Balian wanted to tell him to stop drawing out the torture and spit out the price, but he managed to bow and smile instead.
“The Sultan would be delighted to return your brother, the Baron of Ramla and Mirabel, in exchange for two hundred thousand bezants.”
The gasps of the others in the room made it unnecessary for Balian to reply. The price was absurd. It was a king’s ransom, not a baron’s. It was Salah ad-Din’s revenge for his tough bargaining over three youths of no importance. The Sultan would no doubt argue that if mere boys of good family were worth ten thousand bezants in Balian’s book, then barons—and brothers—must be worth ten times that amount—or twenty times, as the case now stood.
Balian smiled and bowed deeply to the emissary. “My brother is indeed worth two hundred thousand bezants,” he said to the mutters and whispered exclamations of his peers. “Whether Ramla and Mirabel can pay two hundred thousand bezants is another story. Your master will hear from me after I have had time to assess the resources at my disposal.”
The emissary bowed deeply, and moved on to name the other prisoners and their prices, but Balian wasn’t listening. His ability to listen was blocked out by the rushing of blood in his ears and the lameness of his brain. He was overpowered by the knowledge that he could not possibly raise that kind of money—not even if he pawned his own and his brother’s barony, not even if he sold every movable thing he owned, not even if he sold himself and his soul. The thought of Barry chained in the darkness for the rest of his life was so intolerable, however, that he felt as if he could not breathe.
He turned and pushed his way blindly out of the tent, ignoring the protests and complaints of those he shouldered aside. Outside, the air was not rank with the smell of unwashed bodies, and he went around to the back of the tent where there was a lengthening swath of shade.
This is what comes of greed, his conscience preached at him. Because you wanted money to make yourself feel more equal to your bride, your brother may never see the light of day again.
“There you are!” a voice declared loudly, and a moment later the stink of sweat and dried blood moved within range of Balian’s nose. It was Aimery de Lusignan: the last man on earth that he wanted to see at the moment.
Balian refused to even look at him.
“Don’t think you can just plunder my wife’s inheritance as you please! I will take you before the High Court of Jerusalem if you seek to exercise control of Ramla and Mirabel. Barry’s heir is his only child, Eschiva, and as her husband I—and no one else—control the income and people of Ramla and Mirabel in your brother’s absence.”
Balian turned slowly and leveled a cold look at Lusignan. “Go to Ramla and tell them that.” Balian was quite confident that Lusignan, completely unknown and an immigrant from France, would receive a cold reception from his brother’s vassals.
“What do the people of Ramla have to say about it? The High Court will back me!”
“Maybe,” Ibelin conceded, and he smiled faintly. “Are you saying you will take responsibility for raising my brother’s ransom, then? You’ll send word to the Sultan that you will pay it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Two hundred thousand gold bezants is more than anyone can pay! If they’d taken the King himself, the Sultan wouldn’t have asked for more. In fact, I daresay he’d wouldn’t have dared ask so much—for fear we wouldn’t pay it and he’d be stuck with a leper for the rest of his life!”
“What are you saying?” Balian asked through clamped teeth as he tried to keep his temper under control. Lusignan, after all, had once called his brother “friend.”
“I’m saying that’s a ransom Salah ad-Din doesn’t expect anyone to pay. It’s a price so high he knows we won’t pay it. He’s giving notice that he intends to keep your brother—God knows why. Or maybe . . .” Lusignan hesitated and then suggested, “Or maybe, he didn’t expect the King to agree to the exchange for Odo de St. Amand. Maybe he expected us to reject that offer, and Ramla was the prisoner he expected to exchange for Farrukh-Shah. When the King agreed to give up Salah ad-Din’s nephew for St. Amand, however, it took the emissary by surprise. The man had to improvise a price for Ramla, and didn’t want to risk naming a price his master would have deemed too low. He named a price that even the Sultan could not expect in order to give himself time to get instructions from his master.”
Ibelin gazed at Lusignan warily. A moment ago he had wanted to kill him for his callousness to Barry’s fate, but what he said made a certain amount of sense—especially since the emissary had negotiated with Ibelin before. He had enjoyed tormenting Ibelin while he thought through his options and decided on a figure that would, as Lusignan said, not risk the anger of his master and give Ibelin a taste of his own medicine at the same time.
