Ralph predictably exploded with denials, but William significantly did not, and Eschiva looked down at her hands in her lap. She was nervously twisting a signet ring around and around.
“If there is no king in Jerusalem, then I cannot commit treason against him, can I?” Tripoli shot back.
“We’re not talking about a subject’s treason to his king,” Balian snapped, losing his temper, “but about betrayal of the Kingdom itself! The Holy Land, for Christ’s sake! Jerusalem!”
“Guy de Lusignan betrayed Jerusalem!” Sir Ralph tried to argue, while Eschiva pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, casting frightened eyes toward the citadel that sat at the top of the steep bank leading up from the sea.
“My lord,” Maria Zoë addressed Tripoli directly, cutting through Ralph’s protests.
Tripoli bowed his head to her to indicate she should continue, as the others fell silent.
“Your truce with Salah ad-Din: does it include clauses that would provide you protection against Guy de Lusignan?”
To their surprise it was Eschiva who now lifted her head and answered for her husband, “It does. Guy de Lusignan is a murderer. We know that. And he is a seducer and a usurper as well. I do not trust him not to attack us. Raymond could withdraw to Tripoli, but this—” she gestured to the Sea of Galilee and the rich farmland that swept down to it from all sides—“is my heritage. I will not abandon it to the likes of Lusignan.”
“Nor I.” Sir William joined the conversation for the first time, his voice deep and firm. “This is my father’s heritage, and it is mine. My brothers and I are determined to hold it, with or without the help of my step-father. That he has stood by us is to his credit!”
Ibelin glanced at Tripoli and caught a fleeting smile that seemed to say: “So there you have it.” Tripoli might have been content to withdraw to his county and let Jerusalem go to the dogs, but his wife and his stepsons were not prepared to abandon their hereditary barony.
Ibelin drew on all his willpower to sound reasonable. “I sympathize,” he opened. “I do not respect Lusignan either, but I must return to my earlier question: Do you seriously think that you can retain your independence in Tripoli, let alone here, if the rest of the Kingdom falls to Salah ad-Din? If the Sultan defeats the army of Jerusalem, what will stop him from attacking you next? You can’t believe a truce will hold him back forever.”
Tripoli made a helpless gesture. “I don’t have an answer for you, Ibelin. I don’t like the options I’m given. But one thing seems clear: Salah ad-Din is more likely to keep his word than a man who murdered, seduced, and bullied his way into power!”
“How do you think Salah ad-Din came to power?” Ibelin shot back. “He’s no less a usurper than Guy is! Compared to the blood he has on his hands, our kings have been saintly.”
“Our kings, yes; not Guy de Lusignan.” Tripoli countered, absolutely refusing to accept that Lusignan was de facto King of Jerusalem—no matter the legal situation.
Ibelin, on the other hand, couldn’t ignore the fact that without the fighting men of Tripoli and Tiberias, the Kingdom was robbed of one-fifth of its strength. It made the prospect of stopping Salah ad-Din almost impossible. Furthermore, he was certain that Salah ad-Din would attack Tripoli as soon as it suited him. Salah ad-Din’s strategy was clear as glass: divide and conquer.
Ibelin looked at the peaceful landscape around him. Plum and apple orchards bloomed on the far side of the lake, casting a delicate haze of pinkish-white blossoms over the landscape. On this shore the hills were a vivid green, as grass, weeds, and wheat sprouted from soft soil, moistened by the winter rains. Bees hummed about the potted oleander and hibiscus bushes. It was so beautiful—and so fragile.
Balian’s eyes sought Maria Zoë’s, but her expression reflected only his own incomprehension, mixed with growing desperation.
“In the past,” Tripoli spoke again in a pinched, defensive voice, “I always did what was best for the Kingdom. I sacrificed my own interests, my health, my family, to the safety and prosperity of Jerusalem. And what did I get for it? Nothing! Worse: contempt and suspicion! Your brother was the only one who ever appreciated all I did for Jerusalem. Had King Baldwin kept his promise to let him marry Sibylla, we would have worked together. He would have made a splendid and vigorous King, and I would have been his Chancellor. . . .” All the bitterness of an underappreciated man was in his voice.
