The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Ignoring the curious glances of passersby, he rubbed his eyes wearily. The longer that Baldwin was missing, the more guilt ridden William became, devastated to realize that Baldwin had believed there was no one to turn to in his hour of greatest need. That he’d sought out neither his mother nor his chaplain told William that he felt betrayed both by his family and by God.

  He glanced up again at the sky, watching as the sun began its slide toward the western hills. If only he had more time, he could send for Balian. He was young enough to remember what it was like to be fourteen; mayhap he’d have been able to discover Baldwin’s hiding place. Thoughts of Balian reminded him of Baldwin’s birthday, for Balian had suggested he give the lad an ornate saddle, and it had been an inspired idea; Baldwin could quite happily ride from dawn till dusk. . . . William sat up straight then, suddenly sure where the boy had gone.

  * * *

  The stable grooms looked relieved to see the archbishop, for they’d slowly begun to realize that something was wrong but did not know what to do about it. Yes, they confirmed eagerly, the king had appeared without warning several hours ago and had gone into the stall of his stallion, Asad.

  “I offered to saddle Asad, my lord,” the chief groom volunteered, “for I assumed the king meant to go for a ride. He said no, though. He often comes here to see Asad, and at first I thought nothing of it. Time passed and so I decided I ought to make sure he did not need anything. When I asked, he told me right sharply to go away, saying he was not to be disturbed. He . . . he did not sound like himself, my lord. . . .”

  William picked up a lantern hanging from a hook, for while there were rushlights on the wall, they’d be quenched when the grooms departed for the night. “If the king does not want to be disturbed, he is to be obeyed,” he said tersely, and then began to walk slowly toward the back of the stable. Asad had a stall even more spacious than Caesar’s. It was deep in shadows, but William could still see that the stallion was not tethered. Peering over the door, he was able to discern the motionless figure sitting cross-legged in the straw, and he gasped to see Baldwin so close to the horse’s hooves.

  “Baldwin,” he said quietly, “it is William.” When the boy did not respond, keeping his head turned away, William had no choice and cautiously opened the door, watching the stallion nervously all the while. Asad snorted and he was sure the horse could sense his fear. Knowing that he’d already be dead if this were the fiery Caesar, William could only pray that Balian was right and an Arabian was not as temperamental as the Frankish destriers.

  Edging cautiously around the Arabian, he sank down in the straw beside Baldwin. The boy still did not look at him, but he snapped, “No lantern!” William hastily extinguished it. The closest rushlight cast just enough illumination to give him a glimpse of Baldwin’s swollen, reddened eyes, and William’s own eyes burned with tears. The silence was smothering. He waited, though, for Baldwin, and eventually the boy said in a hard voice, a stranger’s voice, “Have you come to make excuses, to argue that you were right to keep this from me?”

  “No. I have come to beg your forgiveness. What we did, we did from love, but it was still wrong. We should have told you.”

  Baldwin did not reply, but William thought he heard a soft sigh, like a breath being expelled. Another silence fell, broken only by the nickering of nearby horses, the occasional thump of hooves hitting wood. Each time that happened, William twitched, looking uneasily at Asad, who looked back at him calmly, glowing dark eyes utterly inscrutable.

  “He’ll not hurt you, William,” Baldwin finally said, “not unless you give him cause.”

  Even at such a moment, William was embarrassed that his fear was so obvious to the boy. But he was heartened that Baldwin had spoken at all, and held his breath, waiting. “Is it certain that . . . that I have leprosy?” Baldwin said at last, so softly that William barely heard him.

  “Ah, no, Baldwin! It is a possibility, not a certainty, for your arm’s numbness is a symptom, not a diagnosis. And the longer you go without displaying any other signs of leprosy, the less likely it is that you’ve been afflicted with it.”

