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A dazzling recreation of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem captures the religious passions and political intriques of the Holy Land in A.D. 1187, as seen through the eyes of Rannulf Fitzwilliam, a Knight Templar who loves the princess Sibylla. By the author of The Bear Flag. 50,000 first printing. $50,000 ad/promo.
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Cecelia Holland was born in Henderson, Nevada, in 1943 and started writing at the age of twelve. Starting with The Firedrake in 1966, she has published twenty-one independent historical novels covering periods from the middle of the first millennium CE up through parts of the early twentieth century, and from Egypt, through Russia, central Europe, Scandinavia, Great Britain, and Ireland to the West Coast of the United States. Most recently, she has completed a series of five novels set in the world of the Vikings, covering a period of about fifty years during the tenth century and following the adventures of Corban Loosestrife and his descendants. The hallmark of her style is a vivid re-creation of time, place, and character, all true to known facts. She is highly regarded for her attention to detail, her insight into the characters she has researched and portrayed, and her battle scenes, which are vividly rendered and powerfully described. Holland has also published two nonfiction historical/biographic works, two children’s novels, a contemporary novel, and a science fiction novel, as well as a number of historical essays.
Holland has three daughters. She lives in Fortuna, California, and, once a week, teaches a class in creative writing at Pelican Bay State Prison in Crescent City, California. Holland's personal website is www.thefiredrake.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Holland has three daughters. She lives in Fortuna, California, and, once a week, teaches a class in creative writing at Pelican Bay State Prison in Crescent City, California. Holland's personal website is www.thefiredrake.com.
Chapter I
halfway through the morning the second horse went lame also. Right away, riding double behind Mark, Rannulf could feel the hitch and stagger in the animal's stride, which grew worse with every step, until the horse pulled up and refused to move any more.
Rannulf slid down over its crupper to the ground. The other knight kept to his saddle; with a half-spoken oath he slammed his spurred heels savagely into the horse's flanks. The beast gave a long weary groan. Rannulf went off a few steps, looking around.
Bleached as an old bone under the piercing blue of the sky, the desert spread away from them, rising in the south to the black barren hills that the local people called Ibrahim's Anvil. To the north the road wandered off toward an uneven ridge, rippling in the heat. The horse sighed, exhausted, its eyes glazed.
Still in the saddle, Mark said, "This brute's finished." He pulled off his hat and wiped his face on his sleeve. "And so are we."
Rannulf said, "If we ride all night we'll reach Ascalon by dawn."
"Yes, but we have no horses. Although in your usual all-knowing way you probably haven't noticed."
"There's a caravanserai up ahead. We can walk there, find fresh mounts."
At that Mark doubled up the ends of his reins, swearing under his breath, and flogged the horse's neck and shoulder. Rannulf looked to the south again, wondering if the haze climbing across the sky were the dust of the oncoming Saracens. He did not think Saladin's army would move so fast as that. Mark's arm hung slack, the reins useless; then the horse folded at the knees and hocks and collapsed. With a yell the knight sprang clear.
Rannulf said, "We have to take the saddle."
"The hell with the saddle! There's a million sandpigs just beyond that hill!" Mark kicked the ground. His voice was shrill with fear and rage. "How far to this inn?"
"The saddle belongs to the Order." Rannulf stooped over the horse, which was still alive, and tugged the girths loose; the animal's belly heaved when his hand grazed it. The chances of finding horses at the caravanserai were not good, the chances of finding a saddle almost none.
Mark wheeled toward him. "Forget the saddle, Saint. I'll walk, but I'm not carrying anything I don't have to."
Rannulf's temper jumped, a spurt of heat behind his eyes; he crossed himself against it and faced Mark, but the other knight had seen the blessing and knew what it meant and backed off a few steps, his hands rising. "All right. All right." Stooping, he unbuckled the bridle and slipped it off the head of the dying horse, and Rannulf heaved the saddle up over his shoulder, and they walked away along the road.