Balian could understand his frustration—but he could not understand Tripoli’s refusal to save the Kingdom he had indeed served so well for so long. “My lord,” he made a final plea. “With this separate truce, you withdraw from Jerusalem 20 per cent of her fighting power, and tear open a gap in our defenses that we cannot possibly make good. You are endangering hundreds of thousands of Christians and the Holy Land itself. Your defection may cost us Jerusalem! Can you face Our Lord—whenever your day comes—knowing what you have done?”
Tripoli would not meet Ibelin’s eyes. Instead he got to his feet, walked to the railing on the edge of the terrace, and stared for a moment out across the Sea of Galilee. Everyone waited. Finally he turned around and announced, “Until I have some guarantee from the usurper Lusignan that he will not seek to diminish or humiliate me, will not lay a hand on my status or my possessions, or otherwise threaten me or my wife and her sons, I must protect myself any way I can—even if that means making a defensive alliance with Salah ad-Din.”
Nazareth, April 1187
A stiff breeze buffeted the King’s bright-red tent. Sometimes it seemed to get caught inside, making the fabric bulge and shiver. Then suddenly the wind was gone, and the tent sagged back down to its usual shape and size. The mood inside the tent was nearly as stormy as the weather. Having returned from Mass at the Church of the Annunciation, King Guy was appalled to find that his army had not been swollen with the expected new arrivals. Aside from the troops from the royal domains and the six knights of Nazareth, he could not identify a single baronial banner. “Just who is here?” he demanded of his brother the Constable.
“Toron arrived just before noon.”
“Toron?” Guy asked back incredulously before adding, “The boy doesn’t command any knights at all anymore, does he?”
“He brought a company of crossbowmen. Pisan mercenaries.”
“Marvelous!” Guy rolled his eyes. “Is that all?”
“The Templars.”
“The Templars came with us!” Guy shot back angrily. “Where are the Hospitallers? Where are the rest of the barons? They were summoned to muster by noon today at the latest! It’s well past noon! Where are they?”
“The Hospital is no more subject to the Kings of Jerusalem than the Temple. You may request their support, but not command it. Master des Moulins sent word he would be here by dusk—no doubt to underline that point. Oultrejourdain sent word that he could not leave Oultrejourdain or reduce his garrisons by a single man so long as he was being harassed by Saracen raiding parties.”
Of all the barons of Jerusalem, Guy supposed Oultrejourdain was the man with the best excuse not to come, but it still annoyed him.
“Where are Sidon, Caesarea, Haifa, Sebaste, Hebron, and Scandelion?” He started to rattle them off, as if his brother did not know the barons of Jerusalem better than he.
“They have no stomach for an attack on one of their own,” Aimery retorted. “They advised you at the last meeting of the High Court that you should seek a reconciliation with Tripoli.”
“That was before he committed high treason by concluding a truce with our worst enemy. The man must be taught a lesson. He must be brought to heel. He thinks he’s better than me! That’s what all this is about! He thinks himself above an anointed King! If I don’t crush him, he will tear this Kingdom apart.”
“No,” Aimery corrected; “that is what you are doing by attacking him.”
“Gerard de Ridefort made it very clear that if I don’t teach him respect, others would start to imitate him!”
“Like Châti
llon, perhaps? Who has already defied you? Or Ramla, who has already abandoned you?”
“Gerard de Ridefort—” Guy started again, but he was interrupted.
A squire pushed open the tent flap and bowed to his liege. “Your grace?”
“What is it?” Guy snapped irritably at the youth.
“My lord of Ibelin just rode into the camp!”
“Ibelin! Thank God for that! With his brother’s and his wife’s knights, he commands the largest contingent in the entire army after Tripoli himself. He must have nigh on three hundred knights, almost as many as the Templars.” Aimery was about to correct his brother’s exaggerated estimate: Ibelin, Nablus, Ramla, and Mirabel together owed only one hundred sixty-five knights, and with household knights might field two hundred or a tad more, but not three hundred. Before he could curb his brother’s enthusiasm, however, Guy was already ordering the squire, “Tell him to camp to the left of the Templars.”
