“Why should I?”
“Because many voices have been raised in criticism.”
“What voices?” Guy demanded angrily. “Who dares?”
“This is not a kingdom populated by cowards, my lord. Men who risk their lives as often as my barons and knights do are not afraid to say what they think. And they, my lord, are men with more experience in war than you. They tell me you made many mistakes, showed very poor judgment, and cost us a possible victory.”
“Really? How easy it is to criticize! What have you been doing? Listening to the whining of Raymond de Tripoli? He’s a disloyal coward,” Guy declared dismissively.
Baldwin did not bother to answer the self-serving accusation against Tripoli, preferring instead to note: “I have been told that you did not bring provisions to maintain the army in the field. After the ten days of rations the men carry had run out, they had nothing to eat.”
“I’m not a butler! I’m Regent,” Guy retorted haughtily.
“When the royal army is called up on feudal service, it is the responsibility of the Crown to provide provisions.”
“Nobody told me that.”
“Your brother the Constable did,” Baldwin corrected him.
“Salah ad-Din had already crossed the Jordan! The important thing was to muster the army and face him.”
“You had ten days to procure and deliver the provisions, while the men were still eating what they had brought with them.”
“I had more important things to do.”
“Such as?”
“Such as! Such as! I was commanding the army!”
“An army that was disintegrating before your eyes as men’s rations ran out and they deserted.”
“If men deserted, it was because their lords weren’t maintaining discipline. If I caught any of the royal men deserting, I had them flogged ‘till their bones showed through what was left of their flesh!”
“Yes. I heard that. First you let your men starve, and then flogged them for seeing to their stomachs. My barons were outraged by your lack of foresight, and my bishops by your lack of charity.”
“Well, I didn’t have any choice if the army wasn’t going to disintegrate altogether.”
“You had the choice of fulfilling your duties and bringing up provisions. I understand Ibelin brought up over a hundred wagons from Nablus to feed his own and his brother’s troops, while Tripoli brought provisions from Tiberias for his troops as well.”
“Well, there you are. If everyone had done their duty, there wouldn’t have been any problem.”
“Correct—because it was your duty, my lord of Jaffa, no one else’s, and if you had fulfilled it there would indeed have been no problems. Ibelin and Tripoli are within their rights to submit a bill to the Crown for the provisions they provided.”
Guy shrugged. “Fine. Is that what this is all about? A couple of whining barons who want to be paid—probably at a nice profit—for bringing up supplies? Really, you didn’t have to send for me to present procurement bills.”
“No, you’re right, my lord. The more serious accusation comes from the Grand Masters of the Temple and Hospital, supported by the Bishops of Bethlehem and Nazareth. They tell me that two monasteries and one convent were sacked and burned by Salah ad-Din’s troops while you sat idly by with the largest Christian army ever mustered in Outremer.”
“The churchmen understand nothing about strategy.”
“The Templars and Hospitallers know nothing about strategy?” Baldwin replied, incredulous. “You are presumptuous, my lord.”
Guy de Lusignan continued as if he had not been interrupted. “Salah ad-Din attacked the monasteries to provoke me. He was trying to lure me away from the wells and springs around which we camped. He thought he could cut me off from water and then destroy us all. But I was too clever for him; I refused to take the bait.”
“At the price of one hundred thirty-three monks’ lives and the freedom and honor of twenty-eight nuns.”
Guy shrugged. “What do you think our casualties would have been if we’d been cut off from water?”
“The lives of fighting men rather than men and women of God. The Master of the Temple was particularly outraged. He said his Order has vowed to come to the rescue of any Christians attacked by Saracens, but you physically prevented him from doing his duty before God. You stopped him from riding out of camp to the rescue of these men and women who have devoted their lives to the service of Christ.”
“How could I allow such a large contingent of troops to separate from the main body? It would have invited attack by Salah ad-Din—either on the Templars or on the rest of us, while we were separated.”
“The Grand Master reminded me that the Temple does not answer to any secular authority, and that the participation of his Order in any muster is voluntary.”
