“The hell—” Guy started. Aimery stamped on his brother’s foot so hard that Guy yelped and then stared at him in outrage, but fell silent.
“There is wisdom in this,” the Hospitaller Master spoke into the stunned silence. “By swearing now, without knowing whom they will choose, we avoid all factionalism. It could just as easily be Guy de Lusignan as Raymond de Tripoli—or young Humphrey de Toron here.” He gestured toward an astonished Humphrey, who took a step back as if horrified by the thought, thereby treading unwittingly on Ibelin’s toe.
“Let us all swear this, and we swear to abjure all strife for the sake of the Kingdom.” He continued, and he bishops joined in with hearty “Hear, hear” and “In the name of God” and the like, but there was a tangible resistance on the part of the fighting men to swear a blind oath.
“My lords,” the King’s voice cut through the atmosphere. “I am dying.”
No one dared speak after that, and his words hung in the air.
“I am dying. You must swear—now—on the True Cross.”
Reginald de Sidon dropped so heavily onto his knees that Ibelin winced for him, but beside him the Bishop of Nazareth also went down on his knee—and then, one by one, the other bishops and barons knelt and bowed their heads. “Swear on the True Cross,” the Bishop of Bethlehem lifted his stentorian voice, “to accept as our liege lord and King whomever His Holiness the Pope, the Holy Roman Emperor, and the Kings of England and France in their wisdom, inspired by God, proclaim successor to Baldwin V, should he die without heirs of his body, so help you God.”
“I do so swear.” Ramla’s voice led the rest, loud and clear and firm, and Ibelin glanced at him, a little surprised by his brother’s willingness to accept this unnamed ruler. In the collective oath swearing, it was also impossible to know if anyone abstained, but Ibelin strongly suspected that Jaffa did, while Oultrejourdain would think nothing of breaking an oath and had scoffed at the True Cross more than once, calling it a “piece of old wood.” Ibelin did not believe this oath was going to solve anything—particularly when one considered that the Kings of England and France were bitter enemies and unlikely to agree on any candidate. But the King seemed reassured by the collective oath swearing, and Balian noted that he relaxed somewhat on his throne.
Men were getting up off their knees, and again there was the expectancy of being dismissed, but King Baldwin had yet another surprise for them. He again turned to one of the Knights of St. Lazarus, and the knight went to the window behind the throne and signaled to someone outside. A moment later, the herald called for order, announcing, “King Baldwin V of Jerusalem!”
The boy was dressed in silk robes embroidered with the arms of Jerusalem and wore a small gold crown, evidently made for his still small head. He was blond and blue-eyed and very lovely—like a fragile glass vessel, Ibelin found himself thinking, containing the royal blood.
“Now,” Baldwin IV announced from the throne, “my nephew will lead you—to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher—and we shall pray—together—for God’s grace—upon this Kingdom—and upon my nephew. And we—shall—then go—together—” It was clear that the dying King could hardly find the strength to speak. He was struggling to get the words out: “to the—Temple—of God—” King Baldwin sank back and nodded to the Bishop of Bethlehem.
“It is the King’s wish,” the bishop continued in a voice that seemed to boom after the dry and fading whispers of the Leper King, “that his nephew formally offer his crown to God, as once the Christ Child was offered to God and was bought back by his mother. Baldwin V will offer his crown to the Christ in the Temple of God, and receive it back in exchange for your promises to serve him loyally.” The High Court was feeling collectively manipulated, and men were exchanging looks of unease, but it was hardly possible to refuse. Furthermore, it appeared that several other bishops had been told about this last part of today’s session, and they were starting to pull on their gloves and put on their miters, while Bethlehem told them to start forming up outside in the courtyard. “I will lead with the True Cross,” he told them.
“Ibelin!” the dying King called from the throne.
“Your grace?” Balian, who had been turning to file out of the chamber with the others, stopped and looked back toward the throne. “Take—my nephew—on your—shoulders—so he is—above all—as—he—should be.”