The squire looked frightened and glanced nervously at Aimery, preferring to address the Constable rather than the King. “Ah, my lord of Ibelin is alone except for two household knights.”
“What?” Guy gasped.
Before anyone could answer, Ibelin himself ducked through the flap and came to stand before a stunned Guy de Lusignan. For a moment they just stared at one another, Guy vaguely alarmed. Then Ibelin bent his knee and bowed his head so perfunctorily that it was almost insulting—before standing upright so close to Guy that he looked down on him from his greater height.
“Your grace, just what is the intention of this muster? Why were your vassals summoned to Nazareth with all their knights and Turcopoles?”
“To put an end to the treason of the Count of Tripoli!” Guy retorted, as he instinctively moved backwards so that he was not so directly under Balian’s nose.
“Treason?” Ibelin asked with raised eyebrows, as if he didn’t know what Guy was referring to.
“No vassal of Jerusalem has the right to make a separate peace with the Saracens! Tripoli may think he is an independent prince, but I will teach him differently. I will besiege him at Tiberias, and he will have to either kill himself or grovel on his knees before me.”
“Think again,” Ibelin warned, staring Guy down.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Guy demanded, lifting his chin defiantly.
“First, Tiberias is almost impossible to besiege, because the Sea of Galilee provides it with endless supplies of fresh water, fish to eat, lines of communication, reinforcement, and escape. Second, you have already driven away the finest knight in your Kingdom; it is stupid to lose the most powerful lord as well. In short, I am here to urge you to cease this madness. For the love of Our Lord Jesus Christ, in whose name we all serve, stop this war upon Christians and save your strength to fight the Saracens!”
Guy spluttered, repeating, “Tripoli is a traitor! He has made a separate truce with Salah ad-Din!”
“And why do you think he took such desperate measures?” Ibelin snapped back, causing Aimery to lift his head sharply.
“Tripoli has always favored accommodation with the enemy,” Guy replied. “He’s essentially a coward, afraid to fight.”
“Don’t be a fool!” retorted Ibelin, his face flushed with emotion. The Kingdom, the Holy Land, stood on a precipice—and if Guy could not be persuaded, harassed, or bullied into stopping his assault on Tiberias, they were all going to fall into that chasm and die. Not just the barons and knights of Outremer, but their wives and children, and the ordinary people in towns and villages across the Kingdom as well. Since his failure to convince Tripoli to accept Guy de Lusignan, Ibelin’s sense of impending doom had increased to the point where it utterly blotted out all other thoughts. He had become a driven man.
Aimery understood. Before Guy could answer indignantly, he cut him off with a simple: “Ibelin’s right. Tripoli is no coward! He’s fought for this Kingdom more often than you. And he’s no fool, either! So sit down and let’s discuss this like civilized men.” He pointed to the folding chairs, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, that furnished the royal tent. Turning to the terrified squire who stood stock-still just inside the tent flap, he ordered, “Breathe not a word of what has transpired here, and make sure no one else enters, but let us know if any other barons or the Hospitallers arrive.”
When the squire was gone, Aimery confronted his brother. “Edessa’s clever plan may have opened the doors of the Holy Sepulcher, and Heraclius and Sibylla between them may have put a crown on your pretty golden locks, but a fat count without a county, a stupid woman, and a debauched priest cannot keep you on your throne. More important: they cannot save your ass from Salah ad-Din! Do I make myself clear?”
Balian held his breath, knowing that Aimery was the only man in the world who could talk to Guy de Lusignan like this—even now the elder to the younger brother, no matter that the younger was an anointed king. Guy sat with his jaws clenched and his face flushed, but he did not interrupt or talk back.
Aimery continued, “You can either rip out your own guts by attacking Tripoli and leave two gutted carcasses for the Saracens to finish off, or you can reconcile with Tripoli and reunite this Kingdom.”
“How the hell can I reconcile with a man who refuses to accept me as his king?” Guy shouted at his older brother. In that instant Balian saw Guy’s fear and insecurity, and held his breath with hope.
“By begging him!” Aimery answered coldly, looking his brother in the eye. “Beg him on your knees if you have to. Tell him you need him. Thank him for his past service. Flatter him, cajole him, honor him, humor him. But stop treating him like an enemy, and make him an ally!”
