The Springs of La Tubanie, September 29, 1183
“Jerusalem and an annual income of ten thousand bezants is all the King retained for himself—and the title of King. The Count of Jaffa is Regent,” Ramla informed his brother, as the knights and Turcopoles of Ibelin and Nablus pitched their tents beside those of Ramla and Mirabel.
The new Regent of Jerusalem, Guy de Lusignan, had summoned the feudal host to face yet another invasion by Salah ad-Din. As always, this invasion was stronger than the one before, because Salah ad-Din had successfully subdued yet another of his Muslim opponents while not engaged in jihad against the Christian states. This summer it had been Aleppo, the city that had so long eluded him. On the other hand, the Regent had persuaded both Tripoli and Antioch to muster with the army of Jerusalem, and thus he had impressively pulled together the largest Christian army ever seen in Outremer. It was spearheaded by nearly fourteen hundred knights, backed by three times that number of native light horsemen, and ten thousand foot soldiers.
The forces of the Ibelin brothers made up a significant portion of those numbers. With his vassals and household knights, Ibelin could field one hundred and five knights and two hundred seventy-five Turcopoles, despite leaving ten knights each at Ibelin and Nablus to stiffen the backbone of the garrisons there. His older brother, who felt Ramla was indefensible, had left his new wife and infant son at Mirabel with a garrison of just fifteen knights, to field a force of one hundred twelve knights and two and a half times that number of Turcopoles. Finally, for the first time, their youngest brother Henri was now also a banneret, leading a contingent of fourteen knights as part of Oultrejourdain’s force of one hundred sixty-two knights.
“Where is the Regent?” Balian asked his brother, as he dropped down from his palfrey Rufus and turned him over to Gabriel. He had not encountered Guy de Lusignan since the latter’s elevation to Regent, and he was dreading the meeting. The Count of Jaffa was bound to blame him for Maria Zoë’s attack on his wife and mother-in-law—especially since, based on Ibrahim’s account, the younger Lusignan owed his current position to the fact that Agnes de Courtenay and Sibylla had badgered the desperately ill and frightened King into naming him Regent. The decision had certainly not been made in council with the High Court of Jerusalem—an omission the Count of Tripoli suggested made the decision illegal.
Illegal or not, when Salah ad-Din crossed the Jordan in force, the barons of the Kingdom recognized that this was no time for quibbling over legalities. They were all here, even Ramla and Tripoli, giving their backing to the young and untried Guy de Lusignan in the hope that he would prove their doubts unfounded. At some level, they dreamed he would surprise them all and demonstrate the leadership they so desperately needed. After all, hadn’t young King Baldwin surprised them at Montgisard?
“Oh, you can’t miss him!” Ramla replied to his brother’s question. “He’s in the largest, gaudiest, most extravagant tent you can imagine—all red satin and glittering gold. They tell me he brought a half-dozen little page boys, too, to serve him on their knees. The latest fashion in Cairo.”
Balian drew a deep breath and looked at his brother with a hint of reproach in his eyes. Barry’s hatred of Lusignan, rather than diminishing with time, was still eating him up from the inside.
“I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. I’m staying clear. I’ll fight my damnedest for Jerusalem, and you know it, but Jaffa’s an upstart. Regent or not.”
Balian nodded in fundamental agreement. “Has there been a council yet?”
“No, he appears to be waiting until everyone has arrived. We’re still missing Beirut and Sidon. That, or he’s afraid to call a council, which might just point out that his appointment has not been confirmed and so is not yet valid.”
Balian nodded ambiguously and avoided taking sides on the issue. “Do we know exactly where Salah ad-Din is?”
“Last I heard, he was beleaguering Bethsan again.”
“With how many troops?”
“Does it matter? A lot more than we have—but they’re largely feudal levies, just like our force but with less motivation. Except for the fanatics, most Saracens don’t give a tinker’s damn about Jerusalem. They’d rather be home with their wives and children.”
“As would we,” Balian noted.
“But we’re fighting for our survival; they’re fighting for the aggrandizement of their insatiable master. There is a difference.”
“I hope so.”
