Maria Zoë replied with a smile, “Come now, I’ve been married nearly seven years, and I was here just last spring.”
“Indeed, but without your children. We hardly know your children. It was a pleasure to see Lord John riding beside you when you arrived yesterday. A fine boy.”
Maria Zoë smiled. John at five did not ride so much as sit on a pony on a lead, but he was very proud to do that. Helvis, although a year older, was still too timid to ride her own pony, and preferred to sit in front of Rahel on her tame mare. To Sir Constantine she answered simply, “Yes, he’s growing up fast.”
“Madame, since your last visit the Jewish community approached me with the request to establish a rabbinical college in the abandoned madrassa.”
“Is there any reason why they shouldn’t?” Maria Zoë responded, surprised by Sir Constantine’s earnest tone.
Sir Constantine sighed. “Not that I could see, which is why I granted permission. But no sooner had the Jews taken possession of the building than they were attacked by some of the Muslim youth. An elderly rabbi was badly beaten.”
Maria Zoë felt her stomach tighten. She had gone out of her way to grant Muslim residents of Nablus a number of privileges, including the right to the hajj. They had their own religious courts for all private disputes, and they were allowed their own prayer rooms, although she had drawn the line at allowing them to build a minaret.
“Were you able to arrest the perpetrators?” she asked Sir Constantine.
“Unfortunately not, madame. The rabbi was badly concussed and said he could not remember faces, only that they overwhelmed him; he claimed it was five or six young men. We made inquiries among the Muslim community, but they all denied any knowledge of the event. They accused Christian youths of being behind the attack.”
“Is that possible?”
“Unfortunately, yes, madame. There are elements among the Latin community that have recently come from the West. Some of them think nothing of attacking or burning synagogues. We have had to intervene more than once to protect Jewish property and persons. But in this case, madame, I fear the trouble indeed came from the Muslims. You see, they also chalked sayings in Arabic on the walls of the building saying: ‘Salah ad-Din is coming!’ and ‘Beware the wrath of Allah!’”
Maria Zoë’s and Sir Constantine’s eyes met. It was the same everywhere. Tensions were building between the religious communities within the Kingdom. Populations who had lived together harmoniously only a decade ago were suddenly simmering with mutual mistrust.
“And that’s why I’m here, madame,” Sister Adela spoke up. “These sayings have greatly incensed many people—including some of my brothers—but they frighten others. Several of my sisters have asked to be transferred to someplace ‘safer,’ while others have asked to be allowed to return to their homes in the West.”
“And what do you tell them, sister?” Maria Zoë asked.
“I tell them they vowed obedience and that they are privileged to serve where Christ chose to be among us in the flesh!” Her tone was firm and indignant. But then she added, “Yet in truth, madame, frightened sisters make poor nurses. I feel strongly that we must put an end to this kind of anonymous threat. It undermines morale and weakens us. Sir Constantine does not share this view, and that’s why we decided to take it up with you.”
“What do you propose to do?” Maria Zoë asked her bailiff.
“I have suggested to the Jews that they find another suitable building.”
Maria Zoë raised her eyebrows. “Is that not capitulating to bullying and vandalism, sir?”
Sir Constantine lifted his shoulders. “What is the alternative? Should I randomly take youth from the Muslim community and punish them? Or should I risk more incidents by letting the Jews go ahead with their plans?”
Maria Zoë looked to Sister Adela. “What do you say to that?”
“How many Muslim youth can read and write in any language? Those sayings could only have come from an educated man, madame. I fear it was agent of the Sultan, sent here from Damascus to spread fear and, far worse, to radicalize the native population.”
That made sense to Maria Zoë, and she looked again to Sir Constantine.
“It’s not that I disagree, madame, but we have already questioned the elders, and they are not betraying the man, or men. What do you want me to do? Torture them?”
“Of course not!” Sister Adela jumped in before Maria Zoë could answer. “I don’t advocate torture, but I don’t accept that we cannot find the perpetrators. I think we need to be more insistent about demanding that they be turned over to us. Furthermore, I think the imams should be called together and advised of what dire consequences there will be for them and their flocks if the hostile elements are not weeded out. I think you should cancel the right of the hajj for all Muslims until these agitators have been turned over to Sir Constantine for punishment. We cannot not allow ourselves to be threatened or mocked.”