Every man in the room suddenly went still and silent. All motion toward the door halted. Ibelin could hear intakes of breath, and protests waited on a dozen tongues. If the young King was to be carried, he ought to have been carried either by the highest-ranking nobleman present, the Prince of Antioch, by his future Regent, the Count of Tripoli, or arguably by his guardian, the Count of Edessa; even his stepfather, the Count of Jaffa, outranked Balian.
“Your grace,” Ibelin started to answer, his eyes meeting those of Raymond de Tripoli, who was standing near the door, looking offended. “My lord of Tripoli—”
“Is slight—of stature,” King Baldwin cut him off. “You are—tallest—tallest man—here.”
That was not a plausible explanation of this unexpected honor, and Ibelin again looked to Tripoli, pleading with him to intervene. Tripoli frowned, his lips narrow with disapproval, but he waved his hand in a gesture of irritation that seemed to suggest it was of no importance.
From the throne the King said softly, as if it were a last farewell, “Balian—please.”
Ibelin turned, bent down, and swept Baldwin V up onto his shoulders, warning the frightened little boy to duck his head as he strode toward the door.
It started drizzling as Maria Zoë and Isabella returned to the Ibelin palace and a visit with Eschiva, who was only just recovering from giving birth to her second son. Maria Zoë shooed her daughter up the courtyard stairs to the solar, where she threw two fresh logs on the fire before turning to remove her cloak. As she did, she was astonished to discover Isabella hugging herself as tears streamed down her face.
“Sweetheart! What’s the matter?” Maria Zoë asked baffled.
“Oh, I know it’s a sin,” Isabella managed between sobs, as she dropped her head in her hands, “but I’m so jealous!”
“Of Eschiva?” Maria Zoë asked, astonished. She was pleased that Eschiva seemed content in her marriage, and she was relieved that Aimery was a courteous and kind husband, but it never occurred to her that her daughter might be jealous. Eschiva and Aimery’s relationship was nothing like what she had with Balian. Indeed, from what she could see, Humphrey cared more for Isabella than Aimery did for Eschiva.
“I’d like babies of my own,” Isabella admitted.
“Good heavens, child! You have plenty of time for that! You’re much too young. You should be thankful—”
“I’m not too young!” Isabella answered firmly—only to have the effect shattered by a hiccup.
“Of course you are!” Maria Zoë insisted, leading her over to a chair by the fire and sitting her down there.
“I’ve started my flux!” Isabella countered.
“Which is well and good, but it’s not the same thing as being ready to bear a child to term—much less survive childbirth. Believe me, there is no reason to rush this!”
“But I want to be Humphrey’s wife in more than name!” Isabella protested, dropping her face in her hands and crying more strongly than ever.
Maria Zoë put her arm around Isabella’s shoulders and let her cry herself out. Only after she’d settled down a bit did her mother bend and kiss her cheek and ask in a very soft voice, “Are you saying Humphrey still hasn’t consummated the marriage?”
Isabella nodded without looking at her mother.
Maria Zoë used the tip of her linen sleeve to wipe Isabella’s face dry of tears, and then kissed her again. “Does Humphrey know you want him in your bed?”
“Oh, we sleep together every night, but he—he doesn’t show any interest in me. It’s like we’re just sister and brother.”
Maria Zoë digested this information and
tried to analyze it. It would have surprised her less if an older man, like Aimery, refrained from sexual relations with a child wife—but Humphrey was now seventeen, an age when most youth tended to be obsessively interested in sex. Balian had admitted (one evening after too much wine, when the escapades of Gabriel had gotten them onto the topic of youth and sex) that he had celebrated his knighting with two girls, sisters, who had vied with one another for his favor until they finally agreed to share him. More recently, Gabriel had managed to get Dawit’s sister Tsion pregnant, causing a household crisis when the usually soft-spoken Mathewos demanded in a rage that Gabriel be castrated. They had eventually solved the crisis by insisting that Gabriel marry Tsion, but the incident highlighted how youths let their loins obscure their reason. So it did seem odd that Humphrey did not show any interest in his now nubile wife—especially since he was otherwise so devoted to her.
