The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Balian moved closer to get a better look at Bohemond. But he came to an abrupt halt as soon as he saw Baldwin. The king’s cheeks had a feverish flush and he coughed several times as he made his way toward the dais. William followed him up the steps, for once again he was to act on behalf of the still ailing patriarch. As his gaze found Balian, it conveyed a troubling message. Baldwin had suffered the relapse that they’d feared; his lung fever was back.

  Once all the lords were seated, William led the invocation and then turned the stage over to Baldwin. “Ere we discuss today’s matters, I have good news to report.” Baldwin’s voice sounded hoarse, his throat raw from coughing. But he was determined to get through this, pausing to sip from the cup Anselm had placed on the arm of the throne. The water was icy, for his squire had filled it with the snow the Poulains used to cool their drinks. Baldwin was grateful for it now, feeling as if he were on fire. “I received word this morning that the Greek fleet has sailed into the harbor at Acre, seventy war galleys led by one of the emperor’s own kinsmen.”

  There were pleased exclamations at that and Baldwin waited for them to subside before continuing. “It has been a sad summer for Outremer and we grieve still for my brother by marriage, may God assoil him. But your arrival, my lord count, has given us hope again. Because of my recent illness, I will not be able to lead our campaign into Egypt, so you could not have come at a more opportune time. After consulting with the High Court, it gives me great pleasure to offer you the regency. You will have control of the government, the treasury and revenues, and full jurisdiction over all men until such time as my sister weds again.”

  Baldwin had delivered the offer with due solemnity, having practiced it beforehand, but now he flashed a smile that was indicative of the boy he still was, saying, “We all agreed that this would be in the best interests of our kingdom and you have no idea, Cousin, how rare such unanimity is in Outremer!”

  Philip had clearly been expecting this. Returning Baldwin’s smile, he said smoothly, “I am most gratified, my liege, that you think me worthy of such an honor. My family has always cared deeply about the safety of the Holy Land and the Royal House of Jerusalem. You and I are kinsmen and we all are worshippers of the cross. The infidels call us that in mockery, but I for one am proud to say it is so. Ours is the True Faith and it is surely God’s will that Christians rule where the Lord Christ once walked.”

  Baldwin felt as if a great weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. Taking another swallow, he let the cold water trickle soothingly down his inflamed throat. But then the Count of Flanders said, “So I deeply regret that I cannot accept your offer of the regency.”

  Baldwin choked, his face reddening as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. The faces of the men in the audience reflected his own shock and dismay, and when he finally got his breath back, he eschewed tact or diplomacy and just blurted it out. “Why not?”

  “I did not come here to acquire power of any kind, my lord king. My purpose in taking the cross was only to serve God. Moreover, I must be free to return to Flanders if necessary. Since I have no legitimate son to succeed me, I’d named my younger brother as my heir, but he died last year.”

  Baldwin was skeptical of the count’s declaration that he sought only to do God’s work, for such humility did not seem natural in a man so proud. But he did understand his cousin’s concern for Flanders and, as disappointed as he was, he could not fault Philip for it. Summoning up a frayed smile, he said, “As much as I regret your refusal, Cousin, I realize that you have responsibilities to your Flemish subjects, too. We are grateful, though, that you will be able to lead our army to victory in Egypt.”

  “If you mean you are offering me the command of the Egyptian campaign, I fear that I must decline that, too. I have come to the Holy Land as a humble pilgrim, seeking God’s grace, not temporal power.”

  There was a moment of deathly silence in the hall after that, broken only when Baldwin began to cough again.

  * * *

  Baldwin’s fever burned higher and higher and within a day, he was confined to bed. Unable to continue negotiating with the Flemish count, he delegated William and his stepfather, Denys, to act on his behalf, for he feared that Philip might refuse to take part in the campaign, which would be disastrous. Not only did they need the men he’d brought with him, such a rift between the Poulains and a powerful western prince was sure to trouble the Greek envoys, who might begin to reconsider their involvement in the face of such dissension among the Franks.

  Baldwin’s doctor and Anselm had been bathing him all day in cool water in hopes of lowering his fever and by the time night fell, he was equally weary of their well-meaning, intrusive efforts and his mother’s solicitous concern, wanting only to be left alone. But when he was told that William and Denys were asking to see him, he rallied and bade them enter.

  Both men looked so grim that Baldwin closed his eyes for a moment, wondering what evil had befallen them now. “What . . . what is wrong?”

  William was the first to speak. “Count Philip is not happy with your appointment of Reynald de Chatillon as regent again.”

  “What . . . he does not approve of Reynald?” While Baldwin could not deny that Reynald was a controversial figure, he thought it high-handed of Philip to meddle after turning down the post himself.

  “Worse than that, I fear.” Denys appeared as composed as always, hiding his distress at his stepson’s haggard appearance. “The count does not think Reynald should act as your deputy during the campaign. He wants you to appoint a commander who would be willing to accept the blame if we fail and to receive the government of Egypt as his own should we succeed.”

  Baldwin stared at them. “That would make this commander the King of Egypt.”

