The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Resuming her vigil at her husband’s bedside, Maria leaned over to place her hand upon his forehead and winced, for his fever continued to rage. How could this be God’s will? Amalric’s death would leave his kingdom at the mercy of their Saracen foes. How could an untried boy fend off Saladin? And what would befall her little girl? No longer the cherished daughter of a powerful king, with only her mother to speak up for her rights as that vile de Courtenay woman whispered her poison in Baldwin’s inexperienced ear. Shutting her eyes tightly, Maria shivered despite the summer heat infiltrating the chamber.

  As she reached over to take Amalric’s hand, his lashes flickered. Her fingers felt cool and smooth against his feverish skin. Whenever he’d awakened, she’d been there, forsaking sleep to stay at his side. Even if it was duty and not devotion, he was glad for her presence. Dying was lonely. He’d seen his chaplain, had confessed and been shriven of his sins. A pity a man could not be as easily absolved of his regrets. His fear had always been for his son, not for his kingdom. He’d not doubted that Maria would give him other sons, so even if his greatest dread had indeed been realized, the succession would have been safe. Like most of God’s fools, he’d assumed his earthly time was infinite. He’d never imagined he’d be dying at thirty-eight, leaving a twenty-year-old widow, two defenseless daughters, and a young son who could be accursed with the very worst of scourges.

  “Maria . . .” It was not easy to talk, for his mouth was as dry as the Negev Desert. “Fetch my children,” he whispered. He must have dozed off after that, for when he opened his eyes again, Maria was sitting by the bed, holding Isabella in her lap, with Sybilla and Baldwin standing awkwardly behind her.

  Amalric found himself suddenly remembering the bitter prophesy Agnes had flung at him during one of their quarrels about Baldwin’s health. “When you die,” she’d spat, “no one will weep for you.” As his gaze moved from his queen to his children, he did indeed see no tears. Maria’s eyes were dry, filled with fear. Isabella was, at two, too young to understand. It pleased him that she showed signs of growing into a beauty, with wide-set dark eyes and her mother’s black hair. She was a sweet-natured child, eager to please, but also an observant one. She was both curious and cautious, qualities he could appreciate for they were his character traits, too. Very unlike his older daughter; at Isabella’s age, Sybilla had already been a handful.

  Sybilla was subdued now, her lashes veiling her eyes, her hands clasped nervously behind her back. He did not blame her for not grieving for him; hellfire, she barely knew him. His gaze moved past her to his son. The lad looked overwhelmed, as well he might. He was clever enough to understand that a kingship at thirteen was more of a burden than a blessing.

  Amalric’s throat tightened. How could God be so cruel? He’d shocked poor William once by asking if he truly believed that souls were raised from the dead. Imagine how horrified the archdeacon would be if he confided what he was thinking now—that mayhap God was a Muslim. How else explain their kingdom’s plight? He wished he had words of wisdom for his son, words that would comfort and guide him in years to come. But he knew there were none, not if what he so dreaded came to pass. “I am proud of you, lad,” he said hoarsely, and the boy swallowed, blinking rapidly. See, Agnes, there is one to weep for me, after all.

  He found himself drifting away again, but he could not let the tide take him, not yet. “Maria . . . I must speak with you in private. William, too. And the patriarch.”

  She rose, handed Isabella to her nurse, and signaled for Baldwin and Sybilla to withdraw, which they quickly did, ill at ease and frightened that their father might die while they watched. Amalric glanced toward the bedside table, and William reached for the wine cup, holding it to his parched lips. No matter how much he drank, he could not ease this great thirst. “Maria . . . fetch Agnes, too.”

  Her head whipped around. “Amalric, are you . . . sure?”

  He nodded and after she’d departed to send word to the patriarch and his former wife, he met William’s eyes, saying softly, “I suppose I owe Agnes this much.” He saw that William understood, although he did not look any happier about it than Maria. But the High Court had to know. He could not go to his grave without speaking up, for there was too much at stake. He must betray his son or betray his kingdom. Had any man ever faced a choice like that?

  “I lied to you, William,” he confessed once they were alone.

  “My liege?”

  “When . . . when I told you that I did not believe God would curse Baldwin with leprosy.”