“I know. He shouted that at me, too, but I’m not interested in legal technicalities. I restrained the Master and his senior officers in my tent until it was too late to do anything. I’m not ashamed of that; it was the only way to keep the army intact.”
“A starving army is not intact,” Baldwin countered.
Guy groaned and rolled his eyes. “Back to bickering about full bellies, are we? Next time I’ll be sure to bring the senior clerk of the household with me on campaign!”
“Hopefully, you’ll do more than that. Hopefully, next time you will be sure your troops and their horses are adequately provisioned.”
“Yes, yes, God, yes! If only to keep you and my nanny brother happy!” Guy promised in exasperation.
“Good.” Baldwin hoped Guy had learned his lesson. “Then there is one more thing.”
“Really?” Guy asked impatiently.
“Yes. When I turned over the Kingdom to you, it was agreed I would continue to hold Jerusalem for my own use.”
“Yes, I remember,” Guy answered, bored.
“But the cold here is much more painful to me than the gentle coastal climate. I would like to swap Jerusalem for Tyre.”
Guy was completely unprepared for this request, and he asked in disbelief, “Tyre?”
“Yes. When I was there this past spring, I felt better than I have for a long time. I came down with the fever when I returned to Jerusalem.”
“Tyre is the richest city in the Kingdom,” Guy noted.
“That’s not the reason I want it,” Baldwin protested. “It’s—”
Guy cut him off. “It may not be the reason you want it, but it’s the reason I do! I’m not going to give you Tyre for Jerusalem! That would mean giving up the largest source of income I have! No, absolutely not! My God! First you call me here to insult me, and then you expect me to do you a favor! To give up my best source of income!” Guy de Lusignan was working himself into a rage of righteous indignation. “No! You may think I’m incompetent, but I’m not going to be tricked into giving up the greatest prize I have! Sibylla will be outraged when she hears you tried to take from her the place she likes best in the entire Kingdom! She’ll—”
“How is Sibylla?” Baldwin broke into Guy’s tirade.
“What?” Guy asked, bewildered to be interrupted when he was in full swing.
“How is Sibylla? I don’t think I’ve seen her since the day you were named Regent.”
“She’s pregnant and taking care of herself.”
“Of course. I see. If that’s your final word?”
“On Tyre, you mean? Of course it is.”
“Then there is nothing more to talk about for now. Leave me.”
Guy had no desire to stay, but he was just as obviously annoyed to be dismissed like this. With an audible snort, he turned and stormed out of the audience chamber. Wearily, Baldwin leaned his head on the back of his chair and closed his eyes. It was getting so cold in Jerusalem. . . .
Kerak, mid-October 1183
Guests had been arriving for days. Oultrejourdain’s vassals and their ladies had come not only to join in the wedding celebration but to fulfill various functions,
while the wealthier burghers and settlers from across the barony came bearing gifts with an eye to gaining favor. Soon, rooms long left vacant or used for storage were filling up with people, while the stables were overflowing with beasts. The castle began to feel crowded, although only the Count of Edessa with his sister the Queen Mother and his niece Princess Sibylla but none of the other prominent guests had yet arrived.
Eloise of Amman had been given the honor of acting as Isabella’s maid of honor and tasked with helping fit her wedding dress, because Stephanie had no time or inclination for the task. Eloise, on the other hand, was very adept with a needle, having spent so much of her life wielding one in the convent. She worked diligently, trying to make the gown Stephanie had worn at her marriage to Humphrey’s father fit the much slimmer, shorter and younger Isabella. She held the pins between her lips and worked silently, only hissing in disapproval if Isabella fidgeted or fussed.
Isabella was at an age when clothes did not particularly interest her—certainly not a gown that Stephanie de Milly had once worn. Indeed, the entire wedding interested her far less than what would happen afterwards. Oultrejourdain had announced that after the wedding, Humphrey could set up his own household.
Eloise put in the last pin and sat back on her heels. “That will have to do. Take the gown off carefully so I can get to work on it.”
