“But now we are walking the very stones Christ walked!” the awestruck sister answered, her mouth open in wonder. A religious fool, Adela noted mentally before bringing her back to earth with a matter-of-fact: “Hardly. Count Amalric built this quay while he was Count of Jaffa, not more than twenty-five years ago. I was around to see it being built. I’m Sister Adela, by the way, and I’m here to collect you and bring you to Nablus.”
“We will go by way of Jerusalem, won’t we?” the awestruck newcomer asked. “We will go to the Holy Sepulcher first, won’t we?”
“You will do as you are told, sister,” Adela answered sternly—to remind her that it was not her place to make demands—before adding, “but, yes, it is customary to allow new arrivals to pray at both the Church of the Nativity and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher before taking up their duties. You’ll be able to visit Nazareth and other shrines later. Now, if you’ll follow me, we can take a meal at the Hospital here while your things are offloaded.” She gestured with her hand toward the head of the harbor and the stairs leading to the sea gate in the city wall before leading them away.
Behind her the women followed in varying states of wonder, confusion, and curiosity. The very air seemed different here, heavy with humidity and heat, while the palms waving their arms above the red stones of the fortifications were wonderfully exotic. Not more exotic, however, than the half-naked, dark-brown men in turbans hauling on the ropes of a large dhow that was making ready to cast off, or the sight of wheelbarrows full of oranges and lemons for sale. This was a very different world from Dublin. . . .
Ibelin, September 1181
The tiltyard, where the knights and squires honed their skills, was located on the edge of the coastal sand dunes, within sight of Ibelin castle but separated from it by nearly a mile. It was little more than a barren field, moderately level and fenced off to keep the stray animals away. There were no spectator benches, much less bleachers, although sometimes people gathered to watch the knights spar with one another. Even the Dowager Queen had been known to come down now and again when Lord Balian was practicing, but she usually stayed mounted while she watched.
There were now eleven knights in the Ibelin household, including the younger sons of two barons who preferred service for pay with Ibelin over unpaid service to their fathers or brothers. When Ibelin joined them that made for two teams of six, and so they sometimes clashed in simulated melees, practicing the art of riding in close formation—and withstanding such an attack.
It was more common for pairs of knights to fight each other with sheathed swords or to joust with reed lances without iron heads. That way they practiced the thrusts and parries of combat without risking serious injury to either party. Even more often, individual knights tilted with a dummy outfitted with shield and mace and suspended at the end of a pole: the quintain.
Only after all the knights had had enough and had retired from the tiltyard, and their horses and equipment had been cared for, could the squires take the tiltyard over for their own exercise. In the summer months this was often after the sun had started to burn oppressively, and in the rainy season it meant the yard was already badly torn up and muddy. Sometimes knights stayed to train and coach the squires; sometimes they were without supervision.
Ernoul had soon learned that, demanding and critical as Lord Balian could be, it was better to have him or another knight looking on than for the squires to be left on their own. Without the knights watching, the rivalry and competition among the squires often got out of hand. Twice in the past year, dares had escalated to the point where serious injuries had been incurred. Although Ernoul was immune to dares, he suffered from the ridicule lavished on those less skilled. Such insults took on a sharper and more hateful tone when the squires were unsupervised.
After he had been unseated for the third time in a single morning, to the hoots and mockery of the others, one of the other squires chased his horse away rather than catching it for him. Ernoul, red-faced as much from frustration as exertion, limped back toward Ibelin to the catcalls of the others.
He’d been with Lord Balian nine months now, and most of the time he liked his life at Ibelin. He certainly liked the food and music offered in his lord’s hall, both so much more sophisticated and diverse than what he’d known at home. Even the dormitory he shared with the other squires was comparatively comfortable, located in the loft above the eastern tract of storerooms and workshops. But best of all, he had discovered that the Baron of Ibelin had almost a dozen books. Half belonged to the Dowager Queen and were in Greek, and one was a magnificent psalter with a carved ivory cover inlaid with gold—a legacy from Balian’s godmother, an abbess—but there were also a translation of a Greek book about a war that had taken place in ancient times and a book in Latin by a Roman general.
