“We fought him to a standstill and he withdrew; that’s what I call victory!” Barry insisted loudly. He had come to the Hospitaller infirmary tent, where one of the monks was tending his brother’s thigh wound. The Baron of Ramla was still in his hauberk and dirty surcoat, but he’d washed the blood and dirt from his face and hands.
Balian was feeling too weak to argue. The gash in his thigh was surprisingly deep and long, as his anonymous attacker had managed to stab right through the chain mail of his chausses. He’d lost a lot of blood before Gabriel had dragged him out of the saddle and, together with Ernoul, carried him to the Hospitaller tent. “Do we know where the Saracen army went?” he asked his brother instead.
“Back where it came from,” Barry answered, gesturing vaguely to the east.
Ibelin would have felt better if they had had a handful of Turcopoles to shadow the enemy and verify the direction Salah ad-Din’s army had taken, but they had no Turcopoles with horses fresh enough to keep up with the Saracen cavalry. And that was what unsettled Balian.
Salah ad-Din might have decided it was too costly to confront the collected might of Jerusalem on the open field again tomorrow, but his army was in much better shape than King Baldwin’s. At least his cavalry could move rapidly, and Ibelin was acutely aware that most of the castles in the Kingdom were, like his own, only sparsely manned. He’d left just five of his knights behind in command of the citizen militia of eighty men at Ibelin, and fifteen knights at Nablus, where the militia was more numerous but less well organized and not as well led. His children were at Ibelin, but Maria Zoë had insisted on taking command at Nablus. Both garrisons were strong enough to fight off marauding bands of undisciplined troops such as had attacked Ibelin in ’77, but neither Ibelin castle nor the citadel of unwalled Nablus would be in a position to withstand a serious siege if Salah ad-Din concentrated his forces. Balian wasn’t particularly worried about Ibelin at the moment because it was so far away, but Nablus might seem temptingly close—and it was on the road to Jerusalem, if Salah ad-Din thought he could outflank the Christian army and steal a march on them while the Franks licked their wounds and rested their horses.
To his brother, however, he chose to remark, “Daniel tells me that the King was pleased with your deeds this day.” When word had reached the King that Ibelin was injured, he had sent Daniel to check up on him. Daniel had left only just before his brother arrived, and he had reported that throughout the battle the King had demanded that Daniel be his eyes—since his own were too weak to penetrate the distance, much less the dust. Daniel, Balian suspected, had loyally emphasized the fighting prowess of his former employer and his brother, because he had proudly reported that the King had been “most impressed” by Ramla and Ibelin and wished to thank them both.
Barry snorted derisively. “Enough to absolve me of refusing homage to Jaffa?” It was a rhetorical question, really, and Balian could only sigh in answer, inducing his brother to continue. “He’s my King, and I will serve him for the sake of the Kingdom, but I cannot love him after what he’s done!”
Balian realized he was looking for signs that the King was less under the influence of his mother. He wanted to be reconciled with him. “At least admit King Baldwin led us well today,” Balian urged.
Barry snorted again. “From a litter!”
“Yes, from a litter.”
“Aimery could have led us better if he hadn’t been tied to that litter,” Barry insisted.
“And would his brother have obeyed him if the King hadn’t been there looking on?”
“Guy!” Ramla exploded, his hatred too great for expression. “I will never bend my knee to him—not as Count of Jaffa or, God forbid, King of Jerusalem. I swear to God!” He lifted his hand dramatically to make this oath.
Balian took a deep breath and nodded, unwilling to argue with his brother, although he wondered what alternative Barry would have when the time came. For now, while the wound in his thigh was not in itself life-threatening, he’d seen too many men die of wound fever not to realize he was still in danger. If he should die, Maria Zoë and his three small children would be dependent on Barry’s goodwill—and it would be better if they didn’t quarrel in the meantime.
Barry seemed to be having similar thoughts, because his expression softened and he put his hand on Balian’s shoulder. “Come. Let’s not talk of Guy. We both hate him. You need to save your strength so you can recover faster—and get home to that beautiful wife of yours and your litter of children.”