If Lusignan was right, he could at least hope the Sultan would be willing to bargain. With time the Sultan might be negotiated down to something more reasonable.
Balian took a deep breath and replied, tight-lipped, “Perhaps. We will see.”
Ibelin
“Dawit’s just ridden in!” Isabella shouted as she burst into the solar, where her mother was dictating a letter in Greek to Father Angelus.
Maria Zoë caught her breath and stopped her pacing. (She always paced when she dictated; it seemed to help the words flow better.) Since the day before, the taverns of Ibelin had been full of rumors about a battle with many Christian casualties and several high-born captives. Sergeant Shoreham had reported what he could find out, but those who talked of the battle were never the people who’d actually been there, and no one had been able to say for sure whether the Baron of Ibelin was alive or dead, captive or free.
Maria Zoë reached for a silk veil, wound it expertly around her head, and then started down the stairs to the ward at a dangerous pace. Isabella had a hard time keeping up with her.
By the time she reached the ward, Dawit had already dismounted and turned his winded horse over to his younger brother Eskindar, while he spoke to his father in a rush of Amharic. When he caught sight of Maria Zoë, he broke off and went down on a knee before her. “My lady, my lord and the Constable of Jerusalem are only two hours behind me. He sent me ahead to warn you.”
“Thank you!” She reached out and touched his arm in gratitude for bearing the good news. Gesturing for him to get up off his knees, she added: “Please, go refresh yourself. Mathewos, you’ll need to make ready for—” she broke off and turned back to Dawit. “How many men are with my husband?”
“We left the wounded in Sidon so we could travel faster, and the tenants-in-chief have headed for their own homes. So there are just three Ibelin household knights with two squires and Daniel—Sir Daniel, that is—with my lord, and the Constable has just two squires with him.”
Maria Zoë registered both the severity of the losses and that Daniel had distinguished himself, but she preferred to save her questions for Balian. More important, Maria Zoë had no doubt that if Aimery de Lusignan was riding in with her husband, then he had come to claim his bride—and two hours was precious little time for the girl to prepare herself.
The spacious, if old-fashioned, second-story chamber of the keep was always used for high-ranking guests, and Maria Zoë gave orders for the entire chamber to be swept and scoured, the bed made up, and woven mats to be laid out on the floor. “Make it ready for a bride,” she told the servants. Then she sent for Eschiva.
Eschiva entered the solar, breathless. “Is it true? Uncle Balian is on his way home and Daniel has been knighted?”
“That’s what Dawit said, yes,” Maria Zoë answered calmly. “Now come with me.”
Eschiva was a dutiful maiden, and she obediently followed Maria Zoë up from the solar to the bedchamber on the floor above, but she couldn’t help asking: “Is something wrong, Tante Marie?”
“No,” Maria Zoë answered simply. “Sit down there.” She pointed to a stool before a dressing table laden with beautiful inlaid boxes and elegant little flasks containing scents.
Eschiva’s eyes widened. “What is it?”
“Your husband is with mine. I think we can assume he has come to claim you—and consummate your marriage.”
Eschiva flushed at once, and her eyelids dropped over her eyes modestly.
“Rahel is organizing a bath for you,” Maria Zoë announced, referring to her Coptic waiting woman, “but we won’t have time to wash your hair. I’ll dress it for you.”
Stunned, Eschiva sank down on the stool, as the Dowager Queen of Jerusalem stood behind her like a handmaiden. Maria Zoë unbraided Eschiva’s long tresses, and then started to gently and methodically comb out her hair. Eschiva was in shock. She had waited for this day for so long that she couldn’t believe it had finally come.
Behind them two servants brought up the cork-lined tub, and other servants brought buckets of water from the well in relays. There was no time to heat the water and little need, given the heat of the summer day. Maria Zoë tied up Eschiva’s long hair in a linen towel so she could bathe without getting it wet. She handed Eschiva olive-oil soap from Nablus, and after Eschiva was clean and dabbed dry, Maria Zoë had her sit again on the stool. Maria Zoë then massaged rose-scented oil onto Eschiva’s shoulders, arms, and even her nubile breasts. Eschiva blushed as her aunt worked, but they did not speak.
