The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  * * *

  “Is that Acre, my lord?”

  Rolf sounded so breathless that Balian glanced back at the boy with a smile. Rolf had never ventured far from his village before Balian had taken him on as a squire a month ago, and he’d been very excited on their journey north, never having seen cities as large as Jaffa and Caesarea and Haifa, each with a population of more than four thousand. He’d never even been to a public bathhouse until Balian and his knights had gone to one in Caesarea and he’d been astonished by the sweating chamber heated with earthenware pipes from an outside furnace and by the hot and cold pools. He claimed to be fourteen, but his innocence made him seem younger to Balian, who could only marvel that they were now ruled by a king even younger than Rolf.

  Balian’s knights had been amused by Rolf’s naïveté and spun stories for him about the lions in the north and the fearsome beasts called crocodiles, said to lurk in a river near Caesarea. As they approached Acre, they filled his ears with tales of the scandalous seaport, notorious for its brawling, its bawdy houses, and its endless opportunities for sinning. Rolf’s eyes got even wider as he listened, and he was both eager and uneasy as Acre came into view, never imaging he’d get to see a city as wicked as Sodom or Gomorrah.

  “It has a double harbor!” he cried, dazzled by what looked to be a floating forest of masts, flying the flags of lands he’d never see. Balian explained that Acre was the kingdom’s chief port for both pilgrims and merchants. When the boy asked how many people dwelled within its massive stone walls, Balian paused to consider it.

  “Archdeacon William once told me that Acre, Tyre, and Jerusalem each have a population of over thirty thousand.”

  Rolf gasped. He took his lord’s most casual words as gospel, yet he wondered now if Balian was jesting with him, for he could not envision a city almost ten times the size of Jaffa or Caesarea. But by then, they were caught up in the throng of travelers seeking to pass through the Patriarch’s Gate, the stone tower that was the southeast entrance into Acre.

  Rolf gasped again as they rode in, for never had he seen such a wave of humanity, flowing into every crevice, every space as far as his eye could see—sailors, peddlers, Templar and Hospitaller knights, priests, pilgrims, beggars, drovers whipping their mules as they tried to force a path for their swaying carts, respectably clad matrons, other women who looked like walking sin, street urchins, merchants. Some were astride horses, most afoot, dodging stray dogs and the gutter running down the center of the street, elbowing their way toward the shops, taverns, and churches, all thriving on the sheer chaos of life in the kingdom’s chief seaport.

  Rolf found the noise level physically painful. Balian had told him Acre had nigh on forty churches, and the boy thought that all of them must be tolling their bells. A man shouted above the din that his master had opened a new keg of wine at his tavern on St. Anne Street. Sailors already half-drunk squabbled with one another, whistling at the sight of pretty girls. Rolf suddenly remembered the story their village priest had told them of the Tower of Babel in Scriptures, for Acre seemed like that to him. So many languages were assailing his ears—French, Greek, the Syriac and Arabic spoken by the native Christians, German, English, Armenian, Italian dialects, and tongues utterly foreign to him.

  But then he gagged, his face contorting. “What is that stink?”

  Balian and his knights laughed. “That is the perfumed air of Acre, lad. It takes getting used to, but you will. In truth, I think the townsfolk take a perverse pride in it, for I’ve heard them boasting that their city stench is ripe enough to sicken a pig.”

  To take the lad’s mind off the onslaught of so many foul odors, Balian began to describe the sights likely to interest his squire, pointing out the banner of the Templars flying above their commandery in the southwest corner of the city. The Hospitallers’ quarters and hospital were to the north, he said, as was the royal palace. The Genoese, Venetian, and now the Pisan merchants all had their own quarters, too.

  “Down the Street of Chains is the customhouse,” he continued, “where foreign and Saracen merchants go to have their goods inspected and a toll levied upon them.” He smiled then, thinking of the shock of European newcomers to Outremer when they discovered that trade between the Franks and the Saracens continued even during war. Rolf was a Poulain, so he’d understand that their kingdom’s survival often depended as much upon compromise and conciliation as it did upon the steel of their swords.

