“Not a thing!” Oultrejourdain spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’m sorry to say. Not a thing.”
“In short, you sent him to his death and have washed your hands of him.”
“He was a grown man, Ibelin. He knew the risks he was taking.” Châtillon dropped his pretense of regret.
“Greed sometimes makes a man blind,” Balian pointed out, thinking of how Henri had been willing to alienate Barry for the sake of what he considered his “fair share” of their inheritance. This raid, offering the prospect of loot and treasure—and an heiress at the end—would have appealed to Henri. He did not doubt that, but he found it hard to forgive Oultrejourdain for exploiting his brother’s weakness on such a dubious mission. This raid had been in clear violation of the existing truce. It targeted unsuspecting civilians. And it dragged Christians down to the same level as their Muslim enemies, who had for so long preyed upon Christian pilgrims. Balian acknowledged the raid’s tactical utility, but he did not like to think of his brother being a part of it.
Balian had been absently turning his empty wineglass, and an attentive Humphrey de Toron, standing behind his own lord, sprang forward to fill it. Balian thanked him over his shoulder. So far he had not been much impressed with Isabella’s future husband. To be sure, he was almost as tall as Balian himself, but he kept his eyes down and hunched his shoulders, more like a servant or a whipped dog than the heir to an important barony. He had woolly blond hair, an almost invisible adolescent beard, a smattering of pimples, and big blue eyes. Had he been more bold and self-confident, maidens might have found him attractive, Balian speculated, but his bearing made him seem insignificant. Indeed, he seemed to want to melt into the background.
Balian would have liked the opportunity to speak to him alone, but he had little legitimate reason to seek out Châtillon’s squire. Seeing him now, however, gave him an idea, and he signaled Ernoul forward.
“My lord?” Ernoul asked eagerly.
Balian lowered his voice and spoke directly into Ernoul’s attentive ear. “Try to befriend Toron, will you?”
Ernoul grinned and bowed deeply. “At your service, my lord.”
Ernoul had grown into his duties over the previous two years, and even if he was still the butt of laughter in the lists, his savvy at table and in other duties was universally acknowledged. If the other squires wanted a favor of their lord or lady, they sent Ernoul to make the plea for them. If someone broke something or stained something or a horse got injured, Ernoul was the one to break the news to whomever was most likely to get angry. If Maria Zoë’s children were getting too loud, Ernoul was more likely to calm them than their nurses, and if the household was bored on a rainy night, Ernoul could be counted on to tell a story with so much drama and feeling that everyone, from the ancient laundresses to the wildest of the squires and the hardest knights, were soon sitting on the edge of their benches, mesmerized.
After the meal the squires were released from serving, and Ernoul caught Humphrey by the elbow and asked with apparent eagerness, “I heard your grandfather saw the inside of the Caliph’s palace in Cairo!”
“That’s true,” Humphrey replied cautiously, unsure where this question from the strange squire might be leading.
“How exciting! Tell me about it!” Ernoul urged, pulling a crude chair closer and swinging his leg over it to sit astride, with his arms resting on the back.
“What is there to tell?” Humphrey replied uncomfortably. No one at Kerak had ever shown the slightest interest in his grandfather and his deeds. He’d had the feeling ever since he got here that his mother didn’t want to be reminded of her marriage to his father, and that his stepfather despised his grandfather for some reason.
“But don’t you know? I’ve heard that when the Franks were led through the first gate, they found themselves in a vast menagerie filled with exotic wild animals—not just peacocks and monkeys, like you see all over the place here, but striped horses, and beasts as tall as palm trees with necks like swans but legs like cattle. And there were not just lions, but striped lions as well.” Ernoul was off. Humphrey hardly realized that he’d sat down, too, and was listening to Ernoul as he told the very tale he’d asked Humphrey to tell him.
“And so,” Ernoul came to the climax, “the Caliph with a smile removed his glove and shook hands with an infidel to seal the treaty! I wish I could have been there!” he ended. “Don’t you?”
