Defender of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  “So who does King Baldwin want from the West?” Isabella brought the conversation back to the point.

  Balian sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “So he doesn’t tell you everything?” Humphrey asked, sounding rather satisfied by this fact.

  “No King tells anyone everything,” Balian answered, biting his tongue to stop himself from adding, “boy.”

  Maria Zoë felt it was time to intervene before the tension between her husband and son-in-law escalated further, so she turned to Isabella and asked: “Don’t you want to change out of those wet shoes? Let me send for some warm slippers for you.”

  Humphrey frowned in annoyance, but Isabella was thankful for her mother’s intercession, exclaiming, “That would be wonderful, Mama. It was such a cold trip! I can’t remember anything like it.” Balian knew exactly what Maria Zoë had done and why, so he calmed his own irritation, gesturing toward the refreshments and asking Humphrey if he didn’t want some wine.

  Ernoul at once jumped forward to pour, and the squire’s proximity seemed to mollify Humphrey a bit. He and Ernoul exchanged a smile, and Ernoul added a wink that neither Balian nor Maria saw.

  “Have you heard about the Templar election?” Balian asked his son-in-law, after Ernoul had withdrawn and Humphrey had taken a sip of the aromatic, hot, mulled wine.

  “No. Has there been one?” Humphrey sounded surprised. “I know Arnold de Torroja died even before he reached England, but have the Templars had a Grand Chapter already?”

  “Last week.”

  “And?” Humphrey pressed his wife’s stepfather.

  Balian took a deep breath and then drank deeply of the wine before answering. “A disaster. I honestly don’t know what the Templars were thinking—or rather, who was paying them.”

  “Papa! Surely the Templars can’t be bribed!” Isabella exclaimed, shocked.

  “Hush!” Maria Zoë silenced her daughter. “The Templars are just men, and they too are corruptible—it seems.”

  “Why do you say that?” Humphrey demanded to know. “Whom did they elect?”

  “Gerard de Ridefort.” Balian made a grimace as he spoke the name.

  “What’s wrong with Ridefort?” Humphrey asked. “He was Marshal and led the Templar relief of Kerak, didn’t he? He seemed to be a vigorous fighting man, better suited to leading the Templars than the aging Torroja.” Humphrey’s defense of the new Templar Master only lowered Balian’s opinion of him.

  “Ridefort may be a knight after your stepfather’s heart—brutal and brainlessly brave—but he is a man without subtlety or the ability to compromise. Everything to him is black or white, good or evil, right or wrong; he knows no shades of gray, no nuance, and no selfdoubt. That, my lord” (Balian hid behind formality to avoid calling his son-in-law “boy”), “is dangerous in a man in his position. On top of that, he holds a grudge against the Count of Tripoli for some ridiculous promise he alleges the Count made him.”

  “A lot of barons bear grudges against one another,” Humphrey answered with a shrug.

  “Raymond de Tripoli is likely to be Regent for Baldwin V. It is not good for the Templar Grand Master to be at odds with the ruler of the Kingdom at a time like this,” Balian answered steadily, fighting hard to keep his temper. He did not understand how the young man could be so naive, and he found it disconcerting.

  “Does Ridefort get along with the Hospitaller Master?” Isabella asked, distracting attention from her husband and earning a smile from her stepfather. At least she was thinking!

  “Not at all. Moulins is more monk than knight, and he is everything Ridefort is not: a man guided by reason rather than passion, cautious and circumspect.”

  A soft knock on the door was followed by the appearance of Rahel with the slippers Maria Zoë had sent for. At a gesture from Maria Zoë, Rahel helped Isabella, while Maria Zoë exploited the interruption to change the subject. Turning pointedly to Isabella, she asked innocently, “How are you settling in at Toron?”

  To her distress, Isabella’s face closed and her lips tightened, and it was Humphrey who answered. “I’ve surrendered Toron to the King in exchange for a money fief. Isabella and I will buy houses here and in Acre.”

  “You did what?” Balian asked in disbelief, sure he had misheard something.

  “I’ve exchanged the Barony of Toron for a money fief,” Humphrey repeated, his lips a tight, defensive line, while he fixed his gaze on his wine to avoid looking at his father-in-law.