“Come join me for some refreshment. It’ll take your squires at least a half-hour to set everything up.”
Balian glanced over to where Sir Galvin was forcefully (and none too gently) taking advantage of his unusual stature and bulk to stake out the perimeter of the Ibelin-Nablus camp, while Gabriel and Ernoul were together rolling out his tent and preparing to erect it. He nodded, and followed his brother inside the latter’s tent.
Inside, he sat down on one of the folding stools Barry indicated. The Baron of Ramla did not scorn creature comforts while on campaign. There were woven straw mats on the floor to level the surface and keep the mud at bay. There were stands on which his heavy armor could be hung—and cleaned—and a half-dozen wooden chests containing silver utensils for dining, as well as clean clothes and bed linens. He had a collapsible bed with thick covers for the increasingly chilly nights, and folding tables and chairs. The Ibelin tent was outfitted in roughly the same way, the only real difference being that Barry’s things tended to be somewhat more ornate and costly.
One of the Ramla squires brought Balian a silver goblet with cool water in it, and he drank it gratefully, holding up the goblet for a refill almost immediately before asking his brother, “And how are Elizabeth and little Godfrey?”
At last Barry smiled. “Godfrey is a fine boy. He screams as lustily as a lion cub. Big paws, too! He’s going to grow up as tall as we are. He’s not going to die on me like the runts Richildis gave me.”
Balian sighed, glad that his brother had been blessed with a healthy son at last, but sorry that he felt compelled to insult his first wife and dismiss her suffering as if she were to blame. Richildis had surely suffered more giving birth to those sickly sons, who died before seeing a single birthday, than Barry had in making and losing them.
“And your Philip?” Barry asked back, more out of courtesy than interest.
“He’s dark like Maria Zoë, with eyes that seem wise beyond his years. John is rather jealous of him at the moment, as he was not of his sister Margaret, but I hope they will grow up to be friends like we are.”
“Yes, and friends with my Godfrey, too. Cousins can be as close as brothers.”
“You heard Henri’s wife is pregnant?” Balian asked cautiously. Henri and Barry usually acted as if the other didn’t exist, but Henri had been understandably proud of siring a child on his bride, Eloise of Amman, within the first month of their marriage. It was said she was no beauty and had been promised to the Church until the untimely death of her brother turned her into an heiress overnight. By then she was already twenty-something, and Oultrejourdain had seen her value as a reward and controlled her jealously, apparently leaving her in the convent until the very day of her wedding. Balian hoped his younger brother had been gentle with her under the circumstances, but he doubted it.
“Yes, he couldn’t resist telling me,” Barry answered Balian’s question. “But who’s to say the child will be carried to term or won’t be a girl?”
“You know,” Balian remarked, smiling a little provocatively, “I rather like my girls—and yours. Eschiva is an attractive and sensible woman.”
“Yes, thank God for that. Aimery seems pleased with her—but then, she’s given him a son. They’ve named him for Aimery’s father, Hugh, did you hear?”
Balian nodded. Maria Zoë had been there, after all. He stretched and got to his feet. “Time for me to return to my men. I think I’ll wait to be called to our friend the Regent. There’s safety in numbers, after all.”
Barry laughed
. “I’ll be right beside you, Balian.” He added, “You know, your wife may have exceeded the normal bounds of propriety in her attacks on Agnes and Sibylla—but, by the Cross, she had the rights of it! They are a diabolical duo, with no more brains between the two of them than a peahen. I wish to God your wife had given the Kingdom a male heir; then we might have had an alternative to rally around.”
“There is Isabella,” Balian noted.
“Ah, yes. Isabella—and Humphrey de Toron? Don’t make me laugh, Balian. The boy’s more feminine that some girls I know—his mother, for a start. You have to wonder if he isn’t, you know, a sodomist.”
“Barry! Where do you get such ideas? You hardly know the boy. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Not so long ago as you might think. I too stopped at Kerak on my way back from reconnaissance. If anyone could make a man out of a boy, it’s that bastard Châtillon, but Humphrey’s still—I don’t know—soft.”
“Ernoul says he can read and write not only Latin and French, but Arabic.”
