The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Amalric considered that for a long moment and then nodded. The Franks had never learned to shoot from horseback as their enemies did, but if the Saracens could guide their mounts without the need of reins, then Baldwin could, too, by God. And it might never come to that. “Send your brother to me,” he instructed the doctor. “And nothing that was said here is to leave this chamber. Is that understood?”

  The doctor obviously resented this warning, as needless as it was insulting. Bowing stiffly, he backed toward the door. There he paused, his hand on the latch.

  “There is another malady that can cause a loss of feeling or paralysis. I am not saying I fear the young lord has been afflicted with it, for there is no evidence of that. Yet I would be remiss in my duties as a physician if I did not mention it to you, my liege. I do not believe you need—”

  “By the rood, man, spit it out! What is this ailment?”

  The doctor met Amalric’s gaze steadily. “Leprosy.”

  William sank down abruptly on a nearby coffer chest. The blood had drained from Amalric’s face; he opened his mouth, but no words emerged. And then he lunged across the chamber, grabbing the doctor and shoving him against the door. “If I ever hear you say that my son could be a leper, I’ll cut your tongue out myself!”

  The other man looked more offended than alarmed. “My first responsibility is to my patient. I would never break a sickbed confidence, would never speak of Lord Baldwin’s ailment to anyone but you. If you do not trust me to honor my vow, it might be better for you to seek another doctor for the young prince.”

  Amalric was the first to look away. Stepping back, he released his hold on the doctor’s arm. “I trust you,” he said, his voice thick and scratchy, and Abū Sulayman Dāwūd yielded, knowing this was as close as the king could come to an apology.

  As soon as the doctor departed, Amalric strode over to a side table and poured himself wine with a shaking hand. Emptying it in several swallows, he splashed more wine into the cup and brought it to his mouth. But he did not drink, instead flung the cup to the floor. A swipe of his arm sent the flagon after it, soaking the carpet. He stared down for a moment at the pooling wine, as red as newly spilled blood, and then crossed the chamber, slumping into a chair beside William.

  “You were not surprised,” he said after a long silence; there was no accusation in his voice, though, nothing but exhaustion. “Why would you ever have suspected that?”

  “I would not say I suspected, my liege; that is too strong a word. It is rather that I was remembering. When I was a boy in Jerusalem, a neighbor’s son was diagnosed with that vile malady.” He did not elaborate, not wanting to tell Amalric that the boy’s first symptom had been a lack of feeling in one of his hands, not wanting to say anything that would connect their blessed young prince with that doomed child.

  Amalric leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Christ on the cross,” he muttered, and another oppressive silence fell. “I do not believe it,” he said abruptly. “Not any of it. I do not believe Baldwin will not heal or that he’ll be crippled. As for the other . . .” His mouth twisted, as if he’d tasted something unspeakably foul. “There is no way that my son could be stricken with that accursed disease. God would never let that happen—never.”

  William studied the other man and then slowly nodded. “I do not believe God would let that happen, either, my lord king.”

  * * *

  The rest of the day passed in a blur for William. He delighted Baldwin and the other boys by canceling their classes, and sought to occupy himself with his writing. Despite spending hours on his task, he was unhappy with what he’d written and ended up scraping the parchment clean, erasing all his afternoon’s efforts. It was the eve of Maundy Thursday and the service that night was the hauntingly beautiful and tragic ceremony of Tenebrae, one of his favorites. But even as the candles were symbolically quenched, one by one, until the church of the Holy Sepulchre was plunged into darkness, he remained distracted and restless, unable to meditate upon the Savior’s suffering. He retired early to his own chambers. When he realized he’d been sitting for an hour with a book open in his lap, not a page turned, he put it aside and, picking up an oil lamp, made his way into the stairwell toward Baldwin’s chambers.