  They nodded, pleased that he was so quick to comprehend what was behind Philip’s demand. “We explained that we could not do that. Emperor Manuel expects to have suzerainty over any lands we conquer in Egypt and the lands themselves would become part of our kingdom.” Denys paused, then said dryly, “That did not make Philip happy, either.”

  “How could—” Baldwin got no further, overcome by a fit of coughing so severe that it alarmed them all. When it finally ended, he sank back, exhausted. “So . . . Philip would not abandon Flanders to save the Holy Land, but he will abandon it right gladly for the chance to rule over the riches of Egypt.”

  They nodded again, neither one pointing out to Baldwin that he could not give in to anger; they knew by now that he understood the duties of kingship better than monarchs twice his age. He did not disappoint them. “Do what you can to placate him, give him no outright refusals. We need the bastard.”

  * * *

  The fortnight that followed was one of the most wretched that William could remember. For days, Baldwin had hovered dangerously close to death, while they did all they could to get Philip to commit to the attack on Egypt. The air was so hot that the sky seemed blanched of color and even the birds were silent as William crossed the palace gardens in the direction of the king’s quarters. The sunset was nigh and he hoped it would bring with it a cooling breeze. Baldwin’s bedchamber must have felt like an oven all day. He was finally on the mend, although still not ready to deal with his cousin. William thought that was for the best; he’d have felt sympathy for an Egyptian asp if it slithered across the path of the Count of Flanders.

  He was so caught up in his own grim musings that he did not at once hear his name called. Surprised to see Sybilla outside in such heat, he stopped to greet the king’s sister. She was seated in the shade of a latticed arbor, being fanned by one of her attendants, but she did not look comfortable. Although he knew little about pregnant women, he thought it was only common sense that she’d feel more and more like a stranger in her own body as it swelled to accommodate the child growing in her womb.

  Accepting her invitation to sit beside her in the arbor, he fumbled for a compliment sinc
e he assumed she expected one, finally saying that she looked very well. She dimpled at that. “If that is your idea of gallantry, my lord archbishop, it is for the best that you chose a career in the Church,” she teased, amused when he actually blushed. She found it very entertaining that a man of such intelligence was so obviously ill at ease with women.

  “I have been waiting for you,” she confided, “for I knew you’d be coming to see Baldwin after the High Court session.” No longer playful, she turned to look directly into his eyes. “My uncle Joscelin told me that Count Philip meant to discuss my marriage. I want to know what happened.” When he hesitated, she said firmly, “My lord archbishop, I have the right to know.”

  Yes, William decided, she did. He would normally have divulged nothing of their negotiations with Philip until he’d shared them with Baldwin. But word would soon be spreading as swiftly as any plague; the outrage of the High Court members would guarantee that. “As you will, my lady. Count Philip told us that he must be the one to select your next husband.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Who does he want me to wed?”

  William suspected the sweltering garden was about to get even hotter. “He was unwilling to tell us that. He demanded that we swear to accept his choice ere he revealed whom that would be, claiming it would be disparaging to such a highborn lord if we then rejected him.”

  Sybilla looked astonished and, then, enraged. “If he thinks I can be bought and sold like a mare at a horse fair, he will soon learn otherwise,” she spat. “I would never agree to that!”

  “Neither did the High Court. In fact, it got rather heated for a time. A number of the lords have lost all patience with the count and this was the proverbial final straw for many of them. Your stepfather and I were able to restore a semblance of order and even to soothe the count’s pride, but it was no easy task.”

  He’d told Sybilla only part of the afternoon’s high drama; Baldwin must hear it first. Rising, he excused himself. Before he could move away, she rose, too, reaching out and catching his sleeve. “I will never agree,” she said again, and in that moment, her resemblance to her mother was startling.

  * * *

  Baldwin smiled at the sight of his chancellor, saying this was his best day in almost a week. His good spirits lasted as long as it took for William to tell him the Count of Flanders was insisting that he had the right to choose Sybilla’s next husband. His fury was just as white-hot as his sister’s had been, if under better control. “That is out of the question,” he said flatly, spacing the words out like gravestones. “Even if I were deranged enough to agree to such an outrageous demand, the High Court would never give their consent.”

  “That is part of the problem. Philip does not understand that the High Court has the right to elect our kings and will fiercely defend that right. He sees them as lesser lords—they are Poulains, after all—who dare not defy him.” That was such a gross misreading of political life in Outremer that William could only sigh. “There is more, Baldwin. He also wants to arrange a marriage for Isabella.”

  “She is five years old!”

  “We reminded him of her age and that canon law prohibits the marriage of a child so young. He was not impressed by those arguments. He hears only what he wants to hear.”

  Baldwin shook his head slowly, as much in disbelief now as in anger. “To think I once saw this man as our savior.” Settling back against the pillows, he said, “Tell me the rest.”

  William did. “We explained that Sybilla could not be required to wed until she’d observed a year of mourning. We told him that whilst we’d consider any man he put forward, we could not agree to the marriage without knowing his identity. Eventually, he realized that he had to make some concessions of his own and revealed that he wants Sybilla to wed Robert de Bethune and Isabella to wed the younger brother, William, both of whom are conveniently here, ready to race to the altar. Their father is one of Philip’s greatest vassals, so the marriages would not be totally unsuitable. But he has so alienated the High Court that they’ll never agree.”

