As Ibelin’s feet hit the cobbled surface of the courtyard, Reginald de Sidon pushed his way through the crowd to grab Balian by the arm and clap him on the back. “Well done!” he murmured in a low voice with a glance toward Barry, before he held his hand out to Ramla and welcomed him.
Ramla nodded curtly to his fellow baron and took his hand, but he did not return Sidon’s greeting verbally.
“Let’s get this over with,” Ibelin urged his brother, and Sidon nodded his approval.
A royal squire bowed and gestured for them to follow. He turned away from the series of sick bays along the ground floor, with their rank smell of ill humanity crowded together, and led them up a narrow flight of stairs. Ibelin automatically let Ramla take the lead and followed in his wake, his view largely blocked by his brother’s broad back. People were coming down the stairs, but Ramla made no room for them, forcing them to back up against the wall to make way for him instead.
At the top of the stairs a knot of men was standing just in the hallway, but Ramla ignored them and turned to enter a cavernous refectory. “Uncle Balian!” a voice called out, causing Ibelin to falter in his stride. There were only two people left alive who called him “Uncle Balian”: Eschiva and Isabella. But this was a man’s voice, Toron’s.
Ibelin had not spoken to Toron since he had betrayed his wife, the High Court, and the entire Kingdom by sneaking off in the dark of night to pay homage to Sibylla—and so put Guy de Lusignan on the throne of Jerusalem. Neither his grieving and humiliated brother nor he would be here today if it weren’t for Humphrey’s cowardice.
“Uncle Balian!” Humphrey tried again, closer now as he pushed his way through the crowd of men, who stood back for him, their eyes shifting back and forth curiously.
Ibelin clamped his teeth and refused to look at his stepdaughter’s husband. He had recovered from his astonishment, and rather than waiting for Toron he pressed ahead to catch up with Ramla, leaving a wounded Humphrey ignored in his wake.
The refectory was gigantic, and the King was on the dais. The High Table had been put away, and he sat in the high-backed armed chair usually reserved for the Grand Master, in full view of everyone who entered the room. Sibylla was beside him on a similar but slightly smaller chair. They were the only two people seated. Both wore crowns and ermine-trimmed robes, and while Sibylla sat primly in her chair, Guy de Lusignan sprawled in his, his very pose a provocation.
The sight of him reminded Ibelin that William Marshal had taken his leave this past month, with the words that he could not remain in a Kingdom ruled by a “murdering fool.” “When I came,” Marshal had admitted, “I thought I had at last found the true use for the gifts God gave me. I had wasted my talent with sword and lance in foolish games, for self-gain, and most recently in the service of an unworthy boy—but here, I thought, I had found my destiny and the reason God made me such a formidable fighting man. When I helped your wife defend Nablus, I was exhilarated beyond description. I felt a sense of purpose and blessing that was more exhilarating than the greatest tournament prize or the praise of Eleanor of Aquitaine. And now?” He had paused dramatically before declaring sadly, “Henry the Young King was foolish and unbridled. He had the Plantagenet temper and lacked his father’s steadying sense of reality. He dreamed big and was frustrated when things did not go as he planned, but he was never truly evil. He knew self-doubt and remorse. He loved his father too much rather than too little, and if only the Old King had shown him a little more trust . . . But it doesn’t matter. Guy de Lusignan is a totally different man. He does not know his own shortcomings, and he gloats over every victory—no matter how ill deserved.”
He was certainly gloating now as he looked down the length of the huge hall, past the massive pillars supporting the fan vaults that seemed to grow out of them. He had recognized Ramla and Ibelin, and the smirk on his face was undisguised. He did not even have the courtesy to sit upright, but remained lounging in his chair, one foot thrust out and the other cocked under his throne. He leaned his upper body on his left elbow.
“You go first,” Barry hissed at Balian, causing Balian to frown slightly. Barry was senior by both birth and titles, so it was not proper for Balian to go first. But Barry gritted his teeth and repeated, “You first, Balian! Do as I say. You’ll see why.”
There was no point in hesitating any longer. Already people were whispering, and Guy’s eyes had narrowed. Ibelin strode forward and went down on one knee just before the dais. “Your grace, I have come to do homage for the Barony of Ibelin.”
