As marshal Mathewos had a chamber in one of the towers, but he always took his evening meal with his sons here, and the Ethiopians allowed Georgios to join them. Eskindar, as the youngest, brought a tray from the kitchens with a loaf of bread, lard, a slab of cheese, and a jug of wine. Sometimes there was cold meat left over from the midday meal as well, or nuts and raisins. Today, however, the kitchen staff was focused on preparing a meal for the visitors, and all they had were the basics.
Georgios sawed off a chunk of bread with his knife and spread lard over it with a wooden spoon, automatically listening to the conversation.
“. . . He’s taking only Ernoul and Gabriel with him, but wants Ernoul mounted on Thor, as they will be riding very hard,” Mathewos gave Ibelin’s instructions to his sons.
Eskindar frowned and complained, “Ernoul can’t handle Thor. He’s as likely to bolt with him as not.”
“Your job is not to second-guess Lord Balian!” Mathewos admonished his younger son. “They’ll need two strong packhorses as well. I think we’ll send Freckles and Blondy.”
“Why do they need two packhorses?” Dawit asked.
“Gabriel is to travel with his own armor as well as his lord’s, and lances. There are reports of Saracen patrols penetrating the border.”
Dawit stirred uneasily, and his face was marked with worry. He had lived with the Saracen threat all his life, but things were different now that he had a wife. Dawit knew from his father what life under the Saracens was like, and he knew that as Christians and Ethiopians they would be discriminated against and taxed, but they would survive. It was different for Beth. She was apostate, and if the Muslims discovered that she had been born one of their own, they would stone her to death. It would not help that she was eight months pregnant. They would kill her and her child. The very thought of it made Dawit burn with fury. They had raped her and rejected her—yet if they learned she had found comfort in the arms of Christ and Christians, they would slowly and brutally torture her to death. He could not understand how people—any people—could hate women so much.
“Beth and Tsion are late tonight,” Mathewos observed gently, breaking into Dawit’s thoughts.
Dawit looked up sharply and out the door of the tack room toward the stables, trying to estimate the time of day by the light coming through the windows. His father was right. It was almost completely dark.
“It’s probably the guests,” Eskindar suggested cheerfully.
Dawit frowned. While his sister Tsion was lady’s maid to the Dowager Queen, his wife Beth was not. “Beth has nothing to do with the guests,” he reminded his brother sharply. “She was helping the wet nurse look after little Thomas.”
Mathewos said nothing, but he too looked out into the stables, and his expression was worried.
They had finished off the bread, and Georgios stood to take the tray back as he did every evening, but Dawit took it from him. “I’ll take it. It’s not right to keep Beth late in her condition,” he told the others indignantly. “She needs her rest!”
No one contradicted him: they agreed with him. Still Mathewos warned, “Don’t make a scene, Dawit.”
Dawit didn’t answer. He took the tray with what was left of the cheese and lard and crossed from the stables to the kitchen. Once he’d handed over the tray to one of the scullery servants, he bypassed the hall, which was still well lit and full of people, and went up the stairs of the keep to the nursery.
Even before he reached the door, he could hear the wailing of an infant and the louder crying of a larger child. Clearly there was some kind of nursery crisis. As he entered, he saw Nanny Anne give Margaret a brisk smack on her bottom to make her stop fussing—provoking an even louder howl. This in turn brought John into the fray, shouting at his baby sister to “be quiet, you silly goose!” Helvis scowled at her brother and went over to comfort Margaret, while Philip started crying as if his brother had shouted at him.
Dawit took it all in as his eyes searched for his wife. After a moment he realized she must be in the inner chamber. “Beth?” he called, crossing the anteroom with the children’s toys toward the chamber with their beds and cradles.
“Dawit?” Beth came to the door in the wooden partition. In her arms was the infant Thomas, and he was the one whining incessantly. Beth was trying to soothe him by bouncing him in her arms, walking and cooing.
“Beth, it’s late,” Dawit told her.