  William’s eyes filled with tears. “I know, sire. I lied, too.”

  * * *

  Baudouin and Balian d’Ibelin were sitting on the steps of the great hall, gazing toward the north tower, where the king’s bedchamber was located. The city had come to a standstill, large, somber crowds gathering out on the Street of the Armenians. Those able to gain access to the palace were congregating in the great hall or the courtyard—some of the soldier-monks of the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller, clerics, members of the royal household, and lords of the realm. Across the courtyard, Denys de Grenier was striding back and forth; he had acknowledged Baudouin and Balian with a brief wave but had not come over to talk, keeping his eyes on the north tower entrance. He was trailed by his cousin, Guyon de Grenier, who’d recently inherited the lordship of Caesarea, paying Guyon no more mind than he had the d’Ibelins. He was the object of considerable curiosity, for his presence there confirmed the wild rumor that the dying king had sent for Agnes.

  Until he’d seen Denys, Baudouin had been skeptical of that rumor, saying that no man in his right senses would want to spend his last hours of life with a hellcat like Agnes. “By putting himself through this earthly ordeal, do you think Amalric will get some time taken off his stay in Purgatory?”

  Balian shrugged, too preoccupied to heed his brother’s jesting.

  Baudouin was still nursing a cup of wine he’d brought from the great hall. “Who’d have guessed that a coldhearted bastard like Amalric would be mourned like this? I suppose the Devil we know is always preferable to the one we do not.”

  He’d often been one for belaboring the obvious and Balian waited now for him to quote from Scriptures. “‘Woe unto thee, O land, when thy king is a child.’” Baudouin surprised him, though. “It is not that I fear Baldwin will be a bad king. He’s a good lad, dealt with that shoulder injury better than many grown men would have done. No whining or self-pity; he just set about learning how to wield a sword with his left hand. And he’s one of the best riders I’ve ever seen. But he’ll not reach his majority for another two years, two years in which Agnes will do all in her power to entangle him in her web.”

  Baudouin frowned, genuinely alarmed at the prospect of Agnes exercising her baneful influence upon young Baldwin. “Thank God her brother has been languishing in a Saracen dungeon these ten years past,” he said, draining his wine cup and setting it down upon the steps with a thud.

  Balian was taken aback. “That is rather harsh,” he said, for they all dreaded the fate that had befallen Agnes’s brother. In yet another downturn of Fortune’s wheel for the de Courtenays, the year after Amalric had divorced Agnes, the Franks had suffered a major defeat at the hands of Nūr al-Dīn. Among the highborn prisoners taken at the battle of Hārim had been Raymond, the Count of Tripoli; Bohemond, the Prince of Antioch; and Joscelin de Courtenay. The Greek emperor had been able to ransom Bohemond of Antioch, but Nūr al-Dīn refused to ransom the others, and they’d been held captive in Aleppo for almost a decade. Treatment of prisoners could vary widely, from the brutality accorded Agnes and Joscelin’s father to reasonably comfortable confinement, yet even for the lucky ones not thrown into an underground dungeon, imprisonment had to scar a man’s soul.

  “I am not saying I do not feel some pity for Joscelin,” Baudouin protested. “But tell me the truth, Little Brother. Do you want to see Baldwin turned into a de Cou
rtenay puppet, with Agnes and Joscelin both getting to pull his strings? No, better for the kingdom’s sake that Joscelin stays in his Aleppo gaol.”

  Balian did not want to see Joscelin as one of Baldwin’s advisers either, but he sympathized with any man shut away from the sun, denied wine and women and all worldly joys. He wondered how a man kept his wits intact as the years dragged by and was thankful that their brother Hugh had been ransomed after less than a year of captivity. He sat up straight then, for Baudouin had just elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

  “Look, they’re coming out!”

  The first to emerge from the tower stairwell was the Patriarch of Jerusalem. An elderly man, he looked as if he’d added a decade or two to his years during the time he’d spent in Amalric’s bedchamber. Leaning heavily upon his cane, he tottered across the courtyard toward his waiting attendants and departed in such haste that the bystanders began to murmur uneasily among themselves. Maria was the next to appear, and she, too, seemed dazed. Balian was on his feet by now and offered a polite greeting as she passed, but he doubted that she’d even heard him. Holy Mother Mary, what did Amalric tell them?

