Smiling down at her, he touched his fingers to her cheek in a light caress and acknowledged Jumāna with the formal courtesy he’d have bestowed upon a kinswoman, but not one of his own household. She made a respectful obeisance and withdrew a discreet distance so they might have privacy.
Tilting Āliya’s chin up so he could look into her face, he said, “Are you well, Ghazāla? You had no morning queasiness again?” It was early in her pregnancy and he found that already he was worrying more than he had with any of Halīma’s lying-ins.
“No . . . I ate so much that Jumāna said I must surely be carrying twins—two bowls of yogurt with cherries, dates, and almonds.” The eyes he found so beautiful—as luminous as a fawn’s, with lashes like silky fans—were searching his face intently, and he squeezed her hand reassuringly, then led her back to the pavilion.
He’d spent the day with his brother, who’d ridden in yesterday from his camp at Bilbais, where their army was waiting to repel the invasion by the Franks. Answering the unspoken question in those slanted dark eyes, he said that Yūsuf had heard nothing from his spies. “It is surprising that the Greek fleet has not sailed yet. The tension between the Poulains and that foreign count must be serious, indeed, to cause such a delay. But any day now . . .”
She cast down her lashes, but not in time; he saw her fear. All felt it, though. It was like waiting for a storm to break, wondering how severe it would be. “As soon as we get word that they have left Acre, I am sending you and Halīma and your households to Alexandria.”
She gave a soft cry of protest, quickly stilled. “I would rather stay here with you,” she said, “but I will do as you bid me—for the safety of our son.” He saw one of her hands slide down to rest protectively on her abdomen, and he reached over to cover it with his own hand, for the gardens were cloaked in lavender twilight by now, creating the illusion that they were alone in their own world, one that held no dangers of death on the battlefield or in the birthing chamber. They sat that way in silence for a time, broken at last by Āliya. “Do you think Allah might see me as presumptuous for being so sure I will bear a son? I know it is not for us to say. It is just that I want so badly to give you a boy, Ahmad. . . .”
They’d been speaking in the Kurdish tongue that was native to them both, but he switched to Arabic then, saying, “Insha’Allah.” For there was no greater truth; all was as Allah willed it.
“My lord!” The eunuchs had scrambled to their feet, hands dropping to their weapons, having heard what al-‘Ādil had not, the thudding of footsteps on the pathway. Al-‘Ādil was on his feet, too, as the man came into view, for he recognized a khadim, one who served the sultan.
Panting and red-faced, the man fell to his knees. “The sultan bade me summon you at once, my lord.”
* * *
Given the size of al-Qāhira, al-‘Ādil would normally have ridden, but it would take too long to saddle a mount, and so he chose, instead, to use the underground passage that connected the Great and Lesser Palaces. By the time he emerged into the east courtyard, he was out of breath, his heart hammering in rhythm to the urgency of his footsteps. He’d pressed a quick kiss into Āliya’s palm, promising that he’d share with her afterward whatever he learned from his brother. They both knew the news would not be good. Obviously Yūsuf had gotten word that the invasion had finally begun.
Already filled with foreboding, al-‘Ādil became downright alarmed when he was told that the sultan was in the stables. Did Yūsuf mean for them to leave for Bilbais this very night? If so, his spy must have brought dire news indeed.
Yet there was no air of exigency in the stables. Grooms were going about their chores as usual. Finding his brother in the stall with his new white stallion, al-‘Ādil paused to draw air into his lungs and to study Yūsuf, who seemed as calm as the grooms. He was never one to panic in a crisis, but he definitely did not look like a man about to face an enemy army.
“Ah, there you are, Ahmad,” he said, straightening up from an examination of his stallion’s hoof and smiling over his shoulder. “Is he not splendid? Once he is trained for mall, your team will never be able to beat mine.”
Entering the spacious stall, al-‘Ādil gave the older man a probing look. “I was sure you were going to tell me that we’d soon be fending off the Franks on our own soil. But if you now have time for your new stallion, clearly that is not so.”