Beth glanced at the window as if she had only just realized how late it was. “We can’t get him to sleep,” she told Dawit. “We’ve fed and changed him, but he won’t stop crying. Something is wrong.”
Dawit, frankly, didn’t particularly care, but he knew Beth did, so he tried to be patient. “I’m sure he’ll be better in the morning.”
“If only he’d stop crying,” Beth answered, turning a concerned face to the infant.
“He’s too heavy for you in your condition,” Dawit protested. “Put him down.”
Beth was tired, so she went to the crib, bent, and laid the infant in it. Immediately he started screaming more loudly than ever, kicking his feet furiously. Beth felt she had to pick him up again and reached for him.
Fortunately, Nanny Anne came and held out her arms. “Give him to me,” she urged, “and go with your husband. I’ll see to him.”
With obvious reluctance, Beth turned the baby over to the nanny and let Dawit lead her out of the nursery. On the doorstep into the stairwell she paused and looked back, worried. Thomas was still wailing in the far room.
Nablus, April 29, 1187
Dawn was breaking, clear but hazy, promising a hot day, as Balian finished dressing. The nicker of horses being led out of the stables and the low jocularity of the Hospital escort mounting up could be heard from the ward.
Suddenly a violent knocking shook the chamber. Gabriel and Ernoul, who were buckling on Balian’s sword and spurs, froze and looked over, shocked. Balian called out, “Not so loud!” He’d left Maria Zoë sleeping after a long night playing hostess to their visitors.
“My lord! My lord!” The voice was that of Nanny Anne, and she sounded panicked.
“Let her in,” Balian signaled with a nod to Ernoul.
Ernoul finished buckling Balian’s second spur, drew himself upright and crossed the chamber to open the door. The nurse all but fell into the room. She was dressed in only a nightdress covered by light woollen shawl over her shoulders; her gray hair spilled out of her nightcap in disarray. “My lord!” she wailed. “It’s the baby! Your nephew! Little Thomas!” She broke down into tears, sobbing so hard it was impossible to understand what she was trying to say. But everyone could guess.
Balian stood stock still. Barry had predicted Thomas wouldn’t live for long. Pray God he was not also right about the apocalypse! No, he mustn’t even think about that. They were on their way to see Tripoli. There would be a reconciliation. But if Thomas was dead, Balian no longer controlled Ramla and Mirabel. Would that diminish his stature to the point where Tripoli would not heed him? Indeed, would the Grand Masters even accept him on this mission?
Maria Zoë emerged in the doorway to the bedchamber, her hair cascading about her shoulders. She saw the nanny racked with sobs and swept in, asking anxiously, “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Baby Thomas, my lady,” the nurse sobbed, and Balian could see the relief that swept over his wife as she realized it was not one of her own brood causing the nanny’s distress. The next instant, she contritely put her arms around the nurse.
“This changes everything,” Balian said out loud, as his wife guided the nanny to sit on a chest by the door.
Maria Zoë glanced over at him with a question on her face.
“Without Ramla and Mirabel, I’m not the most powerful baron in Jerusalem, and Tripoli may be less inclined to listen.”
“There’s no need for him—or anyone—to know just yet,” Maria Zoë countered.
But just then hysterical, high-pitched screaming reached them from the floor overhea
d. A moment later a breathless John in a nightshirt, his bare feet sticking out from under it, crashed into the room shouting, “Thomas is dead! Thomas is dead!”
“Shhh!” Balian ordered his eldest son, but Maria Zoë jumped up and started out of the chamber to try to calm whoever was shrieking overhead.
“He’s all blue!” John was insisting, terror still on his face.
“Gabriel! Go down to the ward and tell His Eminence and the Grand Masters to ride ahead. I’ll catch up with them as soon as I can. Don’t tell them what has happened; just say I have a domestic matter requiring urgent attention. Tell them that at the latest I will catch them up at the Templar castle of Le Fève—that’s where we planned to spend the night—if not before.”
“What if they ask what is happening, my lord?”
“Tell them you don’t know. Just assure them I will join them as soon as possible!”