Because of his interest in these books, Ernoul had made friends with Balian’s confessor, Gabriel’s elder brother Michael. Father Michael had agreed to give him scrap papyrus, the kind used for taking dictation before a letter was copied into a fair hand, on which to write his diary. He also let Ernoul keep his diary hidden in the sacristy, where it was not at risk of someone finding it. Ernoul didn’t want anyone else seeing what he wrote down there, because that was where he vented all his contempt for the other squires—half of whom, like Gabriel, couldn’t even read and write!
A horse was suddenly beside him. Ernoul looked up warily, half expecting his tormentors to have followed him from the tiltyard, but it was only Gabriel. Gabriel jumped down easily and threw the reins over his horse’s head so he could lead him. His coarse brown hair had bleached in the summer sun and stood up in all directions. He’d obviously run his fingers through his sweat-damp hair after shoving the chain-mail hood off to hang down his back. Gabriel was broad-shouldered for a fourteen-year-old, and freckled. He fell in beside Ernoul. “You’ve got to relax more,” he advised the still over-slender and dark-haired Ernoul. “Being stiff is what makes you fall off all the time.”
Ernoul looked at Gabriel with dark eyes filled with exasperation. “How can I relax when I know I’m about to be knocked off the horse again?”
“Look at it this way: What bounces higher, a stone or a pillow?”
“I’m neither!” Ernoul protested. “I’m human, and it hurts when I fall off. I’ve got bruises all over my body!”
“I can’t help you if you won’t let me,” Gabriel pointed out, starting to get annoyed. He tried to defend Ernoul to the others, but they ridiculed him for siding with the “acolyte,” as they referred to Ernoul.
Ernoul looked over at Gabriel, torn between resignation and hope. “How can you help me?”
“You need to ride better before you can joust. You should ask Lord Balian’s permission to spend time more time riding every day. I can cover for you while you’re away.”
The idea made sense to Ernoul, but he was hesitant nevertheless. It was one thing riding the ancient horse his father had given him, but the Ibelin marshal had rapidly relegated the parental horse to the pasture, and Ernoul had been given a younger palfrey that, until it was entrusted to him, had been ridden mostly by messengers. This horse still had enough energy and temperament to spook and bolt now and again. Ernoul was a little afraid of him.
“Look, Ernoul. I know you’re the darling of the ladies because you can recite poetry and tell tales so well, and I know you can serve my lord better at table than I can, but that’s not going to get you knighted—or stop you from being killed, as your brother was, in your first encounter with the Saracens.”
Ernoul looked down miserably and sighed. He was not really afraid of following his brother to an early grave, because Lord Balian had made it very clear he would not be allowed to take part in any muster unless his skills improved substantially. But he hated the thought of disappointing his parents by failing to win the accolade of knighthood. His family had never been more than poor gentry, not even at home in Normandy—which was why they were all the prouder of being knights.
The boys had rea
ched Ibelin and passed through the gate to walk up the cobbled street toward the castle. Just ahead of them, a rider on a clearly exhausted mount was clattering over the drawbridge.
“Who’s that?” Gabriel asked, raising his head.
“Arms of Antioch,” Ernoul read the heraldry immediately.
“Antioch?” Gabriel asked, puzzled. “That’s at the other end of the Kingdom.”
“And the home of Queen Maria’s sister, Theodora.” Ernoul might not be the most adept youth in the tiltyard, but his family had been in Outremer almost a century, and like any well-brought-up gentleman, he knew genealogy and who was related to whom.
Gabriel, coming from yeoman stock, was not so well versed in the family ties of the nobility. “What is a Greek woman doing there?” he wanted to know.
“She’s married to the ruling prince, you dunce: Prince Bohemond III.”
“Oh.” Gabriel looked after the rider, who was disappearing inside the gate.