The summer was over, and the worst heat had broken, but on this broad dry pan the sun cooked the air and the light shimmered like watery veils. Here and there, weeds tufted the thin sand crust of the plain. Paler than the land on either side, the road was not a single path but a zone hundreds of yards across of countless dimpled footprints, crisscrossing ruts and tracks, and ancient piles of dung. Standing stones lined its edge, along with piles of rocks, broken wheels and pack frames and useless rotten harness, and bones.
"How far to this inn?" Mark asked, again.
Rannulf shaded his eyes. "We may not have to go that far. Look." He pointed across the road. Out beyond the spotty row of stones and debris, a flag of dust trailed away toward the blue hills. Somebody was approaching the road from the east.
"Saracens," Mark said.
"I don't think so," Rannulf said. "They're ours."
"You can't see anything. You're guessing."
"No. Look where they're coming from. The only thing out there is Kerak. They're ours." Rannulf looked on ahead of the drifting dust, trying to figure where this approaching train would reach the road. "Come on," he said, and broke into a trot.
* * *
Sibylla said, "I wish you would ride. You slow everything up." She checked her horse again, keeping to the pace of the cart.
Behind the plodding mules that pulled it, her cousin Alys sprawled on cushions, half-sitting, clutching the edge of the box with one plump hand, while the other beat constantly at the flies humming in the shade of the awning. "If you think this is comfortable, Sibylla, come and join me. But if I had to ride a horse, believe me, we would go even slower."
Sibylla gave a sigh. They had been traveling across the same blank countryside for two days; she itched to get to the end of it, to be somewhere else, anywhere else. The five knights riding in front of her lifted a haze of dust, which got into her eyes; she had told Guile, who commanded her escort, that she wanted something done about that, that they should ride behind her, and Guile had sneered at her and told her to go sit in the cart and keep the curtains closed.
"You shouldn't let him talk to you like that," Alys said.
"No, probably not," Sibylla said. She did not want to admit that she was afraid of Guile. Then up ahead of them, a shout sounded, and the knights crowded together in front of her and stopped.
Something was going on. The cart halted; Alys leaned forward, peering through the flies, and said, "What's that?" Sibylla reined her horse away from the cart, and rode off past the knights to the head of the caravan.
In front of the knights, Guile of Kerak had reined in his horse and drawn his sword. He was a burly man, older than she was; under the edge of his cap his hair shagged down bone-white to his shoulders. He called out, "Stand where you are!"
Sibylla reined in behind him, out of his range of vision, and looked where he was looking. Two men were walking toward them across the road. Ragged, dirty, bearded, they seemed like outlaws. At Guile's command, one stopped, but the other walked straight on, came up to the white-haired knight, and said, "I'm taking your horse. And I want another for my brother."
Sibylla tossed up her head, startled, and Guile gave a contemptuous laugh. "What? Get out of my way; I'll cut you down." He cocked his sword back over his shoulder.
The man in front of him made no move to his own sword, which hung in a black scabbard at his hip. He was carrying a saddle on his shoulder, and he dropped it to the ground, as if he had arrived home. Taking off his hat he wiped his streaming face on the sleeve of his jerkin. His black hair was cut short above his ears. Calmly he stared up at Guile, and said, "I am a Knight of the Jerusalem Temple, and I want your horse. Get off."
Behind Sibylla, a ripple of excitement went through the men of her escort. "A Templar. A Templar." Guile lowered his sword. Sibylla rode up closer, staring at the black-haired knight's chest, and now under the layers of grime she saw the red Cross splayed across his jerkin.
She swung around toward Guile, who was motionless beside her, his sword held across his saddlebow and his jaw bunched with coiled muscle, and she said, "Well? What are you waiting for? Give him your horse."
Guile glared at her. At her words the Templar who had hung back on the road limped up beside the black-haired man. He said, "Find out if they have anything to eat."
Sibylla rode in between them and Guile. "We will help you. I am the Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem, my father was King Amalric, and King Baudouin is my brother. Tell me how I can serve."
