of sword, shield and spear could be seen.
Balian did not seem the least bit intimidated. He said nothing and instead peered in the opposite direction. Through the haze of heat he could see the shape of a gleaming bejewelled cross. Imad followed his line of sight. It was impossible not to see the gaudy symbol of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem. One of the soldiers rode up to Imad with an inquiry in his face.
"Tell my lord Salah-al-Din that Jerusalem has come," said Imad. All of a sudden, bringing Reynald de Chatîllon to justice had just become quite a bit more difficult than he had anticipated.
Sibylla was not quite certain as to what was happening. Balian had been captured, but the Saracen commander had not killed him. 'Maybe we can ransom him,' she thought. That definitely was a better outcome that she had expected. When the Saracen had lifted his blade, she had been so afraid that she would see Balian fall.
And now, her brother, with his mask of silver had come, riding proudly as he had done during that summer when he, as a beautiful sixteen year old boy, had defeated Saladin. She felt a swell of pride as he rode forward to meet the Saracen king.
Above them, dark clouds gathered, foreshadowing a storm. They passed even as Baldwin and Saladin discussed the terms. There would be no war; not today.
January 1187
Early afternoon
Jerusalem: Sibylla's private quarters
Guy lay in ambush for his prey. It was strange that a man should view his wife as prey. He would have her, and her peasant lover. The room's decor was tasteful; elegant and exotic, just like Sibylla herself. The young heir to the throne, Sibylla's son Baldwin, crouched on the floor playing with his pewter knight and soldiers, oblivious to the storm that was brewing. Guy sneered. He had to admit that Balian had bested him so far. He had done what Guy had not been able to do. Balian had won both the love of the King and Sibylla, in the space of barely more than a year. Guy hadn't even touched Sibylla. That would all change very soon.
The door opened, and Sibylla came in swathed in colourful silks and bedecked with jewels. Her benevolent smile faded as she saw her husband. "These rooms are not yours," she said coldly.
"My dear," said Guy, putting on a smile. "Perhaps you forget. I am your husband, and all that you have is mine."
"For now," said Sibylla with a grim smile, pushing past Guy to go to her son. The Poitevin lord wandered over to a side table nonchalantly. On his desk were several documents, supposedly written by the Baron of Ibelin and pertaining to the murder of Guy in order to take control through Sibylla. Gerard de Ridefort's spies had proven to be very useful. Obtaining samples of Balian's writing had been easy enough. Forging his seal had been a difficult task but not impossible. Guy was certain that no one would be able to tell the difference.
"Sibylla," began Guy congenially "I know you have been seeking to replace me with that peasant lover of yours. It will do you no good."
That caught Sibylla's attention. She whipped around. Her face was pale and fear was evident in her blue eyes. Guy smiled and reached out to grasp her gently by the chin. His fingers caressed her face. "I have the largest force in the kingdom and the support of the Templars." He looked at Sibylla's son and then back at Sibylla. "You need my knights or his rule will be bloody and brief."
The princess fixed her iron gaze on Guy. It burned with the intensity of her hatred, but there was no denying that she understood what he meant. He had made it quite obvious, and Sibylla was an intelligent woman. Guy released her and turned to go. "Think about it, will you?" Tonight he would have one of Ridefort's men plant one of those documents in Balian's house.
Sibylla watched Guy's back disappear through the door and tried to still her hammering heart. Little Baldwin sensed his mother's discomfort. "Mother?" he asked in his high sweet voice. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," said Sibylla quickly, mustering a smile for her son's sake. He was too young to become entangled in the net of political scruples. She resolved to go and find Balian soon, despite her telling him that they could not meet in the city. She needed to see him. He could comfort her.
The princess turned her attention back to her son, aware that he was scrutinizing her with the sensitivity that only children possessed. "What have you been doing today?" she asked with false cheer.
"Lord Guy has been showing me how to surround my knight with foot soldiers," said the boy
Speaking of knights drew Sibylla's thoughts back to Balian. "Good knights lead from the front," she said, remembering Balian's charge at Kerak. With hennaed hands she rearranged the pewter figures, letting her fingers linger on the knight. Balian; her perfect knight.