  “Nor will I.” Baldwin reached out to accept a cup of juice from Anselm. “So he came to the Holy Land just to do God’s bidding, did he? I would never have guessed that the Almighty wants him to be King of Egypt and his handpicked puppets to rule in Outremer. How lucky we are,” he added scathingly, “to have my cousin to interpret divine will for us.”

  A sudden knock sounded on the door and Anselm admitted Agnes and Denys to the chamber. “A pity my warning was not—” The touch of Denys’s hand on her arm was enough and Agnes swallowed the rest of her words, realizing Baldwin did not need to hear her “I told you so” now that Count Philip had proven to be such a bitter disappointment. “Joscelin has gone to tell Sybilla,” she said, approaching the bed to annoy her son by feeling his forehead for fever.

  “I am getting better, Mother,” he said crossly. “I wish you would stop watching over me as if you expected the Angel of Death to fly in the window at any moment.” He at once felt a dart of remorse, seeing that he’d hurt her, and told Anselm to pour wine for his guests. “Fetch them seats, too, Anselm, for we have much to discuss.”

  Before the squire could comply, there was another knock on the door. When Baldwin nodded, Anselm ambled over to open it and, after a muffled exchange, stepped back to admit a young woman and a page of ten or so, clutching a large woven basket. The boy looked terrified but the girl seemed more curious and excited than fearful. Recognizing one of Sybilla’s handmaidens, Baldwin sat up, carefully tucking the sheet around his chest. “Lady Gisele, is it not?”

  “You remember me!” she exclaimed, favoring him with a surprised and very charming smile before making a graceful court curtsy that seemed incongruous in Baldwin’s bedchamber. “The countess has a gift for you, my liege. Eudes, bring it to the king.”

  The boy gaped at her, as motionless as if he were rooted to the floor. It was painfully obvious to them all that he’d sooner leap into a river swarming with crocodiles before he’d approach the bed of the leper king. Anselm resolved the impasse by taking the basket and placing it within Baldwin’s reach. The lid at once popped open, revealing a furry white head.

  Agnes sighed in exasperation. What had possessed Sybilla? Guilt, probably, for not having come to see Baldwin. Dogs were troublesome creatures, dirty and noisy and into everything. Would the girl ever learn to think first? But then she saw the look on her son’s face and her irritation melted away as if it had never been.

  The puppy was looking around with great interest and then decided to climb onto Baldwin, nibbling his finger to see if it was edible, much to his amusement. “I had a dog once,” he told Gisele, “a wolfhound almost as big as a mule. Bandit, I called him, for he was the best food thief in all of Jerusalem. He died when I was twelve and I vowed I’d never have another dog.”

  “Oh, but you must keep this one, my lord!” Gisele sounded truly distressed that he might refuse the puppy. “She is so sweet!”

  “Very sweet,” he agreed, but he was looking at her, not the dog. “What do you think I should name her, demoiselle?”

  Flattered that he should want her opinion, she pretended to study the puppy. “Well, it would be good luck to give her an Egyptian name since our army will soon be marching along the Nile River. Babylon?” she suggested, for that was what the Franks often called the land of Egypt. Baldwin shook his head in mock horror, causing her to ask with a giggle, “Are there any famous Egyptian queens?”

  “Cleopatra.” Baldwin shot William a triumphant look, proud that he’d remembered those past history lessons so well. “That is a fine name for a dog, demoiselle, but alas, not for this one,” he said, lifting the puppy up so she could see why.

  She giggled again, and William felt such pain that he could almost believe he’d been stabbed. As he glanced around, he saw his own heartbreak etched on Agnes’s face, too. It was simply too much, he thought, to be given this crue
l glimpse of how life should have been for Baldwin, watching him react to a pretty girl the way any sixteen-year-old lad would.

  He did not know if Baldwin suddenly realized that even this innocent flirtation was forbidden to him, or if he’d noticed that Gisele had ventured too close to the bed, for he was conscientious about keeping others at a safe distance. But Baldwin pulled back then, saying in a cool and very formal tone, “Thank my sister for the dog, Lady Gisele. Tell her I am pleased.”

  She seemed bewildered by the abrupt change in his demeanor. After a moment, she dropped another curtsy. “I will, my liege.” When he did not reply, she turned toward the door, which Eudes opened with alacrity. She looked back once, but Baldwin did not meet her gaze.

  After they had gone, the silence was so charged that William could barely breathe. Agnes had turned toward the window until she could regain her composure and Denys moved to her side. But Baldwin’s face was so utterly inscrutable that William felt as if he were gazing upon the stone effigy that would one day adorn the boy’s royal tomb.

  It was Anselm who broke the spell. “So what will you name the little fellow, my lord? How about Saladin? The Saracens do not fancy dogs much, calling them unclean, so that would be a fine insult.”

  Baldwin looked up blankly, and then slowly came back from wherever he’d gone. “I do not want to think of the sultan every time I call him,” he said, and while his voice was husky, it was also steady. “Mayhap Cairo.”