She expected some reverence, some proper respect, or at least a little gratitude, but the black-haired Templar never even looked at her. He spoke to the other knight. "Tell her she can get back to Kerak, or wherever she belongs, fast, and leave that cart here." Guile dismounted and the Templar went around her to take his reins. "Bring a horse also for my brother," he said to Guile. "Move! Now!"
Sibylla felt the heat rise in her face. She thought she had been courteous enough to a dirty nameless man on the road. The other Templar stepped forward, his face lifted to her, young, brown-bearded, his eyes amazingly blue above the mottled sunburn of his cheeks. "My Princess, please excuse Saint, here. His vow forbids him any commerce with women. Our mission is desperate. Saladin is coming north out of Egypt, with an army of thirty thousand men. We have to get to Ascalon, where he'll strike first."
She said, startled, "Saladin. But that's impossible." She turned around in her saddle, looking south, into the great barrier of the desert. "They have never attacked from Egypt."
"He's coming now," the brown man said. "And my brother here is right, my lady Princess. You have to get to safety, and the cart can't move fast enough."
"My cousin is--she doesn't ride," Sibylla said.
The black-haired man swung into Guile's saddle. "Tie her to the saddle." He kept his eyes averted from her, as if she were unfit to notice. A squire jogged up, leading another horse, and the brown-haired knight took the reins and mounted.
He said, "I suppose I'm still not going to get anything to eat?"
The black-haired man gave a low bad-tempered growl. Under him Guile's horse was already dancing, eager, pulling at the hard hand on its reins. Looking over his shoulder, the Templar stared at Guile, on foot still. The knight from Kerak was scowling all over his red face. The Templar said, "Bring the saddle to the Temple in Jerusalem." He put Guile's horse into a quick trot away down the road, with the other knight at his stirrup.
"Ugly brute," Sibylla said, under her breath.
She looked back into the south again, alarmed. If what the Templars said were true, and the Saracens were coming out of Egypt, the Kingdom of Jerusalem lay naked before them: she knew all the Christian armies were far away to the north, near Homs and Aleppo. She had to get to Ascalon, to do whatever she could.
Guile had shortened his glare to focus on her. "Well. You heard him. Get your damned cousin out of the damned cart, and let's move."
"Yes," she said. "I think that's a very good idea, Guile." She rode back to the cart, to pack Alys onto a horse.
Copyright © 1996 by Cecelia Holland
halfway through the morning the second horse went lame also. Right away, riding double behind Mark, Rannulf could feel the hitch and stagger in the animal's stride, which grew worse with every step, until the horse pulled up and refused to move any more.
Rannulf slid down over its crupper to the ground. The other knight kept to his saddle; with a half-spoken oath he slammed his spurred heels savagely into the horse's flanks. The beast gave a long weary groan. Rannulf went off a few steps, looking around.
Bleached as an old bone under the piercing blue of the sky, the desert spread away from them, rising in the south to the black barren hills that the local people called Ibrahim's Anvil. To the north the road wandered off toward an uneven ridge, rippling in the heat. The horse sighed, exhausted, its eyes glazed.
Still in the saddle, Mark said, "This brute's finished." He pulled off his hat and wiped his face on his sleeve. "And so are we."
Rannulf said, "If we ride all night we'll reach Ascalon by dawn."
"Yes, but we have no horses. Although in your usual all-knowing way you probably haven't noticed."
"There's a caravanserai up ahead. We can walk there, find fresh mounts."
At that Mark doubled up the ends of his reins, swearing under his breath, and flogged the horse's neck and shoulder. Rannulf looked to the south again, wondering if the haze climbing across the sky were the dust of the oncoming Saracens. He did not think Saladin's army would move so fast as that. Mark's arm hung slack, the reins useless; then the horse folded at the knees and hocks and collapsed. With a yell the knight sprang clear.
Rannulf said, "We have to take the saddle."
"The hell with the saddle! There's a million sandpigs just beyond that hill!" Mark kicked the ground. His voice was shrill with fear and rage. "How far to this inn?"