Even when he was trying to be kind, a touch of bitterness crept into Barry’s voice—for Maria Zoë had given Balian three healthy children, including a son, and Barry still had only one living daughter.
Chapter 7
Jerusalem, August 1182
ESCHIVA WAS FRIGHTENED. SHE HAD MISCARRIED the first child Aimery had sired on her, and she had prayed fervently for this new child to ripen. Yet now that her prayers had been answered and she was near her time, she was terrified of giving birth. She could remember all too well Maria Zoë’s screams at Helvis’ birth, and even her own miscarriage had been horribly painful. If it hurt so much to lose a tiny, half-formed infant, how could she withstand the pain of bringing a fully grown baby into the world? All she had to do was compare the size of her belly with the exit from her womb to know it was going to be terrible.
It did not help that Aimery was still with the army. Although Salah ad-Din had been forced to withdraw after sustaining severe casualties at Le Forbelet, he had not dispersed his army. Instead he had marched north, keeping to the mountains of Lebanon, until his fleet had sailed up and blockaded Beirut. Then his army descended from the heights and laid siege to Beirut. The King at once moved the Christian army to Tyre to prepare the relief of Beirut, and that was where Aimery was now, hiring Christian fighting galleys to challenge the Saracen fleet.
Without Aimery, Eschiva felt very lonely in Jerusalem. Her mother had buried herself in a convent and refused to come out. Her mother-in-law, whom she had never met, was in France. She had no sisters and only two aunts, the wife and widow of her father’s brothers respectively. The former and her favorite aunt, Maria Zoë, however, was in Nablus, defending her dower lands from a possible invasion, while the latter, Agnes de Courtenay, terrified Eschiva. To make matters worse, her only other female relative in the city was her brother-in-law’s wife—Princess Sibylla. No one made Eschiva feel more insignificant or pitiable than the Countess of Jaffa.
Eschiva would have preferred it if both these ladies ignored her. Then she could have buried herself in her own rooms until it was all over. Beth knew where to find a midwife, after all, and everything was prepared as best it could be. But no, the Queen Mother and the Princess of Jerusalem insisted on taking an interest in “poor, dear Eschiva.”
The royal ladies made much of the fact that Eschiva lived in a tower of the citadel, the official apartment of the Constable of Jerusalem, rather than in a comfortable palace. It was true that these quarters, with their thick walls, narrow windows, and ancient floors, were cramped, dark, and oppressive by August, when the heat had penetrated the thick walls and turned the interior almost into an oven. Eschiva did not like these rooms herself, but when she had complained about them to Aimery, he had told her bluntly that they could not afford to rent, much less buy, anything more comfortable, because her dowry had gone to pay her father’s ransom. She felt, therefore, that by drawing attention to her poor lodgings, her sister-in-law and aunt were really trying to remind her that her father had been “foolish” enough to get captured.
Furthermore, being “invited” to the royal palace, ostensibly so she could get away from these “dreadful rooms,” meant she had to wash and dress and then walk, all things she would rather not have done in her condition. Eschiva had never considered herself a beauty, and she felt even less presentable with her waist bulbous, her breasts heavy, and her feet swollen. Sibylla was bound to make some remark about what she was wearing and promise to send over some materia
l to make something “pretty”—which, of course, she would never actually do. It was just her way of drawing attention to Eschiva’s humble wardrobe.
But there was no way to refuse a woman like Agnes de Courtenay, so Eschiva dutifully dragged herself from her bed and let Beth sponge the sweat from her body and dress her in a gauze shift, over which Beth pulled on a lightly woven cotton gown with long, flowing sleeves and finally a sleeveless silk surcoat tied loosely at the sides. The needlework was Eschiva’s own, and no doubt Sibylla would comment on it in feigned admiration, “Oh, did you stitch it all yourself? I never have time, and you know the professional needlewomen are so good.” Or perhaps she would remark that many of the professional needlewomen were ex-prostitutes trying to reform their sinful lives and in need of patronage. Either way, it would make the other women look at Eschiva as the poor country cousin.