Maria Zoë went to her chest and removed a silk shift that she slipped over Eschiva’s head. Meanwhile Rahel brought from the girls’ chamber the pretty red linen gown and yellow silk surcoat that Eschiva had been working on for months. The embroidery was not quite finished at the hem of the latter, but it was the prettiest and most flattering outfit she owned. Maria Zoë helped her dress and had just tied one of her own ruby-studded belts around Eschiva’s hips when the sound of arriving horses wafted through the window.
Maria Zoë turned at once to Rahel. “Tell my lord to take the Constable directly into the hall. Tell him we will be down shortly, but that he is not to come upstairs.”
Eschiva, however, jumped up and rushed to the window. Kneeling on the window seat and holding on to the window frame, she could just manage to see a corner of the ward. She caught a glimpse of horses clustering together as their riders dismounted. There were so many men in armor getting in each other’s way that she could not identify anyone at first. Finally she located her uncle; he was taller than most men and rode a tall red stallion. From here she could not see his face, only his dark hair and the Ibelin arms on the trapper of his palfrey. Beside him was a man riding a stallion with a blue-andwhite striped trapper. Her heart started beating faster. That must be him! His hair was brown, almost like hers, only lighter from exposure to the sun. If only she could get a look at his face!
But he did not look up. Instead he swung himself down, and with her uncle walked out of sight. Eschiva let out an unconscious sigh, and only when Maria Zoë gently touched her shoulder and urged, “Come, let me fix your hair,” did she realize her aunt had come to stand behind her in the window niche.
She looked up at the beautiful Greek princess her uncle had brought home and whispered, “Tante Marie, do you think . . .” But she couldn’t put all her hopes and fears into words.
Maria Zoë smiled and put her arm around the girl’s shoulders to lead her back to the stool before the dressing table. She took the towel off Eschiva’s head and started to comb out her hair again. When she was satisfied, she opened one of her boxes, removed long, narrow strands of braided gold threads, and started to deftly weave these into Eschiva’s hair, using them to loosely bind it. As she worked she started talking.
“I was younger than you when I came to Jerusalem to wed King Amalric. He was old enough to be my father, going bald, and already very fat. I had been told about the fundamentals of procreation—as I presume you have?” She paused to look more closely at Eschiva, who nodded vigorously, blushing.
Maria Zoë nodded knowingly. “Now, you may also have heard that that act is very painful and humiliating.” She paused to see Eschiva’s reaction. The girl was biting her lip. Maria Zoë patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Well, it can be. I admit I never, not once, found pleasure in Amalric’s bed. He was just too fat and unappealing. Aimery de Lusignan, on the other hand, is still a young, vigorous, and attractive man—far more like your uncle. And your uncle—although he was not a king or even a baron when we married—proved the troubadours right.”
Eschiva twisted around to look up at her aunt hopefully. “You mean . . . ?”
“Yes,” Maria Zoë smiled. “A woman can find exquisite pleasure in a man’s bed, and she can find respect and comfort and safety in a man’s arms. I know your mother’s marriage was not happy, at least not in the end—and I will be honest with you, Eschiva, I do not know what kind of husband Aimery de Lusignan will make—but whatever he is, he is only one man, and he need not be your last.”
“But—but I want to be a good wife, Tante Marie,” Eschiva protested, looking up at her with wide eyes. “Tell me how I can best please him.”
Maria Zoë stroked Eschiva’s soft cheek with the back of her hand, feeling ancient although she was just barely twenty-five. “You can please him best just by being yourself—unblemished, full of hope, gentle and dutiful and anxious to please. Remember, too, you can confess anything at all to Beth. She will go with you to your new household, and she has seen the very, very worst that men can do. Nothing you tell her will shock her, so if you have cause—which I hope you won’t—you will not lack a shoulder to cry on. But most important,” Maria Zoë grasped Eschiva’s shoulders so firmly that her fingers almost hurt, “if Aimery should ever fail to show you the respect you are owed as his wife and the daughter of a baron, you can come home to me and your uncle. I know!” She held up her hand to stop Eschiva’s protest. “You can go to your father, too—but if you prefer, you can always come to me.”
