Eschiva was moved almost beyond words. She had not expected this of him. She could certainly not imagine her father acting like this, humbling himself to his wife. Maybe Aimery was different. “Will you stop fighting with my family, then?” she asked in a small, uncertain voice, testing him.
“If that’s what you want,” Aimery agreed reluctantly.
Eschiva nodded. “Yes, it is.” And she reached out and took Aimery’s hand in hers and squeezed it. It would be so wonderful to go back to being in love with him.
In relief, Aimery leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. “I love you, Eschiva. Wait and see, I will make you happy again. I promise.”
Jerusalem, December 1186
“How dare he defy me!” Guy raged, his outrage reflected in the rawness of his voice. He had no sooner renewed the truce with Salah ad-Din than the Lord of Oultrejourdain attacked and seized a caravan, making a complete mockery of his word. It was hardly surprising that Salah ad-Din was demanding reparations—and action against Oultrejourdain. “I am the King! It was the King’s peace! Châtillon can’t just ignore my peace—much less my direct orders to pay reparations.”
“He always has in the past,” retorted Henri d’Ibelin with a shrug. He had been tasked by Oultrejourdain with bringing his response to the King. King Guy had demanded that Oultrejourdain release all the captives, restore the treasure, and pay reparations as well; Oultrejourdain replied that he’d do whatever he damn well liked in his own territories.
Guy paused in his outraged pacing about the David Tower to stare at Oultrejourdain’s messenger. “What do you mean?”
“The Red Sea raids were made during a truce, too. Surely you remember?” Henri pointed out.
“That was the leper’s truce. Who could take a man halfway to his grave seriously? Of course Oultrejourdain did what he pleased, when all he had to answer to was that walking corpse! But I’m no corpse! I’m no leper! I am Guy de Lusignan!” He said it with great flourish, but it failed to impress the other two men in the room: Henri d’Ibelin and Gerard de Ridefort, Grand Master of the Temple. Henri just shrugged and leaned back against the wall with his arms crossed. Ridefort, rubbing his beard with his hands, seemed deep in thought. Guy looked from one to the other, baffled by their apparent indifference to his plight.
“You could declare his lands and titles forfeit,” Ridefort decided at last.
Henri hissed in contempt. “You can’t believe Châtillon would give a tinker’s damn for such a pronouncement. He’d just thumb his nose at the King and say: ‘Come and take them.’”
“Yes,” Ridefort agreed. “I’m sure he would—but why shouldn’t we oblige him?”
“You think you can take Kerak, where Salah ad-Din has twice failed?” Henri scoffed.
“When Salah ad-Din attacked, the army of Jerusalem came to Kerak’s relief; this time it won’t.”
“And what do you think Salah ad-Din will be doing while we fight among ourselves?”
“Why should he complain? He has demanded that the King discipline Châtillon. If we move against him, we are doing the Sultan a favor. We’d return any prisoners and treasure we found after seizing Kerak—”
“Not much, you can be sure!” Henri scoffed, adding, “And why in the name of the loving Christ should we do Salah ad-Din a favor?”
Ridefort shrugged. “That’s not the point. There’s no harm in doing the Sultan a favor if it serves our interests as well. The Templars can take control of Kerak and ensure that the King’s word is respected from now on.”
Even King Guy looked skeptical at that, seeing that the Templars notoriously did not owe any fealty to the King of Jerusalem.
Ridefort countered by insisting, “No one is in a better position to guarantee the safety of Kerak than the Temple. With us in control of Kerak, your flank would be absolutely safe.”
“And the barony of Oultrejourdain gutted,” King Guy countered. He was by birth a nobleman, and his instincts were not to do anything that weakened his own class. The Temple was dangerously powerful already. He didn’t like the idea of making them more powerful still.
“So what? Who is Oultrejourdain’s heir, anyway?” Ridefort made a dismissive gesture before answering his own question: “That spineless sop Toron. He couldn’t hold Kerak against a company of nuns, let alone the Saracen. He’ll be happy to take another money fief and let the Templars hold Kerak.”
“You’ll still have to take it first,” Henri reminded him.