When Guy did not answer, Ibelin risked speaking up. Cautiously, he noted, “I have spoken to Tripoli, your grace. He called his agreement with Salah ad-Din ‘defensive.’ His wife expressed sincere fear that you planned to attack her lands—”
“Nonsense! Why should I attack Tiberias?”
“Why, indeed?” his brother answered pointedly.
Guy glared at him. “What I meant is, I have no quarrel with his lady. It is Tripoli who has refused to pay homage. Until he does—”
“No! Stop! He’s checkmated you with the alliance with Salah ad-Din. He does not have to come to heel under the circumstances. And Ibelin is right about how strong Tiberias is. With the forces you have, you’ll hardly be able to invest it. You cannot force Tripoli to submit. You need to give him a reason to bend his knee.”
Petulantly, Guy protested, “He was demanding Beirut, and refusing to give account for his expenditure as Regent—”
“Forget it! Forget all your grievances against him. Forget everything but the essential fact that you need his two hundred knights if you want to still be King six months from now!”
“You expect me to just capitulate? To grovel at his feet?” Guy whined, already sounding small and deflated.
Ibelin took a deep breath, and with a glance at Aimery noted gently, “That won’t be necessary. Tripoli knows how damaging this fight is. He loves Jerusalem. If you demonstrate your goodwill by disbanding the army and returning to Jerusalem, and then give him a bridge to walk over, he will find his way.”
“What do you mean?” Guy asked skeptically, with a glance at his brother, who nodded.
“Drop all demands that he account for his past offices, and offer him Beirut in exchange for his oath of homage,” Ibelin suggested. He couldn’t be sure Tripoli would accept this, but he thought it possible. He had to believe it was possible. He needed some shimmer of hope.
The Constable nodded firmly, as relieved as Ibelin that there might be some means of reconciling his brother with his most powerful vassal. “That makes sense,” he reinforced Balian’s words to his brother.
Guy did not look exactly pleased, but he appeared to sullenly accept the need for compromise when he, too, nodded.
Nablus, April 28, 1187
With William Marshal’s departure, Georgios’ glory days were over. He was no longer a squire in all bu
t name, no longer responsible for a knight’s weapons and equipment, no longer included on journeys and musters. In short, he was no longer someone. Instead, he had been relegated back to the stables—although, thankfully, to the lord of Ibelin’s stables rather than his stepfather’s inn.
But here he was just another groom among a dozen—and they didn’t even assign him the best horses, he thought resentfully, as he filled the water bucket of the gelding belonging to Joscius, Archbishop of Tyre. As the bucket emptied, he looked across the stall door toward the massive black stallion that Gerard de Ridefort had ridden in on. Now that was a horse! Georgios thought jealously, as he pushed open the gelding’s stall and then latched it shut behind him. The Hospitaller Grand Master was here, too, and he rode a lean chestnut palfrey with elegant lines and a proud face. The twenty horses of the Hospitaller escort, on the other hand, were a mixed and rather sorry lot, Georgios thought a little contemptuously. He preferred to forget his days of serving in his stepfather’s inn, when such stallions—scars and spavins and all—would have seemed like magnificent destriers to him.
The Grand Masters and the Archbishop had arrived together in a party less than an hour earlier. They were on a mission to reconcile the King with the Count of Tripoli. Georgios hoped they would be successful. It was frightening to think that the King and the Count would rather fight each other than the enemy. Georgios had heard enough from William Marshal to know why Tripoli hated Guy de Lusignan, but it was one thing for the Englishman to ride away; it was different for Tripoli. They needed him if they were to stop Salah ad-Din.
Georgios returned the water bucket to the stack beside the trough. He dipped his hands deep into the cool water and rubbed them together to remove the last bits of dirt. Then he bent over the trough and splashed water into his face several times. He dried his face by pulling up his shirt so he could rub his face on the inside, and then dried his hands on the long tails. With a final look around, to see that all the horses were contentedly tugging at their hay nets or licking the last crumbs of grain from their feed bins, he made his way to the tack room.
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