Baldwin frowned. He did not like what he was being told, but he had to give credence to what Châtillon was saying. Châtillon had (not always by choice) had considerable contact with the Greek court. At last he burst out, “But he would surely be better than Guy de Lusignan!”
“Guy de Lusignan?” Châtillon was taken fully aback. “You mean that boy Aimery brought out here to save him from the rage of the Plantagenet?”
“Yes, that’s exactly who I mean. He’s not at all suitable to be King of Jerusalem. Is he?”
Oultrejourdain had no ready reply; the thought was too surprising. He hadn’t actually seen much of Guy de Lusignan. He played for time as he tried to form an opinion. “He’s very young. No experience in Outremer, either—although to be fair, his grandfather crusaded here, and his father died in a Saracen prison just before I was incarcerated. His brother has certainly proved competent. Indeed, the Constable would have been the perfect choice for Princess Sibylla. A pity he’s already married. I don’t suppose there’s some way to set the Ramla girl aside, is there?”
Baldwin shook his head. “She’s with child already.”
“That didn’t stop your father from setting your mother aside,” Châtillon pointed out hopefully, but Baldwin firmly shook his head, his lips pressed together. His mother had convinced him that his father had done an evil and sinful thing when he discarded her. Which reminded Baldwin that Ramla was no better. Ramla’s first wife, just like his mother at the time of his father’s second marriage, was still alive; that could make any second marriage vulnerable to challenge. It would be child’s play for future opponents of Ramla or his policies to find clerics willing to declare his marriage to Sibylla invalid. Baldwin started to have doubts about forcing Sibylla into a marriage that might be deemed bigamous.
“Well, think about it,” Oultrejourdain suggested, not knowing where the King’s thoughts had led him. “Aimery de Lusignan is intelligent and competent, without being the sort of man to take what isn’t his.” What Oultrejourdain meant was that Aimery de Lusignan would never dare confront him. Under Aimery de Lusignan, he’d have as much freedom to do what he liked as under Baldwin himself. Indeed, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the notion of Aimery de Lusignan becoming the next King of Jerusalem.
“Antioch, Tripoli, and Ramla are due to arrive in Jerusalem on Palm Sunday—and that’s not a coincidence,” Agnes de Courtenay told her son. “They expect to be greeted with hosannas!”
“What do you mean?” Baldwin asked irritably. Ever since his sister had broached the subject of marrying Guy de Lusignan just over a week ago, he had slept poorly, had had little appetite (particularly for Lenten fare), and was becoming increasingly short-tempered. His thoughts seemed trapped in circles. Guy de Lusignan was not suited to become King of Jerusalem. He was not of high enough birth, let alone character, and he had no qualities whatever to recommend him. Of that, Baldwin was certain. But he was no longer certain that Ramla was the ideal candidate, either. There had to be other eligible barons in the Kingdom, but noblemen married early and often died young. There were always more widows than widowers.
Besides, he had given his word to Sibylla that he would not force her into a marriage she did not want—and she wanted no one but Guy. So it didn’t matter who he selected, she would be miserable. But if he let her marry Guy and renounce the throne in favor of her son by Montferrat or Isabella, he would be forced to remain king for many more years, regardless of how helpless and weak he was or became in the future.
Would Guy de Lusignan really make a worse king than a youth whose limbs were rotting away?
If he could abdicate even some of his royal duties, he could rest more. He craved rest. The only time he ever got enough rest was when he was so ill that they closed the doors to the antechamber and let in only the doctors and the priests—and his mother. Sometimes he thought God was telling him he needed rest when he sent the fevers.
Dear God! he cried out in his heart. What do You want of me?
“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said,” his mother concluded irritably.
Baldwin turned bloodshot eyes to her and admitted, “No. I was not listening. Tell me again.”
“I’m telling you that Ramla thinks he is riding to his wedding with Sibylla, and the moment she is his wife he will turn around and depose you.”