Cautiously Maria Zoë noted, “He did promise not to do it until you were ready. You told me that yourself. So maybe he’s just waiting for some word from you?”
“But I’ve told him I have my flux! I told him! And I’ve tried to cuddle with him—you know—more, more maturely—face to face. But he just turns his back on me and pretends to go to sleep.”
That didn’t sound normal to Maria Zoë, and she resolved to speak to Balian about it—but for the moment she wanted to comfort her daughter, not increase her anxiety. “Sweetheart, I think this is just something that needs more time. After all, you have lived together as brother and sister for so long that Humphrey hasn’t come to think of you as a woman yet.” She stroked Isabella’s arm as she spoke.
Isabella hiccupped. “I suppose not,” she conceded before adding, “but you see it really was terrible at Toron, and—” Maria Zoë looked hard at her daughter, waiting. Isabella dropped her eyes. “It wasn’t the castle, really. It was the knights of Toron. They didn’t respect Humphrey. They—they ignored him and wouldn’t do what he told them to do.”
Maria Zoë remembered Balian had told her something similar more than a year ago, but she was still appalled. In her shock, she only managed to stammer out, “What—what did he ask them to do?”
“It didn’t matter. If he told them to come on a certain day, they didn’t arrive until much later. If he told them to send him the cattle that they owed him, all they sent were excuses. It was one thing after another. It was as if they were all still taking orders—or at least awaiting orders—from Châtillon. Aimery said as much to me. He said Oultrejourdain hadn’t given up control of Toron—and he never would unless he was forced to. But how could Humphrey force him? Humphrey is still so afraid of him. . . .”
Maria Zoë stroked Isabella’s back. “Then it is probably best that he did what he did and gave it up. Let Aimery deal with Châtillon. They are well met.”
Isabella sighed. “Yes, I suppose. It’s just . . .”
“What?” Maria Zoë asked gently.
“I just wish—I wish—that Humphrey would—would be bolder,” Isabella admitted. “I wish he would be—more of a man.”
Ibelin, April 1185
“Pay attention!” Father Michael admonished, cracking his wooden pointer on the reading pulpit for emphasis. John winced and frowned, while his sister Helvis cast him a reproachful look. Helvis loved their lessons. They set her and John apart from “the babies” (Margaret and Philip), who were still confined to the nursery and the care of Nanny Anne. Helvis and John, in contrast, had “graduated” to the care of Fathers Michael and Angelus, who had the unenviable task of trying to teach them their letters as well as their catechism.
Helvis was clever, and she could already form her letters neatly and clearly. She liked writing, taking time with each letter, her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth as she worked with great concentration. On the chalkboard in front of her, Father Michael could clearly read the exercise: “Our FathEr WHOart in HEavEn. Holow BE ThY namE. ThY Kingdom comE, ThY Will bE . . .”
John, on the other hand, was impatient with writing and found it difficult to form the letters neatly. His chalkboard looked more like pigeon scratchings in the dirt of the dovecote. He had particular difficulty with round letters, nor could he sit still while trying to write. His feet were swinging under the bench, which was too high for him, causing the whole bench to teeter on the uneven floor with an incessant clacking sound.
“John’s still a baby,” Helvis concluded with the superiority of an elder sister. “He’s not big enough to learn how to write.”
“Yes, I am!” John shot back furiously. “But something’s happened! Didn’t you hear the herald arrive? And that was over an hour ago! Something terrible has happened! Salah ad-Din has probably attacked again! Or Nablus is under siege!”
“Master John! Your duty is to learn your letters so that you will one day be able to read and write messages, not sit here speculating,” Father Michael replied sternly. At just twenty-six, however, he didn’t really command the same respect as his colleague Father Angelus, who was twice his age and tasked with teaching the children Greek and mathematics.
“Yes, and I will learn,” John answered earnestly, “but now I want to know what has happened! My lord father should have been here long ago!”
