“I did have a word with Baldwin,” he admitted, “for I fear he is far too indulgent of that woman’s whims and grudges. But it was not necessary; he’d already realized that it would not be wise to exclude Emperor Manuel’s great-niece from a royal wedding, not at the very time he is seeking to restore his alliance with the Greeks.”
As William followed the track of Maria’s gaze, he suppressed a sigh, his eyes lingering upon the young king. “I do not imagine this was the easiest of days for the lad. Sybilla’s wedding must surely have reminded him that he’ll never be able to wed himself, never have sons of his own. He has handled it well, though, using his smile as his shield.”
They did not need to worry about being overheard, for speaking in Greek thwarted even the most determined of eavesdroppers or spies, and so Maria felt free to say sadly, “We were never on good terms, Baldwin and I. I’ll admit I even thought he was a brat.”
“Ah, yes, the bat in your bedchamber,” William said, thinking how far away that time seemed now, how innocent.
“That was only one of his practical jokes,” Maria said, with a wry smile. “There was the time I found a frog in my bath, and I was always sure he was the one who’d put a very dead fish under my bed.”
“He could be a handful for certes. I was surprised you never complained to Amalric about his pranks.”
“Oh, I was tempted at times,” she conceded. “I suppose I was too proud to ask for Amalric’s help. But I think I knew even then that Baldwin was acting out of mischief, not true malice. I so wish that I’d made more of an effort with him. It is too late now, of course, for he’d assume that I was acting out of pity.”
William nodded regretfully. “I think he fears pity most of all. But, Jesu, how lonely he must be. So few can seem comfortable in his presence. To give her credit where due, Agnes never shows the slightest qualm and Joscelin does try, even if he is not as bold as she is. Denys and Humphrey de Toron and the d’Ibelin brothers all manage to act as if leprosy is the furthest thing from their minds when they are with the lad, and to my surprise, Reynald de Chatillon does the same. I suppose a man who survived fifteen years in an earthly Hell does not find much to fear after that.”
Turning his eyes away from the dais, he gave Maria a fond look. “You hide your unease well, too, and I bless you for that.”
“I deserve no praise for that, William. It is easier for me than for many. In Constantinople, lepers were not shunned as they are in France and England, not forbidden to enter markets or churches. We were taught by the patriarchs that philanthropy is a great virtue and therefore lepers deserve our compassion and our care. I’ll not deny that we fear leprosy, too, and it was to challenge this fear that leprosy is called the ‘holy disease’ in the empire. Our Church never preached that leprosy is a punishment for sinning.”
Like most who followed the Latin Church, William had numerous misgivings about the branch of Christianity that looked to Constantinople rather than to Rome. He wholeheartedly embraced the concept of philanthropy, though, and now quoted approvingly from Scriptures. “‘He hath dispersed, he hath given to the poor; his righteousness endureth for ever.’”
“But I will confess,” Maria said after a long silence, “that when I brought Isabella forward to greet Baldwin, my heart was beating faster than a sunbird’s wings. She’d practiced her curtsy until she could do it perfectly. Yet when she saw Baldwin, she forgot and would have run forward to embrace him had he not stopped her, hastily saying he had a cough he did not want her to catch. In those few moments, William, I felt sheer terror.”
Remembering she had a cup of wine in her hand, she took a deep swallow. “She is old enough to understand that Baldwin and Sybilla are her brother and sister and she wonders why she sees them so rarely. I think it is lonely for her in Nablus. . . .”
William thought it was probably lonely for Maria, too; a life in exile was not what she’d envisioned for herself when she’d come from Constantinople as a bride of thirteen. He was about to speak when she suddenly smiled. Since she was gazing over his shoulder, he assumed the smile was not meant for him and turned to see Balian d’Ibelin coming toward them.
Balian kissed Maria’s hand with such overdone gallantry that William suspected his friend had not stinted himself on the wine that had flowed so freely during the wedding festivities. Once greetings had been exchanged, Balian then expressed his sympathies for the death of her father, with such sincerity that Maria was touched; most of those at court had offered condolences that seemed perfunctory at best.