Isabella tried to wriggle out of the gown and promptly succeeded in pricking herself. “Ow!” she exclaimed loudly and irritably.
“Be careful!” Eloise admonished.
Isabella was going to protest that she was being careful, when a furious knocking on the door interrupted her and Humphrey called through the wooden barrier: “Isabella! I think they’re coming!”
“Come in and help me!” Isabella answered, anxious to get out of the gown as fast as possible.
“Stop!” Eloise shouted to Humphrey. “Your lady is disrobed!” Then, turning on Isabella, she scolded in a deeply shocked voice: “You shameless hussy! What were you thinking of?” As she removed the pinned gown herself, she added, “Do you want a man to see you in nothing but your shift?”
“Humphrey’s seen me in my shift before—and he’ll see me in less after the wedding,” Isabella answered matter-of-factly, provoking a vivid blush from the older woman, who turned away and concentrated on collecting fallen pins rather than answering.
Isabella grabbed the gown she had been wearing before the fitting and pulled it hastily over her head. “I’m coming!” she shouted to Humphrey, looking around desperately for her shoes. At last she spotted them under the bed and pulled them on, hopping on one foot after the other before bursting out of her chamber to join Humphrey.
By the time Isabella and Humphrey reached the triangular inner ward, the lead horses were already through the barbican and the usual bustle of grooms, squires and household officials had seized the ward. But Isabella had already spotted her mother and she plunged into the chaos, oblivious to fractious horses and protocol. “Mama! Mama!” she shouted as she ran.
Maria Zoë flung herself off her mare and opened her arms just in time to catch Isabella.
“Mama! Mama! I can’t believe you’re here at last!” Isabella clung to her, but no tighter than Maria Zoë held her daughter.
“Sweetheart! Sweetheart!” Maria Zoë muttered repeatedly into Isabella’s chestnut curls until she loosened her hold and begged, “Isabella! Let me look at you!” She took a step back to hold Isabella at arm’s length, only to pull her close again. Isabella had grown so much, and she was so thin, that Maria Zoë would have questioned if she had been getting enough to eat, if it hadn’t been for the strength of her embrace and the rich color of her cheeks. Isabella looked and felt healthy. She was just eighteen months older than she had been when Maria Zoë had seen her last.
A shadow fell over them, and Maria Zoë looked up into the sneering face of Stephanie de Milly. “My, my,” the Lady of Oultrejourdain exclaimed dismissively.
Maria Zoë raised her eyebrows. “What’s the matter? Have you never seen filial love before? No, probably not—since you clearly never earned it!”
Isabella giggled in delight as she looked up at her tormentor and stuck out her tongue. She knew she was being childish—but with her mother here, holding her, she felt she could afford to be a child again, even if only for a moment.
Meanwhile Maria Zoë pulled herself upright, still holding Isabella protectively in her left arm, and held out her right hand with the coronation ring of Jerusalem, until Madame d’Oultrejourdain dutifully dipped a curtsy to her and muttered, “Welcome to Kerak, madame.” Maria Zoë was too furious to answer this woman who had stood between her and Isabella for three years. She turned her back on her hostess and addressed Isabella instead. “Do you know where I am to stay?”
“In my chamber, in my bed, for tonight, anyways, while—Where’s Uncle Balian?” Isabella noticed belatedly that her stepfather was missing.
“The King has summoned the High Court to Jerusalem. Balian had to go, of course, and Uncle Barry, but I’ve brought your new aunt Elizabeth and Eschiva.” Maria Zoë looked behind at the rest of her entourage.
Because she commanded the knights of Nablus, she was in a position to provide a strong escort, a necessary precaution when venturing into Oultrejourdain. Both Eschiva and Elizabeth had been more than happy to take advantage of that escort, as soon as it became clear their husbands must first attend the High Court. “We all hope the High Court will not meet for long and that our husbands will make it down in time for the wedding,” Maria Zoë commented.
