Defender of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  Maria Zoë was in the loge of the Ibelin palace with Isabella and Eschiva. Like the rest of Jerusalem, the Ibelin palace was overflowing with residents. In addition to the households from both Nablus and Ibelin, Maria Zoë had taken in Isabella and Eschiva (with their women, servants, and children), as well as her sister-in-law Eloise, who had arrived in a near-hysterical state from Kerak—although (in Maria Zoë’s opinion) she would have been much safer there. The horses were doubling up in stalls, and everyone was sharing beds. Isabella shared her mother’s bed, and Eschiva and Eloise slept on pallets in the same room. Not only was there no privacy anywhere, but most rooms were stifling in this season. The loge was thus the most comfortable place in the entire palace, and Maria Zoë had retreated here to get a little respite from all the pressing problems of the household and the cacophony of excited children, quarrelsome servants, and frightened women.

  “Heraclius?” Maria Zoë answered the page in astonishment.

  “The Patriarch,” the boy repeated, uncomfortable with calling such an exalted personage by his first name.

  “Indeed, and there is he is,” Isabella exclaimed, getting to her feet to see better over the railing of the loge. She had rightly discerned that the commotion at the corner of the Street of the Holy Sepulcher and the Street of Spain could be attributed to a litter carried between two horses and surrounded by liveried servants. Sitting in the litter was the Patriarch of Jerusalem in his full ecclesiastical regalia, white with gold embroidery. Inevitably, many of the people in the streets stopped to gawk or to beg a blessing.

  “What can he possibly want of me?” Maria Zoë asked rhetorically before telling the page she would receive the Patriarch here, on the loge. “Fetch a large armed chair for him,” she added.

  As soon as the page was gone, Eschiva looked up from her embroidery. “Maybe he has word of our husbands. The Sultan might send his ransom demands to the Patriarch.”

  “Why would he do that?” Maria Zoë countered, anxious to protect Eschiva and Isabella from false hopes. Although rumors consistently reported that Aimery de Lusignan had been taken captive beside his brother the King, the reports about Humphrey de Toron had been far more contradictory. Thus, while Eschiva worried where she was to find a ransom for Aimery, with no lands of her own and no access to the royal treasury unless Guy ordered his Chancellor to pay for his brother, Isabella spent much of her time simply praying for Humphrey’s life. She had chewed her fingernails to the quick, and the dark circles under her eyes testified to her sleeplessness.

  Maria Zoë didn’t need a mirror to know she looked little better than Isabella. To be sure, there was no longer any doubt about Balian’s survival. With respect bordering on awe, men had reported how he’d preserved the fighting capabilities of his cavalry while the Templars wasted their strength and were whittled down to insignificance. They spoke, too, of the force of his final charge, which had struck at a point where the infantry could join him—not like Tripoli’s earlier charge, which had been too far away from the infantry for them to take advantage of the breakthrough. Last but not least, the survivors spoke with wonder of how Ibelin had then rallied them and led them to safety. To hear these men tell it, the Lord of Ibelin was the only baron in Jerusalem who had retained not only his freedom, but his honor, after Hattin.

  But while it was certain that Balian lived, it was equally certain that he was ipso facto in command of the remnants of the fighting forces of the Kingdom. He was de facto Constable and Marshal and Regent all in one. The defense of the realm, such as it was, fell automatically to him. Not only was that a crushing burden—it was fraught with danger.

  The commotion in the street had reached the entrance to the Ibelin palace, and some of Maria Zoë’s servants went out into the street to clear a way for the Patriarch through the importunate crowd. A moment later, the ladies on the loge could hear a dull thud as the wooden gates fell shut, and the noise in the street started to subside.

  Several moments later, the Patriarch was escorted out onto the loge, two boys lugging a heavy armed chair in his wake.

  The women dutifully got to their feet and sank down into deep curtsies out of respect for his office. Heraclius held out his ring to each in turn, ending with Maria Zoë. “Your grace,” he addressed her, with upturned lips that might have been intended as a smile.

  “Your eminence,” she answered without the pretense of a smile, although she indicated the chair with carved arms and Saracen cushions that the pages had manhandled into a position beside her own.