  The boy was already in bed. His attendants greeted William by putting fingers to their lips. He indicated he’d not wake the young prince, detouring around the wolfhound stretched out on the carpet by Baldwin’s bed. He stood for several moments, gazing down at the sleeping child. A lock of sunlit hair had fallen across his forehead and William resisted the urge to smooth it back into place. It was then that the boy’s lashes flickered and he looked up drowsily.

  “Are you here to scold me for what I did today?”

  “No . . . what did you do?”

  “It was just in fun. . . .” Baldwin yawned. “You do not know? Well, I’d be foolish to tell you, then,” he murmured with a sleepy smile. “You might not find out. . . .”

  “I always do,” William reminded him. “It does not involve Queen Maria, does it? You promised me that you’d play no more tricks upon her after that last bit of mischief.”

  “She has no sense of humor at all.”

  “Baldwin, you let a bat loose in her bedchamber!”

  The corner of the boy’s mouth twitched in amusement. “My mother would have laughed.”

  William doubted that, but he usually tried to hold his peace where Agnes de Courtenay was concerned, not feeling it proper to share his disapproval of the woman with her young son. In truth, the boy did not really know his mother, for once Amalric realized how bitter she was about their divorce, he saw to it that her visits with Baldwin were infrequent and always supervised.

  “You did keep your word about the queen?” William persisted, relieved when the boy nodded. He was sorry, although not truly surprised, that there was so little affection between Maria and Baldwin. Baldwin had been six at the time of her marriage to his father and he’d not been pleased, seeing her as an intruder into their lives. And what thirteen-year-old girl was equipped to be a stepmother to a youngster who was resentful, strong-willed, and somewhat spoiled? It did not help, either, he thought with a sigh, that Baldwin was such a tease and Maria so protective of her dignity. Just a few days ago, William had been worried about their failure to forge any sort of bond, realizing that their rivalry was likely to get worse now that Maria had a child of her own. Tonight, it no longer seemed to matter.

  “Go back to sleep, Baldwin,” he said softly. “I did not mean to awaken you.”

  “Master William?”

  “Yes, lad?”

  “My arm . . . it will get better?”

  “Yes, I am sure it will. Have you been worried about it, Baldwin?”

  “No . . . not until I saw that you and my father were worried.”

  “Well, now that you’ve seen the doctor, none of us need worry.” William looked into the boy’s candid blue eyes and summoned up a smile. “May God and His holy angels keep you safe, lad.” It was a blessing he’d often bestowed upon Baldwin and the words came to his lips of their own bidding. But as he spoke them tonight, there was a catch in his throat.

  CHAPTER 2

  December 1173

  Jerusalem, Outremer

  William had been keeping a protective eye upon the young queen, for this was Maria’s first public appearance since the death of her second daughter two months ago. He did not need the evidence of her pallor, the shadows smudged under her eyes, and the fingers clenching and unclenching in her lap to show him what an emotional toll it was taking on her. Most of the kingdom’s lords and their ladies had not seen her in those two months and so their greetings were then followed by condolences, which meant that Maria was being forced to acknowledge her child’s death in virtually every conversation. That would have been painful for any mourning mother, but William knew Maria’s grieving was darkened by g
uilt.

  Born more than a month before her due date, the baby had been named after Amalric’s late mother, yet from her first day on God’s earth, Melisende had seemed too frail and tiny to bear the weight of a queen’s name, and only Maria had clung to hope. Melisende lingered barely a fortnight and Maria had soon confided tearfully to William what she could not say to Amalric, that she blamed herself. Surely there must have been something she could have done to prevent the premature birth that had doomed her daughter? William’s superb education did not include the female subjects of pregnancy and the birthing chamber, but he pointed out gently that all that happened was God’s will, so there had to be a reason why the Almighty had called Melisende home after such a heartbreakingly brief stay. He doubted, though, that his words had given Maria much comfort.

  As soon as there was a pause in the stream of people approaching the dais, William suggested that Maria take a brief respite from her queenly duties. A walk in the gardens would do her good, he insisted, and she glanced wistfully toward the window but then shook her head, pointing out that someone had to be there to greet their guests in Amalric’s absence.