  Balian opened his mouth and closed it again, casting a look at his wife to help him in his speechlessness. It was completely beyond his comprehension that a man—or even a youth—would give up a major barony worth eighteen knights for any sum of money. Taking money payments was demeaning; it put Humphrey almost on the same level as a groom in the stables or a purveyor of cloth!

  “Reynald de Châtillon had completely plundered Toron!” Isabella came to her husband’s defense. “The castle had almost no furnishings. Even the chapel was stripped!”

  “I’m sure he sold all the movable goods to help build the ships he launched in the Red Sea,” Humphrey complained, still evading Balian’s eye. He was pleading his case with his mother-in-law instead, adding, “I couldn’t ask Isabella to stay in Toron. We had no proper hangings for the walls, and they bled moisture in the winter.”

  “Half the windows in the residence didn’t have glass!” Isabella added. “And there were no glass lamps, either—just torches that smoked all the time. Not to mention the state of the latrines!” She made a face of disgust that shattered her mature image and made her look like a child again.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Maria Zoë protested, reaching out a hand to Isabella in her distress.

  “But, Mama! We knew Nablus had been sacked! You don’t have anything to spare.”

  “We could have found something—at least spare lamps and wall hangings,” Maria Zoë insisted with a look at Balian, who shrugged agreement.

  “We didn’t want charity,” Humphrey insisted firmly, frowning. “Taking the King’s offer made more sense. He wants Toron as a border fortress, not a residence, and for that he doesn’t need lamps and wall hangings.”

  “How did the King make this offer?” Balian wanted to know, remembering that the King had not left Jerusalem in six months.

  “He made it through the Constable.”

  “Aimery de Lusignan,” Balian noted, wondering if the King was even aware of the arrangement.

  “Eschiva came to visit and brought little Hugh with her. He’s such an adorable little boy!” Isabella told her mother enthusiastically, and the women again steered the conversation to uncontroversial topics.

  The Templar and Hospitaller Masters were not technically members of the High Court of Jerusalem, but they were almost always included, and there were dozens of knights from both Orders loitering around in the inner ward of the citadel when Ibelin and Toron arrived. At the foot of the stairs leading up to the great chamber of the Tower of David, Oultrejourdain was standing in conversation with a man in Templar habit, and Balian felt his son-in-law recoil at the mere sight of Oultrejourdain.

  The latter had replaced the straw hat he wore in the summer months to protect his shaved head with a cap made of bear fur he’d bought from a Russian trader. The man opposite him wore his well-lined coif up over his tonsure, but boasted a bristling red-and-gray beard that came halfway to his chest. He was a burly man even when standing beside the hefty Oultrejourdain, and he spoke French with a heavy Flemish accent that sounded guttural and common to Ibelin’s ear. It was Gerard de Ridefort.

  Oultrejourdain caught sight of his stepson and smiled at him like a wolf sighting a sheep. “Ah, my dear boy! Have you met the good Grand Master de Ridefort yet?”

  Humphrey didn’t answer directly, just clung to Balian’s shadow as the latter strode forward to greet Ridefort.

  “Ibelin,” the Grand Master growled, and turned his eyes on Humphrey as Oultrejourdain introduced him: “My stepson, former
ly Baron of Toron, but he gave that up for money, so I don’t know who he is anymore.”

  “I’m still Humphrey de Toron,” Humphrey insisted, more like a surly teenager than a proud baron.

  “Husband of the Princess Isabella,” Ibelin reminded the other two men.

  “Ah, how is dear little Isabella these days?” Oultrejourdain asked, with the same predatory grin.

  “She’s growing up,” Ibelin answered with a warning look, and then led Humphrey past the other two men and on into the great chamber of the Tower of David.

  The great chamber was already crowded, but Ibelin found his brother with Antioch and Tripoli and joined them, Humphrey still in tow. “Any sign of Jaffa yet?” Ramla asked him immediately.

  “No. Do you honestly expect him?” Ibelin countered.