“Why shouldn’t we be able to take it?” Ridefort asked back, annoyed.
Henri just shrugged. “Be my guest. Throw your best knights and sergeants down the fosse. It won’t bother me to see your dead piled up like firewood—or the Templars humiliated. But I daresay the jihadists will be even happier!”
“Stop this stupid bickering!” King Guy ordered. He had no intention of letting the Templars attack—much less hold—Kerak. “I need to think. Leave me!”
Henri dutifully stood upright, and with a mocking smile bowed deeply toward his King. Ridefort was far less gracious about being dismissed so peremptorily, and warned, “Don’t trifle with me, Lusignan. My Templars are the only reliable troops you have as it is. What do you think happens to your Crown if I withdraw them?”
King Guy caught his breath and his cheeks flushed with indignation, but he was even less inclined to back down. “Leave!” he ordered.
Henri had barely reached the stables to call his squire and collect his horse when a page came rushing after him and ordered him to return to the King. Henri made a contemptuous sound in his throat, but he pulled himself together and returned to the audience chamber. By the time he entered, his face was impassive. “Your grace,” he acknowledged as he bowed.
“Come closer,” King Guy ordered, gesturing for him to approach the throne.
Henri obliged.
“Why did he do it?” King Guy demanded when Henri was right in front of him.
“Who do what?” Henri asked, confused.
“Your lord! Why did Oultrejourdain defy my orders and attack a damned caravan? He can’t be that hard up for cash! Why risk war at this time? Why not let things be?”
“Because he believes the best defense is a good offense. He believes we weaken Salah ad-Din when we take the war to him.”
“How?”
Henri shrugged. “Well, to be fair, in the past, Oultrejourdain’s attacks discredited Salah ad-Din with his own subjects by making him look weak. They also prevented him from subduing his enemies by forcing him to face us. However,” Henri shrugged, “I must admit I don’t see the point of this particular attack, either. Indeed, if you ask me, I think Châtillon has lost his edge. Maybe, he spent too long in that dungeon, and even if he doesn’t talk about it, he hates the Saracens in a visceral sort of way. He cannot make peace with them, so truces rouse his bile. The existence of any truce is to him a provocation. He looks for ways—and excuses—to violate them.”
“Hmm.” Guy considered that. He had no way of knowing if what Henri said was true, but it would appear to explain Châtillon. “But truces are good for the Kingdom,” he suggested, sounding a little unsure of himself.
“Indeed,” Henri agreed. “They generally benefit us far more than the enemy, because truces encourage trade and pilgrims, both of which enrich us—especially the royal treasury.”
“Yes, of course,” King Guy nodded agreement, feeling more confident.
Henri watched him carefully; this was his first opportunity to be alone with Guy de Lusignan since he’d become king, and to observe him so closely. Oultrejourdain had always dismissed Guy as weak and easily manipulated, but Henri had not formed his own judgment—until now. He paused and thought things through one more time and then, with a nod to himself, commented, “Ridefort made a valid point just now.”
“What do you mean?” the King asked defensively.
“About you lacking knights devoted to you. You have your brother, of course, and your wife’s uncle of Edessa—”
&n
bsp; “Edessa’s no knight! He’s a fat old courtier, an intriguer.” King Guy stopped himself just short of adding “parasite.” Ever since Guy had been crowned, Edessa had been making demands on him, wanting this and that source of income, this and that honor. He was insatiable!
They all thought he owed his throne to them, and they were all trying to blackmail him! Guy hated them all.
“My sword’s for sale,” Henri put it bluntly.
Guy looked over sharply, astonished. “What?”
Henri shrugged. “As I said earlier: Oultrejourdain’s losing his edge—maybe even his hold. I’m looking for something better.”
Guy frowned. “And what’s your price?”
“The first available barony,” Henri answered.
King Guy laughed. “Really? Not modest, are you?”
Henri shrugged again. “My brother’s brat won’t live for long. Why not give me his when it falls to the Crown?”
“Ramla and Mirabel?”
“Yes.”