  “Where is the king?” he asked, irked with Amalric for not giving his vulnerable wife more support. He thought he’d phrased the question neutrally but Maria knew him well enough to catch the implied criticism and she shook her head again.

  “It is not his fault,” she said softly. “That wretched woman ambushed us as we left the chapel, demanding that she have some moments alone with him. Naturally he refused, yet she persisted, saying it concerned their son. She made such a scene that granting her a private audience was the lesser of evils, and Amalric grudgingly agreed to talk with her.”

  Maria stopped speaking then, for Humphrey de Toron was approaching. He scorned the clean-shaven fashion of younger lords, his beard grizzled and thicker than the receding hair on his head. He was well into his sixth decade, yet still sturdy and robust. Constable of the kingdom for the past ten years, he had earned a well-deserved reputation for battlefield valor and was respected for his cool head in a crisis. He looked pleased when Maria rose and took several steps toward him, a deft recognition of his status as one of the most important barons of the realm. Feeling like a proud tutor with a clever pupil, William smiled approvingly as she made the constable welcome and then greeted his daughter-in-law, Stephanie de Milly.

  Like Maria, the de Toron family was in mourning, for Humphrey’s son and namesake had died after a brief illness earlier that year. Stephanie was a great heiress, though, so William doubted she’d remain a widow for long. He saw now that she was accompanied by her seven-year-old son, yet another Humphrey. He was a startlingly handsome child, with perfectly sculpted features, long-lashed dark eyes, and hair the color of burnished chestnut, but there was something about his beauty—for there was no other word for it—that seemed delicate to William, almost effeminate. Certain, though, that the lad could have no better role model than his grandfather, William smiled at young Humphrey, who smiled shyly back.

  Leaving Maria in conversation with the constable and his daughter-in-law, William began to search the hall for Baldwin, disappointed when the lad was nowhere to be found. His frown disappeared, though, as his gaze lit upon the girl in a window alcove, flirting openly with one of Amalric’s household knights. Sybilla was so obviously excited to be at the Christmas court that William felt a twinge of pity. She’d been four when Amalric had sent her off to the nunnery at Bethany to be raised by the elderly abbess, his aunt, and the ten years since then must have been lonely ones for her, judging by how happy she always was to attend her father’s Easter and Christmas courts. He’d tried in vain to persuade Amalric to have her educated in the royal household. He had fond memories of sharing his Jerusalem childhood with his brother and it seemed sad that Baldwin should grow up not knowing his own sister.

  When he said “Lady Sybilla,” she rose from the seat, winked at the knight, and moved to meet him. Like Baldwin, she had inherited the fair coloring of their parents. She would never have the stunning beauty that had been her mother’s, but she had the appeal of youth and when she smiled, her resemblance to Agnes was suddenly so pronounced that William wondered if that was why Amalric had kept her secluded at the Bethany convent.

  “How good to see you again, Master William!” she exclaimed, showing she had some of Baldwin’s charm. He did not know if she also had her brother’s sharp intelligence, but she appeared to have the same strong will, for she kept begging Amalric to bring her back to court, not at all discouraged by his inevitable refusals. When William explained the favor he sought, she seemed delighted. “You want me to greet guests on my father’s behalf? Of course I will!”

  She danced toward the dais with a light step, so eager to be the center of attention that William felt another flicker of sympathy; how suffocating she must find life behind those nunnery walls. By the time William caught up with her, she and her stepmother had already exchanged places. There was not the same tension between them as there was between Maria and Baldwin, yet they were still strangers with little to say to each other; he doubted that Maria had seen Sybilla more than a dozen times in the entire six years of her marriage. He knew Sybilla found it odd to have a stepmother only five years her senior, for he’d heard her say so. He suspected that Maria felt the same way, but she’d learned to be circumspect while growing up at the Greek royal court.