“How old was he?” Balian asked his wife, referring to the Greek Emperor, Manuel I. It was the news of his death that Antioch herald had brought to Ibelin. “He ascended to the throne before I was even born—1143, wasn’t it? He must have been getting very old.”
“That’s not the point,” Maria Zoë told her husband sharply. “The point is that his heir is only twelve years old and very vulnerable.” Maria Zoë could sense from her husband’s expression that he did not grasp the gravity of the situation.
Balian confirmed her assessment by replying with a shrug, “And Baldwin was only thirteen and a leper when his father died.”
“You do not understand the court in Constantinople, Balian,” Maria Zoë countered, taking a deep breath to muster her patience. “The High Court of Jerusalem acknowledged Baldwin as King immediately, and all tenants-in-chief swore an oath to him the same day his father died. Furthermore, those oaths mean something. When you swear an oath, you are more likely to keep it than not. That’s not the case with my countrymen. They’ll swear to anything, even while—or especially while—plotting the opposite. Well,” she moderated her statement, “maybe the great lords take oaths seriously, but it’s not the great landowners that control Constantinople. The bureaucracy and the mob control Constantinople—and oaths mean nothing to them.”
Balian tossed her a skeptical look. “The mob? Of course oaths mean nothing to the mob, but you can’t mean to tell me that the mob rules the most civilized city on earth,” Balian protested.
“Well, along with the court officials,” Maria Zoë conceded. “They are the people who actually run the Empire—the tax assessors and collectors, the bookkeepers and archivists, the chroniclers and musicians, the almoners and paymasters, et cetera, et cetera. All the people who control revenue and patronage, and so have the means of buying influence, hold power in Contantinople. They are often eunuchs, by the way, and rarely men of high birth. In Jerusalem such functions are filled by clergy, but our priests do not dirty their hands with such secular tasks.”
“You’re telling me these castrated clerks are powerful enough to endanger the legitimate male heir of the Emperor himself?” Balian clearly did not believe it.
“Yes—not on their own, of course, but although Maria of Antioch is technically the Regent along with my uncle Alexius, they are not popular. Furthermore, my great-uncle Andronicus has returned, and he hates both of them. He has been poisoning the ears of the influential bureaucrats and buying the favor of the mob for months in anticipation of my great-uncle’s death.”
“Andronicus? Isn’t he the man who ran off with the Dowager Queen Theodora and took service with Nur ad-Din?”
“Exactly! You see how treacherous he is! He is a man of very low morals but excessive ambition. Although we could never prove it, my father was convinced he poisoned my grandfather. Don’t look at me like that, Balian. I’m not making this up. I know you Franks are more candid—blunt or crude, my countrymen would say. If you get angry enough, you tend to throw a gauntlet in another man’s face, or simply raise an army in rebellion. My people are more subtle and devious.”
“You’re telling me there is a chance Andronicus will try to murder your young cousin?”
“There’s nothing ‘chancy’ about it, Balian. Andronicus will try to murder the young Emperor Alexius, and he will try to kill my uncle Alexius as well. They both stand between him and the Imperial Crown. That’s why we must prevail upon King Baldwin to send his assurances of support. He must send ambassadors at once, renewing the alliance and promising mutual defense.”
“The King takes no heed of my advice!” Balian answered bitterly. His breach with the King was a festering wound. Furthermore, he was uncomfortable offering assurances of aid to Constantinople when their own borders were so vulnerable.
“Balian, without the support of Constantinople, Salah ad-Din has no reason to fear attack from the rear when next he falls on Jerusalem. Jerusalem needs Constantinople far more than Constantinople needs Jerusalem.”
Balian shrugged. “You’re probably right, Αγαπημενη μου.” His use of the Greek term of endearment eased Maria Zoë’s tension somewhat even as Balian continued, “But what do you want me to do? The King does not listen to me anymore. Indeed, whatever I suggest, he is likely to do the opposite!” The acidity in his tone testified to how deep the wound was. “Maybe if you write a letter, impressing upon him the urgency and the risks, he would listen to reason.” He paused before adding, “We can send a messenger at first light tomorrow, if you like.”