Beth expertly brushed and bound Eschiva’s hair under a wimple of loose-woven gauze and asked, “Would you like to wear the turquoise pendant Lord Aimery gave you at Christmas?”
Eschiva nodded absently, thinking of Aimery. He was a good husband, always courteous and patient. He had not reproached her for the miscarriage, shrugging it off as “perfectly natural” at her tender age. But she was no longer a “tender age,” not at eighteen, and Aimery was almost thirty-five. He wanted an heir. He deserved an heir. She put her hand to her belly, seeking some sign of life. Nothing would be more horrible than tearing her guts out to bring forth another dead child—or a girl. Tears sprang to her eyes as she felt the full weight of her own worthlessness. It was because she was a girl that her father had never been able to really love her.
Beth rubbed her shoulders in a mute gesture of sympathy. Beth knew her fears because she had spoken of them candidly, but Beth could not allay them. She had not gone through childbirth herself, and she shared Eschiva’s sense of worthlessness.
With a deep sigh Eschiva pulled herself to her feet, and Beth at once offered her an arm to lean on. Together they left the cramped constable’s quarters and crossed out of the citadel by the drawbridge into the city. They turned into the Street of the Armenians for the short walk to the palace.
The street was busy. It was a main thoroughfare, and farmers from the surrounding countryside used it to bring their wares to market. The pig market was just north of David’s Gate, and two straw-hatted, barefoot men with skin like leather were chasing a herd of trotting pigs up the street, while an Armenian wedding procession was making its way in the opposite direction. Between these, pilgrims with staffs wended their way looking lost, bewildered, and a little disappointed. Eschiva had often observed that expression on the faces of pilgrims, as if they had expected streets paved with gold and archangels hovering in the air.
Just a hundred yards down the street, Eschiva and Beth reached the northern entrance to the royal palace. The palace itself had been started by Fulk d’Anjou and finished by Baldwin III. It made no pretense of being defensible; in an emergency, Jerusalem’s walls were expected to withstand attack long enough for the royal family to seek refuge in the citadel. The palace was consciously designed to be comfortable, with large glazed windows to let in light and air, marble floors, tile walls, bubbling fountains, and potted palms.
The sentries recognized Eschiva. She was admitted without hesitation, and advised that the Princess Sibylla was in the enclosed garden south of the palace. Eschiva resignedly climbed a flight of stairs to make her way down the long gallery to a second flight of stairs that led back down into the garden beyond. At the top of the stairs she paused to cool off (for already she was damp with sweat) and to collect her courage.
Below, seated on cane chairs in the shade of a canvas awning, were Princess Sibylla, Agnes de Courtenay, and a dozen other ladies of the court. Conspicuously absent, Eschiva thought, was Stephanie de Milly, who was holding her husband’s castle of Kerak against possible retaliation by Salah ad-Din—and holding poor Isabella hostage there as well. Eschiva had received two desperate letters from Isabella, begging her to come visit, but Aimery had not been inclined. “Leave things alone,” he’d told her. “The King has good reasons to think your Greek aunt is plotting against him and wants to see her own daughter on the throne. It’s better for Isabella if she doesn’t have such notions whispered into her ear day and night. She’ll be happier in the long run if she accepts Sibylla and her son by Montferrat as the rightful heirs to the throne.”
Eschiva had wanted to protest that Maria Zoë wasn’t like that, and that even if she was, it wouldn’t hurt for her to visit Isabella. But she didn’t dare challenge Aimery, certainly not when he was as firm as he had been in this case. She had written Isabella instead, but she gathered from Isabella’s next letter that her own had never been delivered. Isabella, it seemed, had someone she could trust to smuggle letters out, but no way to stop her mother-in-law from intercepting what came in. The thought of Isabella imprisoned by Stephanie de Milly reminded Eschiva that her own fate was not that bad, and so she took a deep breath and started carefully down the stairs into the walled garden.
Eschiva couldn’t see the steps because of her belly, and that made her feel unsure of her footing. She put her left hand on the rough wall while Beth held her other arm.
