Ancel nudged Ptolemy. “Do you want to accompany us? You will be riding tomorrow also?”
Ptolemy shot him a grateful look and began scraping together his few remaining coins. “Yes,” he said, “thank you.” His friends were also disinclined to stay.
As Ptolemy turned to leave, Zaccariah grabbed his arm. “Remember who employs you and the songs you are paid to sing,” he growled. “It would be a pity if you were to lose your fine voice or your wherewithal to play.”
Ptolemy wrenched himself free, but more because Zaccariah had relaxed his grip than from any strength of his own.
“Their dice were loaded,” Ancel muttered in an aggrieved voice once they were out of the door and heading toward the palace.
“Their dice are always loaded,” Ptolemy replied sourly.
“Zaccariah of Nablus seemed to have a particular bone to pick with you, yet you dwell in the same household?” William said.
“Our services are very different,” Ptolemy replied, giving William a sidelong look. “He thinks I am a threat because I know things.”
“But surely hinting to others that you ‘know’ things immediately makes you a risk.”
“I have protection,” he replied defensively, but dropped his gaze.
William raised his brows but said no more as they came to the postern of the patriarch’s palace, and Ptolemy bade them good night with cheerful bravado before going inside with his friends.
“What do you think he knows?” Ancel asked as they made their way to their own lodgings.
“Perhaps safer to be ignorant. Has he said anything to you?”
“No, he just keeps hinting about the things he could tell. But he’s a musician. It is the nature of his employment to go from place to place passing messages and keeping his ears open. The wonder would be in his trade if he did not.”
“He is still your friend though?”
Ancel shrugged. “He is my friend because he wants to know about our life at court in England. He likes too that I am a newcomer. He can brag and tell the stories that everyone else already knows. And why not? I like his music, and he entertains me as much as I do him. But he is fickle and will do whatever he must to further his ambition.”
“He should have a care, because clearly others will try to stop him if he threatens their interests.” William shook Ancel’s shoulder. “Just do not get caught up in it.”
“I am not a fool.” Ancel shrugged him off, looking aggrieved.
“No,” William said, “but it still behooves me to look out for you.”
Ancel rolled his eyes. “Worry about yourself, not me,” he said, and thumped William’s arm.
* * *
King Baldwin came to Ascalon on a cold, early February morning with sharp rain lancing through a bitter wind to sting William’s face. It was almost like being back in England. A little warmer for the time of year perhaps, but the tales told of Outremer at home were always of desiccating heat, never inclement weather like this.
Ascalon lay on the coast, two days’ ride from Jerusalem, strategically guarding the approach to Egypt. Won from the Saracens more than thirty years earlier, the city was a major port controlled by the Count of Jaffa.
Today Ascalon’s gates were barred against all comers, and guards stood on the city walls, spears to attention. The sky behind the banners on the roofline was a dark, roiling gray. To a fanfare of trumpets, Baldwin’s heralds spurred forward to the massive gates to formally announce the king’s arrival and demand admittance. Their answer was a taut silence from the walls, the only sound the roar of the wind and the jingle of harness from the troops assembled outside.
Baldwin had ridden the last few miles on his white palfrey with an adapted, padded saddle. Now he signaled William to help him down—it had become his preference to have William perform this service for him. Setting his feet on the ground, he steadied himself. The veil covering his face tugged this way and that in the brisk wind, lifting now and again to show his ravaged features. Patriarch Heraclius dismounted from his big chestnut and joined them, his expression set and grim.
“See, my lord patriarch?” Baldwin said with angry contempt. “I am refused entry into a city where I have final jurisdiction. This is how my brother-in-law serves me. Come, let us have an end to this. We at least shall observe the formalities.”
Heraclius took Baldwin’s arm and guided him the short distance to the city gates. Baldwin was hampered by the wind flurrying against his robes, but although he was barely able to walk, he was determined. He clutched an ebony rod in his better hand, and upon reaching the gates, he lifted it and beat three times on the wood as hard as he could, raising his voice and pushing all of his strength into a great shout, so it was not the cry of a sick leper, but the command of a sovereign lord in full fury. “Guy de Lusignan, I command you to open the gates to your king!”
Silence, and a growing tension within that silence.
Again Baldwin raised his voice. “Guy de Lusignan, I command you to open the gates to your king and answer the summons of the patriarch!”
Still no answer came from the people lining the city walls. William had no doubt that Guy and Sybilla were among them, watching, but choosing not to show themselves. A fresh gust of wind almost knocked Baldwin off his feet. He gripped Heraclius, mustered his reserves and commanded the patriarch to knock full force with his own staff. Heraclius hesitated, clearly reluctant but, at last, did as he was bidden. For a third time, Baldwin shouted his demand and, for a third time, was answered by silence.
“There, my lord patriarch,” Baldwin said with bitter triumph. “You see how I am served? My sister and her husband show me only defiance and perfidy. They refuse to open their gates and answer to their king. If I can come to them sorely afflicted as I am, then my brother by marriage would have to be on his deathbed not to face me. The only sickness he has is that of treason.”
