“Damn you, woman!” The sergeant intentionally raised his voice, hoping to wake the Queen so she would hear the news from him even if this Coptic woman refused to let him tell her face to face. “The Saracens have gone! Just slipped away in the dark of night, like the creatures of hell they are!”
His words were drowned out by the blowing of a horn. Although the sound was far away, it was penetrating, and both Rahel and the sergeant lifted their heads and listened.
“Holy Cross!” the sergeant exclaimed and started pounding down the stairs, leaving a bewildered Rahel behind him.
As he burst out of the keep, he nearly collided with other men pouring out of the garrison tower and tripping over the people in the ward. “Out of the way! Out of the way!” the sergeant-in-charge shouted furiously, not waiting for sleepy civilians to obey him before kicking them aside. He forged his way through the sea of refugees, indifferent to the wailing of infants and the curses of their parents.
The horn was answered by another horn from a tower of the citadel, and suddenly the Dowager Queen, shrouded in a fur-lined cloak, her hair loose, was standing on the landing of the stairs to the keep, as the sun crept over the horizon and bathed the sea of humanity in brittle morning light.
“Open the gates, you idiots!” the sergeant shouted. “Open the gates! Don’t you recognize the horn? The Baron of Ibelin is approaching!”
Maria Zoë still wasn’t properly dressed, but she had covered her hair with a wimple and veils, and she’d replaced the thick, fur-lined cloak with a linen surcoat as she waited for Balian’s squires to finish undressing him. A bath was being prepared by the household servants, and their ears were long as they listened.
“. . . So he broke off the siege and pulled out in the night, just as he did last time.”
“Without a battle?” Maria Zoë asked anxiously. Balian looked very haggard and exceptionally dirty and unkempt.
“Without a battle, though we did some skirmishing with some of their patrols. The problem is that Baldwin was feverish again, so we didn’t follow as hard on their heels as we should have done. Salah ad-Din rapidly took advantage of that fact to withdraw over Samaria rather than heading due north to Damascus. The Bishop of Sebastian saved the city from sack by releasing some eighty Muslim prisoners of war he held there, but the Saracens completely razed the Templar settlement at Zarin, slaughtering every man, woman, and child before driving off the livestock and scuttling back across the Jordan. As soon as we had word of the direction they’d taken, I got Baldwin’s leave to bring a force to Nablus. We came as fast as we could.”
“I’m sure you did,” Maria Zoë assured him, stepping forward and gesturing for him to step into the bathtub. “Come, relax. I’ll massage the back of your neck,” she coaxed.
Balian nodded, but first he dismissed his squires. “Get some rest,” he advised. “You can see to my armor and equipment in the morning.”
Gabriel and Ernoul nodded to Maria Zoë and then slipped gratefully out of the room. Despite their youth, they too seemed finished, she noted, all but falling asleep on their feet. Maria Zoë shooed the other servants away and sank down beside the bath, handing Balian the olive-oil soap for which Nablus was famous.
Balian let out a sigh of relief as he sank into the warm water and dunked his head under it to get rid of the sweat and dust clinging to his hair. As he came up he started soaping himself down, remarking as he did so, “Humphrey brought the knights of Toron, but he couldn’t lead them. It was downright embarrassing to watch. They just ignored him for the most part, doing as they pleased or taking orders from a certain Sir Cyrus. I don’t know who he is exactly, but he was charismatic, loud, and self-assertive—everything that Humphrey is not.”
Maria Zoë said nothing. She rather liked her son-in-law, but Balian had taken an instant dislike to him because he was weak and timid. Barry went even further, calling him “effeminate.” Maria Zoë’s feelings for him were colored by the fact that Isabella so obviously loved him and insisted he was good to her. To her husband she noted, “He’s only seventeen.”
“I know! Do you want to know what Barry and I were doing at seventeen?”
“Not really,” Maria Zoë answered, smiling and gesturing for Balian to lean forward so she could massage the back of his neck. “Apparently young Frankish noblemen do many regrettable things when young,” she remarked lightly. But then she paused and added in a serious tone, “Guy de Lusignan was murdering English earls.”
