From the Frankish viewpoint, the situation might have been worse. Ascalon had been razed, but it could be rebuilt. And then the Christian army would hold the entire coast south of Tyre. It was not the Holy City of Jerusalem, but it was something.
* * *
A few days after Easter, which had fallen on 5th April, a messenger arrived from Normandy, with grave news of the situation in England. He brought Richard a letter from his Chancellor, William of Ely, in which William pleaded with the king to return before his brother, Earl John, bankrupted the country. The Chancellor was writing from Normandy because, like many of those loyal to Richard, he had been banished by the insufferable John.
Alarmed and angry, Cœur-de-Lion summoned the leading Crusaders to Ascalon and told them to decide, once and for all, as to who should be King of Jerusalem. They were to choose between Guy of Lusignan, who, whatever his shortcomings, had instigated the siege of Acre and since then remained with the army, and Conrad of Montferrat, who saw fit to remain at Tyre and plot treason with Saladin. They would vote in secret, then cast their written preference into his crested helmet.
There were some abstentions, and some blank sheets, but the result was clear enough.
King Guy gained seventeen votes.
Regent Conrad garnered forty-five.
King Richard and the local barons were stunned. They had been prepared for a close result, but not for this. Balian of Ibelin spoke for his native-born compeers when he observed bitterly, ‘We have stood off everything to be crushed by an avalanche of parchment.’
* * *
Humphrey and Ernoul hurried across the rain-washed street and into ‘The Heroes Tavern.’ It was one of the dingiest and worst-run drinking places in Ascalon. The knights and barons did not frequent it, because the service and the wine were so poor. The common soldiers steered clear of the inflated prices, twice as high as other haunts in the street. It was a wonder that ‘The Heroes Tavern’ had not closed, or been bought up weeks ago, but today, for this one visit, it suited the young men very well. They were not surprised to find the place empty, but even so they took the precaution of moving to the unlit rear of the room. They ordered Cypriot wine from a sluttish serving girl, aware that they would get the sour, local produce, then put their heads together over a crudely drawn map of the Kingdom.
‘From here,’ Ernoul said, ‘it’s one hundred and thirty miles. That’s by road. The distance would be shorter if we stayed near the beach, but the first part would be hard going.’
‘One hundred and thirty there, one hundred and thirty back. We’d be away more than a week.’
‘Well, that could be arranged, or we – find that tent-maker, he’s the best in Ascalon.’ This last part was for the benefit of the girl who had brought their wine. As they had suspected, it was already turning to vinegar. They discussed the mythical tent- maker until she was out of earshot, then Ernoul continued, ‘Or we could go by ship. It would be quicker, and there is one due to sail—‘
Humphrey shook his head. ‘It’s too risky. We’ll be seen going aboard here, and worse, signed ashore at the other end. No, we’ll go by road. You will have to get leave from Lord Balian.’
‘Why don’t we ask Fostus to come with us? Christ, if we had him at our side—‘
‘Balian would not let both of you go.’ He turned back to the map. ‘Now. The moment we are inside the city…’
* * *
Richard discussed the result of the vote with King Guy and Constable Amalric. He said, ‘Seen from the one side, it was a clear victory for the Regent. But I am of the opinion that those who voted for him have their roots in the West. They never owned land here, so they have no personal interest in reclaiming it, or staying on. They’ll go home one day, leaving Conrad on the throne.’
‘That’s how we see it,’ Amalric agreed. ‘My brother here is a less than perfect king, but none of us – that is to say none of the long-time inhabitants of the Kingdom – are prepared to accept the Italian. We’re capable of arranging our own elections.’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Richard told him. ‘On the other hand, if the Regent were made monarch, he might bring back most of those who have defected from the army. The French support him and, well, as we’ve seen, he is three times as popular as my vassal king.’ They looked at Guy, who said nothing in his own defence.
‘Then do we go along with it?’ Amalric asked. His perpetually angry face mirrored his feelings. ‘Is that what you want, King?’