“Sire, calm yourself,” Heraclius entreated. “You will do yourself harm. This matter can be settled by diplomatic means, I promise you.”
“So you keep saying, my lord patriarch,” Baldwin snapped. “But I do not see how, since it is clear we are not going to be admitted and no one has seen fit to answer my demand. Know this: Guy de Lusignan and my sister shall not defy me with impunity.”
* * *
The galley climbed the wave and then dipped into a trough, spray bursting against her prow and lacing her flanks. White caps frilled the crests, and the wind was blowing hard from sea to shore. William’s stomach echoed the motion of the ship, and he swallowed nausea. He had been well enough at the outset of the journey as King Baldwin embarked from the port of Jaffa, heading for Acre a hundred miles up the coast, but as the voyage progressed, William had begun to feel the all-too-familiar wallow in his gut. Ancel, cheerfully unaffected, was talking to the crew and enjoying himself. Now and again, he cast an almost smug glance William’s way.
They had spent several days in Jaffa, which, unlike Ascalon, had immediately opened its gates to them. Baldwin had removed the city from Guy’s control and appointed a governor, ignoring Heraclius’s peacemaking remark that Guy and Sybilla must have sent instructions to open the gates to Baldwin and the only reason Ascalon had remained closed was that the couple feared being seized and forced to comply with the annulment. Now Baldwin was moving up the coast to Acre and calling a council to decide what was to be done. Guy and Sybilla were required to attend, but no one expected them to appear.
Other members of the court were traveling on the same ship as William, including several women, among them the patriarch’s concubine, Paschia de Riveri. She stood not far from William, gripping the ship’s side and staring at the horizon. Every now and again, she swallowed and her shoulders quivered. Recognizing the symptoms all too well, he made his way over to join her, thinking to distract himself from his own discomfort. He was mindful of what Bohemond had told him, but there wa
s no harm if he was respectful.
“It is brisk weather, my lady,” he said.
“Indeed, messire, but it makes the journey swifter.”
The galley struck another wave, spray bursting against the side of the ship, spattering the voyagers, and then they were plunging again. She staggered and clung to his arm for support.
“Are the seas rough where you come from, messire?” she asked as the surge subsided.
“Yes, madam, especially in winter. The king often crosses from one shore to another. The journey is less than half a day if the wind is in the right direction, but the seas can be treacherous and stormy.”
She watched the galley bearing Baldwin and Heraclius that was plowing the waves ahead of them. “You must have crossed it many times in service to your king and queen.” Her dark eyes appraised him.
“Indeed, yes, my lady, although I confess it has never been my favorite form of travel.”
He had to suppress a retch as the galley threshed through another strong wave. She gripped his wrist harder and did not know who was supporting who. Her hands were fine boned and small, but they were strong. He could imagine them gripping reins or cutting cloth with clean precision. Numerous gold rings adorned her fingers, including one that glistened with a ruby the size of a quail’s egg.
“My mother saw your queen before I was born—a fleeting glimpse only, as she rode through the streets of Jerusalem, but enough to leave a lasting impression. My mother said she was golden haired and very beautiful.”
William gave her a strained smile. “She still is.”
“And her husband’s prisoner now, if what we hear is true?”
William hesitated, wondering what to say, remembering Bohemond’s warnings about becoming trapped in a net, yet her interest seemed sincere and of the moment, rather than possessing an agenda, and he had approached her after all. “Yes, it is true, and I am sorry for it, because I have served both with loyalty. Their eldest son was my lord and the reason I came to Jerusalem—to pray for his soul and my own, and do penance for my sins before God and his Holy Mother.”
“Yes.” She gave a sympathetic nod. “I am sorry that you have lost your lord but glad that you have been able to find spiritual solace.” Her smile appeared again. “Is the king of England a good traveler? Does he suffer on the ocean?”
William shook his head. “No, my lady. He is one of the most enduring travelers I know. He will eat burned bread, drink sour wine, and sleep rolled in his cloak at the side of the road if he must. He will also journey from dawn to dusk without respite. His court can barely keep up with his pace and his vigor.”
“So King Henry is strong and tireless,” she said. “And a man accustomed to governing and bringing people to do his will.”
“That is a fair assessment, my lady.”
“And might he too come to Jerusalem do you think? The patriarch has hopes.”
Her voice was warm and interested as she continued her political probing. William steadied his feet as another wave rolled under the keel, bumping them together, hip to hip.
“Perhaps, my lady,” he said diplomatically, and then compressed his lips.
Her maid arrived with a steaming lidded cup of tisane that she had brewed over a small covered pot of coals. “Might you be able to drink this, madam?” she asked.
Another heavy wave smacked the ship and spray boomed over the strakes. William’s stomach gave up the fight, and he had to dive for the side and hang there, vomiting and retching, all efforts at chivalry abandoned to his heaving belly. Finally, empty and sore, feeling utterly wretched, he collapsed against the strake.
The maid, Zoraya, gently touched his shoulder and handed him the tisane. Much of it had spilled as the wave struck, but about a third remained. “My lady says you are to have this, for you are in more need than she is,” she said.
