After the meal was done, Maria briefly excused herself to put her daughters to bed. Balian usually joined in this bedtime ritual, but tonight he manfully stepped into the breach to entertain their guests until his wife returned. When she did, Maria paused in the doorway, watching as he did his best to bridge the language gap; not all of the Armenian pilgrims spoke French and the abbot’s Greek accent was so thick that he was not easy to understand. Maria smiled, deciding Balian had earned a reprieve. So, instead of retaking her seat on the dais, she gave Balian a concerned look, one filled with wifely solicitude. “My lord husband . . . is your wound bothering you again?”
Balian almost denied it from force of habit, for he was as reluctant as most men to admit to any infirmities. Catching himself in the nick of time, he confessed that his leg had indeed begun to ache. The ploy worked: Amand, Etiennette, and Bishop Ralph soon departed and the other guests were escorted by servants up to the chambers set aside for them. Balian’s energy had been flagging as the evening wore on, for he’d been in the saddle since dawn. His fatigue was forgotten, though, when Maria caught his eye and winked.
As soon as they’d reached their bedchamber, Balian set about untying the lacings of Maria’s gown as he backed her toward the bed. She cooperated at first, but once he’d stripped her down to her chemise, she caught his hand in hers. “Wait, my heart. We must talk first.”
The only conversation he had in mind at that moment was carnal. “Talk fast, then,” he urged, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat. Choosing actions over words, she placed his hand over her abdomen, pleased when he was quick to comprehend. “You are with child again?”
“I am,” she said, tilting her face up for his kiss. It was a gentle one, as she’d known it would be. When he’d learned she was pregnant with Helvis, he’d been the same way at first, acting as if she were suddenly as fragile as newly blown glass. She’d been able to reassure him with gentle humor, pointing out that Scriptures called wives the weaker vessels, not the breakable ones, and by showing him that pregnancy and passion were perfectly compatible. She reminded him of that now by returning his kiss with such ardor that he drew her even closer, murmuring something about “cloven tongues of fire” and carried her the few steps to their bed.
Afterward, they talked and she revealed that she’d missed two of her fluxes, the first whilst he was on the way to Marj Ayyun and the second that past week, after he’d departed for Saladin’s camp. “I did not say anything after the first, for I wanted to be sure. But I’ve missed two in a row only when I was carrying Isabella and Melisende, and then Helvis.”
“We have truly been blessed, Marika.” She knew he was happy that she was with child again, but she caught the undertones of unease in his voice. Understanding that he feared for her safety, she confided that she’d already begun praying to the patron saint for women in childbirth, and that seemed to reassure him somewhat. She did not tell him that she was praying to a Greek Orthodox saint, not a Latin Catholic one. Amalric had insisted that she convert to Catholicism, saying she would seem less alien and foreign to his subjects if they worshipped in the same way. Once she was widowed, she could have gone back to the faith of her childhood. She’d decided, though, that this would be confusing to Isabella, who must be raised in the Latin Church as she might be queen one day.
Maria knew she could have confessed this to Balian, who was as unlike Amalric as chalk and cheese. But every marriage had a secret or two and this was hers. It was too hot to cuddle so she settled for placing his hand again on her belly and was soon asleep.
Balian was not as lucky. As tired as his body was, his brain was racing like Baldwin’s runaway stallion. He very much wanted more children. He could not deny, though, that for women, the birthing chamber could be as dangerous as the battlefield was for men. And underlying the natural anxiety of a man for his wife, a greater fear loomed. If Maria gave him a son, what sort of future would he have? Their world seemed more dangerous now than it had when Helvis was born nigh on a year ago. What if their kingdom did not survive? What sort of legacy would they be leaving their children?
Maria awoke a few hours later and was concerned to find he was still awake. “Are you fretting about your brother’s ransom?” Propping herself up on her elbow, she was able to study his face, for they’d forgotten to quench the oil lamps in their haste to reach the bed. “You fear that Saladin will ask for a ransom so great that Baudouin and you cannot raise it? Should that happen, I will ask the emperor for help in paying it.”