‘It is done, want it or not. And to be direct with you, I would rather lose you two, than Hugh of Burgundy, Henry of Troyes, and forty-some senior barons.’
‘Is this how you support those who swear fealty to you?’
Richard felt hemmed-in. God knew, he did not want Conrad of Montferrat on the throne of Jerusalem, and if Guy had been a better, or even a more popular king – ‘I have supported your brother,’ he snapped. ‘Your argument is not with me. It’s with everybody else.’
Later, when they were alone, the Lusignan brothers decided that Richard of England was wrong. Their argument was neither with him, nor with the barons. It was with Regent Conrad. And there was one sure way to win it.
* * *
Balian and Maria reached their own grave conclusions, and the Lord of Nablus imparted them to his protective shadow, Constable Fostus.
* * *
There were others, too, who met to talk about Regent Conrad’s future.
* * *
While the spring rains continued to sweep the southern stretch of the coast, the weather at Tyre had become irritatingly hot. From time to time a light north wind gusted across the city, but instead of cooling the inhabitants, it threw dust in their eyes. Many of the women adopted Moslem dress, swathing themselves in a burnous and embroidered veil. No edict was issued against the borrowed fashions; indeed, they were encouraged, for Conrad knew that the Saracen spies would mention them favourably in their reports to Saladin.
Princess Isabella was now the mother of an infant girl, while her husband rode a fresh wave of popularity. The news that he had so convincingly out-voted Guy of Lusignan brought an old cry to his lips. ‘It is as I said. I told you it would be so. As I said, my friends, under God.’
He also indulged in a public display of piety, composing a short prayer, rehearsing it throughout one morning, then going out into one of the main squares to deliver it. He waited for a sizeable crowd to gather, then intoned:
‘Lord God, who has created me, and infused life into my body; Lord God, who is the Just and Merciful King, the True King of Heaven and Earth, I pray to Thee.’
The thought struck him that he should have gone down to the port, to the spot where he had first come ashore, five years ago, and delivered the prayer from the harbour wall. But it was too late now, so he continued:
‘I beseech Thee with all humility, Lord God, to judge whether I am deserving of the Crown of Jerusalem. If so, then grant that I may be made king. But if You should judge otherwise – A murmur from the crowd; a warning to God – show that You do not consent to my promotion. I am Your true servant, and ever shall be. Amen. Amen. Amen.’
The Tyrians cheered him back to the palace, and the city councillors set about raising money with which to buy their Defender, their Governor, their Regent, their soon-to-be King the proper robes and armour.
Isabella, who would be queen, received a number of gifts from the populace, though Conrad still intercepted any letters from her family. They hardly spoke now. The twenty-year-old princess lived the life of a recluse. She learned of the world from soldiers and servants, or from the Moslem emissaries who now frequented the palace.
On 20th April, some ten days after the vote at Ascalon, Henry of Troyes arrived at Tyre with details of the coronation. King Richard preferred that the Regent should be crowned at Acre – to which Conrad immediately agreed – and that he should then present himself to the army – to which Conrad immediately agreed. This new-found acquiescence sent Henry back to Ascalon brimming with
praise for the Italian. Guy of Lusignan had been shouldered with responsibility, but had staggered under the load. Conrad of Montferrat, for all his narrow shoulder bones, seemed well equipped to carry the burden of office. As for his treasonable letter to Saladin, well, it would not be the world’s first forgery…
The Tyrians were disappointed that the coronation was to be held farther down the coast, though they acknowledged that Acre was the proper place. Until Jerusalem was retaken, St Jean d’Acre remained the cornerstone in the Christian wall. So they made ready to send their Defender to his throne, wanting for nothing.
A week passed; a week in which every important merchant and chandler invited Conrad and Isabella to dine and accept some small contribution, either in coin or kind. The Regent apologized for his wife’s indisposition, and went alone. He found it a very cheap week, and took it for granted that he would eat with this fawning businessman at midday, that wealthy usurer at dusk. And, after each meal, he would return to the palace with some booty or other. He almost wished that the coronation could be deferred. A few more weeks of this, a triumphal visit to Haifa and Caesarea, and he would be the richest man in the Kingdom, rich enough to dispense with the throne itself.