  William knew most youngsters—and most men—would have snatched at that hope, using it as a shield against the terrifying threat of leprosy. He knew, too, that Baldwin would not. He was a clever lad, already showing flashes of a strategic sense that might one day have made him a brilliant battle commander. William was not surprised, therefore, by Baldwin’s next question, for he would need to know exactly what he could be facing.

  “If . . . it happened, William, would I have to become a knight of St. Lazarus?”

  “I do not know, Baldwin. If you were a lord, yes. I am not sure if the rules would apply to a king, though.”

  The boy shifted in the straw, turning toward William for the first time. “I want you to tell me what the symptoms are,” he said, managing to keep his voice almost steady.

  William opened his mouth, shut it again. How could he tell the lad what horrors might lie ahead? In the past three years, he’d read everything he could find about leprosy, and the more he’d learned, the more appalled he’d been. The disease was usually slow moving, yet relentless. A leper could become dreadfully disfigured, horribly maimed, losing the use of his hands and feet. He could even go blind. William had sworn to Baldwin that there would be no more lies between them. But how could he plant such terrible fears in the boy’s brain?

  “I need to know, William. If I do not, how can I tell if a bruise is just a bruise?” Baldwin said, and William knew he was remembering that December night in his bedchamber six months ago, innocently assuring them that his minor mishap at the quintain was no cause for concern.

  Realizing that Baldwin was not asking him to describe the dark path that lepers were doomed to follow, William slumped back against the wall, so great was his relief. “You want to know what the first symptoms would be? I can tell you that,” he said, and proceeded to do so, explaining that leprosy first manifested itself by an inability to feel heat or cold and then pain, usually in a hand or foot, followed by skin lesions, flat, pale ones called maculas in Latin or small, raised ones called papulas. Other possible symptoms were the sudden appearance of large bruises that looked white or livid, and swelling in the armpits or groin.

  Baldwin said nothing, but the intent expression on his face told William that he was committing the symptoms to memory. To William, it almost seemed like a ghastly perversion of the lessons he’d taught during their years as tutor and pupil, and he could feel his control starting to slip. He fought to keep it from happening, for he owed Baldwin better than that. If the lad could show such courage even after being confronted with the unthinkable, he must, too. It was then, though, that Baldwin asked the question he’d been most dreading.

  “Why?” Little more than a whisper. “Why me?”

  William had been asked that before, of course, in the years since he’d become an archdeacon. A cry that must surely have echoed down through the centuries, every time a parent buried a child, a wife bled to death in the birthing chamber, a husband was struck down on the field of battle, a man or woman was faced with a wasting disease, an unbearable loss. He’d told them what he’d been taught, the words he’d offered to Maria when her daughter died, that it was not for mortal man to understand the ways of the Almighty. He’d quoted from Scriptures, “‘Now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face,’” often having to explain the meaning to the illiterate, that whilst on earth, their knowledge was imperfect, upon that glorious day when they were admitted into the kingdom of God, all would become clear. He found now that he could not say that to Baldwin, and so he gave the boy an answer of wrenching honesty.

  “I . . . I do not know, Baldwin.”

  Baldwin regarded him searchingly. “I know what men say of lepers. That they are morally unclean. That leprosy is the disease of the damned, punishment for their sins.” His voice wavered, but then he
broke William’s heart by mustering up a small smile. “If it is indeed leprosy, I have not had a chance to commit any sins great enough to deserve this, William.”

  William shut his eyes tightly for a moment, waiting until he was sure he could keep his own voice steady. “It is true that some call leprosy the disease of sinners. But the Church also calls it the holy disease. The faith of lepers is tested as Job’s faith was, and if they endure their suffering with grace, they will be rewarded with eternal life. One who endures purgatory on earth is ensured divine salvation, and it has been argued that leprosy is not a curse, rather a sign of God’s favor. It is said that our Lord Christ often appeared as a leper to show his compassion for them.”

  Baldwin considered this for a time. “Could the Almighty not have found an easier way to bestow His favor?”