“What?” Balian sat up so fast he splashed water out of the tub, and Maria Zoë gave a sharp cry of protest as she got wet. Then she told him the gist of what Sir William Marshal had told her about Lusignan and the Earl of Salisbury.
“Christ have mercy on us!” Balian exclaimed, staring at her.
“Yes. Now calm down and let me rub your shoulders. There’s nothing we can do about Guy de Lusignan right now.”
“How did we come to this?” Balian asked, rhetorically but with no less anguish.
“He’s not King yet,” Maria Zoë reminded him. “Maybe Baldwin V will grow up big and strong and throw his stepfather out of the Kingdom. You’ve heard that Agnes de Courtenay died?” Maria Zoë made no attempt to disguise her delight at this news. “Without her to poison the boy’s ears, he stands a better chance of learning wise government while still young. His mother’s never shown any interest in him and is too stupid to have much influence anyway, so he’s under the wise tutelage of Tripoli. Meanwhile, Guy might get himself killed in some accident, as your brother Hugh did, or maybe he’ll catch malaria as William de Montferrat did or dysentery as Amalric did. We don’t know what will happen. Who would ever have thought that a boy suffering from leprosy would be able to defeat the combined forces of Syria and Egypt again and again and again?”
“If only we were defeating them, Zoë, but we’re not. All we do is chase them away, and they come back again when it suits them, stronger than ever. He’s wearing us down, Zoë.”
“That’s your exhaustion speaking, my love. You’ll feel better after some sleep.”
Balian didn’t contradict her. He took a deep breath and tried to relax, grateful for the feel of Maria Zoë’s strong thumbs moving in small circles, rubbing the tenseness from the muscles on the back of his neck. Her fingers were soon working away his headache as they massaged the back of his head next. His eyes closed, he asked, “How did you manage to get everyone into the citadel? We didn’t see a single casualty as we passed through town—or were they all in the north and west?”
“No, we cleared those quarters as well. Only the Muslims refused to come, and I don’t know what happened to them.”
“Fools! They were slaughtered in Ibelin!” Balian reminded his wife.
“I know; I visited shortly afterwards, remember? But we didn’t hear any screaming in Nablus, as Richildis described at Ibelin. Either they did have an agent of the Sultan here, who guaranteed their safety—or, I suspect, they had the sense to slip into the countryside. Sir William Marshal killed the first Saracen to appear before the castle, by the way. You should have seen it. He lowered his lance, and three seconds later his opponent was dead. Then Sirs Gregory, Godfrey, and Martin reinforced him and they unhorsed or wounded another three of the leading Saracen cavalry, which convinced the others to withdraw and regroup. Our knights raced back into the citadel and we raised the drawbridge. But we couldn’t have withstood an assault, nor did we have sufficient stores to feed so many people more than four or five days.”
Balian could hear the doubt and uncertainty in his wife’s voice, so he sat up and twisted around in the bath to look her in the face. “You did the right thing, Zoë. It’s what Richildis should have done at Ibelin. Never forget: if you look after your people, they will look after you.”
“But what if you hadn’t come?” Maria Zoë asked him back, tears springing to her eyes as the tension of the last twenty-four hours overwhelmed her.
“Then you would have negotiated a surrender,” Balian told her earnest
ly.
Maria Zoë bent and kissed him.
He returned the kiss, then drew back and held her face in his wet hands. “Zoë, as long as I live I will do all I can to protect you and our children, but we both know I may be killed any day. If that happens, you must then see to the safety of our children yourself.”
She nodded, but the tears were now spilling out of her eyes. “I didn’t have time to be frightened, but this citadel hardly deserves the name!”
Balian stretched forward to kiss her eyelids, then pulled her closer and held her in his wet arms. “But you saved every Christian man, woman, and child in Nablus! They won’t forget that.”
Maria Zoë pulled back to remark cynically as she wiped the tears away on her sleeves. “I’m not so sure. They are just as likely to blame me for the loss of their property.”
Balian shook his head. “I don’t think so. Now let’s finish the bath so we can get to bed. I have missed you sorely these past weeks.”