“There is one man I was looking forward to meeting at the wedding,” she confided now to William and Balian. Since they’d switched from Greek to French, she had to choose her words with greater care. “Reynald de Chatillon has become something of a legend in Outremer, so I’d not think he was one to pass unnoticed, yet I’ve heard no mention of him all day.”
“That is because he is not present.” William smiled, for he knew his news was sure to startle. “Baldwin sent him to Constantinople after Martinmas to negotiate another alliance with Emperor Manuel.”
Both Maria and Balian reacted with gratifying astonishment, for all knew of the bad blood between Reynald and the Greek emperor. Balian pointed out the obvious, that Reynald had never been lauded for his diplomatic skills, either, adding, with wine-flavored indiscretion, that wolves were rarely asked to watch over flocks of sheep.
William laughed. “That was my first thought, too. But once Baldwin explained his reasoning, I saw the sense in it. Reynald’s stepdaughter is wed to Manuel, after all, and his son died trying to save the emperor at Myriokephalon. The son was said to stand high in Manuel’s favor, so he is not likely to turn the lad’s father away. And Reynald has become an almost mythical figure by now, with many thinking his suffering in Aleppo has absolved him of his past sins. Moreover, Reynald will be strongly motivated to succeed in this mission. He will want to prove to Baldwin that he can be trusted, that his talents are not limited only to the battlefield. Then there is that vast ransom to be paid. In the past, Manuel has shown himself to be quite generous in ransoming Christian lords, so it is very much in Reynald’s interest to win Manuel’s goodwill. For all of his fame, Reynald remains landless, after all.”
“Ah, not so,” Balian said, with a grin. “It is rare, indeed, when I am better informed than you, my lord archbishop. There is talk of a marriage between Reynald and Stephanie de Milly.”
Maria and William were startled by Balian’s news. With that marriage, Reynald de Chatillon would suddenly become one of the most powerful barons in Outremer, Lord of Outrejourdain, which included the impregnable strongholds of Kerak and Montreal. “How do you know this, Balian?” William asked, more sharply than he’d intended, for not only did he not like the prospect of seeing Reynald raised so high, he was irked that his sources had failed him like this.
Balian took no offense, playfully clinking his wine cup against William’s and then Maria’s. “Secrets seek me out,” he joked. “It helps, too, that Stephanie and I are cousins.”
William nodded, belatedly remembering that Stephanie’s father and Balian’s mother had been half brother and sister. He was not at all happy with Balian’s news, for Stephanie had a temper of her own and nursed a deep resentment of Count Raymond, blaming him for the murder of her last husband, Miles de Planchy, merely because the count profited from it. He thought two stubborn, fiery souls like Reynald and Stephanie could feed off each other’s anger, to the detriment of their kingdom’s harmony.
They were interrupted, then, by the cries to clear the floor, for the musicians were in place and the dancing was about to begin. Balian would have liked to ask Maria to dance, but he realized a woman in mourning would certainly decline, so he suggested, instead, that he fetch her more wine. Since the floor was becoming crowded as people joined the circle for the dance, Maria chose to accompany Balian in search of a wine bearer. William was about to follo
w when he glanced toward the dais. Agnes and Joscelin had left to join the dancers and Baldwin sat alone, reduced to the status of spectator yet again. Since Maria seemed to be enjoying Balian’s company, William felt free to leave her in his keeping and headed for the dais.
Baldwin welcomed him with a quick smile and a joke. “You are not going to dance?”
“That would be a sight to behold. It is bad enough that some of my clerical brethren disobey the Church’s strictures against hunting or hawking without my scandalizing the patriarch by dancing.” Taking a seat beside Baldwin, he said, “You gave Sybilla a perfect day, one she’ll long remember.”
“I hope so. She and Guillaume seem pleased with each other, too.” When William agreed, Baldwin gave him a curious look. “So tell me . . . what do you think of him, William?”