Eschiva flung her arms around her aunt and hugged her close. “Thank you, Tante Marie! Thank you!”
For a moment they clung to one another, sharing a bond that was stronger than their formal relationship. They were more than relatives; they were friends. Maria Zoë felt tears in her eyes. Eschiva was so young, and Aimery had been so indifferent to her up to now. She was so afraid for her, but she did not want to show it. She forced herself back behind her façade of cool efficiency. “Come. It’s getting late and I must show you how to wrap a wimple. I’ll give you one of mine, as you’ll want to wear one in the morning.”
“Does your lady always keep you waiting this long?” Aimery asked, drumming his fingers impatiently on the linen-covered high table.
“Actually,” Balian remarked, leaning back in his chair and turning the goblet between his fingers, “never. She’s a very punctual woman, but we didn’t give her much warning.”
“Dinner is ready,” Aimery retorted, indicating the ushers and pages and cooks already in position. The tables behind the screens were groaning under the burden of platters piled high with roasted geese, stuffed hens, and grilled goat, not to mention the beans, peas, carrots, and lentils in various sauces, and the bread piled high in baskets. The meal was ready, and the squires had already had a healthy share of it in the kitchens before taking up their stations behind their lords, ready to pour wine and water and serve. But the lady of the house was absent.
“Have some more wine,” Balian replied, signaling Dawit forward to pour for their guest.
Even as he spoke, however, Maria Zoë emerged from the screens and stood at the far end of the hall facing them. Since she had been in the bedchamber, to get to the screens meant she’d actually gone down into the ward and taken the outside steps, which at first puzzled Balian. Then he realized she was waiting for someone else. A moment later a lovely young lady stepped out of the screens, and Maria Zoë looped her arm through the other lady’s elbow as they started forward together.
“Who’s that with your wife?” Aimery asked, staring.
“Your wife,” Balian answered, amused, although he too had had to look twice before he recognized his niece.
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“That’s what I thought; I just wanted to be sure before I did or said something inappropriate,” Lusignan answered, admitting after a pause, “I wouldn’t have recognized her in a different setting.”
Balian couldn’t resist commenting, “Well, whose fault is that? You were always welcome to visit more often.”
Aimery just grunted in reply and touched his face with his hand, feeling the four-day beard. Without taking his eyes off his approaching bride, he asked urgently under his breath, “How do I look?”
Balian laughed. “You look like you’ve been campaigning for a fortnight, and smell like you haven’t bathed in a month.”
Aimery frowned and leveled an annoyed look at Balian. “You don’t exactly smell like a bed of roses, either!”
Balian only had time to laugh before he pushed back his chair and welcomed his lady to the dais. After kissing her on both cheeks, he turned to Lusignan and announced with relish, “My niece, Eschiva de Ramla and Mirabel,” as the latter fell into a deep curtsy before the Constable, her husband.
The water in which Eschiva had bathed had warmed to room temperature by the time Balian stepped into the tub and sank down with a sigh. Behind him Rahel helped Maria Zoë out of her surcoat and gown, and then withdrew. Dressed only in a loose, sleeveless silk shift, Maria Zoë settled herself on the towels around the base of the tub and soaked a sponge in the water before she began to wash her husband methodically with the olive-oil soap.
It was Balian who had taught her the pleasure of this task in the early days of their romance, by insisting that she send Rahel away and let him bathe her. It had since become a ritual between them, a way of enjoying each other’s body without the frenzy of lovemaking or sleepiness getting in the way.
Zoë loved Balian’s firm, muscular body, but this evening as she worked by the fading light of dusk, she didn’t like what she saw. “Blessed Virgin Mary! Is there an inch of you that is not bruised or cut?” she exclaimed in growing alarm as she ran her hand gently down his back, charting the various hues of black, blue, red, green, and yellow left by the blows of men who had tried to kill him. One huge bruise spread from his shoulder halfway down his arm, and from the crusted cuts on his forearm she could read just how intense the fighting had been—how close he must have been to a fatal wound, to death.
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