“Now, that’s a thought. First of all, my brother’s wife—your niece—is the heiress to Ramla and Mirabel, as my brother pointed out to me. All that theater at Acre was just that: theater. Aimery, however, says his wife begged him not to disinherit her infant half-brother, and asked him to leave Thomas and his lands in Ibelin’s care—for now. Aimery, God love him, is inclined to indulge her, since I have given him the income—if not the title—of Jaffa and Ascalon. I daresay, however, he’d take it very badly if I rewarded you with his wife’s barony after the boy is dead.”
“In that case, maybe another barony will come due. I’m not fussy or in a particular hurry—as long as you pay me well in the meantime.”
“How ‘well’ would that be?”
“Three hundred bezants a year.”
The King was taken aback by how ready the figure was on Henri’s tongue. Had he been planning to propose this all along? But he’d been dismissed. How could he know he’d be called back?
“The best part of it,” Henri pressed his case, “is that Oultrejourdain need never know I’m in your pay. I return as if we’d never had this conversation. You pay me secretly, and I keep you informed of Oultrejourdain’s future plans—before they can embarrass you. If something should by chance happen to Châtillon (and his lady, of course), then you name me Baron of Oultrejourdain. I can hold Kerak just as well as or better than the Templars!” he noted with enough acidity to be convincing, at least to Guy de Lusignan, before adding, “Or if another barony comes vacant earlier, you give me that.”
“Just what do I get out of all this?” King Guy wanted to know.
“First, information about Oultrejourdain. Second, a knight you can call on against all your other enemies. And third,” Henri leaned close and dropped his voice, “a man without scruples or honor to do your bidding.”
King Guy drew back at the last offer and gazed askance at Henri.
Henri laughed. “Think about it.”
Chapter 17
Tiberias, mid-April 1187
TRIPOLI’S PALACE AT TIBERIAS HAD MANY features of a Roman villa. It sat on the west shore of the Sea of Galilee, with a long terrace paved with mosaics and partly covered by wine trellises facing the lake. Large amphorae sunk into the terrace held palms, oleanders, and hibiscus bushes, the latter budding but not yet in bloom. A fountain fed by the lake bubbled out of the wall at the back of the terrace through a terra-cotta lion’s head into a small pool. The gurgling water provided a continuous gentle counterpoint to conversation.
On this early spring day the lord and his guests sat on the terrace enjoying the warmth of the sun, although Maria Zoë and Tripoli’s lady, Eschiva of Tiberias, both wore woolen shawls to protect them from the fresh, chilly breeze off the Sea of Galilee. The men had no such need of extra clothing. Tripoli, his stepsons William and Ralph, and Ibelin were warm enough in their well-padded gambesons, chain mail, and surcoats.
Despite the pleasant surroundings, the mood was tense. “Salah ad-Din has sent out letters to all his vassals and allies,” Tripoli reported, “ordering them to muster for an invasion. Al-Adil will be bringing up the Army of Egypt, and Husam al-Din Lu’lu has orders to bring the fleet to Damietta, presumably to then proceed along the coast as the Egyptian army moves north. Taqi al-Din was ordered to reinforce Aleppo—although I doubt he’ll stay there, now that Bohemond has sought and received a separate peace for Antioch. It is far more likely he’ll bring his forces to join Salah ad-Din in Damascus.”
The others listened intently, although what Tripoli was saying was hardly news to his wife and her grown sons—or indeed to Maria Zoë and Balian. It was the reason they were here.
Ibelin nodded solemnly and considered the man before him intently. Tripoli was now in his late forties, and his dark-brown hair was salted with gray. Never a heavy man, he looked gaunt, and his face was leathery and lined. The permanent expression formed by those wrinkles reflected both disappointment and increasing bitterness.
Tripoli, Ibelin reflected, was an intelligent man, and whether or not he agreed with everything Tripoli had done over the years, the older man’s policies had on the whole been sound. Yet Tripoli was a man singularly lacking in charm, and he had failed to win many friends. Barry, Balian thought wistfully, with his far more dubious aims and inconsistency of purpose, had always been better at winning friends and followers. People hadn’t always taken Barry’s opinions seriously, but they had for the most part liked him.