  “Yes. I’ve heard he’s in Jerusalem, though he left Sibylla in Ascalon with their daughter.” Sibylla had still not given Guy de Lusignan the male heir he craved—very much to the satisfaction of those like Ibelin and his brother, who mistrusted him. “He lodged at the Patriarch’s palace.”

  Balian mentally noted that “birds of a feather flock together” as he scanned the room and confirmed that Heraclius had not yet arrived. He gathered that Oultrejourdain and Ridefort were awaiting the Patriarch and with him, Guy de Lusignan. An unholy coterie if ever there was one, he thought to himself with an inward grimace. And then, as if on cue, the Patriarch of Jerusalem swept into the great chamber, glittering in white satin robes stitched with gold embroidery, with rings on every finger and a jewel-studded cross around his neck. In his wake came Guy de Lusignan, wearing a supercilious smile that betrayed his nervousness. He wore his blond hair long and flowing about his shoulders. His chain mail was fancy, with bronze edging, but obviously virgin too. His sword held a disk of lapis lazuli in the pommel, and was suspended on a belt of enamel panels. It was bound around a silk brocade surcoat so heavy with gold embroidery it would not have disgraced the Caliph of Baghdad. To finish the picture, Lusignan’s spurs glittered with gemstones along the prongs enclosing his soft leather boots.

  Compared to the two principals, Oultrejourdain and Ridefort looked like poor retainers in their simple armor, plain surcoats, leather belts, and iron spurs—but they were what made Lusignan dangerous. They might physically follow in his wake, but intellectually they led him by the nose. Their very pretense of “support” was a means of persuading Lusignan to do their bidding.

  Ibelin’s eyes met Reginald de Sidon’s on the far side of the room, and for a moment they shared a grimace. Then Ibelin’s eyes slid to Aimery de Lusignan, who went forward to greet the Patriarch with a deep bow and kiss his ring before he gave his brother a demonstrative embrace. Aimery’s embrace was for the public, Balian calculated. Aimery thought Guy was a fool, but he was signaling to the rest of the baronage that he would stand by him now despite his personal feelings; his brother was his brother, and blood was thicker than water.

  Balian cast his own brother a look and saw the tension around his eyes, while the bitter taste of hatred twisted his lips in a caricature of a cynical smile.

  Finally, the herald announced King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem, and they all turned to stare at the doorway through which four knights of the Order of St. Lazarus were—with difficulty—carrying a narrow litter with long handles that enabled them to stand single file. They came slowly through the door, and the occupants of the room parted to make way, while all eyes focused on the man lying propped up on the litter, under white linens embroidered with the gold crosses of Jerusalem. The linen completely covered Baldwin IV except for his gloved hands, folded on his chest, and his masked face. But he wore the crown.

  As he was carried between them, the men in the room went down on one knee, out of respect both for the sick man himself and for God, who had visited this king upon them and would soon take him back to his bosom. When the Knights of St. Lazarus reached the throne, the litter was set down, and knights together lifted Baldwin IV up and placed him on the throne, arranging the white sheets around him, putting the scepter in the lifeless fingers of his left hand and the sword of state across his knees. Then they took the litter behind the throne and positioned themselves to flank the King, two on either side. Sir Daniel was the knight closest to the King’s right hand, Balian noted.

  “My lords,” the King spoke in a voice that echoed inside the mask and was now familiar to all of them. “I have summoned you—here—out of—deep distress—for the—the Kingdom—of Jerusalem. I will soon depart to—to whatever—reception Our Lord—has prepared for me. I am in His hands—more each day.”

  A mutter of “Amen” swept through the room; many of the bishops crossed themselves.

  “My successor. My nephew Baldwin.” The King was clearly having trouble speaking—whether from emotion or from physical weakness, it was impossible to tell. Balian felt the old urge to go to him, to tell him it was all right, that he need not say any more. Yet he could not. He was separated by a room full of more senior barons, by protocol—and by the knowledge that Baldwin had to continue, no matter how much it hurt him.

  “My nephew—Baldwin—is very—young.” Did he mean young or weak? There were rumors the boy was sickly, though Ibelin had no proof of it. “He—he will need a Regent—as soon as—I am gone. This Court must—today—decide on—who that will be. Today.”