  Balian was telling Rolf about the fortified sea tower known as the Tower of the Flies that protected the harbor’s approach, when he heard his name called out, loudly enough to rise above the clamor of street traffic.

  Turning toward the sound, Balian grinned at the sight of Jakelin de Mailly and guided his palfrey across the crowded street. Swinging from the saddle, Balian handed the reins to Rolf, instructing his knights to continue on to his brother’s town house. Seeing Rolf’s dismay at being left on his own, he said, “You need not fret, lad. They know where it is, on Provençal Street, not far from St. Mary’s church. I’ll not be needing any of you for the rest of the day, so you can amuse yourselves as you like. Just try not to get arrested by the city’s viscount.”

  They laughed, delighted by the prospect of a free afternoon, and rode on, Rolf stealing an occasional glance back over his shoulder. Balian watched them go, then smiled at Jakelin. “I often bless Baudouin for buying a town house here, sparing us a stay in one of Acre’s flea-ridden inns. It is not as if you could take us in, after all.”

  “True,” Jakelin acknowledged, with a smile of his own. “Our grand master sets high standards when approving Temple guests. Luckily for you, Lord Baudouin is less particular.”

  Balian still found the sight of Jakelin in the white mantle and red cross of the Templars startling, though it had been two years since his friend had declared his wish to join the order. Balian had tried to talk him out of it, fearing this was another of Jakelin’s spur-of-the-moment whims, one he’d soon come to regret. Despite Balian’s admiration for the Templars, the best fighters in the kingdom, he did not understand what had motivated Jakelin. A Templar’s life was not an easy one. They courted danger the way other men courted women, and had to swear oaths of obedience, poverty, and chastity—all of which would have presented an enormous challenge to Balian. Nor had Jakelin been able to explain satisfactorily to Balian why he’d made such a drastic decision. But he had to admit that Jakelin seemed content with his choice and he supposed that was what mattered, even if he did miss visiting the Acre bordels with Jakelin.

  He and Jakelin de Mailly were such opposites that Baudouin had jokingly dubbed them Salt and Pepper. Balian was tall and lean, clean-shaven, with olive skin deeply tanned by the sun, and dark hair and eyes. Jakelin had blue eyes, hair so blond it looked white in the sun, a neatly trimmed Templar beard, a fair complexion that burned easily during the hot Outremer summers, and he was only of average height, but as powerfully built as a blacksmith. He was also as impulsive as Balian was deliberate and as idealistic as Balian was pragmatic. Yet their friendship had taken root at their first meeting four years ago when the young Frenchman had arrived in the Holy Land, eager to fulfill his crusader’s vow and perhaps to make his fortune, being a younger son with limited prospects back in Lorraine.

  “Let’s get a drink so we can catch up,” Balian said, looking around for the closest tavern. That did not take long, for Acre had taverns beyond counting. Glad to be out of the burning sun, they ducked under the sagging sign, peeling paint turning its half-moon into something unrecognizable, and found a table.

  Balian knew that Templars were permitted to drink wine, but he thought it was not made easy for them; Jakelin had explained that it could not be drunk between dinner and Vespers, nor could it be drunk in a tavern or house that was less than a league from a Templar commandery. So, when a morose serving maid with tired eyes finally shuffled over to them, he ordered wine for himself and water for J
akelin, apologizing as she turned away. “We’d never find fruit juice or almond milk in a hellhole like this.”

  Jakelin merely smiled and shrugged, as if what he drank was a matter of indifference, and Balian supposed that was true; a man who craved the luxuries of life was not likely to have joined the Order of the Temple. Settling back on the bench, he wasted no time. “Do you know why the campaign was called off, Jake?”

  “Of course. Our grand master confides in me daily, never making a move without my counsel.” Jakelin leaned across the table then, lowering his voice. “I can hazard a guess, though. Master Odo is peacock proud and Miles de Plancy commanded him to join the army at Kerak. He did it in public, too, the fool.”