“You certainly left things to the last minute, didn’t you, Ibelin?” Lusignan pointed out in a loud voice, harvesting snickers from the sycophants that always congregated near seats of power. Balian did not even bother trying to identify them.
“I was in no hurry,” Ibelin answered.
“Yes, I can see.” Guy lazily got to his feet and came to the edge of the dais. Ibelin held up his folded hands and waited as Guy dragged out the humiliation as long as possible, clearly enjoying the sight of Ibelin on his knees before him in a pose of prayer and pleading. Finally he deigned to put his hands over Ibelin’s and accept the oath of homage. Ibelin stumbled over the words because he was remembering that day, more than a decade ago, when he had given this same oath to a frightened, tear-stained youth who had just lost his father. Baldwin had been so frightened of his Crown, but Balian’s gesture had helped the boy recover some of his poise. When he had pledged himself to Baldwin, he had meant it — body, mind and soul. He had wanted then to protect Baldwin with every fiber of his body.
And Guy de Lusignan? Jesus God! What a terrible thing it was to swear an oath to an unworthy man! Again William Marshal came to mind; Marshal claimed he had agonized over committing sacrilege and banditry in the service of his young king. Surely God did not expect a man to uphold an oath to those lengths? Surely God did not expect a man to sacrifice his immortal soul for the sake of an earthly lord?
It was over, and Ibelin got back to his feet, his knees as stiff as if he’d been on them for hours. He bowed his head curtly and then backed to the side to make way for his brother. He turned to look at Barry, nodding slightly to encourage him.
Ramla had put a smile on his lips, although his eyes were deadly serious. He strode forward, his boots pounding loudly on the flagstone pavement as stillness descended over the room, and all held their breath to see Ramla pay homage to the man who had first stolen his bride and then the Kingdom itself.
King Guy had not sat down again after Ibelin’s homage, and he waited full of anticipation. He too was smiling, and his eyes glittered with triumph.
Ramla came to a halt, but he did not drop down onto one knee. “I am here to publicly renounce all my lands and titles in favor of my son Thomas!” he announced in a booming voice that echoed in the arches overhead—and set off a veritable conflagration of wagging tongues. Everyone was talking at once except, it seemed, the principals: King Guy and the Baron of Ramla. Even Balian found himself saying, “Barry! You can’t—”
“What did you say?” the King demanded ominously, cutting short the chatter around him.
“I said I would not demean myself by taking an oath to the likes of you! You may have seduced a stupid girl”—Ramla spat the words in the direction of an indignant Sibylla—“and bought the likes of fat old men”—he gestured toward Edessa—“or convinced vultures like Oultrejourdain and Ridefort that they can feast on your weakness”—his gesture took in the bald Oultrejourdain and the tonsured Ridefort, who (Balian thought) did look remarkably like vultures at that moment. “You have blackmailed the barons and bishops with threats to their lands, honors, and families”—his gaze took in his brother and the Barons of Caesarea and Hebron. “But there are two men in this Kingdom you can neither buy nor break: Raymond de Tripoli, Count in his own right, who will not come to heel, and I. I will take my sword where it will not be discredited, to Antioch.”
This declaration ignited another ripple of exclamation across the ha
ll. Balian was still stunned. If only Barry had told him what he planned to do! It wasn’t that Balian didn’t understand his brother. He could see that Barry did not want to stay in Ramla or Mirabel anymore. He had buried too many children, and neither of his marriages had been happy. This had as much to do with Barry running away from his memories, his mistakes, and his unfulfilled dreams as it did with refusing to bend his knee to Lusignan. Not that his hatred of the other man wasn’t real, but he would surely have been able to overcome it if he had had something left in Ramla that he cherished—as Balian had at Ibelin with Maria Zoë and his small brood of children.
The problem was, Barry didn’t have the right to leave his lands and titles to Thomas. The conditions of his divorce from Richildis had been that Eschiva remained his heiress—regardless of issue from subsequent marriages. Since Godfrey’s birth, Barry had sought to find ways around that agreement, consulting various lawyers, and even putting pressure on Eschiva herself.