“Yes,” Humphrey admitted, adding with tentative pride, “I read Arabic, you know.” When he made this last admission he kept his head down and his shoulders hunched, but his eyes darted sideways to see how his fellow squire reacted.
“You do?” Ernoul sounded amazed, and that made Humphrey sit up a little straighter. “Not even Lord Balian can do that! He speaks it fluently, but he can’t read it, though he’s often said it would be useful. It must terribly hard to learn—all those squiggles!”
“Yes,” Humphrey agreed, nodding vigorously. His grandfather had taught him that it was important to understand one’s enemies, but Oultrejourdain dismissed the notion. Oultrejourdain had said: “The only language the Saracens understand is force! Learn to hit ’em hard, and hit ’em where it hurts, and you’ll be far ahead of anything you can gain with words!”
“My grandfather,” Humphrey ventured, “had a collection of poetry books in Arabic. Poetry and some medicine books.”
“Poetry? I love poetry! I’ve found this incredible poem in Greek about a war that took place a thousand years ago!” Ernoul admitted enthusiastically; his pretense of friendliness was slowly melting into the real thing without him even noticing.
“That must be the Iliad,” Humphrey agreed, proud to show off his knowledge to someone who seemed to appreciate it.
“Is that what it’s called? About the siege of a place called Troy?”
“Yes! That’s the Iliad. And there’s a second book by the same poet, Homer, about how the Greeks get lost trying to sail home—well, not lost, but blown off course—and they have all these adventures trying to get back.”
“Do you have a copy of that book?” Ernoul asked eagerly.
“No, my grandfather only told me about it.”
“I wonder where we could find a copy?” Ernoul speculated. “I suppose I could ask the Dowager Queen. She has a whole library of books in Greek. Oh!” Ernoul stopped and looked at Humphrey. “I just remembered. She’ll be your mother-in-law! If you ever marry Isabella, that is.”
“Why shouldn’t I marry Isabella?” Humphrey demanded defensively.
Ernoul shrugged, surprised by the sudden anger in Humphrey’s voice. “I don’t know. You’re just both so young. Anything could happen.”
“No! Isabella and I are betrothed, and as good as married in the eyes of God. As soon as I’m of age, we’re going to formalize it. We’ve promised each other that. We’re going to marry so no man can ever separate us!”
“OK.” Ernoul backed off, raising his hands as if in surrender, and Humphrey realized he’d overreacted. He tried to calm himself down, but he was breathing hard at the mere mention of “something happening” that might take Isabella away from him. The fact was, he was far too aware of all the things that could get in the way of their marriage—starting with a change of whim on the part of the Queen Mother. Humphrey knew perfectly well that his role was to keep Isabella from becoming the bride of a man more ambitious and powerful than himself. He was only going to be allowed to keep Isabella if he played his role and did what Oultrejourdain and the Queen Mother told him to do—he hoped.
Balian had escaped from the great hall, where the drinking had started in earnest, and cautiously followed the vaulted passage that ran north from the chapel to the underground postern. Part of it was curiosity, for he was interested in the defenses of every castle he visited, but mostly he was seeking solitude so he could think. Isabella had been sent to bed long ago, before the entertainment became too crude, but the touch of her lips on Balian’s cheek as he said good nig
ht still lingered like a reproach. She knew he planned to depart without her in the morning, and although she had said she understood, it was hard to leave her here.
It was always hard to leave her here, of course, but previous visits had been before the Red Sea raids. Now, when Balian looked out across the hall, he was reminded that many of the men sitting at the tables and sharing their meals with Isabella were mercenaries—and capable of all the atrocities attributed to the raiders. Like Oultrejourdain, Balian and Maria Zoë had their informers. Greek traders with strong ties to Alexandria had provided them with some very gruesome details of the raids—and of the fate of the survivors. The reports had all spoken of “mercenaries” and sailors from the gutters of the Levant—led by a blond knight of great height and strength, with a nose that hung straight from his forehead like the nosepiece of a helmet.