“My lord,” Ibelin opened earnestly. Tripoli made an annoyed gesture to suggest that such formality was not necessary between them in this environment, but Ibelin remained deadly serious. “I have heard rumors that you too have made a truce with Salah ad-Din.”
“I had no choice,” Tripoli answered bleakly, without dissembling.
Ibelin held his breath to stop himself from expressing his dismay, then glanced at Maria Zoë, whose Greek network had provided them with the intelligence.
“Guy does not even command the respect of his supporters!” Tripoli explained. “You saw what Châtillon did the moment he had a chance.”
“Châtillon has never respected anyone—not even the Greek Emperor. He has always acted on his own, and Salah ad-Din knows it. He has vowed his revenge, and no doubt he will eventually have it. What do his actions have to do with your own?” Ibelin demanded, still trying to fathom the depth of this betrayal.
“Châtillon has provoked this latest call to jihad and an invasion that is quite unnecessary.”
“Every invasion is unnecessary, from my point of view,” Ibelin remarked dryly.
“Correct, but in the past we had a king to rally behind; now we have a usurper.”
“You’re saying you would rather make a truce with Salah ad-Din than fight beside Guy de Lusignan,” Ibelin replied, measuring his words carefully. For all that he could sympathize with Tripoli’s contempt for Guy de Lusignan and recognize that he had the law on his side, Ibelin still could not stomach the consequences.
“Guy had the nerve to demand a reckoning of my Regency during the reign of Baldwin V!” Tripoli replied indignantly. “As if I were a clerk in his employ!”
Ibelin took a deep breath before answering as levelly as possible, “Which is galling and insulting, and certainly requires no response. Nevertheless, Salah ad-Din remains our enemy, and if we do not fight together, we will be devoured separately.”
Tripoli’s step-sons William and Ralph stirred uneasily, and Ibelin spared them a glance. William was now in his late twenties and a formidable fighting man. Ibelin had first seen him fight at Montgisard, when he had still been a very young and untried knight, but a keen one nevertheless. Ralph, on the other hand, was barely twenty, but what he lacked in experience he compensated for with passion. He had been only a boy when his father died, and Tripoli had been more of a father to him than the man who sired him. It was Ralph who burst out now, “You cannot expect my father to serve under Guy de Lusignan, any more than your brother did! Guy is not King of Jerusa
lem.”
Ibelin considered the young knight and tried to keep his own emotions in check as he answered patiently. “I understand your feelings, Sir Ralph, but tell me this: do you honestly think that the County of Tripoli can survive if the Kingdom of Jerusalem falls?” Somehow it was easier to put the question to Ralph than to Tripoli directly.
Sir Ralph, however, only dropped his eyes and looked over at his stepfather, who was equally uncomfortable with the question. Tripoli drew back in his chair, his lips a firm line, as if he did not intend to answer, but then he remarked primly, “It is my duty to protect my people from war if there is any way I can do so.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Ibelin returned, exasperation starting to creep into his voice. Tripoli responded by clamping his jaws together to suggest it was the only answer he was going to get, and Balian glanced at his wife in frustration.
Maria Zoë frowned. A sleepless night made her look older than her thirty-four years. When her informants had brought the news of Tripoli’s betrayal, she had been outraged, and she and Balian had ended up talking all night before deciding they had to confront Tripoli face to face. She shook her head at Balian to indicate she was as speechless as he was.
Ibelin drew a deep breath and tried a different approach. “The County of Tripoli is arguably an independent and sovereign state for which you can make truces as you please, but Tiberias is without doubt a barony of Jerusalem. You cannot conduct an independent foreign policy for Tiberias.”
“Tiberias is far more vulnerable than Tripoli!” Sir Ralph burst out hotly.
Ibelin ignored the young knight. “To suggest to Salah ad-Din that you can include Tiberias in a truce is,” Ibelin paused and looked from Tripoli to his wife and then to Tripoli’s stepsons, before returning his gaze to Tripoli and stating bluntly, “treason.”
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