They had no fear of being overheard by the grooms, for they were speaking in Kurdish. From habit, though, al-‘Ādil lowered his voice. “I take it that the Greek fleet is still anchored at Acre.”
“No, it has sailed . . . for home. The Greeks are on their way back to Constantinople, having grudgingly agreed to delay the invasion until next spring at the foreign count’s insistence.”
“Praise be to Allah! He has indeed blessed us, Yūsuf, by setting the Franks against one another. This will give us six more months to make ready.” Al-‘Ādil laughed, so great was his relief.
“No . . . there will be no invasion in the spring. My sources tell me the Greeks are so disgusted by the strife between the Franks and the foreign count that they are going to advise their emperor not to honor his commitment to the Frankish king, saying they are not to be trusted.”
Al-‘Ādil could scarcely believe their good fortune. “How thankful Āliya will be. She has been greatly troubled, as women are when breeding.” This brief appearance of the husband yielded to the soldier again and he said with a grin, “Shall we send this foreign count some of our best camels in gratitude?”
“That is the least we owe him, Ahmad. Last week he and the Count of Tripoli rode north into Syria, where they mean to join forces with the Prince of Antioch to besiege Hārim.”
Al-‘Ādil was puzzled by his brother’s complacent tone. Why was he so unconcerned about an attack upon their lands in Syria? “What are you not telling me, Yūsuf?”
“The Count of Tripoli has also summoned the levy from his wife’s principality in Galilee, a hundred knights and two thousand men-at-arms. They were accompanied by the new grand master of the Hospitallers with all of his knights, and most of the Templars, may Allah curse them.”
Upon first hearing, the assembly of such a large Frankish force did not bode well for northern Syria. But al-‘Ādil at once grasped what his brother was really saying. “So the foreign count and his allies have stripped the kingdom of most of their men.”
“The unbelievers are now protected by their ailing boy king, a handful of their nobles and their household knights, and less than a hundred of the accursed Templars.”
“Allah be praised,” al-‘Ādil said again, astounded that the Franks could be so reckless. “So . . . now that we need not fear an invasion, we have thousands of soldiers camped on the infidels’ southern border with nothing to do. That is never a good thing where soldiers are concerned, for they tend to get into trouble when they have too much free time on their hands.”
“My thinking exactly, Ahmad,” Salāh al-Dīn said, and when their eyes met, they shared a smile.
CHAPTER 15
October 1177
Jerusalem, Outremer
Sybilla had hoped that she might find a cooling breeze out on her balcony; the weather had remained unusually hot and humid for that time of year. She’d made herself as comfortable as any woman seven months pregnant could be, with pillows, a footstool, and cold drinks. Frowning down at her swollen ankles, she said irritably, “My legs look like tree trunks. I get these odd cravings for food I never liked, often in the middle of the night. My back throbs like an aching tooth. I cannot stray far from a chamber pot. My breasts are sore even to the touch. And I am as clumsy as a lame donkey. Yet someone dared to tell me yesterday that these are the happiest days of my life!”
“A man, perchance?” Agnes asked dryly. “Men and nuns tend to see pregnancy as a blessed time. But ask any woman who is familiar with the birthing chamber and if she’s honest,
she’ll admit it was like doing nine months of penance for her sins. Every pregnant woman feels bloated and wretched and exhausted, whilst having to endure the foolish smiles of strangers and the stories that other women insist upon sharing about their own pregnancies. And most husbands are utterly useless, either underfoot all the time, wanting to know if she thinks she’ll birth a son, or grumbling because she cannot whelp as easily as his best lymer bitch.”
The words had no sooner left Agnes’s mouth than she’d have called them back if she could. She was relieved to see that her daughter seemed to take those careless comments in stride, for there were days when her tears flowed like rain. Sybilla even managed a smile, albeit a sad one. “I am very glad that Guillaume lived long enough to know I was with child. He was so excited. . . .”