“Thank you, Balian,” Maria Zoë answered; the tension her sister’s letter had ignited started to die away as Balian came and kissed her on the forehead. She caught his hand and kissed the palm passionately.
“What was that for?” he asked, bemused.
“Just a thank you for being such a good and loving husband to me,” Maria Zoë answered. With her great-uncle dead, she was intensely grateful that Balian had married her for herself and not for her connections—unlike Bohemond and her sister Theodora.
Montreal, Oultrejourdain December 1181
“Emperors, kings, and princes—all dying like flies. It’s a good time for the vulture,” Reynald de Châtillon declared to himself with satisfaction, squinting as the sun lifted itself over the horizon like a burning copper ball. It bathed the desert below his castle of Montreal in cold orange light. The land to the southeast was a barren wasteland of rocky hills and gravel valleys, dotted with parched thorn bushes too dry for even camels to eat. He smacked his hand down on the parapet, then turned and bellowed down into the castle ward: “Mount up!”
His knights had been roused after Matins, told to prepare to ride at dawn and to pack enough provisions for ten days. While the knights and sergeants were milling about checking their equipment and tightening their girths, the squires were loading the mule panniers with provisions, and servants were fastening water casks on the camels. By the length of the camel train, the fighting men could guess that wherever they were going, Oultrejourdain expected them to be away from water for a long time.
At the base of the stairs, Stephanie de Milly awaited her husband. She walked with him to his waiting palfrey, held by her son and her husband’s squire, Humphrey.
“We’ll stay here,” Stephanie told her lord simply.
“You’d be safer at Kerak,” Reynald growled back at her. He had no intention of ordering her to go anywhere, since she was likely to ignore him anyway.
“I don’t care,” she answered. “I like the change of scene—and Ibelin, with his bitch of a wife, is less likely to come here trying to interfere with Isabella.” She deeply resented the fact that Balian and Maria Zoë had twice visited Kerak; she was convinced that they reinforced Isabella’s innate rebelliousness and stubbornness. They certainly made her proud and impudent, and it took her months to badger the girl back into submission after they left.
“Don’t underestimate Ibelin,” Oultrejourdain warned. “He’s tougher than he looks.”
“Maybe, but h
is Greek wife loves luxury too much to come out here.”
Oultrejourdain wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t really care. Isabella and the Dowager Queen were his wife’s problem. It had been her idea to force Isabella into an early marriage with her son because, she argued, it robbed Tripoli of his best weapon. Her determination to humiliate and, if possible, murder Tripoli had not diminished over the years, although Châtillon himself had lost interest in the feud. He had promised to kill Tripoli only because it was Stephanie’s condition for marrying him, but now that he was safely installed as Lord of Oultrejourdain, he was attracted by more lucrative enterprises—like the one he planned to undertake today. So he gave Stephanie a brusque kiss and then swung himself up into the saddle.
She held up a richly decorated goblet to him, and he flung the contents down his throat, then demonstratively smacked and licked his lips, declaring, “Last wine we’ll taste in a while, I wager.” He handed the goblet back to his wife, took a crumpled straw-brimmed hat from his pommel, and jammed it on his bald head before putting his heels to his stallion. The horse jumped forward so strongly that Humphrey was nearly trampled underfoot.
Oultrejourdain signaled his men to follow, and Humphrey scrambled to get to his own horse. The young stallion was so agitated, however, that he wouldn’t stand still. Humphrey ended up hopping around in circles, trying to stop his horse from following the others long enough for him to pull himself into the saddle, and it wasn’t until Isabella grabbed the bridle from the offside and with a firm jerk ordered the horse to “stand still!” that he managed to mount.
By then the bulk of Oultrejourdain’s force had already filed out of the inner ward to cross the rocky outer ward to the main gate. Oultrejourdain himself was leading them out through the barbican to the gravel path that wound its way down the steep slopes of the barren hill to the desert below. Humphrey had no time to kiss his betrothed goodbye as he spurred to get ahead of the camels that were just about to go out of the gate.
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