But Ramla was blindly continuing to the still stunned Guy de Lusignan, “When my son Thomas comes of age, it will be his decision whether he takes the oath of homage. That’s fifteen years from now—and, God willing, there’ll be a better man sitting where you sit now before he has to make his choice. Meanwhile, he and his lands will be under the guardianship of my brother of Ibelin.” Ramla gestured to Ibelin, still standing to one side.
Balian started to protest, to remind him that Eschiva was his heiress and that Thomas, no less than his lands, fell to her keeping, but he bit his tongue. This was Barry’s moment. Why detract from it? He would work things out with Aimery and Eschiva directly.
“I think that is all we have to say to one another,” Ramla concluded with a smile that reached his eyes this time. He truly seemed relieved to have given away his entire inheritance, and with a spring in his stride he pointedly turned his back on King Guy and his entire court and strode out of the refectory with Balian, somewhat uncomfortably, in his wake.
“This is the second time your father has tried to disinherit you!” Aimery shouted in fury, as he paced the beautifully appointed room at the Pisan palace with its magnificent view of the port of Acre. His boots clicked on the marble paving, and the hilt of his sword flashed in the sun pouring through the open window.
“I don’t care,” Eschiva answered in a strained voice, seated in the cushioned chair beside the bed with its sumptuous hangings.
“What do you mean, you don’t care?” Aimery shot back at her. “It’s your inheritance! If your father is such a fool that he’s prepared to throw it all away while still alive, then Ramla and Mirabel are yours! He can’t go back on the agreement he made when he divorced your poor mother!”
“I don’t want to disinherit my baby brother,” Eschiva told her husband steadily, her hand on her belly.
“Your baby brother isn’t likely to live very long,” Aimery retorted practically. “It’s your uncle who’s profiting from this. My God! With Tripoli refusing to pay homage, if Ibelin controls Ramla and Mirabel, he’ll become the most important baron in the Kingdom! He’ll command the largest single contingent of troops in the entire Christian army! He’ll have more knights than Caesarea and more than twice as many knights as Oultrejourdain!”
“What’s so wrong with that?” Eschiva croaked out, her voice tight as she suppressed the sobs welling up from her chest.
Something in her voice caught Aimery’s attention, and he turned to look at her. Tears were slipping out of her eyes, and Aimery finally saw what Balian had seen a few weeks earlier: she was far too thin, frail, and hollow-eyed for her twenty-two years. “Eschiva,” Aimery exclaimed in a voice softened by shock, “are you all right?”
“All right?” she gasped back, a sob escaping with her words. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve lost my youngest child, my stepmother, and my brother Godfrey in the last three months. And now my father’s left the Kingdom, never to return, without bothering to say goodbye. I know that to you they were just vehicles for conveying property, but to me they were people. People I loved.”
“Eschiva! That’s not fair! I loved Henri as much as you did!” The look in her glittering eyes was so scornful that he corrected himself. “No, you’re right, no one can love a child as much as a mother does, but that does not mean I do not grieve for Henri—and rejoice that you are with child again.”
“Of course.” Her lips twisted as she added bitterly, “One child or another, it’s all the same to you—as long as it’s a son, of course.” She paused, watching her husband wince and draw back, alienated by her tone, before noting, “I used to think you were different from my father, but you’re not. All you care about is having sons—even if it kills me!”
“Eschiva! That’s not fair!” Aimery was truly taken aback by her bitterness. He felt he’d been very considerate of his child bride. He had waited until she was mature and ready for him before bedding her, and he’d never reproached her for miscarrying their first child. He’d lavished gifts on her when she’d given him little Hugh, and he’d been generous, too, at the birth of Burgundia and Henri.
“Yes, it is,” Eschiva told him coldly, her tears dry now as she faced him down. She wasn’t entirely sure what had come over her, but she was so very, very tired of grieving and crying. She felt as if she had wrung the last tear out of herself and was now drained of emotion. She was so exhausted by grief and disappointment that there seemed nothing left to lose. She found herself saying bluntly, “I wonder, sometimes, if you don’t want me to die.”
“Eschiva! How can you say that?” Aimery asked, flabbergasted. It was truly the farthest thing from his mind.