Height and strength were always attributed to an opponent who was difficult to subdue—it increased the reputed prowess of the victors in the end—and most Franks were considered “blond” by their Arab foes, but the detail about the nose had led Balian to believe Henri had been the leader of the raid. Barry and Henri both had a nose like this, but it was most pronounced in Henri’s case. Barry’s face was otherwise harmonious and attractive, so that the dominant nose didn’t jump out at you as much; Henri’s hunger for land, fame, and fortune had carved out his cheeks and left his nose more prominent than ever.
Out of the darkness that face emerged to confront Balian. It was blackened, however, as if burned, and encased in a Bedouin headdress. Balian caught his breath and stepped back, certain he was facing a ghost.
The ghost, however, laughed. “Afraid of your own brother, are you?”
“Henri! Where have you come from?”
“Hell,” came the simple answer.
The answer seemed to corroborate that this was his brother’s soul, but at the same time the image seemed far too substantial. Dust soiled and weighed down the hem of the Bedouin robes, and the smell of sweat—thick and masculine—oozed from his brother as he blocked the passageway. Surely ghosts wouldn’t smell?
“Châtillon tells me you went voluntarily,” Balian ventured an answer.
His brother laughed harshly. “Oh, that I did, and the heaven part came before the hell. Ever make love to a harem slave? I assure you, it’s like nothing else in the world!” He laughed again. “And they have wine in Aden, Balian, like the nectar of lotus that drove Ulysses’ men mad. You can’t imagine what it’s like to lick that sweet wine from the thighs of dancing girls. And the treasure, Balian, the treasure was more than we could carry. The men started paying their whores with ruby rings and ivory bracelets. I could have bought Ibelin ten times over with what I had in my sea chest alone.”
“Ibelin is not for sale,” Balian replied, certain now that this was no apparition but his brother, very much in the flesh, who had somehow managed to disguise himself as a Bedouin and escape the vengeance of the Egyptian authorities.
“No? I’m not so sure. Even our saintly little leper might have been tempted by the treasure I could have lain before him. It was surely enough to build a wall all around the Kingdom of Jerusalem—or pay a thousand knights from the West.”
“He might have been tempted,” Balian agreed, “if you had managed to keep it and bring it here.”
“They trapped us, Balian.” The tone of voice changed from triumph to bitterness. “We were betrayed! I killed a dozen of the Pisan bastards—just to set an example—but it was too late. We had to abandon all we had—the ships, the treasure, the girls—and head inland. But the Bedouins led us into a ravine with no escape and then tried to disappear among the rocks. I chased after them while the rest of the fools fought off our pursuers. The rock crevices were so sharp, they cut like the edge of a knife.” He opened his hands and looked down on them as if amazed by the jagged, scabbed lines that now deformed them.
Balian waited, torn between shock and sympathy.
“I finally brought one of the bastards down, cut his throat, and took his robes. I dressed his corpse in my armor and kicked it over the edge of the cliff. It rolled its way back into the ravine to land at the feet of the Egyptian troops, the face so smashed and ravaged by the rock edges that they never even suspected the deception. When they looked up, I waved back to them, clenched my fist over my head, and shouted “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” The idiots answered with similar shouts and never even tried to come after me.”
“I’m surprised the Bedouins didn’t get you,” Balian observed, still trying to sort out his feelings; he was glad Henri was alive, and yet ashamed of what he’d done.
Henri just laughed. “So am I. Of course, I still had some gold in my purse that helped with some of them. The others I had to kill.”
“You have a lot to confess, it would seem,” Balian concluded. After all, it was not his place to judge his brother; that was for God to do.
“Don’t preach to me, Balian. You haven’t been where I was.”
“No, and I hope I never am.”
“Barry always said you weren’t ambitious enough.”
“I’m a baron of Jerusalem and an honorable man. That’s good enough for me.”
“Yes, I know. But not for me. Did Châtillon tell you about the little girl he’s going to give me?”