"The saddle belongs to the Order." Rannulf stooped over the horse, which was still alive, and tugged the girths loose; the animal's belly heaved when his hand grazed it. The chances of finding horses at the caravanserai were not good, the chances of finding a saddle almost none.
Mark wheeled toward him. "Forget the saddle, Saint. I'll walk, but I'm not carrying anything I don't have to."
Rannulf's temper jumped, a spurt of heat behind his eyes; he crossed himself against it and faced Mark, but the other knight had seen the blessing and knew what it meant and backed off a few steps, his hands rising. "All right. All right." Stooping, he unbuckled the bridle and slipped it off the head of the dying horse, and Rannulf heaved the saddle up over his shoulder, and they walked away along the road.
The summer was over, and the worst heat had broken, but on this broad dry pan the sun cooked the air and the light shimmered like watery veils. Here and there, weeds tufted the thin sand crust of the plain. Paler than the land on either side, the road was not a single path but a zone hundreds of yards across of countless dimpled footprints, crisscrossing ruts and tracks, and ancient piles of dung. Standing stones lined its edge, along with piles of rocks, broken wheels and pack frames and useless rotten harness, and bones.
"How far to this inn?" Mark asked, again.
Rannulf shaded his eyes. "We may not have to go that far. Look." He pointed across the road. Out beyond the spotty row of stones and debris, a flag of dust trailed away toward the blue hills. Somebody was approaching the road from the east.
"Saracens," Mark said.
"I don't think so," Rannulf said. "They're ours."
"You can't see anything. You're guessing."
"No. Look where they're coming from. The only thing out there is Kerak. They're ours." Rannulf looked on ahead of the drifting dust, trying to figure where this approaching train would reach the road. "Come on," he said, and broke into a trot.
* * *
Sibylla said, "I wish you would ride. You slow everything up." She checked her horse again, keeping to the pace of the cart.
Behind the plodding mules that pulled it, her cousin Alys sprawled on cushions, half-sitting, clutching the edge of the box with one plump hand, while the other beat constantly at the flies humming in the shade of the awning. "If you think this is comfortable, Sibylla, come and join me. But if I had to ride a horse, believe me, we would go even slower."
Sibylla gave a sigh. They had been traveling across the same blank countryside for two days; she itched to get to the end of it, to be somewhere else, anywhere else. The five knights riding in front of her lifted a haze of dust, which got into her eyes; she had told Guile, who commanded her escort, that she wanted something done about that, that they should ride behind her, and Guile had sneered at her and told her to go sit in the cart and keep the curtains closed.
"You shouldn't let him talk to you like that," Alys said.
"No, probably not," Sibylla said. She did not want to admit that she was afraid of Guile. Then up ahead of them, a shout sounded, and the knights crowded together in front of her and stopped.
Something was going on. The cart halted; Alys leaned forward, peering through the flies, and said, "What's that?" Sibylla reined her horse away from the cart, and rode off past the knights to the head of the caravan.
In front of the knights, Guile of Kerak had reined in his horse and drawn his sword. He was a burly man, older than she was; under the edge of his cap his hair shagged down bone-white to his shoulders. He called out, "Stand where you are!"
Sibylla reined in behind him, out of his range of vision, and looked where he was looking. Two men were walking toward them across the road. Ragged, dirty, bearded, they seemed like outlaws. At Guile's command, one stopped, but the other walked straight on, came up to the white-haired knight, and said, "I'm taking your horse. And I want another for my brother."
Sibylla tossed up her head, startled, and Guile gave a contemptuous laugh. "What? Get out of my way; I'll cut you down." He cocked his sword back over his shoulder.
The man in front of him made no move to his own sword, which hung in a black scabbard at his hip. He was carrying a saddle on his shoulder, and he dropped it to the ground, as if he had arrived home. Taking off his hat he wiped his streaming face on the sleeve of his jerkin. His black hair was cut short above his ears. Calmly he stared up at Guile, and said, "I am a Knight of the Jerusalem Temple, and I want your horse. Get off."