“A lot of good that’s going to do him!” Barry scoffed.
“Speaking it certainly has its advantages, and reading it is valuable, too—for one thing, we’d be able to read intercepted messages, particularly when we shoot down their carrier pigeons.” Balian was speaking from experience. His archers had brought down a Saracen carrier pigeon the week before, but his entire garrison had stood about, baffled and frustrated. Ibrahim did not come from a class of men who had learned to read and write, and Balian had been forced to seek out Ibelin’s remaining imam and ask him to translate. He was not convinced the man had been honest about it. The translated message had been too bland and vague. Balian had the distinct feeling that the imam had hidden something from him. Then again, the messages entrusted to carrier pigeons might also be encoded in some way. How would he know?
“No one would object to Humphrey being a scholar,” Barry pointed out, “if he also had his grandfather’s courage and political acumen. The old man could also read and write Arabic, if I remember correctly, but he was a lion on the battlefield and a fox in negotiations as well.”
“The boy’s only fifteen,” Balian defended Isabella’s fiancé.
“And at fifteen I had seized my inheritance and joined in the invasion of Egypt at the head of my troops. While Humphrey and the knights of Toron are fighting under Châtillon’s banner as if the boy were still a child!”
Balian abstained from pointing out that his brother had actually been sixteen before he took part in the first invasion of Egypt. Instead he nodded and took his leave.
Outside, his camp had been set up with his own tent in the center, surrounded by no less than ten smaller tents shared by the knights under his command. The Turcopoles and foot soldiers had no tents, but each troop had a fire over which they could cook food, and they had spread out mats around these on which to roll out their bedding. Ibelin inspected his camp, greeting the various knights and sergeants, by name if he could remember them, or with a smile if he could not.
The smells coming from the various pots were strong and savory, since at this stage in the campaign the men were still living on the food they’d brought from home. Garlic and onions in abundance, of course, but plenty of pork fat and seasoned lamb, too. Some of the stews even contained fresh produce like leeks and carrots. They’d get to the lentils with salted meat when the fresh things ran out.
In his tent, Gabriel and Ernoul had unpacked the mats and furniture and made up his bed, while his knights had spread out their pallets around the edges of the tent. In the center was a collapsible table. His thirst quenched with his brother’s water, Ibelin asked for wine as he sank down on one of the folding stools. They’d spent the previous night at Nablus, collecting the knights and troops of his wife’s lordship. This meant they’d slept and fed themselves well in the rich and fertile valley and were not particularly tired from the modest ride today. The horses, particularly, were in good form, because the weather had started to cool and some sporadic rains had produced fresh green grass for grazing after the dryness of summer fodder.
Ernoul, as usual, was quicker than Gabriel when it came to serving, and he handed Balian a goblet brimming with a wine the delicate color of translucent rubies. “May I have permission to go find Humphrey de Toron, my lord? I’ve got something to give him.” Maria Zoë had tracked down a copy of the Odyssey via a Greek book-dealer in Jerusalem, and she had translated part of it for Ernoul. He had carefully noted down her words onto a roll of papyrus and made a copy as a gift for Humphrey.
“Are the horses watered?” Balian asked back.
“Of course, my lord. I’m not a novice anymore.” Ernoul frowned with annoyance at the implication he would have neglected one of his most elementary duties.
“We’ll see about that,” Balian growled, glancing at Gabriel, who nodded reassuringly. “All right, go see if you can find him, but be back before darkness.”
“Yes, my lord!”
Ernoul was gone before his lord could change his mind, and Ibelin signaled to Gabriel to come help him out of his hauberk. Before Gabriel could respond, however, shouting erupted outside. Frowning, Balian stood, waving Gabriel aside, and went to look out the tent flap. A troop of royal Turcopoles were cutting through the Ibelin-Nablus camp at a rash pace, causing men to curse and complain. Balian stepped out of his tent to demand that they slow down, but then he recognized the commander: it was the very man he had once commanded during the Homs expedition eight years ago. “Amos!” he called out sharply. “What’s going on?”