  Heraclius bowed his head in thanks and sank into the chair. He was still a handsome man, Maria Zoë noted, remembering that day a dozen years ago when she had seen him for the first time across a crowded room at the Royal Palace. Aimery de Lusignan had pointed him out, and in a low voice informed her that he was the lover of the Queen Mother, Agnes de Courtenay. She had been shocked by his morals, but remembered thinking he was as lovely as an angel, with blond locks, bright blue eyes, and perfectly regular features. The blond hair was turning gray and his jowls were squarer, though not really fat, but his eyes were still a bright blue—and his morals as bad as ever.

  “Madame,” the Patriarch started, clearing his throat a little nervously before plunging ahead, with a smile that seemed (at least in Maria Zoë’s jaded eyes) all too practiced. He must have used this smile effectively on many women, she found herself thinking cynically. “We have seen far too little of you.”

  “We?” she asked back with raised eyebrows. “Just who do you mean by ‘we,’ monsieur?”

  “Well, myself, for one—and, ah, Jerusalem.”

  “Jerusalem,” Maria Zoë echoed with an indecipherable expression. Until she had sought refuge here three weeks ago, Maria Zoë had not set foot in Jerusalem since the usurpation of Sibylla and Guy.

  “Yes, Jerusalem,” the Patriarch repeated. “I am told that we now have as many refugees in the city as residents—forty thousand men, women, and children—and still they come, daily and from every part of the Kingdom. Soon we will have nowhere left to put them and insufficient food to feed them.”

  Maria Zoë raised her eyebrows. “Then I suggest you discuss the situation with the Queen.”

  Heraclius cleared his throat and squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, while Eschiva and Isabella exchanged an amused glance. There was still no love lost between Maria Zoë and Sibylla.

  “The Queen, my lady—the Queen is in considerable distress.”

  “Is she ill?” Maria Zoë almost sounded hopeful.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. She is in great distress over—over what has happened, and particularly the uncertainty of her husband’s fate.”

  “Her husband is alive and well. She has nothing to worry about—unlike my daughter Isabella. We are not even sure Humphrey de Toron is still among the living.”

  “Ah, on that point at least I can offer you reassurance.” The Patriarch looked distinctly relieved to have some good news to share. “I have had word from Stephanie de Milly that the Sultan has opened negotiations with her for the release of her son.”

  Isabella choked down an exclamation and half reared out of her seat. Her mother and the Patriarch turned to look at her. The Patriarch was astonished by her expression, which did not look relieved and grateful, as one would have expected, while Maria Zoë cast her a warning look. Isabella pressed her lips together furiously while her mother responded graciously, “That is indeed welcome news, your eminence. We will say Mass in thanks before dinner. Can we expect the Lord of Toron to rejoin his wife anytime soon?”

  “Ah, um, yes,” Heraclius replied, “yes, I think you can look forward to greeting the Lord of Toron before All Saints,” he guessed, “which is more than can be said for the King,” he brought the conversation back.

  “Yes, a king who loses his entire kingdom is in an awkward situation indeed. Who, after all, should pay his ransom, if the entire royal domain has been overrun by the enemy?” Maria Zoë noted acidly.

  “That’s no
t entirely true, madame,” Heraclius pointed out, licking his lips. “Jerusalem has not yet fallen, nor Tyre, nor Tripoli, nor Jaffa, nor Ascalon, not to mention many of the most important fortresses—Safed, Kerak, Gaza, and Montfort.”

  Maria Zoë stared at the Patriarch for a few seconds and then pointedly asked, “Tell me, your eminence, just how does the Queen intend to defend Jerusalem? To my knowledge, there is not a single Hospitaller or Templar knight left in the city, while the garrison consists of old men and untried boys.”

  “My lady,” he licked his lips, “Madame, the Queen—the Queen—is not in a state to organize the defense of Jerusalem. She is, as I said, distressed over her husband’s fate, and too agitated and distracted to deal with—with other matters.”

  “The Queen of Jerusalem is more concerned about her miserable husband than her Kingdom?” Maria Zoë asked pointedly, with a glance at Isabella.

  “Yes, my lady, I’m afraid that’s the case.” The Patriarch had the decency to look embarrassed.