  That was too much for William. Reaching out, he put his arm around Baldwin’s shoulders. The boy stiffened for a heartbeat, and then relaxed against him. He could see the tear tracks on Baldwin’s cheek now, and if the light had been better, he thought he might even see traces of those golden whiskers that Baldwin ostentatiously shaved off once a week. Fourteen was a challenging age for any youngster, poised between the borders of childhood and manhood. How could the Almighty expect Baldwin to bear the burdens both of kingship and leprosy?

  He supposed Baldwin’s disappearance would have become known by now; men would be out searching for him. But if Baldwin needed this time away from the world, by God, he’d have it. “You must remember, lad,” William said huskily, “that all this talk of lepers is just that, talk. We do not know what the Almighty intends for you. Promise me you will keep that ever in mind.”

  “I will,” Baldwin promised, with a flickering smile. When Asad lowered his head and nuzzled the boy’s bright hair, Baldwin stroked his velvety muzzle, crooning softly to the stallion even as a tear trickled from the corner of his eye.

  William’s muscles were stiffening and he thought he could hear his bones creaking as he moved, yet he would stay there all night if that was what Baldwin wanted. He was not surprised that the boy was beginning to sound drowsy, for what he’d been through this day would have exhausted one of God’s own angels. Baldwin’s head was resting now in the crook of William’s shoulder, and the boy was quiet for so long that William thought he’d dozed off. But then Baldwin said, “Has there ever been a leper king, William?”

  “I do not know, lad. Probably not,” William admitted, for if hope was to be Baldwin’s shield, honesty would be his from now on.

  “If I were to become a leper, that would be God’s will?”

  “Yes, that is so, Baldwin.”

  “As it was God’s will that I became Jerusalem’s king.”

  William had seen Baldwin approach problems in the classroom in just the same way, a step at a time until logic dictated the answer. If the Almighty did afflict him with leprosy, he’d have been given a divine mandate to rule despite the disease, for why else would God have allowed him to be crowned? Theology, faith, and common sense—an argument that would be difficult to refute if it did come to that. God had indeed made Baldwin a leper and then a king. Seeing that the boy’s lashes were now shadowing his cheeks, William drew him closer. He was so grateful that Baldwin had not asked outright if he believed leprosy was already festering in his body. William had done his best to give Baldwin hope, but he had none himself. Gently, he brushed Baldwin’s hair back from his forehead. Ah, Baldwin, what a king you would have made.

  CHAPTER 7

  June 1175

  Jerusalem, Outremer

  The High Court had convened in the solar of David’s Tower. Chairs were positioned at the front of the chamber for Baldwin; Count Raymond; William, who was acting in the ailing patriarch’s stead; and the king’s mother. Some of the men showed surprise or indignation when Agnes took her seat, for most of them had been away with Raymond during the army’s four months in the field. But William had warned Balian that Agnes had begun to attend the High Court sessions, which Baldwin had presided over in Raymond’s absence. Balian waited to see if any of the lords would object to her presence, hoping Baudouin would not be one of them.

  No one spoke up, though, and after William had given the invocation, Raymond rose from his seat. “I have good news to share. We have heard from the Holy Roman Emperor and he has suggested that the Lady Sybilla wed Guillaume d’Ameramici, the eldest son and heir of one of his most powerful vassals, the Marquis of Montferrat.”

  There were exclamations at that, more curious than either approving or hostile. The lords of the High Court were familiar with the genealogies and geography of France; many of them had family roots there and they were known as Franks in the rest of Christendom. The German empire was more alien territory and few knew much about Frederick’s vassals. Some of them wanted to ask the most basic of questions, but hesitated lest they appear ill informed.

  Baudouin had no such concerns, for his self-confidence was always flowing at high tide. Standing up, he said cheerfully, “Mayhap you ought to begin, my lord count, by telling us where Montferrat is.”