“You would do that, Marika? Would the emperor agree, though?”
“He has helped to ransom other Christian lords held captive by the Saracens. He sees it as a religious duty to aid the afflicted . . . and of course such public displays of magnanimity and piety greatly enhance his prestige.” Maria’s smile was both affectionate and worldly-wise, for she was fond of her great-uncle but under no illusions about him. “Moreover, our marriage has linked you to the Greek Royal House and this is your brother. Manuel could well see this as a matter of family pride, especially if it were presented to him in that way.”
Balian kissed her, laughed, and kissed her again. Maria was delighted that her offer had eased his anxiety about Baudouin’s ransom and it had. But he’d also remembered that if the worst did happen, if he died defending Outremer and the kingdom fell to Saladin, Maria and their children would be far more fortunate than most Poulains. They could always find safety in Constantinople.
CHAPTER 24
August 1179
Jerusalem, Outremer
Agnes had realized that Balian and Maria would join the court in Jerusalem to meet the newly arrived French lords. But she’d not expected them to bring Isabella and she glowered as she watched them maneuver their way through the crowded hall toward the dais. “Damn that Greek witch,” she hissed. “She never misses a chance to flaunt that brat of hers in front of Baldwin, to remind him and all the other Poulains that they share the same blood.”
Sybilla had a throbbing headache, for she’d slept little the night before, worried by her son’s coughing. His doctor had insisted it was a mild case of the croup, no cause for anxiety, but the little boy was miserable. She was in no mood today to listen to one of her mother’s familiar rants about Maria Comnena. “Well, they do share the same blood, Mother. Nor do I see anything sinister in Isabella’s occasional visits to the court. She is just a child, after all.”
“That ‘child’ could claim a crown one day—your crown!”
Sybilla usually took the path of least resistance, not finding it easy to stand up to her formidable mother. Today, though, an imp seemed to have taken possession of her tongue. “All in Outremer know that I am Baldwin’s heir, and then my son. Isabella is a distant third, and she will be pushed even farther from the throne by the children I will have with Hugh of Burgundy.”
Agnes’s frustration and fear and the bitter grudge she bore God for Baldwin’s suffering had honed her temper to a razor-sharp edge. She glared at her daughter, wondering how she could have given birth to such a foolish, frivolous creature. “How can you be so naïve? The crown is elective in Outremer, or have you forgotten that?”
“No, of course I have not. But the High Court’s confirmation is only a formality—”
For a moment, Agnes was speechless, not hearing the rest of Sybilla’s words, hearing only Amalric’s voice as he told her that their marriage was over, that the High Court would not proclaim him king unless he put her aside. She’d lost everything that day—her crown, her children, her faith in the future. “What a fool you are, Sybilla!” she snapped, loudly enough to turn heads in their direction. “God help you, for you will not help yourself or your son . . . not until it is too late, until our enemies have staged their coup and placed that child on your throne!”
Sybilla’s cheeks burned with mortification and she glanced around hastily to see if any were within earshot of Agnes’s diatribe. How
dare her mother treat her like this, as if she were still a child. She was a grown woman of twenty, a widow, a mother, and in time a queen. But her indignation was no match for her mother’s scorched-earth furies, so once again she backed off, saying nothing, hating herself for being so weak willed, so easily intimidated.
Agnes yearned to grab the girl by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. Why could she not see how precarious her position was? Why could she not understand that nothing in this world came to the meek or the timid? Agnes slowly shook her head and then turned away, intent upon reaching Baldwin’s side before Balian and Maria did.
Sybilla felt as if every eye in the hall was upon her. Crossing to a window seat, she stood with her back to her audience, pretending to gaze out the window as she waited for her breathing to steady and her angry color to fade. Her emotions were in a hopeless muddle. As much as she resented her mother’s lectures and rebukes, she desperately wanted her approval. Even with a child of her own, there were times when she felt unbearably lonely. In truth, she’d been lonely for most of her life. Somehow, she must make sure that her son never felt so alone.