  Maria Zoë let him stew in his own juice for a few seconds before remarking in a low voice, “Agnes de Courtenay must be turning over in her grave.” Whatever else Maria Zoë thought of her late hated rival, she had not been the kind of woman to collapse into self-pity when a crisis was at hand. “And what do you want of me, your eminence?” she asked bluntly.

  “My lady, I thought—you are a Dowager Queen. You have authority. You enjoy the respect of the population. Now, more than ever, since your husband successfully escaped Hattin. I thought—I thought—perhaps you would be willing to assist me. We have to do something about the sanitation and the water before the wells are contaminated and disease breaks out. We are nearly sinking under refuse already!”

  “Does the Queen know you are here?” Maria Zoë asked sharply.

  “I—no. There was no point in telling her. She can talk of nothing but Guy and how he must need her now. Every time I see her, she begs me to ask the Sultan to give her permission to join her husband.”

  “In captivity?” Maria Zoë could hardly believe her ears. “The anointed Queen of Jerusalem would give up her own freedom and put herself in enemy hands just to be with her husband?” She couldn’t fathom it. How could anyone—even a stupid goose like Sibylla—take so little consideration of her status, her dignity, and her symbolic importance to the Kingdom?

  The Patriarch sighed and looked down at his hands. “I made a grave mistake, my lady. I know that now. I should not have crowned Sibylla queen. I pray every day for forgiveness, my lady. Believe me!” He looked up and met her eyes, his own full of pathos. “I am in hell every day, every minute, because of what I did.”

  Maria Zoë nodded. No doubt Heraclius did regret his role in crowning and anointing Sibylla and Guy, but not because he regretted the power games he had played at the time. His regret came from feeling overwhelmed by the current situation—and terror for his life. As he watched the city fill up with refugees it would soon be unable to house and feed, he was starting to recognize that he did not have a clue about how to defend Jerusalem. He was beginning to realize that they might soon be dead or enslaved.

  “I will think about what you have said,” Maria Zoë told the Patriarch—although she knew perfectly well that unlike Sibylla, she would not flee from her responsibilities. There was a great deal that could be done to put Jerusalem on a better footing, at least with respect to sanitation and food. She would contact Sister Adela at the Hospital to discuss options, and put Sir Constantine in command of the defenses; some of the Latins would resent his leadership, no doubt, but there were many Greek and Armenian Christians in the city who would welcome him. Most sensible men would welcome any kind of leadership!

  Maria Zoë held out her hand in dismissal, and the Patriarch got to his feet and bowed to her. “I will await your answer anxiously, my lady,” he assured her, but his expression suggested he had seen through her. His smile was more sincere and touched with relief.

  Maria Zoë nodded. She saw him to the door into the interior, where he bowed to her a last time and then withdrew.

  As she turned around, Isabella pounced. “How dare the Sultan send to Humphrey’s mother rather than me? How dare he!”

  “Hush, sweetheart,” Maria Zoë answered, crossing to her daughter to take her in her arms.

  But Isabella, at fifteen, was beyond being coddled by her mother. “I’m his wife! The Sultan should have asked me for his ransom!”

  “And what do you have to give?” Maria Zoë asked wearily, dropping her arms in resignation.

  “I don’t know. Our income was from Acre, and it’s fallen. But there must be some way to raise a ransom! What does Stephanie de Milly have that I don’t have?”

  “Kerak.”

  “What?”

  “Kerak. She holds Kerak—and Salah ad-Din wants that castle as much—if not more—than he wants Jerusalem itself.”

  Isabella stared at her mother in horror. “Stephanie de Milly would never surrender Kerak for Humphrey. She doesn’t love Humphrey at all! She’d rather let him rot in a dungeon for the rest of his life than surrender Kerak!”

  “But she’s probably quite happy to play Salah ad-Din along for a while—long enough for her to restock supplies and build up defenses. In her shoes, I would denude every other castle I have to concentrate my entire fighting force—every able-bodied man left in her barony—at Kerak. And then I’d prepare to sit out a siege so long that Salah ad-Din—or at least his troops—loses patience.” Secretly, Maria Zoë would have far preferred to be behind the powerful, nearly unassailable walls of Kerak than here in Jerusalem.