William had indeed kept Guillaume under close scrutiny in the weeks since his arrival in Outremer. “Well, I have not detected any fatal character flaws,” he said with an attempt at humor. “He gets angry too quickly but does not seem to bear grudges. He speaks his mind freely and, if his words hurt, that does not concern him overmuch. Men will always know where they stand with him, for good or ill. Most of the time, he is amiable and quick with a jest. He drinks to excess, although I have never seen him appear drunk or wine addled. Of his courage, there can be no doubt. I think he will treat Sybilla well, showing her the respect due her rank. I doubt, though, that he’ll pamper or dote on her. As long as her expectations are reasonable, they ought to find contentment together.”
Baldwin nodded. “A fair summing up of his character. However, you ever so tactfully avoided answering the crucial question—has he the makings of a king?”
“He’d not be as good a king as you, Baldwin. But, yes, I see no reason why he could not rule successfully. Whilst he’ll need to win the other lords over, his affability and generosity will serve him well in that.”
“Those are my feelings, too. It is a great relief, William, to know that when I can no longer govern, the kingdom will not be adrift, a ship without a rudder. Guillaume will have a steady hand on the helm.”
They drank in silence, then, for this was a subject neither cared to dwell upon; its inevitability did not make it any more palatable. “I am glad the wedding festivities have gone so well,” Baldwin said after a time. “Do you think Sybilla and Guillaume will mind if I do not stay till the evening’s end?”
William felt a sudden quiver of alarm. “What is wrong, Baldwin? Are you ailing?” Even after Baldwin said no, William was not totally reassured and continued to study the boy intently until the answer came to him, so obvious that he wondered why he’d not seen it at once. Baldwin had spent the day watching his sister enjoy what would be forever denied him. Expecting him also to attend the ribald bedding-down revelries was too much.
Staring into his wine cup, William tried to marshal his thoughts. The Church taught that celibacy was an exalted state, holier than wedlock. But not all were convinced of that, especially fifteen-year-old boys. He remembered a theology lesson with Baldwin a few years ago. He’d related the story of St. Jerome, who’d reproached a grieving widow by saying that she should mourn the loss of her virginity more than the death of her husband. Baldwin had cocked a brow, saying dryly that she must have found that very comforting.
Since Baldwin had not mentioned the bedding-down revelries—he’d hardly complain about the burdens of chastity to an archbishop—William was tempted to divert the conversation into less turbulent waters. But there was an unspoken yearning in the boy’s eyes that caught at his heart. “Baldwin . . . I never told you about a troubling discussion I once had with your lord father. He’d been laid low with a fever and was recovering when he asked me if, aside from the teachings of the Savior, there was incontrovertible proof of the Resurrection and the afterlife. I confess I was greatly agitated by this question, for it seemed to express dangerous doubts, and I assured him that the teaching of our Lord and Redeemer was all the evidence we needed.”
Baldwin seemed very interested in this unexpected glimpse of his father’s inner life. “What did he say to that, William?”
“He said that he himself believed, but he wanted to hear how I would convince one who did not accept the doctrine of Christ or believe in the Resurrection. This was what I told him. I asked if he believed God is just and he said he did. He agreed, too, when I asked if good should be repaid for good and evil for evil. I acknowledged, then, that in this life, that does not often happen. There are good people who suffer nothing but troubles and adversity in this world, whilst the evil flourish like the green bay tree. But since we know that God could not act unjustly, the scales must be balanced in the afterlife, with the good receiving their rewards and the wicked being punished as they deserve. I have no doubts whatsoever of that, Baldwin. In Heaven, the Lord God will embrace you and honor you for the grace and courage with which you’ve borne your affliction.”
Baldwin’s head was lowered; all William could see was a thatch of bright hair. “Was my father convinced?”
“He was, saying that I had wrested all doubts from his heart. If you have any such doubts . . .”
“I do not.” Baldwin looked up at that, his expression not easy to read. Another silence fell and William hoped that his words had been of some solace to the lad. But then Baldwin said, “May I ask you a question about theology? Is it true that thinking about a sin is almost as bad as committing the sin?”
“Yes, that is so.”
“Then if I gave thought to a very great sin, I would need to confess this to my chaplain and seek absolution?”