Maria Zoë looked back to Sir Constantine. “What speaks against this course of action, sir?”
Sir Constantine weighed his head from side to side. “We risk angering the Muslim community even more by denying them the hajj.”
“And I say, it is while they are on the hajj that their heads get filled with notions of the greatness of Salah ad-Din and jihad!”
“Let me think this over,” Maria Zoë urged. “Meanwhile—”
Another knock on the door interrupted her and Maria Zoë looked over, annoyed. The door opened and one of the pageboys announced, “My lady, there’s a visitor here says he’s from my lord.”
Maria Zoë was already looking beyond the boy, expecting one of her husband’s household knights or squires, but she was disappointed to see a total stranger. The man looked to be in his mid-forties, with dusty brown hair and beard. He was attractive in a mature way, with the bright red skin that betrayed he had only recently come from the West and was still unaccustomed to the Palestinian sun. His chain mail was of good quality, and his belt and sword bordered on ostentatious, with enameled panels bearing some emblem—and yet his surcoat was plain, threadbare, and ragged, like that of a man who was down on his luck.
He came briskly into the room like a fighting man, but his bow was courtly and his French impeccable. “Madame d’Ibelin, forgive the intrusion. I am an English pilgrim who joined the host going to break the siege of Kerak. Unfortunately, the only horse I brought East missed his footing and came up so lame, we had to cut his throat. Your noble husband urged me to come here to obtain a replacement.” As he spoke he drew a sealed letter from inside his aketon and handed it to Maria Zoë as accreditation.
Maria Zoë checked that the seal was Balian’s and then turned to Sir Constantine, who was already on his feet, eyeing the stranger with the same interest as Maria Zoë herself. “Sir Constantine, there’s no need for you to go, or you, sister,” Maria Zoë added to the nun, who had also risen.
“I have many duties to attend to, my lady, so if you would not be offended, I will indeed take my leave now.”
“And I,” Sister Adela echoed, “but I hope you will visit the school my sisters and I have established for the children of the lepers. We opened it on St. Helena’s.”
“I’d be delighted to visit!” Maria Zoë assured her. “In fact, I can’t wait. I will come tomorrow.” Then she held out her hand to Sir Constantine. He bowed over it, nodded to the stranger, “Sir,” and withdrew with Sister Adela.
“Please, be seated,” Maria Zoë invited the stranger as she broke the seal and scanned Balian’s short letter. Balian was always brief when on campaign. He said only that Sir William Marshal had served the late King Henry the Younger of England, and was in urgent need of horses and a squire so that he could “prove his worth” against the Saracens.
Maria Zoë closed the letter and smiled at her visitor. “Welcome, Sir William. Let me take you down to the solar, where I can offer you some refreshment. Do I understand correctly that you are traveling alone?”
&n
bsp; “Thank you, my lady. Water would be most welcome. Yes, I came out to Jerusalem as a pilgrim.” He paused, but Maria Zoë was looking at him so alertly that he felt obliged to continue. “I served the son and heir of Henry II Plantagenet, but he was seized by a violent fever and died miserably. He had taken the cross months earlier and asked me to fulfill his vow for him.”
That still did not entirely explain why he came alone, but Maria Zoë let it be for the moment, and instead led Sir William down to the solar, where she sent for refreshments. The knight looked alertly around the room, taking in the tiled floors, the carved window frames, the silk-covered cushions on the window seat, and the Persian carpet before the naked fireplace. His gaze at last came to rest on the delicate mosaics on the tabletop, and he brushed his hand over the surface, remarking, “Byzantine craftsmanship.”
“Indeed,” Maria Zoë agreed with an amused smile, wondering if he knew who she was; many Western knights did not. “Did you pass through Constantinople on your way here?”