“And I you,” she admitted, leaning to give him a lingering kiss that affirmed her desire. The danger she had just escaped made her desperate for the reassurance of his presence and his love.
Chapter 13
Jerusalem, March 1185
IT HAD SNOWED DURING THE NIGHT and the roofs were white, but the cobbles were black where the snow had melted and mixed with dirt and manure. The party of riders made slow progress on the slippery stones, and the shopkeepers lining the street took advantage of the fact to try to lure them inside with promises of flea-free beds and spiced wine. Eventually, however, they reached the large residence on the corner of Jehoshaphat Street and the Street of Spain. The broad stone façade of the three-story flat-roofed building had a large arched door giving access to the inner courtyard, and a battery of windows protected by iron grilles on the ground level. The third story was marked by double-light windows with delicate double pillars separating each pair. But the most distinctive and unusual feature was a loge on the second floor, supported by a line of simple Doric columns stolen at some forgotten date from a long-lost Roman structure.
The lead rider leaned out of his saddle and rapped on the wooden door with his mailed fist. Almost at once the double doors were thrown open to admit the twenty riders. They were wrapped so completely in fur-lined cloaks that it was hard to tell that the men were armored, or that there were two women in the middle of the group.
Inside the courtyard, Humphrey de Toron jumped down and went to help his wife dismount. He was wearing thick sheepskin boots that made no sound as he moved, and unlike the mailed feet of some of his retainers, they did not slip on the wet cobbles. He held Isabella’s bridle and off stirrup so she could get down, and then turned the horse over to a young black youth who appeared out of nowhere and grinned at him.
“Eskindar!” Isabella recognized Dawit’s younger brother. “You’re all grown up!”
“I’m fourteen!” he answered in annoyance.
“Where’s Dawit?” Isabella asked next, looking around the congested courtyard.
“I don’t know,” Eskindar answered indifferently. “I’ll take Sultana. She’ll be happy to be home.” Isabella’s mare had been bred, born, and raised in the Ibelin stables and had been a wedding gift from her stepfather.
“So am I!” Isabella announced. Indeed, she could hardly stop herself from throwing her arms around the Ethiopian in sheer delight, but she could feel Humphrey stiffen beside her. So she slipped her hand in his instead and flashed him a smile.
Humphrey could not begrudge his wife her joy at being home. He knew how miserable she had been at Kerak, and they had found Toron inhospitable, too. It was hard to feel “at home” in the cavernous but nearly unfurnished fortress. But he was jealous of her affection for her mother and stepfather, because the treatment he had received from his own mother and stepfather had been so different.
The Dowager Queen was already coming down the stairs into the courtyard, and Isabella let go of his hand to run to her. “Mama!” She ran to her mother so fast that her hood fell off her head, revealing her neat white wimple. Then Maria Zoë was clutching her firmly, exclaiming in dismay, “Child! You’re as tall as I am!”
“I’m not a child anymore!” Isabella answered with a laugh, looking back over her shoulder at Humphrey.
Humphrey took the cue and duly advanced to bow to his mother-in-law.
“Come!” Maria Zoë responded. “Not so formal!” She touched her cheek to his, first left and then right. As she stepped back she urged, “Come inside; you’re nearly frozen!”
The solar, warmed by a roaring fire, was overflowing with dogs, children, and servants bringing up hot spiced wine, meat pasties straight from the oven, and hot fig and raisin cream, Isabella’s favorite sweet. Helvis and John greeted their unfamiliar half-sister politely as their mother had instructed them, and Nanny Anne brought the toddler Margaret and baby Philip for Isabella’s inspection before spiriting all four children away, trailed by two of the dogs.
Isabella and Humphrey were urged to sit down in the chairs closest to the fireplace. They had hardly taken their places before Ernoul bounded in, grinning. At the sight of the squire, Humphrey smiled for the first time and stood to embrace him.
“Have you brought the poems you promised?” Ernoul asked, with a familiarity that made Maria Zoë raise her eyebrows slightly, but Humphrey was clearly not offended.
“Yes, everything is with my luggage. I’ll bring them to you as soon as—”
“No rush!” the squire told the baron graciously. “But when you’re settled I’ll take you to St. Anne’s. They have an amazing library.”