But by Monday, 27th April, the round of drink and persuasion had begun to unsettle him. He awoke in a sullen mood, his eyes filled with crimson worms, his head throbbing beneath its hood of hair. Isabella kept clear of him until late afternoon, when she reminded him that he was due to dine with the Bishop of Beauvais.
His midday outing had not improved his temper. The merchant had talked without drawing breath, and the price of listening to him had not been that high. Now he snapped, ‘When was this arrangement made? I know nothing of it.’
‘Then you have forgotten. You accepted the Bishop’s invitation four or five days ago.’
‘Well, which!’
‘I could tell you either,’ she said, ‘it would make no difference. You are due to eat with him at his house tonight. That is all you need to remember.’
‘Very well. Wake me in an hour.’ He turned away, then stopped as she said, ‘There is something else that bears mention. Your manners will need dusting off before you take the throne. I may be elsewhere in an hour’s time, so I suggest you ask one of the servants to—
‘Elsewhere?’ he challenged. ‘You? Where else would you be, if not in the palace?’
She sighed very softly, her lips pressed tight together. He was right, of course. There was nowhere. ‘Get your rest,’ she murmured. ‘I will wake you.’
She watched him stride from the room and followed him, before descending a narrow flight of stairs to the bath house. It was one of the more extravagant features of the palace. She had known nothing like it when she had lived at Nablus with Balian and Maria, nor when she had married Humphrey and moved to his castle at Toron. The room was a further tribute to Moslem workmanship. The tiled roof was supported by a double colonnade of pillars, sculpted to resemble the boles of palm trees. The interior walls of the house were faced with mosaics, depicting the countryside around Tyre. Ironically, one picture showed the castle of Toron amid the hills of Jebel ’Amila.
As she entered the room, the servants hastened to tip cauldrons of boiling water into a chute that angled down from the heating recess into one corner of the bath. The recess was walled-off, with its own entrance, so the bather was free to move about, naked and unseen.
She called to them to run a cooler bath than usual, untied the girdle at her waist and removed the simple mauve kirtle. She waited in her plain linen shift until the rush of water had ceased, then slipped the shift over her head and stepped down into the bath. Empty, it had the proportions of a sunken courtyard. Full, with the water rippling against the green marble blocks, it was like some placid, tree-fringed lake.
She leaned back against a curved rest, let her arms float, buoyed up by the water, and closed her eyes. After a while her lips moved, widening into a gentle, inward smile. That silly poem of Ernoul’s, how did it go? Something, something—
‘Yet in the morning, lofty ladders lean
Against the obstacle between.
But—’
But something in silence, who’s – ah, yes.
‘But, vowed to silence, who’s to tell
Who safely made the climb, then later fell?
Children of Christ are we all,
Though some descended from a wall.’
Idiot. I wonder if he still writes such things. I hope he does…
* * *
He awoke in darkness. No one had lighted the candles on the table, or fired the pitch torches that leaned out in their wall brackets. He did not know where first to direct his anger. She had agreed to wake him, but she had not done so. And the slovenly servants had failed in their duties yet again. What hour was it? How long since dusk? How late was he?
Stiff and chilled, he pushed himself from the bed, dug his feet into his boots and stamped through to his dressing room and study. Again no lights. Not even a time candle. The devil bite them!
He moved forward, stepped aside to avoid his stacked weapons and collided with his writing desk. Grey bats of parchment flew from the desk. Glass shattered on the tiled floor. He blundered on, found a shelf near the row of iron bars that held his clothes, and felt along it for the tinderbox. He struck a series of sparks, tiny flowers of light that guided him to the nearest candle, and the candle to the pitch torches. When the room had turned yellow, he glanced at the desk. His papers were scattered across the floor, some of them stained by the crimson ink that flowed over the tiles. He pulled at his boot tops and noticed that the leather soles were also stained red. The devil disfigure the lot of them! He said, ‘When I get back— then let the threat grow to fruition as he dressed for dinner.
