Decoy Am? Take Jos, with money? Then Gy on the field. If King Guy was to be destroyed before Richard arrived, it would be necessary to engage Amalric’s attention elsewhere. But how? As for Joscelin, he could be bought off, as he had been so many times in the past. With the Constable and Seneschal removed, it might be possible to isolate Guy on the battlefield and have him cut down in the mêlée.
Conrad pondered on the idea for a while, then regretfully dragged a nib through the line. It would be too difficult to arrange. But more than that, it would leave the throne vacant – probably to be occupied by Amalric, or the most popular native-born baron, Balian of Ibelin. It was better to let Guy live for a while.
He erased another phrase – Si, a draught? It was no longer necessary to entertain thoughts of dispatching Queen Sibylla. God had undertaken the work for him.
While he corrected the parchment, Conrad fiddled with his lank black hair. So far he had remained free of disease, though the poor diet made him appear more cadaverous than usual. He had lost several pounds in weight – who had not? – so that the link-mail sleeves of his hauberk reached below his wrists. The attached mittens now hung too low and slipped from his hands, but he had not yet found time to have the armour altered. In contrast, the heat of summer and the damp of autumn had made his feet swell, and he judged it easier to sleep with his boots on than to wrestle with them night and morning.
Twisting his hair into greasy ringlets that kept their shape for a moment, then hung in cords about his face, he studied another cryptic entry. Ph, a letter? Suggest lb, as envoy. Act in his absence. He smiled to himself. There was no question of erasing this line; it was almost word perfect.
Philip Augustus. A letter from him perhaps, an urgent demand for news of progress at Acre. And who better to present a calm, unbiased picture than Balian of Ibelin? Then, while Balian was away – Ah, yes.
Conrad rolled the parchment, slipped the tube into a leather case and buried the case at the bottom of his clothes chest. He covered the stained leather with a blue linen surcoat and closed the lid of the chest. Then he spread a fresh sheet of parchment on the table and went to work…
* * *
It was simple to start a rumour in the camp. Men were starved of news and grabbed eagerly at any scrap of information, however baseless. Sultan Saladin had been proclaimed dead at least three times that summer, while newcomers to the Christian lines swore that Frederick Barbarossa had been seen, in full health, riding through the streets of Antioch, Mainz, Constantinople. Priests ploughed their own furrows and reported visions: a fiery hand that pointed towards Jerusalem; an angel who said, ‘When you are properly led, you will re-occupy the land that properly belongs to Christ.’ This statement was interpreted in many ways, the proper leadership being ascribed to King Richard, King Philip, King Guy, or Marquis Conrad, according to each man’s fealty. Accounts of a plague among the Saracens were believed and embellished until some Crusaders demanded to know why the Frankish army remained inactive, when it was common knowledge that the Moslem world lay dying. In reply, the barons jerked a thumb at the thousands who encircled them, or pointed to the yellow banners that fluttered on Tell Keisan and along the walls of Acre.
This hunger for news was matched by an appetite for scandal. Every Frenchman enjoyed stories that illustrated the faint-hearted nature of the English, the Germans, the Danes. Every Italian listened, nodding, to accounts of Welsh treachery, or Spanish cupidity. None were beyond the reach of innuendo, for if scandal annoyed one faction, it automatically cheered the others. And the advantage of such stories was that they could never be traced to their source. They became, in a single day, traditional.
So no one could say who had initiated the rumour that Lord Humphrey of Toron was either impotent or homosexual.
‘Princess Isabella is bed-worthy, wouldn’t you say? As desirable as any woman in the Kingdom? Yet she’s lain with Humphrey for seven years, and they have no issue. Or perhaps she has not lain with him. Perhaps they keep apart in the dark. He is beautiful. Peach-skinned. He has no warts, no worldly blemishes. And the manner of his walk, have you noticed? Like a woman. You look; you’ll see. And now that Sibylla’s dead who has the claim? Right. The pretty Humphrey, peach-skinned, but lacking the juice. Think on it, for we may have him as our future king.’