“Why would he do that?” Baldwin asked wearily. He was tired of his mother ranting against Ramla. The baron was her brother-in-law; he would have expected her to favor the match.
“Because he’s greedy and not content to be heir,” Agnes insisted. “Have you forgotten I raised him as a child? I know his character very well indeed. He always hated and snubbed me!”
There was some truth in that, Baldwin conceded with a sigh. Even Balian admitted that his older brother had detested their sister-in-law and shown her little respect when they were children.
“Furthermore,” Agnes pressed her case, “the Lusignan brothers heard him say you were no longer fit to rule and needed to be deposed in favor of someone healthy.”
“Where did Ramla allegedly say that—within hearing of both Lusignans?” Baldwin asked wearily. The claim was too ridiculous to take seriously.
“In his own home and in the presence of not just the Lusignans but his brother, his wife, and your stepmother.”
Baldwin stiffened. He might long for rest and dream about retiring to a monastery where he could focus on preparing his soul for God, but he did not like other men presuming he was not fit to rule. He looked his mother in the eye and declared firmly, “I don’t believe you. Balian would never speak against me.”
Agnes knew better than to criticize Balian. She might not particularly like him herself, but she could not deny that he had been a friend to her son when he had had no others. Nor had he been rude to her, as Barry had been when she married their older brother Hugh and tried to assert her authority a lady of the house. She hastened to assure her son, “No one is suggesting he did! Quite the contrary. According to Aimery, Balian sharply rebuked his brother, and so the conversation turned to other things. But you must see the danger. Ramla is coming here with the backing of the Greek Emperor, Antioch—who is brother-in-law to the Greek Emperor—and Tripoli, who from the start wanted to see Isabella crowned Queen. It’s a conspiracy.”
If he could have controlled his hands, Baldwin would have dropped his head in them. He was so tired. So utterly exhausted. He felt as if he didn’t have the strength to think, reason, or resist anymore.
“Ramla will send you to the Brothers of St. Lazarus and steal your kingdom from you the moment he has secured Sibylla.”
And what would be so wrong with that? Baldwin asked himself. Wasn’t it really what he wanted? To just retire from the world and live among people who weren’t repulsed by the sight of him? People for whom he did not need to dress in bandages and fine robes? Why didn’t he rejoice at the thought? But he didn’t. So he answered wearily, “We don’t know that he would do that, Mother. Only God knows.”
“And only God knows if Guy de Lusignan would make such a bad king. He’s still very young. He needs time to learn about the Holy Land, I admit that, but while he’s learning you would still be King.”
Baldwin looked warily at his mother. He could not entirely dismiss the thought that her opposition to Ramla was based on nothing more than her fear that she would lose power and influence the moment Baldwin stepped down. On the other hand, could he blame her for fearing that? It had happened to her once before when his father set her aside, and he had heard that Tripoli had argued that both he and Sibylla be passed over in favor of Isabella. His mother had every reason to feel insecure—and reason to think it ominous that Ramla was traveling in the company of Tripoli and Antioch and some five hundred knights, if reports could be believed.
Baldwin closed his eyes and tried to think. It rankled that Ramla had called him unfit to rule, after all the effort he made to be a good King. He’d been prepared to give him the ke
ys to the Kingdom by allowing him the privilege of marrying Sibylla. Shouldn’t Ramla be grateful for that, rather than turning around and biting the hand that fed him? Maybe his mother was right. It was true she had known him all his life.
Agnes de Courtenay spoke right into his thoughts. “Don’t confuse Barry with Balian—they are very different men. Even as boys they were different. Barry was impudent and mean to me; Balian was reserved, but never cruel or rebellious. Balian would never betray you. He’s proved that over and over again. I’m sure he hasn’t a clue about his brother’s plans. Ramla would not dare tell him, because he too knows that Balian would never support him. There’s a conspiracy against you, my dearest son, but Balian d’Ibelin is not part of it.”