William weakly thanked her, took the cup, and, closing his eyes, forced himself to take a swallow. The bitter herbal taste cleaned his mouth but didn’t make him feel any better.
The patriarchess had retreated to the other side of the galley. Her gittern player, Ptolemy, huddled miserably at her side, arms folded, clearly another victim of mal de mer.
William abandoned the tisane, huddled in his cloak, and tried to sleep.
* * *
King Baldwin lay on the couch in his bedchamber in his great fortress at Acre and stared out of his open window toward the deep blue sea frilled with white caps but devoid now of the turbulence that had driven them up the coast from Jaffa faster than a galloping horse. William, having recovered from his seasickness, was attending upon him with the rest of the court, all gathered for the day’s meeting. He wondered how much Baldwin could see of the deep blue water, busy with merchant ships and fishing boats. The port of Acre was greater than London or Rouen. Indeed, its annual income outstripped the entire revenues of England.
The court was about to discuss the mission to ask the princes of Europe to aid the beleaguered kingdom of Jerusalem, but everyone was still awaiting the arrival of the patriarch, who had been designated to lead the undertaking. William had overheard mocking comments that he was probably still abed with his concubine and that she was giving him advice about what to do. The humor was sour and exasperated, because until Heraclius arrived, the discussion could not start.
Baldwin sent one of the household knights to fetch the patriarch. “Do not return without him,” he commanded. “Whatever excuses he offers.”
A short while later, the man returned, Heraclius stalking in behind him, his crosier clutched in one hand and a handful of parchment notes in the other.
“Ah,” said Baldwin, “finally. Now perhaps we can discuss the matter of this mission to the kings of France and England.”
“Indeed, sire,” Heraclius replied, “but first we must deal with another matter.”
“And what matter would that be, my lord patriarch?” Baldwin asked frostily.
Heraclius cleared his throat. “That of your sister Sybilla’s marriage to the Count of Jaffa. I beg you not to pursue your intention of putting asunder their union and to reconsider. If you were to show generosity, I know it would be reciprocated.”
“I doubt that,” Baldwin snorted. “Have I not shown them utmost generosity already, and look at where we stand now! I agreed to the match in the first place because I was tenderhearted and disposed to heed the pleas of my sister and my mother. I gave Guy de Lusignan riches, status, and every opportunity to prove himself, and he has thrown it back in my face and been a sad disappointment. He is a poor leader of men and an unsatisfactory commander. He has begotten two girls on my sister thus far, and that is not the mark of a man. Where are the sons? When I asked him to exchange Tire for Jerusalem for the good of my health, he refused. My barons have no confidence in him and now he refuses to answer my summons and bars me from Ascalon. Yet you still believe I should show him clemency?”
Heraclius had flushed beneath the onslaught. “Sire, I know you feel he has a cause to answer but—”
“Feel!” Baldwin struck his chest. “You know nothing of what I feel, my lord, and I am within my full right!”
“But do you not see this path is taking us nowhere?” Heraclius implored. “This is dividing the kingdom when we have enemies on all sides. We cannot afford to turn our swords inward and fight each other. Let us keep the Count of Jaffa for the time being and assess the matter later. If we continue now, there will be bloodshed. Saladin will see that we are divided and will strike at us anew. We should resolve this matter by diplomatic means.” His eyes were moist with tears. “I can say no more.”
“You were not asked to say any more,” Baldwin snapped. “You and your priests are unworldly fools. This matter needs dealing with by someone who will not bow down to the pressure of women. You think I do not know that my sister is behind this? I tell you, my lord patriarch, you accede to my plan, or you a
re nothing.”
“In the name of all that is holy, I cannot.” Heraclius shook his head. “Even if I wished it, I have no power to do such a thing. Whom God has joined together no man can pull asunder. Your heart is hardened against this man, but there has to be a way to restore peace and integrity to the kingdom.”
“Peace and integrity!” Baldwin was incandescent. “You would see him walk all over you and stamp on your head and not say a word. This is not the way forward. Let Guy come and answer to me and then we shall see.”
“There is nothing more I can do, sire,” Heraclius said with weary resignation, “and I take no side. Surely, if we all rally together, it has to be better than this strife.”
Baldwin turned to the grand masters of the Templars and Hospitallers who had been standing to one side listening in taut silence. “And you, my lords, do you agree with this?”
Arnold de Torroja stepped forward, his jaw thrust out and his eyes hard. “Sire, I do. I petition you to beware the consequences of your actions.”
Baldwin stiffened in astonishment and drew himself up.
De Torroja continued, “Should it come to your passing, sire, which is the reason for all this discussion and preparation, you will leave the seeds of a divisive war with us, one I know you do not wish for your subjects. We implore you on God’s behalf to make peace with your brother by marriage. We abhor this conflict of brother against brother, and we implore you to do good by us…sire.” De Torroja bowed and stepped aside to stand beside Heraclius.
“And you, my lord.” Baldwin turned to the Hospitaller Master Roger de Moulins. “Is this your opinion too?” His tone was quiet now—ice on steel.
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