While the new rumour was still gaining currency in the camp, Marquis Conrad announced that he had received a letter from his French cousin, Philip Augustus. He took the letter to King Guy. Under the circumstances, this act of courtesy was out of character, though neither Guy nor Amalric thought to remark on it.
The letter, written as cousin to cousin, demanded a full account of the situation at Acre.
‘I receive irregular reports of your activities, and when the King of England and I chance to meet, here, at Messina, we have little to discuss. I doubt if two monarchs were ever so ignorant of the men they were bound to save. I need information, dear cousin, sensibly put. I pray God that I shall be with you before Christmas, and that I shall hear from you before November is out. If you cannot come yourself, send someone to speak for you. I greet the King of Jerusalem, as Richard of England greets you.’
As before, when they had sought the whereabouts of the German Crusade, Conrad and Guy argued as to whom they should send. Guy proposed the Seneschal, Joscelin of Courtenay. Conrad countered with one of his own supporters, an unpopular minor baron. Names were tossed back and forth until, as before, they agreed to appoint Balian of Ibelin.
But this time he was not allowed to delegate the mission to his constable and squire. Conrad insisted that Balian go in person. ‘God knows, Lord Balian, we’ve had our differences. But I admire your honesty; I’ve always admired it. You won’t speak well of me to King Philip. Nor, I dare say, will you be so kind to King Guy. But we both know you will give a just account of the situation, and that is what my cousin demands.’
Balian was acutely suspicious. He did not know why. He had heard the vile rumours concerning his son-in-law, and he did not wish to leave Humphrey without support. The rumours were unfounded, but they had stirred the family to anger. Maria had done her best to calm Isabella, whilst he, himself, had reminded Humphrey that the same salacious gossip surrounded none other than Richard Cœur-de-Lion.
‘Oh, they don’t dare suggest it when they’re within swordswing of him; gossipmongers are seldom so courageous. But I have heard people say the King of England favours the unnatural act, and that he spurns the company of women. Some debased men, as we know, would spit on the bones of Our Lord Jesus Christ. So what is it to them to slander a powerful king, or an honest Crusader? Next week they will have set up a new target. Me, perhaps, or the Grand Master of the Hospital, or – well, who knows? Concern yourself with Isabella, and their game will soon grow stale.’
Even so, Balian did not wish to leave his family, or the camp, or Palestine. But Guy and Conrad were adamant. Balian of Ibelin was the man for the job. He would leave for Tyre immediately, and from there take ship for Messina. Before November is out, Philip had said. It was already 10th November.
As a matter of course, the Lord of Nablus was accompanied by his constable and squire. They, too, would rather have remained – Fostus to protect Maria, Ernoul to cheer Humphrey and Isabella – but they were obedient to their master. After dark they bound their horses’ hooves with strips of cloth to deaden the sound, then made their way in silence through the Saracen lines.
* * *
Conrad entered his pavilion. He sank to the ground and thrust a cushion to his face. Then, in a paroxysm of ecstasy he shrieked again and again into the deadening fabric. His face and body ran with sweat, while his hair dripped like wet anchor rope. Dei gratia! Dei gratia! They were outwitted! And, if he mouthed it himself, which he did, over and over in a hypnotic rhythm, the letter was a stroke of genius. Not one of them had suspected – not one of them had thought to suspect – that the letter had been composed at the foot of Mount Turon, and delivered a distance of fifty yards.
>
* * *
Humphrey was with Isabella when they came for him. They handled him roughly, pinioning his arms before he could draw his sword or dagger. He shouted at them and, while they cuffed him silent with their metal-clad fists, Isabella unsheathed the basilard she had collected at Tyre and stabbed one of them in the thigh. It was a courageous gesture, but one slender woman was no match for a dozen mercenaries. They tossed her aside, left her where she fell and dragged Humphrey from the tent. Throughout they had not spoken a word. Now one of them spat back, ‘Prepare yourself, Princess. You’ll soon have a man inside you.’
