Prologue
July 1179
Chastellet
Glayer Felsteppe swaggered into the king’s antechamber, his heeled boots—so vain and out of place here in this land of sand—clicking conspicuously on the red floor tiles striped black with cool shadows. None of the Templar soldiers in retreat from the heat of the day paid the thin man’s entrance any heed, and Constantine kept to his own vantage point in the shadows behind where the king sat. He had waited a long time for this moment.
Felsteppe came to a stop before Baldwin and sank to one knee, spreading his arms and dropping his head of flaming hair in a grandiose display. “You called for me, my liege?”
The king flicked his bandaged hand, releasing the man from his show of homage, but Felsteppe was too entrenched in his performance to notice. “Lord Felsteppe, it has been alleged that you have once again taken to fraternizing with Saladin’s envoys,” Baldwin said, his tone sounding more tired than irritated. “More than fraternizing.”
Felsteppe’s head snapped up and he rose, his gaze going to the darker area behind Baldwin’s chair as if by instinct.
Like a cockroach that senses the raised boot above it and skitters away before it can be stomped, Constantine thought as he emerged from the gloom. He left the evidence of the charges he had leveled still hidden on the table behind him. There would be no skittering this time.
When Felsteppe saw Constantine, his already beady eyes narrowed further before they looked back to the king of Jerusalem. “My liege, General Gerard constantly seeks to besmirch my good name with his outrageous claims. The man is clearly obsessed with me.”
Constantine said nothing, refusing to be baited.
The king’s sparse eyebrows rose. “Do you then deny that you were fraternizing with the Saracen legates?”
“I spoke with them, certainly,” Felsteppe scoffed, drawing his coiffed head back as if shocked at the absurdity of the question. “It was my duty to chaperone the men of lesser rank while you met with Saladin’s general. Unlike some”—here Felsteppe leveled a haughty look at Constantine—“I feel it would not further our cause to be overly combative. After all, Saladin sent his men seeking peace.”
“He’s seeking an end to Chastellet!” Baldwin barked and slapped his hand on the arm of his chair, causing many of the soldiers lounging about the quiet, shadowed room to glance toward the king. Adrian Hailsworth, architect of Chastellet and the only man Constantine could reliably call his friend, did not look up, absorbed as he typically was in the sheets of plans spread out before him at his table in a far corner of the room.
Baldwin ignored the looks of the soldiers. “Saladin knows that while our mighty fortress stands, there is no chance of him seizing control over the crossing at Jacob’s Ford. It’s imperative we remain, no matter the cost to us, and no matter how many dinars he offers in bribes.”
“Your communications with the Saracens were far from mere courtesy,” Constantine added, unwilling to let Felsteppe attempt to turn the charges against him into a pointless political debate. “You’re a liar. And a traitor.”
“General,” Baldwin warned in a low voice, turning his head only slightly toward Constantine. “The man shall have his say.”
“A traitor as well now, am I?” Felsteppe sneered. “And what fantasy, pray tell, have you concocted in your mind this time that I am to be held liable for?”
“Selling Templar weaponry to the Saracens. In the very bailey belonging to the men it was crafted to defend.”
At these allegations, the soldiers who had before only glanced in the direction of the king now turned toward the trio of men fully, prompting many of the rest to do the same. The quiet murmurs of conversation ceased, and an air of expectation swelled against the stone walls.
Felsteppe’s laughter cut through the silence and seemed to echo. His smile was wide as he threw up his hands. “That’s preposterous.”
Baldwin spoke. “You deny General Gerard’s accusation?”
“OfcourseI deny it!” Felsteppe scoffed. Constantine turned back to the table behind him while Felsteppe continued. “Surely you must see that the general’s claims become more and more outrageous? I would never—”
His words were cut off as Constantine turned, his arms laden, and tossed the evidence to the floor between Baldwin and Felsteppe. If any in the room hadn’t been paying attention before, the echoing crash and clatter of weaponry ensured that all eyes were on the three men at the head of the tense room.
Even Adrian looked up from his plans.
Felsteppe stared at Constantine for a moment, but then blinked and shrugged. “Am I supposed to be moved by this rather noisy display?”
“The weapons you sold the Saracens,” Constantine clarified through gritted teeth.
Again Felsteppe laughed. “Oh, really? Then why are they inyourpossession rather than the Saracens I supposedly sold them to?” He rolled his eyes.
“I bought them all back,” Constantine said. “From General Abdal himself.”
Felsteppe looked to the king with an air of exasperation. “Ridiculous, my liege. It is Gerard’s word against mine. Perhaps a Saracen’s, as well, if even his scheme went so far.”
Baldwin was staring at Felsteppe, but when he spoke, his words were directed at Constantine.