Gabriel did not look happy about his mission, but he started down the stairs, while Balian followed Maria Zoë up to the nursery.
In the ward the knights and squires of the Hospitaller escort were already mounted and had formed up, while the Archbishop of Tyre was being helped into the saddle by Georgios. At the sight of Gabriel, the Templar and Hospitaller Masters, who had been in discussion together, glanced over, and Ridefort called out irritably, “Where’s your master?”
“He’s got a—there’s something he has to attend to. He’s asked you to proceed without him, and he’ll catch you up,” Gabrielle stammered.
Ridefort frowned, but Moulins announced, “Well, let’s get started, then. It’s going to be a hot day, and we don’t want to ride in the heat of it.” He pointed his toe in the stirrup, and Gabriel automatically went to hold his off stirrup as he mounted.
“He’s not backing out of this embassy, is he?” Moulins asked Ibelin’s squire in a low voice as his seat hit the saddle and he collected his reins.
“No, my lord,” Gabriel assured him earnestly. “He’ll catch up with you at Le Fève at the latest, he said.”
Moulins raised his eyebrows. “He better have a good reason!” he suggested, but he disdained to discuss the matter further with a mere squire.
Ibelin was only two hours behind the others when he reached Sebaste, but when they stopped to water their horses, the Bishop of Sebaste came out to speak to him. “My lord! We must talk!”
“Your grace, I am already behind the others. Can this not wait until after I return from Tiberias?”
“Of course not!” the bishop retorted indignantly. “It is because of your mission to Tiberias that we must talk urgently.”
Ibelin looked at his squires, but they were in no position to contradict a bishop.
“Come with me!” The bishop took him by the arm and led him toward the imposing cathedral on the square. Although his palace was just beyond, the bishop took Ibelin to the cathedral itself. Monks were in the choir and the Mass was being read. Ibelin automatically went down on his knee and crossed himself. The bishop tugged on his sleeve and insisted they proceed deeper into the church. At the screens, the bishop left him with the admonishment, “Beg the Almighty’s assistance for the success of your mission.”
Ibelin could hardly protest. He bowed his head and tried to focus his thoughts on prayer. He did need God’s blessings. Not just for this mission to Tripoli, but in what was to follow. He prayed, too, for the repose of little Thomas’ soul and for the brother who had abandoned the boy, and for the sister-in-law who had died giving life to him. He prayed for his niece Eschiva, who had refused to disinherit her little brother, and he thanked God that she had been safely delivered of a second daughter, whom she had named Helvis after her grandmother.
When Mass was over, the sun was at its zenith and it made no sense to ride, so Ibelin accepted the bishop’s invitation to dinner and let the churchman lecture him on the importance of peace between the barons of Jerusalem. By the time he departed, they were five hours behind the others and would have to ride hard to reach Le Fève by nightfall.
Pressing ahead after dusk, however, something spooked Thor and he bolted, dumping Ernoul in the process. Ernoul wasn’t seriously injured, but it took them over an hour to recapture the errant stallion, and by then it was pitch dark. There was little point in continuing. They hobbled the horses where they were, built a fire, and camped for the night.
Le Féve, April 30, 1187
The sun woke them, stiff and unrested. Ernoul had fallen very hard on his shoulder and now could hardly move for bruises, particularly under his shoulder blade. Indeed, it hurt him to breathe, and he found it almost impossible to mount. After two futile attempts that left him cursing to stop himself from crying, Ibelin ordered Gabriel to take the supplies off the smaller of the two packhorses, transfer Ernoul’s saddle to it, and put the supplies on Thor. Ernoul managed to mount the smaller and tamer horse, and they continued their journey as the sun cleared the mountains and started to burn down on them.