“Yes, with a fief worth more than Ibelin; I know. You’re welcome to it, Henri, because you are right: I would not have done what you have done to get it. May God have mercy on your soul.”
“That sounds rather like you are washing your hands of me.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.” Something in Henri’s tone sounded distressed, as if some last flickering remnant of decency, or maybe just affection, had flared up in him. Or maybe he was just suddenly afraid of losing Balian.
Balian heard it, but it was too faint to sway him. “You are beyond my help, Henri. Go collect your earthly reward from Châtillon, and see that you enjoy it, for the Day of Judgment will not be far behind, and I do not want to be in your shoes.”
Balian turned and walked back in the direction of the chapel.
Henri called after him. “Nor I in yours, Balian! Nor I in yours! For all your goodness will not help you when Salah ad-Din comes!”
Chapter 9
Kerak, July 1183
“HUMPHREY! YOU’RE FIFTEEN! YOU’RE GROWN UP! You don’t have to put up with this anymore!” Isabella argued furiously with her future husband.
“If I don’t do what Oultrejourdain says, he’ll break my face in!” Humphrey countered just as angrily.
“He doesn’t have the right to do that! You’re his peer!” Isabella insisted indignantly. “You’re the Lord of Toron!”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Humphrey wanted to know. “It’s all very well for you to talk about my rights,” Humphrey sneered; “he’s never laid his fists on you!”
“Because he wouldn’t dare! Don’t you see, Humphrey? You have to make him respect you!”
“Why the hell should he respect me when he’s so much stronger than I am? I’m not even a knight!”
“The King has never been knighted, either,” Isabella pointed out. “But people respect him, don’t they? Even Oultrejourdain respects him. And you can’t say he’s stronger than Oultrejourdain, either. They say he can’t even walk anymore.”
“But he’s the King,” Humphrey pointed out in exasperation.
“And you are the Lord of Toron! If you don’t remind Oultrejourdain of that and insist that he treat you according to your rank, we’ll never get out of here!”
Humphrey stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you want to stay here forever?” Isabella demanded. “You are Lord of Toron! We should be living in Toron as lord and lady, not imprisoned here!”
“Oultrejourdain says I’m not ready,” Humphrey conceded, red with shame.
“Because he likes having your income! He’s never going to willingly give you your inheritance. You have t
o make him give it to you!”
“You make it sound so easy!” Humphrey protested. “If you think it’s that easy, you tell him!”
“All right, I will!” Isabella decided, and with clenched fists she turned and started striding toward the great chamber, where Oultrejourdain was consulting his household officials.
Humphrey ran after her. “Isabella! Don’t!”
“Why not?”
“We don’t know what he’ll do to you!”
Isabella could see real fear in Humphrey’s flushed face, and she knew he was genuinely afraid for her. She appreciated that, but she was convinced that sometimes you had to be brave. She had had enough of being a prisoner. She was not prepared to wait any longer for her freedom. “I don’t care what he does to me,” she told Humphrey stubbornly. “I’m going to confront him!”
“Isabella! I’ll tell him about Dawit!” Humphrey used the threat that had worked before.
But Isabella was beyond being blackmailed. Her stepfather had reminded her that she was not a helpless child, she was a princess of Jerusalem, and she had more right to the throne than did Sibylla, the daughter of a bad woman. It was because people were afraid of her that she was kept imprisoned here.
Isabella swept into the great chamber with Humphrey in her wake, but the adults paid no attention to them. Humphrey seized the chance to try to pull her back, whispering loudly for her to come with him.
Isabella broke free of his clasp angrily and burst out in a loud, demanding voice: “I want to speak to you, my lord of Oultrejourdain!”
“I’m busy,” he retorted without even looking up from the document he was reading. “Later.”
“No, now!”
Humphrey gasped, and the men of the household snorted.
“You’ll do as you’re told!” Oultrejourdain growled, looking up and frowning threateningly.
Isabella stood her ground. “I’m Isabella of Jerusalem, and you can’t order me around!”
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