“What are you asking me to do, Mother? Order the arrest of the Prince of Antioch, the Count of Tripoli, and the Baron of Ramla on suspicion of treason?” Baldwin’s tone emphasized how absurd the notion was. Antioch and Tripoli ruled the other two remaining states founded by the first crusaders. They were independent rulers in their own right, not vassals of the Crown of Jerusalem. No one would follow such orders—certainly not from a feeble nineteen-year-old youth rotting away from leprosy.
“No, Baldwin,” Agnes said in a gentle voice, resting her hand on his arm as she rarely did. “No, all I’m suggesting is that you let your sister marry the man she loves.”
Chapter 4
Jerusalem, October 1180
A SUDDEN BUT HEAVY RAIN SHOWER had induced Ibelin to seek shelter under an arch until the worst of the downpour was over. The delay, however, made him late. To make things worse, on arriving at the Citadel he was told that, contrary to custom, the High Court of Jerusalem wasn’t meeting in the Tower of David. The session had been moved to the hall of the royal palace.
Ibelin cursed, wondering if his brother of Ramla knew of the change of venue. Neither of them had been at court during the last six-month; they had withdrawn to their respective baronies to protest Sibylla’s marriage to Guy de Lusignan. Ramla had been stunned to discover that the woman he had courted (and seduced) had transferred her affections and favors to another in such a short space of time. But that insult might have been endured as the faithlessness of a shallow woman had not the King seen fit to bless the marriage—and then raise the landless seducer to the rank of Count. Worse: he had made him Count of Jaffa. Ramla, Ibelin, and Mirabel were all technically components of the County of Jaffa, but ever since the last count, Aimery, had become king almost two decades ago, the fiefs had been held de-fact from the crown. Now, with a single blow, both Barry and Balian had been demoted from “tenant-in-chief ” to the king to sub-tenants of the Count of Jaffa. That was too much. The brothers had demonstratively removed themselves from court and Jerusalem to express their outrage.
But they couldn’t ignore a direct summons from the King to attend a session of the High Court. They had ridden together from Ramla and arrived the previous night. Barry, however, had wanted to meet with Tripoli in advance of the High Court session and so had left the Ibelin palace several hours ahead of Balian, before the rain started.
Cursing to and at himself, Balian made his way down the street to the palace entrance. He was unable to hurry on the wet, slippery cobbles, but at the palace he left his stallion with his squire and took the steps two at a time from the courtyard to the first-floor gallery — only to come close to colliding with the King.
The venue for the High Court session had been changed because the King’s spreading leprosy now made it impossible for him to go up and down stairs unaided. He could not walk unaided, either, but the faithful Ibrahim was strong enough to keep him upright on a level path, just no longer strong enough to carry the nineteen-year-old King on the stairs. The aging servant had his shoulder under the King’s arm and held the King around the waist while the young monarch flung one limp leg forward after another. They were moving forward painfully slowly, one small, sloppy step at a time, when Balian almost careened into them as he bounded up the last step.
“Your grace!” Balian exclaimed in surprise. Thinking the High Court was already session, the last person he had expected to meet on the gallery was the King. But Balian’s shock was magnified by the sight of the King’s face and increased frailty.
“I can read on your face, my lord of Ibelin,” the King answered slowly, “that the leprosy has reached my own.”
It was true. In the six months Balian had stayed away from Jerusalem, the disease appeared to have accelerated. Notably, it had reached Baldwin’s face; he had lost his eyebrows and the skin on his chin was discolored, although not yet disfigured.
Balian was both horrified by what he saw and struck with a pang of remorse for keeping his distance. Some part of his brain thought irrationally that this decline in health was the result of the bad company the King was keeping.
His next thought, however, was that God, or more likely the evermerciful Mother Mary, had arranged this chance meeting as a means to enable a reconciliation. Even if Sibylla’s marriage to Guy could not be undone, it might still be possible to get the King to make amends of some sort—at least to the deeply offended Barry. In any case, it was never wise to be at odds with a king.