  Balian was both surprised and puzzled, for the Templars and Hospitallers were not subject to the king’s authority, being independent orders answerable only to the Pope. “Miles ought to have known better than that. It is not as if he is a newcomer to the Holy Land.”

  “Men say that holding the regency has gone to his head. I hear he has been denying others access to the young king.”

  “At times I think there must be something in the Outremer water that scrambles men’s wits. How else explain why they think we have the luxury of ignoring the Saracens whilst we feud with our own? I assume the king is at the palace?”

  “Yes, but you’ll not find him there. They are holding races this afternoon. If you hurry, you’ll be in time to put down a few wagers ere they start. Although you’d do better to abstain, given your rotten luck in picking winners.”

  “That was only when I heeded your advice,” Balian countered, using the past tense since gambling was forbidden to Templars. Before Jakelin could retort, another serving maid approached their table and set two chipped cups before them. This one was sultry, not sullen, with flashing black eyes and golden skin that proclaimed some Saracen blood, although she wore a small wooden cross at her throat. When she asked if there was anything else they wanted, she made that innocuous sentence sound like an invitation to engage in mortal sin, and it was an offer Balian found very tempting. He resisted her appeal, though, shaking his head with a smile.

  “If you change your mind, my lord, you need only ask for Salma,” she said with a provocative pout, and sauntered away.

  Balian watched those swaying hips and sighed. No man with a few coins in his scrip would have trouble finding a bedmate in Acre, where bawdy houses sprang up like weeds, resourceful young women used taverns for hunting grounds, and whores who could do no better for themselves lurked in doorways after dark. But Salma’s exotic good looks and spirited self-confidence had stirred the desire that never fully slept in a man of Balian’s age, and he felt a real regret when she moved off to flirt with other customers.

  “Jesu, Balian, call her back! You’re all but drooling.”

  Balian blinked in surprise, for he’d been trying to spare Jakelin’s feelings. “I did not think it was good manners to accept her offer whilst you looked on,” he protested. “I would not boast of having enjoyed a five-course meal to a man who was starving.”

  Jakelin burst out laughing. “I am touched by your concern for my well-being. But do you truly think I am so weak that I’d violate my vows because you futtered a whore?”

  Rather than matching Jakelin’s bantering tone, Balian seized this opportunity to admit he was both awed and baffled by his friend’s resolve. “I do not know how you do it, Jake,” he confessed. “You’ve given up so much and you make it sound so . . . so easy.”

  “Easy?” Jakelin gave a hoot of disbelief. “Whoever said it was easy? It is a constant struggle, with my body always at war with my will. But that is as it ought to be. If it were too easy to honor these vows, then anyone could become a Templar. Even the likes of you,” he added with a grin, rising to his feet and slapping Balian on the back. “I have to go, for we are patrolling this afternoon. I assume you’ll be in Acre for a while? Stop by the commandery when you can find some free time.”

  With a wave, he headed for the door, pausing to thank Balian for “that costly swallow of pure spring water.” Balian laughed, for even when they did drink wine together, he always paid, as Jakelin claimed the rules of their order forbade him to carry money. Skeptical at first, he’d been surprised to learn that this was indeed a serious sin, one that could cause a Templar’s expulsion. Taking another sip of the wretched wine, he thought that he’d never understand how Jakelin could embrace such an austere life when there were other ways to serve God.

  The voluptuous serving maid was glancing in his direction again and he beckoned her over. As he expected, the tavern keeper allowed her to rent a small room abovestairs, and they soon agreed upon a price acceptable to them both. He’d be back by Vespers, he assured her, for the sweet sins she offered would have to wait. First, he must seek out the young king and try to learn why they were letting Damascus fall into Saladin’s clutches like a ripe plum.