“No, I chose to come by sea. I’ve heard unpleasant things about the way Latin pilgrims are handled in Constantinople since the fall of Alexius and the murder of his mother.” So at least he knew this much, Maria Zoë noted. “But Queen Eleanor had a table like this in her palace at Poitiers. I believe she purchased it in Constantinople when she passed through with her first husband, Louis of France.”
“Ah.” Maria Zoë understood perfectly that he was subtly informing her that his association with royalty was more than that of a servant of the now dead Young King. She smiled and remarked politely, “I understand Queen Eleanor is quite a remarkable woman. I heard it said at my great-uncle’s court that she and her ladies dressed like Amazons and behaved most outrageously while allegedly on pilgrimage.”
“I daresay the tales have become exaggerated over time. Queen Eleanor says that she and her ladies rode astride, of course, and several of them had coats of mail made to provide protection against sudden attack. I wouldn’t call that dressing like an Amazon, myself.”
“No, I suppose not—since none of us know how Amazons dressed, if they existed at all,” Maria Zoë added with a light laugh. “And what is she like now, this Eleanor of England? She must be ancient.”
“She is over sixty, but you wouldn’t know it to look at her. She is still slender and remarkably fit. She can ride all day, and she still rides astride—just as women do here.”
“Here it is largely from necessity,” Maria Zoë pointed out.
“Yes,” Marshal agreed simply, but his expression suggested he was thinking something else; he was certainly frowning.
Maria Zoë raised her eyebrows. “Is there something the matter, sir?”
“No. No, of course not. Forgive me, I was just remembering something. An incident from long ago.”
“An unpleasant incident, it would seem,” Maria Zoë concluded, but the arrival of refreshments distracted them both. The pages unloaded dishes of sherbet, pistachios and cashews, candied fruit, raisins, and fresh pears, along with a pitcher of chilled water and another of light white wine.
“Please, help yourself, sir,” Maria Zoë urged.
Marshal thanked her and helped himself to the sherbet and the water, but then he sat back and remarked, “My lady, I must confess I am uncomfortable in your presence in my present rank state. I have not bathed in more than a week, and I saw a bathhouse just across the street on the way in. Would you excuse me so that I may make myself more presentable?”
“Of course, sir.” Maria Zoë understood perfectly. She turned and called to one of the pages. “Take Sir William down to the Syrian baths, and stay with him there. They are the best,” she assured Marshal in an aside. “Meanwhile, sir, I’ll have a room made ready for you, and inform our marshal that you are in need of horses and a squire.” They both stood, and Sir William bowed deeply to her before departing.
That evening they were together again. Marshal was scrubbed and shaved, and his hair, beard, and nails had been duly trimmed. He had set aside his armor, although he was still sweating in his woollen hose, shirt, and gown. “You need some lighter clothes,” Maria Zoë observed, as they sat down and one of the pages came to pour wine for them.
“I need a lot of things, my lady,” Sir William observed with a wry smile. “Starting with the means to pay for all the other things I need.”
“Jerusalem is always in need of a good sword, sir. You’ll have no trouble finding employment here. Indeed, I thought my husband had already offered you a place in his ménage.” Maria Zoë had been operating on this assumption when she had welcomed him into her home and put one of the knight’s chambers at his disposal.
“He was indeed so generous, my lady, but I have yet to earn my keep.” He smiled a crooked, rather sad smile.
“I daresay you’ll have ample opportunity to do that soon enough, sir, as soon as you are again properly mounted and served; the Kingdom is surrounded and in a precarious position at the moment.”
“So I understand, which is why I am happy to stay and do what I can here, despite promising my liege that I would return. I believe . . .” His voice faded away.
“Yes?”
“I sincerely believe King Henry would want me to stay here and help his cousin, King Baldwin. His son . . .” Again Sir William’s voice faded, and this time Maria Zoë simply pushed the pitcher of wine closer to her guest.