Eschiva shrugged. “Now that you’re the brother of the King, no doubt you can get yourself a better, richer bride.”
“Richer than Ramla and Mirabel? Hardly! It’s your father who has again tried to beggar us! I don’t understand why you aren’t as angry with him as I am,” Aimery admitted, his anger with her father re-ignited.
Eschiva thought about that. “I was always a disappointment to my father. That’s just the way it was. I’ve never known him any other way. But I was so in love with you. I adored you.”
Aimery was chilled by her words; she spoke in the past tense. At length he asked softly, almost apprehensively, “And what’s changed?”
Eschiva looked at him with large, weary eyes, trying to understand her feelings herself. She decided, “I think it was as I watched my stepmother writhing in agony to give my father yet another son. I realized that one day the same thing would happen to me, because you’re exactly like him. You see me as a means to gain property and produce heirs. You come to my bed to make children, and you take your pleasure elsewhere.”
Aimery caught his breath at that, shocked to think she knew about his little liaisons. After all, he tried to be discreet about them.
Eschiva saw and noted his reaction with a small cynical smile, before assuring him, “I wouldn’t mind, really, if you did it to spare me pregnancy or out of respect, but that’s not why you do it, is it? You sleep with other women out of sheer appetite—just because they’re there and they’re willing. As far as you’re concerned, it has nothing to do with me at all. I’m your wife, the mother of your children, the source of future properties and titles. What does that have to do with satisfying your sexual itch?”
“Eschiva!”
“Why are men so shocked to hear women describe them?” Eschiva asked him, leaning her head against the back of her chair in exhaustion. She gazed at him through half-closed eyes, and then she shrugged and took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter why you do it. Your sexual escapades don’t really interest me. Go ahead and have them, but I’m tired of being pregnant. I’m tired of facing death. And I’m tired of being your claim to Ramla and Mirabel. If you want to know the truth,” she found herself saying, lifting her head again and looking at him through narrowed eyes, “I’d rather that Uncle Balian had both. He’s shown more concern for me and my welfare than my father or you ever did!”
/> “Would you beggar us both—not to mention your children? What about Hugh and Burgundia? What sort of future do you think they have if we are landless?” Aimery replied in outrage.
“Why are we landless?” Eschiva countered coldly. “Isn’t your brother—your younger brother—King of Jerusalem?” She was completely calm now, too exhausted for any further passion. “And who made him King? Who made sure the Templars secured access to Jerusalem? Who found the keys to the royal vestments after Master des Moulins threw them out the window? Who calmed Guy down whenever he had an attack of nerves?
“You made him King, Aimery, even though you knew he was unworthy. Why, if it wasn’t out of expectation of reward? Well, where are the rewards? Why aren’t you Count of Jaffa and Ascalon?”
Her thrust went home, and it went deep. Why indeed? How was it that he was still only Constable of Jerusalem, a post he owed to Baldwin IV? Why did he have to fight with his father-in-law about his wife’s inheritance? And why fight with Balian d’Ibelin, who was surely one of the more competent commanders and saner voices in the Kingdom? A man it would be far better to have as a friend than an enemy. Jaffa and Ascalon together were more valuable than Ramla and Mirabel—or indeed, Ramla, Mirabel, Nablus, and Ibelin put together.
For a moment Aimery stood stiffly, feeling only resentment and anger directed at his brother, and then the woman in front of him gradually penetrated his consciousness again. Eschiva, for all her brave words, looked so fragile and vulnerable, and he saw the fear etched on her face. She was truly terrified of childbed, and it was that fear that had spoken.
Aimery closed the distance between them and went down on his heels before his wife. “My little dove, forgive me! You are right: my affairs are meaningless, idle self-indulgence. The only woman I love is you. And I love you not just because you were supposed to bring me Ramla and Mirabel. That was the reason I married you, of course, but I have come to love you for yourself—for your smiles, the way you sing to our children in the morning, the way you curl up in my arms at night. Yes, I want to make children with you, but not just for the children. And, yes, I want heirs, but not at the price of losing you. I—admit that I underestimated your fears.” He looked up at Eschiva with a contrite expression and asked, “Can you forgive me?”
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