Beth had been raised in a harem, and she had an instinct for female intrigue. She had only to cast one look at the women gathered in the garden to know that Eschiva was a lamb come to the slaughter. Sibylla had been married to Guy de Lusignan for two and a half years already, but her womb had yet to quicken. People were starting to snigger that Guy was not virile enough or speculate that God opposed the marriage. Both interpretations infuriated Sibylla, and she hated seeing Eschiva’s full belly. Beth saw the looks she flung at Eschiva whenever the latter’s head was turned, and knew her sugary smiles and the kisses on both cheeks she would soon deliver were a tawdry façade. Beth was certain that if Sibylla had the chance, she would actively induce another miscarriage.
The Queen Mother was less hostile, Beth sensed. She was indifferent to Eschiva as a person, but she resented the fact that her former lover had settled down with his child wife. By the time Aimery consummated his marriage, Agnes had again been sharing her bed with Heraclius, and Beth had heard her waiting women whispering excitedly that the latter had learned some truly exotic lovemaking techniques in Constantinople that made Aimery look rather tame. Still, Beth sensed that it bothered the Queen Mother that Aimery seemed so happy with his child bride.
The other women were insignificant; there was no one here who would stand up to the royal women for Eschiva’s sake. The strongwilled women like Stephanie de Milly and Maria Zoë Comnena were commanding the defense of castles and towns, while their husbands prepared the relief of Beirut.
Eschiva and Beth had reached the bottom of the steps when with an audible squeal Sibylla exclaimed, “Poor Eschiva! There you are at last. You look exhausted and red. Come have a seat beside me. Girl!” she addressed Beth, who she knew was of lowborn, native blood. “Go fetch some sherbet for your mistress.”
Beth was not sorry to leave such company, but was reluctant to leave Eschiva alone in this viper’s nest. Still, she could hardly refuse an order from the Princess of Jerusalem. Bowing her head slightly, she withdrew through the door under the stairs they had just descended, which led into the kitchen tract below the great hall.
As always, the great kitchens were terribly hot and hectic. Scullery boys and pages were running every which way, except for the poor slaves condemned to turn the spits in the fireplaces, on which skewered pigs were slowly browning and dripping fat. In addition to the roasting pigs, cauldrons were steaming and iron skillets were sizzling. A cacophony of smells assailed Beth’s senses, from the fresh onions being chopped on a large board to the garlic-scented steam wafting up from one of the skillets.
Sweat beaded on her brow, and she knew the precious ice used for sherbet was stored behind the wine cellars at the other end of the palace. She could get there by the interior passages through the
pantry and buttery, or by taking the street and re-entering the palace by the northern portal. The problem with the interior path was that it took her past a guardroom and the men there exuded barely harnessed brute force, so Beth opted for the street.
She exited by the door at which deliveries were made and alms distributed, and started up along the familiar street. As she had learned to do as a child, she kept her eyes down, watching where she was going rather than looking at the people around her. She had almost made the northern entrance when her way was abruptly blocked. People were piling up around some sort of obstacle, and someone was cursing. She glanced up timidly, and by pure chance her glance led between the backs of the people ahead of her to a little donkey that had collapsed under a heavy burden. Its huge eyes connected with hers as it struggled to right itself. Its knees were already bloody, and its nostrils were wide and red. The eyes were full of despair. It did not understand why someone was beating it when it could not go another step.
Beth could not stand it. In that split second she saw herself in the donkey’s wide, uncomprehending eyes as the Nubians fell over her. She gave an inarticulate cry and shoved the youths ahead of her aside. “Leave her alone!” she shouted furiously at the man with the cane. “Leave her alone! Can’t you see she can take no more?”
Such a spirited defense of a stupid donkey aroused laughter from the surrounding crowd, but Beth didn’t care. “Stop it!” She put herself between the donkey and the man beating it and stared him in the eye, even though he was a man and she nothing but a worthless girl.
The donkey owner was old, with an ugly wound on his face. He was filthy and stinking and his clothes were little better than rags. He had overburdened the donkey and was now venting his anger at its collapse because he had so little. “Get out of my way or you’ll feel this cane yourself!” he shouted at Beth, shaking the cane over his head.
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