“My lady . . .” She’d been so caught up in her own unhappiness that she’d not heard the approaching footsteps. Whirling around, she found herself face-to-face with a stranger. Holding out a wine cup, he offered it to her with a tentative smile. “If I am not intruding . . . ?”
Her first impulse was to rebuff him as she’d not dared to rebuff her mother. But as she subjected him to a haughty scrutiny, she realized that he seemed vaguely familiar. He was also quite handsome. His hair was a bright shade of chestnut and cut shorter than was the fashion in Outremer. The neatly trimmed beard offered further proof that he was not a Poulain, for in the kingdom, men of rank were clean-shaven. There was something appealing about that smile, too. She was accustomed to seeing her desirability reflected in male eyes. This man was also according her the respect due a queen and that sort of deference was rare. Accepting the wine cup, she sat down, then gave him permission to sit beside her. “Do I know you, sir?”
“I would not expect you to remember me, my lady. I was but one of many who paid our respects to you and to King Baldwin upon our arrival in the Holy City. You do know my brother, though—Lord Amaury de Lusignan.”
“Of course,” she said, prodding her recalcitrant memory to produce his name. Giles? Gilbert? When it came to her, she smiled graciously and added, “Sir Guy,” as if she’d known it all along, for her mother was always nagging her about the importance of remembering names. “It is not often a knight acts as my cupbearer. What made you think I was in need of wine?”
“It gave me this chance to speak with you, did it not?” That charming smile appeared again, but then he said, in all seriousness, “The truth, my lady, is that I could not help noticing your distress after your conversation with your mother.”
“You were eavesdropping upon us?” As she started to rise, he quickly shook his head.
“I heard nothing, I swear it. You caught my attention only because I’d had so many arguments of my own with my father, may God assoil him.”
Sybilla sat down again, suddenly curious. “You and your father were often at odds?”
“As far back as I can remember,” he admitted, startling her by his candor. “I was a younger son and nothing I did seemed to please him. He was constantly berating me for not being more like my older brothers. I well knew they were not paragons of knightly virtue; they were just more skilled at hiding their escapades from him. Yet I could hardly defend myself by pointing out their sins, could I?” With a rueful smile and a shrug.
Sybilla was surprised by the sympathy she felt for that little boy who could do nothing right. That he would confide something so personal was unusual in and of itself, for she was accustomed to men who were as taciturn as the holy hermits on Mount Carmel when it came to discussing their emotions. For certes, Guillaume would never have revealed any childhood memory that cast him in less than a heroic role. Unknowingly, Guy de Lusignan had shone a light upon her darkest secret—her jealousy of her brother. She was ashamed of it and would never have revealed it to another living soul, not even her confessor. How could she begrudge Baldwin their mother’s unconditional and exclusive love? He was dying of leprosy, and what fate could be worse than that? She would have to be a monster to envy him that maternal devotion. And yet there were times when she did.
“Did you and your father make your peace, Sir Guy?”
“Alas, we did not. He took the cross and died in a Saracen dungeon ten years ago, whilst my brothers and I were back home in Poitou.”
“I am so sorry!” And this was more than a polite expression of regret. She truly meant it. He seemed to sense that, for he smiled again, saying that sympathy from a beautiful woman would heal any wound. Flirtation was Sybilla’s favorite game. Pleased that she was on familiar ground again, she smiled, too.
* * *
Isabella had been practicing her curtsy all week, for she wanted to get it right. When she straightened up, she saw that Baldwin was smiling and that gave her the courage she needed. Instead of returning to her parents, she hastened up the dais steps.
“My mama and Pateras . . . they told me,” she said solemnly. “I am so sorry.” Baldwin started to speak, then stopped, for what was there to say? “I did not understand,” Isabella continued, “for people say lepers are being punished for their sins. But my mama said that was not so. She said leprosy is proof of God’s love, for lepers will not have to go to Purgatory and can go straight to Heaven. I was glad of that, only . . .” She paused, biting her lip before blurting out, “Only I wish God had loved you less, Brother.”