Agnes made amends by rising to fluff up her daughter’s pillows. Sybilla squirmed in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable position, watching her mother all the while. One benefit of her pregnancy was that it had brought them closer; Agnes actually spoke to her woman-to-woman now, instead of scolding her as if she were still a wayward child. That awareness gave her the courage to seek answers to the mystery that was her parents’ marriage. While she knew about the ill will that had existed between them, she had been too young to have her own memories of their years together. “Was my father pleased when you became pregnant?”
“Yes, he was . . .” Agnes paused to take a swallow of her drink, a sweet mix of orange and pomegranate juices, before adding, “in his own understated way.”
Sybilla hesitated. “Mother . . . did you ever love him?”
“No.”
Sybilla had not expected an answer so honest, so uncompromising. “Did you . . . love any of your husbands?”
Agnes was silent for so long that Sybilla wasn’t sure she’d get any response at all. The older woman was not offended, however, merely considering the question. “No,” she said pensively. “Oh, I may have thought I loved my first husband, for I was too young to know better. Yet within a year or two of his death, I could not remember what he looked like. As for Hugh, I was grateful to him for marrying me after Amalric cast me aside, for I do not know what would have happened to me had he not done so. But I did not love him. And I am very fond of Denys, although not in the way you mean.”
Agnes paused again, wondering if she was misjudging her daughter. Yes, Sybilla had always seemed to be naïve and romantic, but in less than a year, she’d become a wife, a widow, and was soon to be a mother. Had she begun to mature? “And you? Did you love Guillaume?”
“Yes. . . .” There was something incomplete in that answer, though, and so Agnes waited, saying nothing. After a moment of silence, Sybilla continued. “Well, most of the time I did. Guillaume was very good company when he wanted to be. But he had a temper that the smallest spark could set off, especially when he’d been drinking. He was not very lovable in one of his rages. Fortunately, they never lasted long.”
Seeing the expression on her mother’s face, she said hastily, “Oh, he never struck me! He’d yell at me—at anyone within hearing range—but he did not raise his hand to me. I’d not have put up with that. After all, without me, he’d never be king.”
Usually any mention of Baldwin’s inevitable fate aroused angry despair in his mother, but now she nodded approvingly, pleased that Sybilla had the spirit to stand up for herself.
Sybilla finished her drink. “How is Baldwin’s puppy?”
“He apparently thinks that if something fits in his mouth, God means for him to eat it. He is a wretched little pest most of the time. But he makes Baldwin laugh a dozen times a day and I thank you for that, dearest.”
Sybilla went pink with pleasure, for compliments from her mother were as rare as summer rainstorms in the Levant. “How is Baldwin feeling?”
“He is regaining his strength, able now to take that Arab stallion of his out for rides. But he is worried sick about our kingdom’s vulnerability, cursing his cousins and the Flemish count every time their names are even mentioned.”
Sybilla knew, of course, that many of their men were away in northern Syria, besieging several Saracen castles. But she’d not realized it weighed so heavily on Baldwin’s mind. “I can see why the border with Egypt is at greater risk. Yet surely the kingdom itself is not in peril?”
Agnes stared at her. Opening her mouth to remind Sybilla what had befallen Edessa, the county their family had once ruled, she stopped herself just in time. Sybilla did not need to hear again about the massacre of Edessa’s Christians when it was taken by the Saracens. A woman soon to face the dangers of the birthing chamber had fears enough of her own.
* * *
Leaving her daughter to take an afternoon nap, Agnes returned to her own palace chambers, where she was surprised to find her brother waiting for her. She was even more surprised when Joscelin tersely dismissed her ladies. As soon as they were alone, he slid the bolt into place, locking the door. “I want to talk to you about Maria Comnena.”
Irked that he’d taken it upon himself to give orders to her attendants, she shook her head. “Well, I do not,” she said. “Now that she has finally gone back to Nablus, I need not speak of her or even think of her until she returns to ruin our Christmas court.”