Her vulnerable perfect knight.
Evening
Jerusalem: Balian's house
Life went on as normal in Balian's house, except there usually wasn't a princess in bed with the master. Almaric shook his head as he settled down with his evening meal. The night breeze was cool on his bald head. Like father, like son. Godfrey had sown his share of wild oats. The sergeant could only hope that the son's oats were not potent enough to take root inside the most powerful woman in the kingdom. It would cause too much unnecessary trouble when it came to the line of succession. Everyone knew that the princess' real husband had not touched her. It was the joke of the kingdom.
The front gates suddenly burst open, and soldiers poured in, followed by a contingent of Knights Templar. Almaric leapt to his feet. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "Do you not know whose house this is?"
"I do," said the oily and arrogant voice of Guy de Lusignan. "I have the authority to search this place. I believe there is a conspiracy against the kingdom."
The cacophony outside made Balian look up from kissing Sibylla. "What's going on?" she asked anxiously as he sat up. Sweat gleamed on his naked body. Before he could answer, the door to his bedchamber flew open and soldiers and Templars swarmed in like fire ants over a carcass.
"Seize the traitor!" roared one of the knights. It was hard to tell who it was under that helmet. Gauntleted hands grabbed Balian. He tried to fight back but without weapons or even a scrap of clothing on him, he was defenceless. Someone drove an iron fist into his unprotected stomach, making him double over and wheeze in pain.
"Stop it!" Sibylla screamed. "You're hurting him!" Tears of fear ran down her face. Clutching the thin sheets to her body to shield her nakedness, she was a pitiful sight to behold. Her Balian —she'd doomed him.
The still struggling Balian was dragged outside, as bare as the day had had been born. His dignity was being torn to shreds and trampled into the dust, and he still had no idea as to what was happening. Guy awaited him outside in the dusty courtyard. Once of the soldiers handed the Poitevin lord a document. Guy read it thoroughly and then clicked his tongue. "Ah Balian," he said when he saw his vanquished adversary. The soldiers forced Balian to kneel. He fought them most violently until one of them kicked the back of his knees and made them bend. "I must say I am surprised by this." He held the document between his thumb and index finger and waved it in Balian's face. "The whole kingdom has hailed you the Perfect Knight. What a disappointment it must be for all your admirers that you would stoop to meddle in such ignoble affairs."
"What are you talking about, Guy?" spat Balian has he glared up at the nobleman.
Guy smiled and bent down so that he was on eye level with the kneeling Balian. "Ambition is often the rock which makes even the righteous stumble," he said. "I understand it can't have been easy for a common blacksmith to assume the place of a baron. Maybe your success has honed your appetite, but you must know that Jerusalem will never accept a mere blacksmith as a king. You would've done better if you had been content with your lot."
"I don't understand a single word of what you're saying," said Balian curtly.
"Oh, of course you would deny it, my lord of Ibelin," said Guy. He patted Balian's cheek in a patronizing manner, making the other man's blood boil. "After all, no one wants to be accused of plotting to the murder to the Princess' husband — but don't worry, Balian. Justice will be delivered. We have all the evidence we need pertaining to your betrayal, including written proof of your treachery. And we have enough witnesses for the charge of adultery." He dangled the forged document in front of Balian's face. "You will confess soon enough, Balian of Ibelin. The interrogators in Jerusalem have their ways. I suppose we must thank our infidel neighbours for some of those."
At that moment, Sibylla, dressed in only a robe, rushed out into the courtyard and tried to get to Balian's side. She was restrained by two Templars. "Escort the Princess Sibylla back to her quarters," commanded Guy. "She is clearly distraught. I will speak with her later." He turned his disdainful eyes back to Balian who was now fighting against his captors once more in a futile attempt to break free and go to the woman he loved. "Take this blacksmith to the dungeons."
A/N: This is where the AU-ness really starts. Please review. I need to know where my inadequacies are, apart from typos which are almost a certainty.
HAPPY FESTIVE SEASON EVERYONE!