  He was staring after Maria when Baudouin poked him in the ribs again. “I do not believe it,” he gasped, and Balian turned around to see what had so astounded his brother. Agnes de Courtenay was standing in the tower entranceway, leaning against the door frame as if she had need of physical support. Her head was bowed, her shoulders shaking, and there was a moment of shocked silence as the spectators realized she was weeping. Her husband shoved his way toward her and as soon as Denys put his arm around her, she collapsed against his chest and began to sob.

  “I’d sooner have expected to see a crocodile shed tears than that woman,” Baudouin admitted, and then, “Ah, there’s Master William. You’re a friend of his, Balian. Go and see if you can get him to tell us what went on up there.”

  Balian knew better. To stop Baudouin from hectoring him, though, he crossed the courtyard toward the archdeacon, just now stepping from the shadows of the stairwell into the light. William looked exhausted, showing every one of his forty-four years at that moment, his shoulders slumped, perspiration beading his forehead and upper lip. He glanced up dully as Balian approached, with Baudouin right on his heels. They were both very tall men and towered over him in the best of times, but now he seemed to have shrunk, as if his very bones had somehow contracted. Balian’s greeting died in his throat, and even Baudouin could not bring himself to cross-examine a man so careworn.

  William wanted only to retreat to his own chambers. But he paused long enough to say in a low, strained voice, “I cannot tell you anything, not yet. You’ll know soon enough.”

  Balian patted the older man’s shoulder, all he could think to do. Baudouin had less self-restraint. “When?” he demanded. “When will we know?”

  William paused again. “After the king dies. When the High Court meets.”

  * * *

  Amalric died on July 11, 1174, after reigning for eleven years and five months. He was given a royal funeral and buried beside his brother in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The next day, the High Court convened to elect his successor.

  * * *

  The Haute Cour, or High Court, was composed of the vassals of the king and its duties were varied. It had the power to levy taxes, to vote on military missions, to try civil and criminal cases, yet its most cherished prerogative was the right to select a king. Although six hundred or so men were eligible to vote, in practice the court was run by a much smaller group, one that consisted of the greatest lords of the realm. They normally met in the great hall of the massive stronghold known as David’s Tower, but on the morning after Amalric’s funeral, they were gathering in the upper-story solar of the citadel keep, which provided better security from eavesdroppers.

  By sunrise, people had begun to congregate out on David Street and the castle bailey was already crowded with spectators. They nodded and pointed as the king’s young widow was escorted toward the tower keep by the Archdeacon of Tyre. Maria looked pale and tense, oblivious that she was being watched by unfriendly eyes as well as curious ones. Agnes was outraged that Maria would be permitted to attend the High Court session, and as soon as she caught sight of the constable, she hastened across the bailey to intercept Humphrey de Toron.

  He anticipated her, saying before she could speak, “Nothing has changed, my lady countess. As I told you yesterday, you cannot participate in the succession debate.”

  “I just saw that Greek woman enter.”

  “Queen Maria is the king’s widow and the mother of his daughter.”

  “But she is not Baldwin’s mother, I am!”

  “I am sure your lord husband will tell you what happened during the session,” he said brusquely and turned away before she could argue further.

  Agnes could only fume in silence as others followed Humphrey into the tower keep. Just two bishops had permanent seats on the High Court; however, all of the kingdom’s prelates and abbots would take part in the election of a new king, and she watched as a parade of churchmen passed by. The lords of Caesarea and Bethsan and Arsuf came next, and then the grand masters of the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller. She bristled when she saw Walter de Brisebarre and his brother Guidon. Walter had once held the important fief of Beirut. But when his wife inherited the even larger and richer fief of Outrejourdain, Amalric had objected to a vassal having such power and compelled Walter to relinquish Beirut for the much less significant lordship of Blanchegarde. Although Walter subsequently lost any claim to Outrejourdain when his wife died, Amalric had not restored Beirut, which remained part of the royal demesne. Agnes was resentful that despite his paltry holdings, Walter was still a member of the High Court while she was shut out and ignored.