“She may have left the palace, but she did not go back to Nablus. She is still in the city. She has rented a town house in the Patriarch’s Quarter, on St. Stephen Street.”
Agnes had been about to pour them some wine. At that, she spun around to face Joscelin. “Jesus God! Are you sure?” When he nodded, she sat down suddenly upon the closest coffer. “Baldwin must have known. Why did he not tell me?”
Joscelin thought the answer to that was obvious; Baldwin wanted to avoid his mother’s outrage. “I owe you an apology, Sister, for you were right about the Greek. She means to use her daughter as a weapon against us, as a means of winning Baldwin’s goodwill. She’ll spend more and more time in the city, more and more time at the palace, reminding the High Court by Isabella’s very presence that Sybilla is not Amalric’s only daughter. What if—”
Joscelin cut himself off abruptly, for that was not a fear he could ever share with his sister. It was one that often tormented him, though, in the sleepless nights since Guillaume’s death. What if Sybilla dies in childbirth, she and the baby? It was not that uncommon, after all. He had become very fond of his young niece, but her death would be much more than a personal grief. For their family, it would be catastrophic.
Agnes was already on her feet again, beginning to pace. “We need to turn Baldwin against her. She’ll not find it as easy to entangle High Court members in her web if she has been sent away in disgrace. And if she is no longer welcome at court, then we’ll see less of Isabella, too. Baldwin is always going to care about the girl because of their kinship, but if she remains at Nablus, he’ll not be thinking of her that often, not with all he must deal with. . . .”
She could have been referring to the burdens of kingship. Joscelin knew what was really on her mind, for it was always on his, too—the inevitable decline of Baldwin’s health as he fought a battle he could not hope to win. “I agree,” he said. “We must outwit that scheming bitch ere it is too late. But how?”
Agnes came to a halt. “I do not know,” she admitted. “But I will find a way. As God is my witness, I will.”
* * *
It took her several days and the loss of some sleep, but Agnes did come up with a plan. When she revealed it to her brother, Joscelin responded with gratifying enthusiasm, laughing and giving her an affectionate hug. “That is brilliant, Agnes!”
“I think so, too,” she said, eschewing modesty for candor. “The Greeks are Lucifer proud, so Maria is sure to take it as a mortal insult. And Baldwin will not forgive her for defying him. He is thin-skinned when it comes to his authority. . . .” Her smile disappeared then, for she well knew why Baldwin was so sensitive on that subject; he
was acutely aware that his ill health made him more vulnerable to challenges than other kings.
Joscelin saw the shadow that crossed her face and acted quickly to banish it by embracing her again. “Let’s drink to our success,” he said, striding over to pour wine for them both. By the time he’d done so, though, some of his initial elation had begun to ebb away. “But will Baldwin agree to it? He knows how much you loathe the Greek, Agnes. Would he not be suspicious that you would come to him with a proposal involving Maria?”
“Of course he would. That is why the idea cannot come from either one of us. Fortunately, I have the perfect person in mind—Archbishop Eraclius. Baldwin truly likes the d’Ibelin brothers. So he is sure to be interested when Eraclius suggests that this would be an ideal way of rewarding their loyalty, and at no cost to the Crown. I’ll tell Eraclius to mention the benefits to Isabella, too, for that will matter to Baldwin.”
Joscelin nodded approvingly. “Very clever, Sister. And you are confident the archbishop will be willing to do this?”
“Very confident,” she responded, with a cynical smile. “There is little that Eraclius would not do to earn our favor. And he can be quite persuasive, whilst being unburdened by any inconvenient scruples.”
Convinced, Joscelin clinked his cup playfully against hers. “I suppose it is too much to hope that Maria might go back to Constantinople in high dudgeon?”
“Unfortunately, yes. So, I’ll settle for making her unwelcome at court.” Agnes smiled again at her brother. “The beauty of the plan, Joscelin, is that I will be avenging myself upon Baudouin d’Ibelin at the same time that we sink the Greek’s hopes once and for all.”
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