It was just after noon when they arrived at Le Fève, and Ibelin prepared to face a barrage of recriminations for keeping everyone waiting. Although the village at the foot of the Templar castle was eerily empty as they rode through, Balian presumed that was just because the inhabitants were seeking shelter from the noonday sun. It was considerably odder that the gate into the Templar castle was manned only by an old sergeant, who seemed to take forever to respond. Once inside, Ibelin was even more baffled by the stillness and calm. Nothing seemed to be moving here, either. No groom came from the stables to take their horses, and no knight emerged to greet and escort them to the hall.
“Where is everyone?” Gabriel asked, putting his lord’s thoughts into words.
Ibelin had no answer. He dismounted warily, his sense of apprehension growing, although he could not imagine what might have happened. Even if Ridefort and Moulins had decided to ride ahead, too impatient to wait for him, where were the rest of the Templars? Some eighty knights usually manned this critical castle.
Finally Ibelin spotted a man in Templar robes hobbling down the exterior stairway from one of the buildings that crouched against the enclosing wall. The man was evidently lame, as he took the stairs one step at a time, leading with the same foot. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he lurched across the open ward on what was evidently a wooden leg. “My lord,” he gasped out as he reached Balian. “You must be the Lord of Ibelin, Nablus, and Ramla.”
“I am. Where is everyone?”
“We received word last evening that a large Saracen raid had crossed into the Kingdom. A thousand strong, they said. It was making for Nazareth, and the citizens sent to us for aid. The Master took command to meet it.”
“What?” Balian couldn’t believe his ears. “Ridefort was part of an embassy to the Count of Tripoli.”
“He said this took precedence. He took the garrison of Le Fève and mustered the secular knights of the region as well, some forty knights altogether.”
“That still only makes one hundred twenty knights, or one hundred thirty including the Hospitaller escort,” Ibelin protested.
“Master des Moulins noted that as well, but Ridefort would not let this incursion go unanswered. Nazareth is the place of Christ’s birth!” The Templar clearly sided with his Master, but Ibelin frowned. They were supposed to be effecting a reconciliation between the Count of Tripoli and King Guy. Fighting Saracen raiding parties should have been left to someone else—but it was too late to prevent it. “When did they set out?”
“At first light. Come in and we’ll find you some refreshments,” the man offered. “Only the halt and lame were left behind, but we’ll manage to find you something.”
Ibelin nodded absently. He was not particularly interested in refreshment at the moment. He was unspeakably nervous about this diversion. The urgency of the reconciliation with Tripoli had driven him ever since King Guy had agreed to it. His own delays had been bad enough, but he had hoped to press on immediately. Now he found himself wondering if Ridefort had allowed himself to
be diverted because the Templar Master was not truly interested in reconciliation between the King and Tripoli. Ridefort hated Tripoli, and no doubt calculated that his own influence was greater so long as Tripoli was persona non grata at court. In short, it suited him to have Tripoli disgraced and hated. The Constable had confided to Ibelin that Ridefort had been behind the King’s ridiculous decision to attack his most important and powerful vassal in the first place. The sense of impending disaster that had overtaken him when he first learned of Tripoli’s separate peace was hovering over him again.
In the refectory, Ibelin was greeted with obvious relief by the Archbishop of Tyre. “Ibelin! Thank God you have made it! I feared something must have happened to you.”
“Nothing serious: only a series of petty accidents. My squire was thrown and we had trouble recapturing the horse.”
“I wish you had been here last night,” the Archbishop admitted as Ibelin joined him at the high table. “Master de Ridefort seemed to completely forget our mission. He was fire and flame for halting this ‘insolent’ incursion—although the Count of Tripoli sent us word that it was only reconnaissance and we should avoid it.”
“What?” Ibelin did not want to believe what he had just heard.
“You see, Salah ad-Din sent word to the Count of Tripoli about this reconnaissance in force, asking permission to cross his territories peacefully.”
“Jesus God!” Ibelin muttered, his blood starting to run cold.
“He had to agree, of course, because of his truce with Salah ad-Din, but he sent a messenger warning us to stay away. Only Ridefort would hear none of that, not after the citizens of Nazareth asked for protection. He was determined—”
“To make Tripoli look the fool!” Ibelin burst in.
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