Baldwin regarded her in silence for a moment and then he began to laugh. “So do I, Bella, so do I.”
It had been so long since Agnes had heard Baldwin laugh like that. But she was alarmed, too, at this unexpected moment of camaraderie. At times, she found herself wondering how her family could have offended God so grievously; how else explain their litany of sorrows? Her son was dying slowly and painfully, and they had enemies, so many enemies. And of them all, she feared a seven-year-old girl the most, for she offered an alternative to those who hated the de Courtenays, those who did not want Sybilla as queen.
Isabella curtsied again when she saw a lord was waiting to speak with Baldwin and rejoined her parents. She sensed their pride and felt a warm glow. Some of it faded as she looked around, for the woman with the hungry hawk eyes was staring at her. By now she knew this was Baldwin’s mother, but she did not know what she’d done to earn such disapproval. She moved closer to Maria, then remembered that she’d not told Baldwin about her new mount, a white mule. Thinking he might like to pick the name for her, she started back toward the dais. But Agnes barred her way, saying curtly that she must not take up any more of the king’s time, that there were others waiting to speak to him.
Before Isabella could say anything, her mother was there, smiling down at her as she suggested to Isabella that her stepfather escort her over to greet her sister, Sybilla. Isabella brightened at that, turning to slip her hand into Balian’s large one. As he led her away, though, she heard her mother say to Baldwin’s mother, “Stay away from my daughter!” Her eyes widened, for she’d never heard Mama sound like that.
Agnes had never heard Maria sound like that, either, and she was momentarily taken aback. After giving the younger woman a look of utter disdain, she turned her back and joined Baldwin on the dais. But she had to watch helplessly, then, as her daughter chatted amiably with Balian and the Greek’s brat. In the brief time since they’d parted, Sybilla had managed to find another male admirer; she collected them the way a miser hoarded gold bezants.
These flirtations did not disturb Agnes unduly, for she refused to believe Sybilla would be reckless enough to take a lover, and she had to admit that her daughter was adept at offering encouragement without actually committing herself. S
he’d even snared Baudouin d’Ibelin, may he rot forever in that Damascus dungeon. Agnes had been furious at first that Sybilla should be so friendly with d’Ibelin, but once she assured herself that the girl’s emotions were not engaged, she came to enjoy watching as Baudouin made a fool of himself over her daughter. She did not doubt that he lusted after the crown as much as he lusted after Sybilla. Fortunately, both would be out of his reach once the Duke of Burgundy arrived to marry Sybilla. She knew that for Baldwin, the wedding day could not come soon enough.
* * *
After they’d been introduced to the French lords, Maria excused herself to take Isabella back to their town house, and Balian and Denys withdrew to the palace gardens. The sun was at its hottest and the olive trees provided only a modicum of shade, but they were willing to endure the heat in the interest of privacy. When Balian asked about the most conspicuous absentee at the court festivities, the older man shook his head, assuring him that Count Raymond was in Jerusalem. “Yesterday he got into a nasty public quarrel with Reynald de Chatillon over who was to blame for Marj Ayyun. Fortunately, Raymond’s wife is coolheaded, so Eschiva managed to draw him away ere he and Reynald went for each other’s throats.”
“For once, I agree with Reynald,” Balian admitted. “That battle was a debacle from start to finish. You say the Lady Eschiva interceded. Not Baldwin?”
“He was not in the hall at the time. Nor was he there when another squabble erupted after Raymond had stalked out. Reynald was still fuming and he loudly proclaimed to all within hearing that the count would be no match for a bawdy house filled with whores, much less the Saracen army. Reynald’s wife and his knights thought that was hilarious. Gerard de Ridefort did not and objected on Raymond’s behalf. With two such hotheads, it is a wonder it did not lead to bloodshed. But the Bishop of Bethlehem and I were able to intervene ere it came to that.”
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