  As he moved away with Maria, William glanced over his shoulder at Sybilla, happily holding court on the dais, and it occurred to him that a sequestered convent childhood was not the best education for a girl who stood so close to the throne. The thought was so troubling that he stopped abruptly, causing Maria to look at him in surprise. It was the first time that he’d viewed Sybilla as a possible queen and he felt a pang of remorse, for it seemed disloyal to Baldwin even to consider it, a secret admission that if the boy’s health deteriorated, he might not be capable of ruling.

  * * *

  It was an unusually mild day for December and the royal gardens were dappled in sunlight. There were no flowers in bloom at that time of year and the fruit trees were bare, but palms and olive trees knew no seasons and their fronds and silvery-green leaves rustled in the breeze as Maria and William strolled along the walkway, followed by her women and the ever-present Michael. William was pleased to see that the color was returning to her cheeks and she paused when they heard a sweet twittering coming from a blackthorn bush, smiling as she caught a glimpse of the small bird perched on a twig. It soon took flight, black and yellow wings glinting in the sun. William identified it for Maria as a goldfinch, also called the thistle finch, explaining it was a symbol of the Resurrection, the thistle being associated with the Savior’s crown of thorns.

  William had a penchant for sometimes oversharing, but Maria did not mind; his digressions were usually interesting and it was a relief to talk about an innocuous subject like the goldfinch. He was telling her about a legend that the thistle finch had plucked a thorn from the Lord Christ’s bleeding brow, when a sudden shout turned their heads toward the far end of the garden.

  “So that is where Baldwin disappeared to,” William said, pointing toward the raucous game of quoits being played by his young charge and several of his friends. They’d attracted an audience, for everything the king’s son did was of interest to the men and women he would one day rule. The spectators were prudently keeping their distance, though, as the boys were flinging the horseshoes about with wild abandon. Had he been alone, William would have gone over to watch, too. But Maria looked tired and so he led her toward a nearby bench.

  They did not speak for a time, for they’d long ago reached that stage in their friendship where they were comfortable with silence. Maria’s ladies settled onto another bench, while Michael stayed on his feet, leaning against the gnarled trunk of an olive tree. Maria’s gaze had shifted back to her stepson’s game. “Amalric says Baldwin’s injury is healing,” she sai
d, switching from French to Greek once she’d assured herself that her attendants were not within earshot. “But I notice that he is using his left hand to throw the horseshoes at the hob.”

  William had noticed it, too. Glancing at the queen from the corner of his eye, he wished he could confide in her. Impossible, of course, for the question of Baldwin’s health was shrouded in secrecy. When word had slowly trickled out of the palace that the young prince was learning to wield a sword with his left hand, Amalric had tersely explained it as the result of a shoulder injury. That had not stopped people from gossiping or rumors from spreading. Fortunately, whenever Baldwin appeared in public, he showed no signs of sickness and seemed to be a normal, lively lad of twelve, and William thought that reduced speculation to occasional tavern talk.

  He wondered if Amalric truly believed that his son was on the mend. It had been twenty months since he’d first noticed those damnable bruises, and he saw no indication that Baldwin’s arm was healing. William feared that the boy was losing the ability to use his afflicted hand, just as Abū Sulayman Dāwūd had warned. But Baldwin was subjected to frequent physical examinations by the doctor and no other symptoms had manifested themselves. William took great comfort from that, even though an insidious inner voice occasionally whispered that such comfort was ephemeral.

  Maria was sorry she’d brought the subject up, for it was obvious he did not want to discuss Baldwin’s injury. His reluctance made her uneasy. Amalric acted as if his son’s impairment was a minor matter, temporary at best. She hoped that was so. She would never have admitted it to anyone, but she did not like Baldwin. She’d assured herself that it was his fault, not hers, for he’d rejected her early overtures and soon she’d stopped trying. There were moments, however, when she acknowledged that it had been up to her to win him over and she’d taken the easy way out. She was relieved that Baldwin lived with William and not with Amalric, even though she was vaguely ashamed that she felt that way. It took her by surprise, therefore, that the possibility that Baldwin might have a serious health problem troubled her so much.