“Salah ad-Din is trying to seize the springs at La Tubanie!” the Maronite shouted back. “I’ve got to warn the Regent!”
Balian waved him on, then turned and ducked inside his tent. “Helmet! Then go tack up Centurion!” he ordered Gabriel before turning to Sir Bartholomew. “Bart, muster my knights and Turcopoles!”
With his helmet under his arm, Balian hurried across to his brother’s tent. “Salah ad-Din’s trying to take the springs at La Tubanie!” he announced without preamble.
“How do you know that?” Ramla asked, but it was a rhetorical question; he was already snapping his fingers at his squires to bring his armor as he downed the rest of his wine. His knights reared up from whatever they were doing and started arming without an order being given.
Because the men of Ramla, Ibelin, and Nablus had been at ease, it took nearly half an hour for them to arm, tack up their horses, and muster. By then the Constable had already led a strong force of royal knights out of the camp. They followed at a good but not breakneck pace—until the unmistakable sounds of battle wafted over the contours of the low hill ahead of them.
Ramla and Ibelin were riding side by side at the head of their mounted troops. They heard the squeal of horses and the clang of weapons at the same moment. They looked at one another and then spurred forward together, their horses racing each other as they urged them forward.
As they came around the bend in the road, they saw chaos. The level area nearest the springs was littered with Saracen corpses, suggesting that the Saracens had already seized the springs by the time Aimery de Lusignan arrived. Now, however, the elder Lusignan was surrounded by enemy troops, and his knights were going down with appalling regularity as the Saracen archers targeted their horses from close range.
Ramla didn’t even look back to be sure his men were with him. He couched his lance and spurred straight into the melee. Ibelin took a moment to ensure his knights were ready, checking Centurion as he tried to sprint after Ramla’s stallion. Centurion hated seeing the tail of another stallion, and he responded to his rider’s checks by rearing up in frustration. Within a quarter-minute, however, Sir Galvin and Sir Sylvester, a new and ambitious young knight, had spurred forward. When Centurion dropped back onto his forefeet, Ibelin could drop the reins and give the horse his head as he pulled his shield into place and couched his lance.
They smashed into the thin line of Saracens separating them from the Cons
table and rolled right over them. Their heavy horses knocked over the smaller Arab horses while they killed or unseated the Saracen horsemen. They swept through and past Ramla and his son-in-law, both fighting furiously against more than one opponent, and crashed into the Saracens beyond. Ibelin’s lance glanced imperfectly off the first shield he aimed at, but embedded itself in the second and snapped, and he dropped it to draw his sword.
By now some of the momentum of the charge had dissipated, but Ibelin could sense uncertainty in the enemy. The riders around him were fighting halfheartedly, as if unsure if they should fight or flee. The Saracen troops were not fighting coherently, leading Ibelin to suspect that either the Constable or Ramla had managed to bring down the commanding emir. Even as he parried fierce blows with his shield and sword, he sensed other riders spinning away, refusing combat.
A glance to the right to verify this impression almost cost him his life. An exceptionally large Saracen managed to get around his shield-guard and lunge at him. Ibelin flung himself to the right to avoid the thrust, and Centurion jumped sideways to get his weight back under his rider again. That leap enabled Ibelin to swing his right arm across his chest and sever the arm holding the sword that had nearly killed him before its owner could lift it again. Then he used his shield to knock the stunned man off his horse and continued forward, wielding his sword with brutal efficiency as his heart pounded in retrospective panic. Around him other knights surged forward, leaving him momentarily alone in the eye of the storm.
From this perspective of temporary calm, it was clear that the enemy had indeed been routed. Hundreds of riders were streaming eastward. There were so many, in fact, that the road was becoming jammed, and riders were taking to the hills on either side.
As Ibelin watched, some of the Christian knights started after the fleeing Saracens—only be cut off by the Constable, who put himself between the Christian knights and the retreating enemy. He thrust one man halfway off his horse to get him to obey. Although Ibelin was too far away to hear what he was saying, he was gesturing to the men not to pursue. Ibelin nodded mental approval. Control of the springs was the strategic issue at stake; all too often in the past, pursuing Christian knights had been led into an ambush.
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