Isabella wasn’t listening. She had spotted Eschiva and ran to her childhood friend exuberantly. “Eschiva! Eschiva!” Eschiva felt ancient compared to the still childlike Isabella, and she smiled a little condescendingly, but Isabella didn’t notice. She was continuing, “Oh, I can’t believe you’re finally here! As soon as the wedding’s over, Humphrey and I are going to Toron! I’ll be a real lady then, and you can come and visit!”
“This is your Aunt Elizabeth,” Eschiva answered with gentle reproach, because Isabella was ignoring the stranger. Isabella dutifully turned and offered Elizabeth a kiss on both cheeks, but then she turned back to Eschiva. “Is Beth with you?”
“Yes, there, on the little donkey.” Eschiva smiled as she pointed, for the slender maid looked a little ridiculous on the tiny donkey beside the tall horse Dawit was riding.
Brought up like a good Muslim girl, Beth had never learned to ride, and she had a fear of horses that not even Dawit had been able to take from her, but the donkey she had rescued was so devoted to her that she trusted it completely. Eschiva thought the donkey would rather die than harm Beth. Isabella ran to Beth, and the girls hugged each other fiercely.
“I wanted to come to you, Isabella!” Beth whispered. “And so did Eschiva, but the Constable wouldn’t let us.”
“I understand,” Isabella replied generously. That was the past. Her ordeal was over. She was back among the people she loved, confident that she was never going to be separated from them again.
With so many guests and still more arriving by the hour, it was hard to get a moment alone with her daughter. But finally, after the elaborate dinner, Maria Zoë managed to pull Isabella aside on the pretext of showing her the donkey Beth had rescued. They made their way to the stables, away from the other women. There, despite the bustling of the grooms and squires offloading, watering, and feeding, they found a corner where they could sit together on a few bales of straw, ignored by the busy servants.
Maria Zoë could not keep her arms off her little girl. She held her close, and Isabella snuggled against her just as she had when she was much younger. Indeed, Isabella quite unconsciously was acting younger than she had for years. It felt so good to be a child again.
“Princess,” Maria Zoë opened, kissing the top of her head. “I’m so grateful that this wedding has given me a means to visit, but—but you’re so young!” Maria Zoë could not get over the fact that her daughter was two years young
er than she had been when she went to her marriage bed. There was a huge difference between eleven and thirteen!
“It’s the only way we can get away from here,” Isabella told her, her childishness dissolving as she set her mouth. All her longing—indeed her determination—to escape was naked in her voice.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” Maria Zoë agreed, “but—but do you know what marriage means?”
“You mean the consummation?” Isabella asked bluntly without a trace of embarrassment. “Humphrey’s promised he’s not going to do that until I’m older and ready.”
Maria Zoë was taken aback. “You mean you’ve talked to him about it?”
“Of course,” Isabella told her candidly. “Who else should I have talked to? Not Madame d’Oultrejourdain! Besides, Humphrey and I are friends, and he’d never do anything to hurt me. He promised me that.”
Maria Zoë had seen too little of her future son-in-law to know how good Humphrey de Toron’s promises were, but it was reassuring to think that he did not intend to rape his little bride. “I’m very, very pleased to hear that,” she told her daughter honestly.
“You’ll like Humphrey,” Isabella assured her mother. “He’s nice. It’s just that Oultrejourdain badgers him. Once he’s in Toron, you’ll see. He’ll surprise everyone. He’s a true and gallant knight—oh, except Oultrejourdain hasn’t knighted him. Uncle Balian could do that for him, couldn’t he? He should be knighted, you know. It would mean a lot to him.”
“Yes, sweetheart,” Maria Zoë assured her, stroking her rich, long tresses, which she would soon have to cover under scarves and wimples. It seemed so ridiculous at her tender age! “Balian would be happy to do that—if not before—”
“My lady! We’ve been looking all over for you!” Rahel exclaimed breathlessly. “Eschiva and Elizabeth want to see Isabella’s wedding gown before retiring for the night.”
They left the stables and went together to Isabella’s chamber in one of the towers of the castle.
“This is what Madame d’Oultrejourdain wants me to wear,” Isabella said with a peeved expression. “She said she wore it at her wedding with Humphrey’s father.”
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