William was suddenly uneasy. “You have a good heart, Baldwin, so I doubt that your thoughts could put your salvation at risk,” he said, trying to lighten the sudden dark tone of their conversation.
“No?” There was a challenging gleam in Baldwin’s eyes. “What if I told you I’d thought about converting to the Muslim faith, that I found their view of Paradise more appealing than the Christian promise of Heaven?”
William was stunned. Could this accursed disease have affected the lad’s brain? How else account for such madness? How was he to respond to this? “Saracens are damned, doomed for all eternity—” He stopped abruptly, the words dying in his throat, for he’d caught it, the slight curve at the corner of Baldwin’s mouth, and he realized then that he’d been hoodwinked. He’d been offering reassurance that the loss of fleshly pleasures on earth would matter little when measured against the spiritual bliss of the afterlife, all without actually saying so. Not only had Baldwin understood the implied message, he’d seized this opportunity to bedevil his former tutor with some inspired mischief, using William’s own teachings that Saracens believed they would enjoy carnal delights in Paradise.
William’s relief was so great that he slumped back in his chair. “That was not amusing,” he said, striving to sound both dignified and disapproving.
“Oh, but it was,” Baldwin said, his grin breaking free. “If only you’d seen the look on your face, William!”
“Some matters are too serious to jest about, Baldwin, and the surety of your soul is one of them.” But now that the shock had subsided, so had his distress, and he actually welcomed this sudden appearance of the Baldwin he’d once taught. A born tease, he’d loved to craft imaginative practical jokes, with Maria his favorite target, although William himself was not always spared. That carefree, playful youngster was only a distant memory, vanishing on the day that he’d learned he was a leper. To see him again, however briefly, was a gift from God.
“I am too old for such foolishness,” he said, feigning indignation. Baldwin easily saw through his scolding and began to laugh, such a soaring, infectious sound that William could not help joining in. Their merriment attracted smiles from some of the dancers, pleased that their young king was enjoying his sister’s wedding.
A sudden uproar on the dance floor signaled that the guests were
eager to escort the bridal couple to their marriage bower. Like most churchmen, William did not approve of these raucous, bawdy revelries, but he was worldly enough to accept them as an inevitable part of every wedding. The dancing had stopped and the crowd was moving aside, revealing Guillaume and Sybilla; he was laughing and bantering with the other men while she assumed the modest demeanor expected of a virgin maiden, blushing even as she giggled when Guillaume leaned over to whisper something in her ear. They were approaching the dais and when William realized they were seeking him, he rose and went down the steps to meet them.
“My lord archbishop,” Guillaume asked, “would you do us the honor of blessing our marriage bed?”
Flattered to be chosen when the hall was filled with other princes of the Church, William assured them that it would be his pleasure, pleasure that was enhanced by his glimpse of the sour expression on the face of Eraclius, the Archbishop of Caesarea, and the frowns with which both Agnes and Joscelin greeted this honor. As the other guests surged forward, William glanced over his shoulder toward the dais. But Baldwin had taken advantage of the commotion to make a discreet departure from the hall. The throne was empty.
CHAPTER 12
April 1177
Acre, Outremer
Isabella had rarely been so excited, for she’d been looking forward to her brother’s Easter court for weeks. She had several new dresses made for the occasion and she’d been allowed to ride her own pony for the last part of their journey from Nablus. As they started toward the great hall, she took several skips to catch up with her mother, asking if the tall one would be there.
Maria seemed momentarily puzzled. “You mean . . . Lord Balian? Yes, I am sure he will, for no one will want to miss the king’s Easter court.”
Just as they reached the heavy oaken door, it swung back and Maria and Isabella found themselves face-to-face with Agnes de Courtenay. Isabella quickly moved closer to her mother, reaching for her hand. She knew hawks did not have blue eyes, but this woman’s piercing stare always reminded her of a very hungry hawk. Since her mother was a queen, the other woman should have curtsied. Instead, she said in a voice that dripped scorn, “I would think you’d have too much pride to keep coming where you know you are not wanted.”
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