  That evoked some relieved laughter from the men and smiles from Raymond, William, and even Agnes. Balian noticed that Baldwin alone did not respond, shifting restlessly in his seat and stretching out his legs, crossed at the ankles. He wore knee-high leather boots, not shoes, for he’d been spending even more time lately on horseback, taking Asad out into the hills around Jerusalem. Balian had accompanied him on one of these rides and joked afterward to Baldwin that he must have been trying to outrun the Devil, for Asad’s blazing speed soon left the young king’s companions in the dust. Baldwin had merely shrugged. Balian had observed other changes in Baldwin in the past fortnight. Usually outgoing and quick to jest, he’d seemed withdrawn, even aloof at times. Balian kept his eye upon the boy now, wondering if his reticence was due to a dislike of the proposed match for Sybilla or just the moodiness of youth. For all that men tended to look back upon their early years through a golden glow of nostalgia, Balian remembered that the road to manhood could be a bumpy one.

  Raymond explained that Montferrat was located in northern Italy and had been ruled by the current marquis’s family for over two hundred years. “Guillaume will be an excellent husband for Lady Sybilla. Not only is he a first cousin to the Emperor Frederick, he is also a first cousin to the French king, Louis Capet. Few can boast better bloodlines than that.”

  That impressed them, for the kingdom would gain considerable prestige throughout Christendom by a marriage that linked their Royal House to the dynasties of Germany and France. The murmurs that reached Balian’s ears were approving ones. But it was then that Walter de Brisebarre rose to his feet. Even before he began to speak, most in the audience were grimacing or rolling their eyes, for Walter was becoming an embarrassment. Raymond had refused to restore the fief of Beirut to him, just as Miles had done, and in recent months, he’d become even more embittered. Since some believed he was behind Miles’s murder, he was no longer the sympathetic figure he’d once been. The general opinion was that he ought to count himself fortunate that he’d not been accused of Miles’s killing and content himself with that.

  Walter seemed to realize that the audience was not on his side, for he assumed a stubborn, almost defiant stance, arms folded across his chest, chin jutting out. “It is all well and good that this Italian lord has royal kinsmen. But is that truly our main concern? Can he govern? Can he lead men into battle?”

  The solar was suddenly quiet, for Walter had come dangerously close to giving voice to what he’d belligerently called their “main concern,” and the other men were not comfortable discussing that in Baldwin’s presence. Raymond was frowning, as was William, and Agnes was glaring at Walter with such fury that few would have trusted her with a weapon at that moment. But it was Baldwin who was the first to react. His head came up sharply, blue eyes glittering.

  “If you are asking whether G
uillaume of Montferrat could rule if I were to become too ill to rule myself, yes, he could.” He sounded much older than fourteen at that moment and Balian drew a sharp, dismayed breath, suddenly understanding. God help him, he knows!

  While Walter was not the most perceptive of men, even he realized he’d misspoken, managing to offend the king, the regent, the king’s mother, the chancellor, and half the barons on the High Court in one fell swoop. He subsided, slumping down in his seat to brood in silence.

  Raymond did not often show his emotions, for the first lesson prisoners learn is self-control. He was clearly angry now, though, regarding Walter with a cold stare that did not bode well for the Brisebarre family fortunes under his regency. “As King Baldwin says, Guillaume of Montferrat is a worthy choice. At twenty-seven, he has already won a reputation for his valor on the battlefield. He is well educated and is said to be generous and openhanded, as great lords are expected to be. The emperor assures me he is proud but not arrogant, brave but not rash, quick-tempered but not one to hold grudges. And he and Lady Sybilla are not related within the forbidden degree, so there would be no need to seek a papal dispensation for their marriage.”

  Baudouin leaned over to whisper in Balian’s ear that it was clever of Raymond to mention Guillaume’s “openhandedness,” for no one wanted a king who was miserly and loath to share his patronage with his lords. Balian merely nodded, not wanting to consider Guillaume as a future king, for that would not happen unless Baldwin was either dead or severely disabled.