  Nor was her temper improved any when she noticed Balian d’Ibelin strolling across the bailey; did the man ever hurry? The d’Ibelins had become one of the most influential families of Outremer after Barisan d’Ibelin had gained the king’s favor and was rewarded with marriage to the heiress of Ramlah. When their mother had died, her sons Hugh and then Baudouin had inherited the important lordships of Ramlah and Mirabel, but Balian’s holdings were much more modest. Once Baudouin succeeded Hugh as Lord of Ramlah, he’d generously bestowed the family fief of Ibelin upon his youngest brother. Ibelin was a small lordship, though. Yet like Walter de Brisebarre, Balian would have a say in whether her son became Outremer’s next king, these lesser lords given the vote that Agnes was denied.

  Agnes reminded herself that unlike his lout of a brother, Balian was not deaf to the voice of reason; he even seemed to have a sense of fair play. Calling out his name, she hurried to overtake him and, grasping his arm, steered him toward a corner of the bailey where they could speak more privately. “I want you to promise me,” she said, “that you will speak up for Baldwin. He is the rightful king. Do not let them forget that, Balian.”

  Balian was mildly surprised by her urgency. “Baldwin has your husband to speak up for him and the others are more likely to be swayed by the Lord of Sidon than by me.”

  She was unable to explain that her son would need all the champions he could get. If only Joscelin were here. But she’d been left to fight her battles alone yet again. This time she was fighting for her son, and never had the stakes been higher. She’d wept all night. By morning, though, she was dry-eyed and resolute. She was not going to let Baldwin be cheated of his kingship by suspicions and conjecture. Even if the harrowing specter of leprosy proved to be real and not just Amalric’s deathbed delusion, that was a war to be fought later, if at all. What mattered now was getting him the crown that was his birthright.

  “I have to go, Agnes. I am not important enough for them to wait for me,” Balian said with a smile, gently prying her fingers from his sleeve when she did not move. “I can assure you that I know of no reason not to elect Baldwin as our next king.”

 
You will hear one soon enough, she thought, tasting the bitterness in her mouth like wormwood and gall.

  * * *

  The solar was a spacious chamber, but with more than forty men to accommodate, it was crowded and already unpleasantly warm. Chairs had been provided for Queen Maria and Emeric de Nesle, the patriarch. The others were sitting on wooden benches. Balian was heading for the back of the room when his brother called out, “I saved you a seat,” and beckoned him toward the front row. Even though he felt out of place in the midst of the most powerful lords of the realm, Balian hastened over and slid onto the bench beside Baudouin.

  Normally it would have been for the patriarch to do the invocation. Emeric seemed lost in his own thoughts and Baudouin was not the only one to think he might actually be dozing, although he was the only one to say so, in a sotto voce aside to Balian. Emeric had never had a forceful personality, and he’d become more ineffectual as he dealt with the twin crosses of age and illness, but even for him, such passive behavior was unusual. Balian found himself wondering again just what Amalric had confided to the patriarch and the women in his last hours.

  The invocation was finally offered by Lethard, the Archbishop of Nazareth, who had a permanent seat on the court. The seneschal had fidgeted impatiently as Lethard prayed for the repose of Amalric’s soul and the weal of the kingdom, and as soon as the archbishop paused for breath, Miles de Plancy was on his feet, thanking Lethard even though it was obvious he was not done.

  Miles was one of the most influential men on the court. A member of Amalric’s inner circle, he’d held the powerful post of seneschal for the past five years, and in March, he’d been lavishly rewarded for his unwavering loyalty to the king when Amalric arranged his marriage to Stephanie de Milly, Humphrey de Toron’s widowed daughter-in-law, heiress to the great fief of Outrejourdain. Miles was not well liked by the other barons, in part because he was not one of them, not a Poulain, and there were always tensions between the native-born barons and newcomers to Outremer. Some of them also resented his good fortune and rapid ascent. But Miles made it very easy for others to dislike him. He was hot-tempered and autocratic, often clashing with the kingdom’s other officers, with both grand masters, and with several of the bishops, none of whom looked pleased to see him take command of the court now, even though it was his right as seneschal in the absence of the king.