  “I am the boy’s stepfather,” Guy de Lusignan started, only to be silenced by a cascade of hisses, boos, and protests.

  “We know where your Regency would lead us!” someone shouted.

  “Yes, to defeat!” someone else added.

  “You are not Sibylla’s legal husband!” Ramla bellowed. “You’re nothing but a male whore! A—” Balian gripped his brother’s arm and hissed at him to shut up.

  Barry looked at Balian in outrage, and Balian shook his head. “Let the others bring him down,” he said between his teeth, and nodded to the rest of the room.

  There was a veritable storm of protest against Guy de Lusignan that included most of the bishops and all the barons except Oultrejourdain, who was looking bemused but hardly provoked. Only Heraclius was supporting Lusignan, shouting in an ever higher voice that it was only “natural” that the boy’s mother be made Regent. “We have the precedent of Queen Melisende!” he tried to remind the High Court.

  “She was married to a fighting man, not a fop!” Sidon barked.

  The uproar was so loud that the King could not make himself heard above it, and Ibelin saw him turn his head to his escort. Sir Daniel opened his mouth and called for order in a voice that reverberated off the ancient beams overhead. Silence gradually fell on the room, and the High Court waited expectantly.

  “The High Court has—made it clear—whom they—do not want. Now, decide who—it should be.”

  “Your grace, there can be only one choice,” the Prince of Antioch stepped forward. “My cousin and yours—the Count of Tripoli.”

  Ibelin saw the new Templar Master start as if he had not expected this, but that hardly seemed likely. Tripoli was the obvious candidate, because he was himself a grandson of Baldwin II of Jerusalem and had ruled during Baldwin IV’s minority. Fortunately, the Templar Grand Master did not have a vote.

  Tripoli was speaking. “If it is the will of the High Court, your grace, I will take the burden of the Regency, but not guardianship of the young King.”

  Ibelin started. Why that? He looked at his brother, who knew Tripoli much better than he.

  “I would not have it said,” Tripoli answered the question himself, “if the boy should die before he comes of age, that I had a hand in it. I will rule the Kingdom in his name, but I will not bear responsibility for his person. Jaffa is welcome to—”

  “No, he’s not!” Ramla interrupted his ally, earning an astonished look. “Edessa should be guardian.”

  Although Jaffa resisted this at first, Ramla’s suggestion found a majority, and within a few more minutes it was settled. The hubbub that had greeted the King’s insiste
nce on settling the question of the Regency immediately died away and everyone gradually fell silent, expecting the King to now dismiss them.

  He did not. Instead, he drew a deep breath and announced, “My nephew—might not live long enough to—to rule. In the event—event that he dies—still—a minor—”

  The room was deathly still. Every man, even Heraclius and Jaffa, hung on the words issuing from the immobile mask. At the back of the room, men were straining hard to hear what the King said, for he was not capable of projecting his voice very far.

  “I want—the High Court—to swear—on the True Cross—” the mask nodded in the direction of the Bishop of Bethlehem. The bishop strode forward, holding the reliquary that was usually placed inside the larger cross when carried on campaign. The box, encrusted with precious stones, rested reverently in the palms of both his hands.

  After the Bishop of Bethlehem had taken up his place immediately to the right of the King, facing the rest of the bishops and barons, Baldwin IV resumed: “Swear—to accept as your King—the man chosen—by His Holiness the Pope, the Holy Roman Emperor, and the Kings of France and England.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence before Oultrejourdain had the nerve to ask what they were all wondering: “And who is that?”

  “I don’t know,” Baldwin answered, and Balian could almost imagine him smiling behind the mask.

  “What?” Guy de Lusignan recovered first. “You want us to swear an oath of allegiance to an anonymous King? Swear loyalty without knowing the identity of the man we are swearing ourselves to? You want us to swear to a cat still in the sack?”

  “It might be you, brother,” Aimery pointed out, the word “idiot” hanging unsaid (but clearly thought) in the air.

  “Swear—to accept—the choice of the Pope—the Holy Roman Emperor—and the Kings of England and France,” King Baldwin repeated. “It does not—matter—whom they choose.”