Behind Sibylla, a ripple of excitement went through the men of her escort. "A Templar. A Templar." Guile lowered his sword. Sibylla rode up closer, staring at the black-haired knight's chest, and now under the layers of grime she saw the red Cross splayed across his jerkin.
She swung around toward Guile, who was motionless beside her, his sword held across his saddlebow and his jaw bunched with coiled muscle, and she said, "Well? What are you waiting for? Give him your horse."
Guile glared at her. At her words the Templar who had hung back on the road limped up beside the black-haired man. He said, "Find out if they have anything to eat."
Sibylla rode in between them and Guile. "We will help you. I am the Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem, my father was King Amalric, and King Baudouin is my brother. Tell me how I can serve."
She expected some reverence, some proper respect, or at least a little gratitude, but the black-haired Templar never even looked at her. He spoke to the other knight. "Tell her she can get back to Kerak, or wherever she belongs, fast, and leave that cart here." Guile dismounted and the Templar went around her to take his reins. "Bring a horse also for my brother," he said to Guile. "Move! Now!"
Sibylla felt the heat rise in her face. She thought she had been courteous enough to a dirty nameless man on the road. The other Templar stepped forward, his face lifted to her, young, brown-bearded, his eyes amazingly blue above the mottled sunburn of his cheeks. "My Princess, please excuse Saint, here. His vow forbids him any commerce with women. Our mission is desperate. Saladin is coming north out of Egypt, with an army of thirty thousand men. We have to get to Ascalon, where he'll strike first."
She said, startled, "Saladin. But that's impossible." She turned around in her saddle, looking south, into the great barrier of the desert. "They have never attacked from Egypt."
"He's coming now," the brown man said. "And my brother here is right, my lady Princess. You have to get to safety, and the cart can't move fast enough."
"My cousin is--she doesn't ride," Sibylla said.
The black-haired man swung into Guile's saddle. "Tie her to the saddle." He kept his eyes averted from her, as if she were unfit to notice. A squire jogged up, leading another horse, and the brown-haired knight took the reins and mounted.
He said, "I suppose I'm still not going to get anything to eat?"
The black-haired man gave a low bad-tempered growl. Under him Guile's horse was already dancing, eager, pulling at the hard hand on its reins. Looking over his shoulder, the Templar stared at Guile, on foot still. The knight from Kerak was scowling all over his red face. The Templar said, "Bring the saddle to the Temple in Jerusalem." He put Guile's horse into a quick trot away down the road, with the other knight at his stirrup.
"Ugly brute," Sibylla said, under her breath.
She looked back into the south again, alarmed. If what the Templars said were true, and the Saracens were coming out of Egypt, the Kingdom of Jerusalem lay naked before them: she knew all the Christian armies were far away to the north, near Homs and Aleppo. She had to get to Ascalon, to do whatever she could.
Guile had shortened his glare to focus on her. "Well. You heard him. Get your damned cousin out of the damned cart, and let's move."
"Yes," she said. "I think that's a very good idea, Guile." She rode back to the cart, to pack Alys onto a horse.
Copyright © 1996 by Cecelia Holland
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherForge
- Publication date1996
- ISBN 10 0312859562
- ISBN 13 9780312859565
- BindingHardcover
- Edition number1
- Number of pages318
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Book Description Hardcover. Condition: New. Dust Jacket Condition: New. 1st.US Ed. Set in the Holy Land in 1187 A.D., Jerusalem is an epic of war and political intrigue, of passion and religious fervor."Centering her story on the Knights Templar, ferocious warriors who took vows of chastity and attempted to live like monks, Ms. Holland strikingly portrays the moral anguish of these men within an all too worldly atmosphere of conspiracy, betrayal and temptation. She brings as much suspense to political intrigue as to the sprawling battle scenes at which she excels, and the contrast she draws between the stark royal court of Jerusalem, holed up in its stone fortress, and Saladin's lush palace in Damascus dramatizes the conflict between the closed feudal culture of much of medieval Europe and the artistic flowering of Islam.". Seller Inventory # 043523
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