He was almost running as he left the palace. The Bishop of Beauvais was no common merchant, eager for rank or business concession. There was nothing he would want from Conrad, and in all probability nothing he would give. It was rather Conrad who needed him.
He roared at the ostlers and they scrambled to saddle his horse. Then he urged the animal through the city, past the grain market, closed for the night, and alongside the customs house. The Bishop’s residence was on the southern side of the city, not far from the harbour. He reached it, sat for a moment while he brought his anger under control, then dismounted and knocked on the door.
As he had feared, the meal was over.
‘However, Regent, if you care to wait awhile, I’m sure some more food can be prepared for you.’
‘No, my lord Bishop. With your permission I shall return home and eat with my wife, then revisit you later. Is that convenient?’
‘The princess is not with you now?’
‘She, ah—’ He smiled, man to man. ‘She was so long dressing, I thought it better to come on ahead—’
‘But you are not ahead, lord Regent. You are behind, else you would not have missed the meal.’
‘As you say.’
‘Well, no matter. Come along when you can. I’ll be up late.’ He extended his hand for Conrad’s kiss, and went inside, closing the door. The Regent remounted and started home.
Isabella.
Throne, or no throne, it was time for a reckoning.
He rode back via the customs house. Two hooded figures lolled on the steps. The spiteful wind had made monks of the Tyrians. Isabella. The horse turned across the front of the customs house.
A voice said, ‘Now!’
The hooded figures wheeled to their feet. Conrad stared at them, unable to see their faces. Now what? His horse shied away, and he saw something shine in the moonlight. More contributions of plate, or silverwork? Well, it would be something to offset the evening.
Then the bright objects took shape. Knives. Broad-bladed knives. His hands were numb. The reins fell from his grasp.
He snatched at his sword, missed and snatched again. One of the men ran in, like a crab, an arm outstretched, the knife a grotesque, pointing forefinger. He fe
lt one foot come free of the stirrups. Where was the other man? His sword tore the lips of his scabbard, then jerked up, hissing as it cut the air. He stood in the single stirrup. The crab stopped, just out of range. Then he knew what they had done.
The second knife went into his back and he arched away from the horse, pressing down on to the blade. The accusing finger probed around the front of the animal. The second knife was withdrawn, while the finger became an axe and chopped at his sword hand. The weapon fell away.
A voice said, ‘Don’t finish it!’
He lay on his back in the street. The moon shone on him, as though someone had brought a strong candle. They stood, one at his stained feet, one at his head. Then they went down on him, not quite killing him. Nothing so easy.
* * *
He was found and carried to the palace. Princess Isabella was summoned. The bath and the sleep had refreshed her. She looked cool, less drawn than before, not much older than her true age. He tried to speak, though he was beyond speech. She waited until she knew it was time, then reached down with her finger and thumb and closed his eyes. She turned away and went up to her bedchamber. An hour later she came down again and asked one of the benumbed guards, ‘Is Regent Conrad dead?’
Chapter Sixteen
The Coast, Darum
May, June 1192
The blame for Conrad’s death was placed at many doors. The list of suspects included, either individually or severally, King Richard of England, Robert of Breteuil, King Guy of Jerusalem, Constable Amalric, Humphrey of Toron, Balian of Ibelin, Constable Fostus, Grand Master Ermengard, friends of the dead Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, men in the direct employ of Balian’s wife Maria, or of Princess Isabella. With such an imbalance, it was necessary to name at least one Moslem. Sultan Saladin was the obvious choice, for he may have reasoned that if Conrad was prepared to attack his Christian brothers at Acre, he would surely prove unreliable in any future dealings with Islam. Even the mountain-dwelling sect called the Hashishins were included. Many deaths, both Moslem and Christian, had been ascribed to these fanatics who took the drug hashish and murdered – assassinated – for profit.
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