* * *
Among those Churchmen who had already made the journey from Europe to Palestine was the English prelate, Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury. He, too, had been abducted, though with some pretence at courtesy, and now stood in Conrad’s pavilion, staring aghast at the bloody Humphrey of Toron.
‘We want two things from you,’ Conrad told him. ‘We want an annulment, and we want a marriage.’
Baldwin was a small, stocky man, and well used to holding his own with kings and princes. He had scorned the mercenaries who had attempted to lay hands on him, and he was in no mood to be commanded. He did not like what he had seen of Conrad, nor what he had heard of the Marquis’s methods. Baldwin was King Richard’s man – after God’s – and he had no intention of being cowed by some ambitious Italian.
‘Two things?’ he snapped. ‘First, I’ll have one from you. An explanation of your behaviour. I am a senior servant of God, and you have had me bundled from my devotions like a sheep thief. Explain that, and I may listen to the rest. And why is this man held here, bleeding? Doesn’t Italy run to cloths and water?’
‘He’s a twisted creature, this one. A sodomite. I have three men who will offer evidence against him. They admit their crimes, and I’ll see they’re punished, but this one parades as a nobleman and—’
‘Just a moment.’
Conrad stopped, then jerked his head irritably. One of the mercenaries threw water in Humphrey’s face.
‘As I thought,’ Baldwin said. ‘I recognize the Lord of Toron. A sodomite, you say? Not from my knowledge of him. Rather, a sincere Christian and a dutiful husband. I don’t know your intentions, Marquis, but I’ll tell you what I’ve heard.’ He stamped his left foot, bracing himself, unperturbed by Conrad’s height, or by the glowering henchmen.
‘I’ve heard, and I’m growing to believe, that you plan to tear apart the marriage of Lord Humphrey and Princess Isabella of Jerusalem.’
‘I’ve told you, Churchman, he’s a perverted—’
‘Stay shut, Marquis. I’m doing the telling. You intend to break this union, so that you, yourself, may marry the princess. When your men brought me here tonight we passed through four rings of armed troops. I’d say you plan to conclude this business before King Guy can intervene.’
‘He couldn’t stop me.’
‘Possibly not. But he can delay you. And you cannot afford delay. Richard may come tomorrow, and by God, he’d see you off’
‘Will you perform the ceremony, or not?’
‘I will not. But again, I will tell you what I will do. You, Marquis Conrad of Montferrat, are a man of bad repute.’
‘Keep your opinion. I only need you for—’
‘You are, for example, reputed to have a wife in Italy—’
‘Nonsense.’ But the lids came down over his hard, wide eyes.
‘and another in Constantinople.’
‘That’s foul talk from a prelate.’
‘So, even if I wished, I could not keep you from being a threefold bigamist. But I do wish to keep you from it. For the sake of your soul. For the sake of an innocent couple. For the sake of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.’ He stamped his foot again. ‘I warn you, and be warned. If you go on with this, I shall use my powers in Christ to excommunicate you, and all who abet you. I shall pass sentence upon you, and you will be forever damned. Does that impress you?’
It did, but Conrad was still amazed at the extent of Baldwin’s knowledge. How could he have learned of the Italian and Byzantine marriages? It would not help if the Archbishop bruited the information.
Suddenly contrite, the Marquis said, ‘If you will go to such lengths, Churchman, I must have pause for thought.’
‘Not before time.’
‘As you say.’
‘And I expect to see Lord Humphrey at liberty.’
‘You will, Archbishop, you have my word.’
Baldwin snorted and marched from the pavilion.
One week later, on 19th November, the Archbishop of Canterbury was found dead in his tent. No one could say that he had been poisoned. No one could say that he had not.
* * *
It is not possible. It is a nightmare, born of the incredible, suckled by the unreal. It cannot be happening to us. God will prevent it going further, though why, why has he allowed it to go this far? Ah, sweet family of Christ, what sin? What error have we made? You cannot, surely, single out my Lord Humphrey for such treatment. What has he done? What crime of such immensity has he, of all people, committed? Jesu, Jesu.