Father Michael could not contradict the boy, since the lessons had indeed run overlong, and he himself was wondering what had happened. Since the Lord and Lady’s return from Jerusalem, Lord Balian had never failed to collect his son from the little classroom to take him for a ride. It was, Father Michael knew, the highlight of the boy’s day—better even than meals. Helvis was still afraid of horses and preferred to trail after her mother in whatever she was doing, so that the afternoon rides were a time for John to be alone with his father.
Father Michael ordered John to finish his exercise, but he went himself to the window to see if he could discern anything unusual. All seemed calm and normal out in the ward, except that he could see one of Lord Balian’s palfreys, the red stallion Rufus, tied to a post before the stables. He was already tacked with a black saddle blanket under the baron’s fine leather saddle, waiting as impatiently as John. He kept stamping his feet at flies and lashing his tail back and forth, as much in a gesture of displeasure as to chase away the flies. As Father Michael watched, he started dancing about, jerking at his lead so angrily that Mathewos emerged from the stables and began walking the fractious stallion to calm him down. The Ethiopian, too, was casting anxious glances toward the great hall.
That was not a good sign. Unlike Father Michael, Mathewos knew where the messenger was from, and his unease suggested the expectation of bad news was well founded. Michael sighed and turned his attention back to his charges, going around behind John to offer, “Let me hold your hand and guide you while you form the letters.”
Instead, John jumped up and clambered over the back of the bench. He ran to the door, and tore it open. Sure enough, his sharp ears had heard the approaching footsteps before the others, and his father stood in the doorway.
“Papa! What’s happened?” John demanded, looking up at him.
“I’ll tell you in due time. Are you finished?”
“Yes!” John exclaimed, even as Helvis and Father Michael denied it.
Balian walked over to his son’s tablet, looked down at the scrawls, and smiled to himself before turning to his son and noting, “I’m sure you can do better than that, but I am late, and for today I think we can achieve no more. Come, children!” He held out both his hands, and Helvis and John readily each took one. “Your mother wants you to come to her, Helvis,” Balian told his firstborn. “She will explain when you get there. John, we will take our usual ride.”
At the foot of the tower, Balian bent and kissed his daughter on her soft cheek, then sent her scurrying toward the stairs up to the great hall with a playful pat on her backside. He then led John across to the mounting block, where Eskindar led Rufus. Balian used the block to swing himself up into the saddle while Eskindar held the off stirrup, and then John scrambled
from the block into his lap, flinging his right leg across the pommel. When John was settled, Balian took up the reins, and Rufus at once picked up his head and ears.
They crossed the wooden drawbridge into Ibelin town, turned right, and rode down the cobbled street toward the southern gate. People recognized the baron and nodded their heads, doffed their hats, or called greetings to him, depending on their temperament. John held the pommel of the saddle firmly in both hands—not from fear, but rather pretending he was holding the reins—as he looked straight ahead between Rufus’s ears.
Once they left the town they were in the pomegranate orchards, blooming with red flowers at this time of year. Most days, Balian turned east at the next crossroads and rode out of the orchards toward the tilled fields and pastureland to check on the state of his domain. Although he rarely intervened directly, his tenants had become accustomed to his watchful eyes following them as they plowed, sowed, harvested, and threshed. He often stopped at his mill, too, his presence reminding the miller that he was not his own man—and the tenants that any attempt to go elsewhere (at least too often) would be detected.
But today he turned away from the main road, following a narrow and uneven path that made Rufus’s gait so rough that John held on to the saddle for real. Soon the horse was straining on a steep incline, the pomegranates gave way to figs and palms, and the soil became increasingly sandy. At last they crested the hill and John caught his breath: in the distance the sea glistened and gleamed, blue-green beyond the sand.
“Do you know what people in France call this place?” Balian asked his son as he drew up and took in the view himself.
John shook his head.
“Outremer—Beyond the Sea.” He pointed with his right hand. “That sea.”
“But they are beyond the sea to us,” John noted, as if offended by the name.
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