  * * *

  Races and tournaments were held out on the plain east of Acre, not far from the mouth of the Belus River. Balian was not surprised to find a large crowd had gathered, for racing was a popular sport with the Poulains. Dismounting, he tethered his horse to a railing provided for that purpose and tossed a coin to a youngster to watch over the palfrey. Looking around for the stands set up for those of noble rank, he headed in that direction.

  Agnes de Courtenay had been given the seat of honor under a canvas awning protecting them from the sun, and Balian had to admit that she looked quite elegant in a gown of scarlet silk. Beside her, Sybilla appeared suddenly grown-up in green brocade. Miles de Plancy was seated on Agnes’s other side, carrying on an animated conversation with her, while his new wife, Stephanie de Milly, scolded her young son, Humphrey, for some minor misdeed. Balian thought the lad was the best-behaved child he’d ever met, but his mother set standards so high that not even an archangel could have met them.

  A wide space separated Agnes’s party from those gathered around the constable. Humphrey de Toron was looking bored; a man of action, he found any inactivity to be tedious. His wife was attracting the most stares, for she was highborn, beautiful, and had been involved in a great scandal. Philippa was the sister of the current Prince of Antioch, Bohemond, and she’d shocked their society by embarking upon a blatant affair with a Greek nobleman, Andronicus Comnenus, a kinsman of the Greek emperor. He was a man of undeniable charm, but one who seemed better suited for the lawless life of a pirate, as he soon proved. He and Philippa had lived openly together in Antioch until Andronicus paid a visit to Outremer. While there, he caused an even greater scandal by seducing a queen, Theodora, widow of Amalric’s late brother, Baldwin, and eloping with her to Nūr al-Dīn’s court in Damascus. Humiliated, her reputation in tatters, Philippa had agreed to marry the much older widower Humphrey de Toron, knowing he’d face down the scandal with the same fierce defiance he displayed upon the battlefield.

  Seated with the de Torons was a woman who looked vaguely familiar to Balian; after a moment, he recognized the Lady Eschiva, the very rich and recently widowed Princess of Galilee. She had none of the alluring blond beauty that God had bestowed upon Agnes and Philippa. She did have a serene demeanor and wry humor that both Agnes and Philippa lacked, and Balian found her quite likable. Eschiva had four young sons and word had it that she was a devoted mother, very involved in her offspring’s lives, so it was no surprise to see them beside her, jostling, squirming, and joking under her tolerant eye.

  On the other side of Humphrey de Toron was the Templar grand master, glowering from time to time in Miles de Plancy’s direction. As he glanced between these two groups, Balian realized that he was looking at a court breaking up into factions, so antagonistic that they could not even keep up public appearances and mingle on social occasions. His brother was back at Ramlah, but had Baudouin been here, Balian knew he’d be seated with the constable and the grand master. Had Denys de Grenier not returned to Sidon after Baldwin
’s coronation, Balian assumed his loyalty to his wife would have kept him at Agnes’s side even though he was good friends with Humphrey and distrusted Miles. The more Balian regarded these warring camps, the more unsettled he became. How could a thirteen-year-old boy be expected to mend rifts as deep and dangerous as these?

  And where was Baldwin? Balian had been stunned by the secret that William had revealed to the High Court. It was not just that a sickly king would put Outremer at great risk. He was horrified to think Baldwin might be afflicted with leprosy. He’d done his best to convince himself that the Almighty would not curse Baldwin or their kingdom like that. But when he noticed Baldwin’s absence, he felt a sudden pang, his first thought that the boy must be ailing. He realized almost at once that if Baldwin were ill, Agnes would not have left his side. Unlike his brother and William and many others, Balian did not doubt that Agnes loved her son.

  Deciding not to approach the stands now that choosing a seat had become a public declaration of loyalty to the regent or the constable, he went looking for William and soon spotted the archdeacon on the edge of the crowd. William was pleased to see him and quickly assuaged the last of his lingering concern about Baldwin. “The lad is around somewhere,” William said nonchalantly. “You know him and horses. He wanted to see the racers up close.”

  Balian had noted another conspicuous absentee. “Where is Queen Maria?”