Not him? Myself then? Wait, let me think. No, no, in all honesty I am not aware – I have never been unfaithful to him. Never! I may have seen some young man, I may have wondered. But Christ, I have done nothing!
Toron, and those years of happiness there. The joy I felt when he was released from prison. Even here, in this beleaguered camp, when he is with me – The things they say about him now, unspeakable, atrocious things, all untrue. I know.
No children, they say. Is that so extraordinary in this climate? It’s common knowledge that the air and the water and the diet – Men are sapped more easily here. So they have been for a hundred years. The families of Palestine do not have the broods of Europe. It is accepted!
And now that evil man extends his skinny claw and shrieks that he has found a difference in Humphrey. How dare he? Where are his children then? Who’s to say Conrad – Conrad, I wish you in Hell – is not unnatural? There’s a more likely rumour. But who would care to start it?
Maria gave me laudanum. I feel heavy in the limbs. Maria. A queen and a princess, and we are powerless to resist that evil… evil… such an evil…
* * *
The Archbishop of Canterbury’s place was taken by one of King Philip’s advance contingent, the Bishop of Beauvais. While Guy, Amalric and Joscelin found themselves virtual prisoners on Mount Turon, the Bishop annulled the marriage of Humphrey, Lord of Toron and Isabella, Princess of Jerusalem. It was 23rd November.
Next day, Isabella, still sedated, was escorted to Marquis Conrad’s pavilion, where she was married to him. She was hardly aware of what was happening, but little was required of her.
The marquis was not yet king, though from this day on his supporters accorded him the title. So now there were two kings: Richard’s trembling vassal, Philip’s hungry cousin.
There was no reason for Conrad to remain at Acre. Humphrey, who, like Maria, had been kept under guard, was turned loose in time to see the marquis-king and Isabella set out for Tyre. Conrad had announced, ‘I will be back when I am offered a vacant throne. But I will not double-up with Guy of Lusignan, or any other hollow body.’ A group of Humphrey’s friends prevented him from running after the princess.
* * *
During the middle days of December, Balian of Ibelin, Fostus and Ernoul returned from Messina. They had met the King of France, handed him a letter from Marquis Conrad, then watched him frown, collect himself, and tell them in a halting voice that he was grateful for the speed with which they had responded to his request for news. It was not until they returned to Acre that they learned of the forgery and the re-marriage. They wept, Balian and Maria, Ernoul neck on neck with Humphrey. Fostus showed his distress in his own way. He strode purposefully into the Tyrian section and felled the first five men he met. He was eventually overpowered, but no one drew a knife on him. His master might now be the dedicated enemy of theirs, but
many of the Tyrians thought that, this time, even Conrad had gone too far.
When Balian had regained control of himself, he told Maria, ‘I carried his letter from here to Sicily. If I had opened it, I would have been warned, and I would have seen that he was asking Philip to play along. He got me to do that for him, knowing I would not open it.’
‘It’s his way.’
‘I have two thoughts,’ he whispered, aware that the tears of sorrow and chagrin were returning. ‘The first is that Isabella must not kill herself, which I fear she might. The second is, I do not know how long I can hold from killing Conrad.’
‘I will get word to her,’ Maria said. ‘She will listen to me. You have my blessing with the other.’ Drawing herself erect, so that she stood tall and elegant, the woman who had once been Queen of Jerusalem added, ‘I have never said so before, not in all the years, but I have now found a man whose death would enchant me.’
* * *
The winter at Acre was given over to flood and famine. Men gnawed bones that had been discarded by dogs. Riders killed their horses and ate them, selling the heads and intestines to their friends.
With their last coin, called an angevin, two Crusaders purchased thirteen dried beans. When they returned to their lines, they discovered that one of the beans was maggot-ridden. By mutual agreement, they spent the day scouring the camp in search of the bean-seller. They found him at dusk and insisted that he replace the bad bean. After a deal of haggling and an exchange of threats he did so, and the Crusaders took it down to the Belus River and, with no sense of the ridiculous, threw it in. Then they divided the other twelve between them.
Chapter Seven
Messina
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 8