  “But then Humphrey will remain in captivity!” Isabella pointed out, tears in her eyes.

  Maria Zoë opened her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  Isabella stared at her, torn between fury at her apparent indifference and despair at the sheer logic of what she was saying. “It’s not fair!” she burst out at last. “Humphrey doesn’t deserve to rot in a dungeon!”

  “I daresay few of the men rotting unshriven and unburied on the field of Hattin deserved their fate, either,” Maria Zoë reminded her daughter.

  It was Eschiva who broke the tension. She rose and slipped her arms around Isabella, holding her close as she murmured, “At least our husbands are together, Isabella. And they say Salah ad-Din can be a gracious host when he wants to be.”

  July 20, 1187

  Sultan Salah ad-Din’s Camp before Tyre

  The Sultan rode back into the camp just as the muezzin started calling for prayers. He dismounted and at once threw himself down on his prayer rug. When prayers finished, a slave held out a silver bowl for him to wash his hands. He dipped his hands into the cool water and the scent of roses wafted up to him, for a moment obliterating the less pleasant scents of an army camp. He rubbed his hands together in the bowl and then removed them, shook off the drops, and dried them on a linen towel provided by another slave. When he was finished, he took the damp towel and rubbed it over his face to remove the worst of the sweat and dust. Then he shoved the towel at the slave and turned to sit cross-legged opposite his nephew Farrukh-Shah, who had been patiently awaiting him in his tent.

  “So?” he asked. “Are the troops grumbling yet?”

  “No, not yet. You’ve given them enough loot to forget the harvest for a little while longer.”

  “Acre, Sidon, Beirut, Gibelet, and Jaffa ought, indeed, to be enough,” Salah ad-Din noted a little sarcastically.

  His nephew shrugged. “It has been a great triumph for Believers, uncle, Allah be praised.” They bowed their heads in respect.

  “Tyre has been reinforced,” Salah ad-Din noted with a sour twist to his lips. “Perhaps I should have stayed to reduce it immediately.”

  “It still would have been reinforced,” Farrukh-Shah reminded him. “The reinforcements came by sea.”

  “Who is this Conrad de Montferrat?”

  “The son of the Marquis de Montferrat, the old man whom we hold prisoner, and the younger
brother of the man who was married to their queen before she was seduced by Guy de Lusignan.”

  “It is fitting that people who allow their women shameless liberty be punished by Allah, praise to his name, through the lust of a lewd woman. It was the slut’s lust for Lusignan that has delivered the Kingdom of Jerusalem to us. The Baron of Ramla would not have fallen into my trap at Hattin.”

  “No, our spies say his brother argued vehemently against it.”

  “Ibn Barzan.”

  “Yes.”

  “He escaped the field; do we know where he is now?”

  “Yes. He is awaiting your pleasure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He rode into the camp under a flag of truce while you were away, and requested an audience.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Salah ad-Din reproached his nephew.

  Farrukh-Shah smiled. “You were keen to speak of other things.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In my tent.”

  “Do you know what he wants?”

  “No,” Farrukh-Shah admitted, before adding with a cynical smile, “but somehow I do not think it is to accept the True Faith.”

  His uncle laughed. “No, I do not think that, either. Go fetch him. We have much to talk about.”

  Farrukh-Shah bowed his head in agreement and got to his feet. Behind him, the Sultan clapped his hands and ordered his body slave to bring him a clean turban and tunic.

  When Ibelin was brought into the tent by Farrukh-Shah, Salah ad-Din looked immaculate, jewels glinting on his fingers and his turban.

  By contrast, the Baron of Ibelin definitely looked the worse for wear. His surcoat had been cleaned and ironed, but it was also darned in several places. Likewise, his splendid chain mail with the bronze trim had been hastily repaired with wire to bind together the cuts sliced in it at Hattin. The number of places where such repairs had been required testified to how hotly he had fought. Salah ad-Din was not certain, but he thought Ibelin also looked older than the last time they had met. He could not remember the streak of gray that grew out of his right sideburn and that he wore tucked behind his ear.