Sir William took the hint and poured for her and then himself with an absent smile. “My lord, the Young King, took the cross lightly, my lady. He took it on a vain whim, if you like, and despite his vow, he was more interested in squabbling with his father and too proud to make peace even when he could no longer pay his mercenaries.” Sir William upended his goblet of wine and refilled it. “They—we—took to plundering churches, and when that still didn’t yield enough, they—we—sacked the monasteries of St. Martial and Rocamadour.” He paused and looked hard at Maria Zoë. “Those names may mean nothing to you, madame, but they are very sacred places in France. My lord paid the price by dying within days of the sack of Rocamadour—and I came here, not only to fulfill his dying wish that I bring his cloak with the cross representing his vow to the Holy Sepulcher, but to seek forgiveness for my own sins, madame.”
Despite the cooling breeze that now breathed through the window into the solar as the night chilled, Sir William was still sweating heavily.
“You are not alone, monsieur,” Maria Zoë pointed out softly.
“Every man is alone with his sin, madame,” Sir William answered with a crooked smile as he refilled his goblet, raised it to Maria Zoë, and drank deeply again.
“True,” she conceded, bowing her head.
“I have spent many months trying to understand how I could have sunk as low as I did, madame, because, whether you take my word for it or not, it is not my nature to sack monasteries. When my lord died so miserably, it was like waking from a nightmare. I looked around and did not recognize myself. I had always prided myself on my honor, and my word was so good that even the mercenaries accepted it as if it were royal writ. Yet out of loyalty to my young lord, I committed grievous sins.” He paused; the eyes sunk in his wellfeatured face were pools of darkness. After a moment he admitted, “I used to think that loyalty was the highest of all virtues, yet my very loyalty led me to commit crimes and offend God. Loyalty to an unworthy lord is like loyalty to the devil.” He spoke to his wine rather than to Maria Zoë.
She waited, but when he said no more she remarked softly, “There is truth in what you say, but there is also the devil in rebellion.” She was thinking of her own homeland, sinking ever deeper into chaos now that the legitimate ruler had been murdered and a usurper was on the throne.
“Too true,” Sir William agreed, thinking of the rebellions of Henry II’s sons. He finished his wine, but rather than refilling his cup, he pushed it aside and looked Maria Zoë in the eye. “You have a worthy king. I wish that Young Henry had had half as much sense as King Baldwin.”
“And w
e wish King Baldwin had half the strength and prowess at arms of his cousin King Henry.”
Sir William shrugged. “Other men can fight for a king, but they can’t think for him. There is, however, something that greatly disturbs me. . . .” he admitted.
Maria Zoë looked at him expectantly and waited.
“This afternoon, when we were talking about Queen Eleanor, I stopped short of telling you something.”
“Yes.”
“It is something you—your husband and your King—need to know, although I fear it will only add to your many concerns.”
Maria Zoë waited; she did not need more bad news, but apparently she was about to get some.
“As I understand it, Baldwin’s heir is his nephew by his sister Sibylla, and in the event of the boy’s death, his sister Sibylla would become queen and her husband would rule as her consort.”
“Yes. That is correct.”
“Her husband . . .” He reached for the wine again.
“Guy de Lusignan,” Maria Zoë prompted.
“Yes, Guy de Lusignan . . . I knew him before he came to the Holy Land—and far better than I would have liked. Indeed, I was once his prisoner.”
Maria Zoë looked startled at that.
“It was twenty years ago, madame, and the Lusignans were in rebellion against the Crown—or against the Duchess of Aquitaine, to be precise. I was just a young knight then, recently knighted and serving my maternal uncle, the Earl of Salisbury. At the King’s request, Salisbury was escorting Queen Eleanor across her own county of Poitou when we were abruptly attacked by the Lusignans. You have to understand, madame, that we were not expecting any such attack. It was a fine spring day, and we had stopped to water our horses in a little stream and removed our armor to cool off and take some light refreshment in the shade. The horses had been untacked. My uncle, recognizing the Lusignans and discerning their hostile intent, saddled his fastest palfrey and ordered the Queen to mount and ride it to the nearest castle, assuring her the rest of us would hold off her pursuers. She, as I said, had no trouble riding astride, and she was soon flying to safety, while the rest of us scrambled to don our armor and to catch and saddle our horses.
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