“Ernoul!” It was the stern voice of the Baron of Ibelin as he entered the solar. “The Baron of Toron is here to attend a session of the High Court, not to gallivant around Jerusalem in search of romances and poetry with the likes of you!”
Ernoul bowed deeply to his lord and took a step back so that the barons could greet each other, but he was grinning, evidently indifferent to the rebuke.
Balian dutifully embraced his son-in-law, but both his wife and his stepdaughter could see the men were uncomfortable with one another. Humphrey’s smile was gone, and Balian’s expression was carefully guarded.
“When will the High Court meet? Do you know what this is about?” Humphrey asked as they pulled back.
Balian gestured to the seat Humphrey had vacated and took his own place beside his wife. “The High Court will meet as soon as we have a quorum. That should be tomorrow or the next day. Oultrejourdain, Beirut, and Sidon are not here yet. As to what it is about,” Balian took a deep breath, “I think you can guess. The Queen Mother is dead, so the last voice favorable to Jaffa that the King trusted—rightly or wrongly—is silenced. Jaffa remains obdurate and has made not one gesture of reconciliation. The King is determined to exclude him from both the succession and the Regency.”
“Can he do that?” Humphrey asked, frowning uncertainly.
“Legally, the High Court decides who will be King,” Balian reminded him, adding, “even if there is a strong inclination to take the closest relative of the last King. The High Court selected Baldwin IV’s successor when we crowned his nephew. So—no, King Baldwin cannot alone designate his successor’s successor, but the High Court can.”
“And—if not Sibylla and Guy—who, then?” Isabella asked in a slightly breathless voice, suggesting either fear or eagerness.
Balian looked intently at his stepdaughter. He remembered vividly how vulnerable and yet brave she had been during her captivity at Kerak. When he and the rest of the army had arrived to relieve the siege, he remembered thinking she looked like a child playing grownup in a wimple declaring her married status, but a body that was still wholly childlike. She was not so childlike now. Her chest was no longer flat, and her waist had narrowed. She was nubile, very pretty—and very alert. It struck him that while her body was not yet mature, her wits and heart had been forced to grow up rapidly—even prematurely—in the hostile environment of Kerak. Isa
bella might be only on the brink of physical maturity, but her brain and ambitions were far ahead of her body.
“I’ll be honest with you,” Balian answered his stepdaughter, with a very short glance at her husband. “King Baldwin favors a mature and experienced military leader from the West.”
“But I thought his embassy to the West had yielded nothing,” Humphrey complained.
“That is an exaggeration,” Balian corrected him. “Henry of England has instituted a special tax, the ‘Saladin Tax’ they call it England, and the proceeds of this tax are paid directly to the Templars and Hospitallers in equal portions so that they can finance the reconstruction of castles and hire mercenaries here.”
“That hardly addresses the question of the succession,” Humphrey pointed out, and Balian’s lips narrowed. Humphrey was a puppy with soft down on his cheeks, but he spoke in a pedantic tone that got under Balian’s skin.
“Not directly. I was simply pointing out that the embassy did yield us significant new financial resources. Furthermore, according to the Hospitallers, Henry II was far more tempted to come to Jerusalem than his final rejection would suggest. He called together a council of his barons. But then Heraclius poisoned the atmosphere by losing his temper and accusing Henry of deceit, saying he came from the devil and would go to the devil—hardly diplomatic behavior, not to mention that he thereby insulted the King of Jerusalem as well as the King of England.”
Maria Zoë could tell that Balian was furious, but he kept his voice down. It was only the clipped way he spoke that betrayed him. Balian would never forgive the Patriarch for excommunicating the good William of Tyre, or for this latest blunder.
Balian had his temper on a curb rein, however, and continued. “The real reason Henry of England would not come to our aid, Sir William Marshal tells me, is that he fears his lands in France would be attacked by Philip of France the moment he left for the Holy Land. He would have liked to see his son Richard take the bait, however, as there is no love lost between them. Richard, on the other hand, according to Sir William, fears that if he sets out for the Holy Land, his father will snatch the Aquitaine away from him; he prefers a bird in the hand to one in the bush.”
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