So Balian slipped his arm under Baldwin’s other shoulder in a gesture calculated to remind the King of how close they had been in the past—and assure the King that despite their differences, they were still friends.
“Balian, you don’t have—”
Balian cut the young King off. “I think Ibrahim is getting too old for this,” he suggested, taking the weight of the King from Ibrahim with a smile to the old slave and adding, “Do you want me to carry you?”
“No, no. Stop! It is good that you came upon me here before we face the others. There are things we need to discuss in private.”
Yes, Balian thought; thank you, Mother Mary.
“Your brother of Ramla,” King Baldwin started. “He has not yet vowed fealty to the Count of Jaffa.”
Balian nodded and answered steadily, “You ask too much, your grace.”
“You have taken the oath,” the King countered.
“True, but my situation is different from my brother’s. I was not born to my barony and can better suffer the humiliation of being only a sub-tenant. More important, however, I was not offended in the same way as my brother. First you took his bride and his prospects away from him, then you degraded him, and now you expect him to pay homage to the man who has insulted and mocked him.”
“What else could I do?” Baldwin asked back defensively. He did not want the break with Balian; he had missed him these past six months. But Baldwin felt trapped and blameless in the whole affair. “I had to maintain the status of my sister!”
That was Agnes speaking, Balian thought bitterly. If the King was so concerned about his sister’s dignity, he should not have let her marry a man without a title in the first place! But he bit his tongue. If the gracious Virgin had granted him this opportunity to speak to the King in a situation evocative of past trust and affection, he did not want to squander it with recriminations. He tried to find some means of reconciling the King’s concern for his sister’s status with his brother’s need for the restoration of his pride and dignity. “Could you not give Guy de Lusignan another barony?”
“There is nothing else vacant,” the King protested.
“Then create a new barony,” Balian pleaded. “It is your right.”
“But the royal lands are already much diminished!” Baldwin protested—and Balian heard the whining of the ever-greedy Count of Edessa, whose only talent appeared to be enriching himself at his nephew’s expense, echoed in the King’s voice.
The thought of Edessa angered Balian enough to make him snap, “Not so diminished that you could not have found enough for the likes of Guy de Lusignan!” No sooner were the words out, however, than Balian recognized that insulting Lusignan would get them nowhere. Reining his emotions in, he pleaded, “Try to see things through my brother’s eyes, your grace. By making
Lusignan Count of Jaffa, you not only degraded him, you are asking him to take an oath to the very man who stole his bride from him!”
“They were not betrothed,” Baldwin countered stubbornly—precisely because he was not proud of what he had done.
“You led him to believe you favored his suit,” Balian reminded the King, stopping and making the King stop, too. Balian was remembering the day Barry had returned from Constantinople, full of joy for having raised his ransom and eager to see the woman he thought would be his bride—only to be told his “bride” was another man’s wife. The memory of the way his ever-confident brother’s face had frozen, then filled with a look of disbelief, and finally the utter bewilderment in his eyes, sharpened Balian’s tongue. Unconsciously, he removed his arm from the King’s waist and faced him as he protested despite his best intentions, “Yes, you encouraged him—but the moment his back was turned, you gave your sister to another!”
“Is that the way you see it?” Baldwin retorted, lifting his chin and clamping his teeth together. He hated being reminded of the way he had been tricked and pressured by his sister and mother.
“Is there any other way to see it?” Balian asked back, meeting his eyes.
“There were rumors that Ramla was plotting to depose me!” Baldwin flung at Balian in self-defense.
“And you believed such slander?” Balian snapped back, outraged. He could not fathom that after all the years he had served Baldwin, the King could give credence to such lies—undoubtedly from the mouth of his poisonous mother. “What have we ever done to deserve such mistrust?” Balian demanded.
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