Baldwin wished his mother had not brought up the Pope’s condemnation. He wanted only to forget those hateful words, even though he knew they were engraved upon his heart. But he was touched by his sister’s robust defense. How lucky he was that his family and friends and most of his subjects had never seen his disease as God’s punishment.
Sybilla and Agnes were taking turns denouncing the Pope for his lack of mercy and common sense. When she realized that her husband had so far remained quiet, Sybilla sought to bring him into the conversation. He was part of their family now, and she wanted her mother and brother and stepfather to value his opinions as much as she did. “Did you ever expect to hear such mean-spirited foolishness coming from a Pope’s mouth, darling?”
Guy hesitated, then agreed that the Pope had indeed misspoken. But for the span of seconds, his guard had been down and Baldwin thought he saw something troubling in the other man’s eyes. Did Guy agree with the Pope? Did he also see leprosy as a “just judgment” from God? Striving to be fair, Baldwin told himself that Guy could hardly be blamed if so, for that view was commonly held in other Christian lands and Guy had grown up in France. Baldwin found it so upsetting, though, that he chose to believe he was wrong, that he’d been led astray by his own feverish imagination. Guy was his brother by marriage now, the man who would rule with Sybilla after his death, and surely he deserved the benefit of the doubt.
* * *
Balian had paid a courtesy call upon the commander of the Templar commandery at Acre and was pleased to encounter Jakelin afterward. Jakelin was leaving to deliver a message to the city’s viscount and Balian offered to accompany him, as this would give them a chance to catch up; Templars led such structured lives that they had little free time for themselves.
When Jakelin wanted to know what had brought him to Acre, Balian explained that he was there to await Baudouin’s arrival from Constantinople and would be in the city for about a fortnight. “My brother wrote that he expected to reach Acre in mid-August. I brought his little lad with me, for he’s missed his father sorely; Baudouin has been gone for nigh on a year.”
Balian smiled, then. “Thomasin is a handful. I hope that my Johnny will not have such a talent for mischief when he reaches Thomasin’s age. I left my squires to watch over him today until I get back, much to their horror. How is it that women make caring for children seem so easy?”
Jakelin still found it hard to envision Balian as the father of three. “Your lady did not accompany you?” he asked in surprise, for he knew Balian and Maria were rarely apart.
“Alas, no.” Balian eased his palfrey as a beggar appeared beside him, fumbling in his scrip to toss the man a coin. “Maria is with child again and did not feel up to making such a long journey, especially in the heat of summer.” He was no longer smiling. “In truth, Jake, it has not been an easy pregnancy so far. Her morning sickness has been much more severe than when she was carrying Helvis and Johnny.”
Jakelin knew little of pregnancies, but he caught the echoes of anxiety in Balian’s voice and offered the only comfort he could, a promise to pray for Maria’s health and a safe birthing when her time came. They were on Cypress Street by now, skirting the Venetian Quarter. They were about to turn onto the street that led north toward their destination, the city citadel, when they heard a sudden, shrill cry. Glancing in the direction of the sound, they saw a woman waving wildly to attract their attention.
As they reined in their mounts, she picked up her skirts and ran out into the street to intercept them. “Lord Balian, oh, thank God! I could scarcely believe my good fortune when I saw you ride by!” She was past her youth and her gown was of good-quality cotton, but her profession was obvious, for no respectable woman would show so much décolletage or use so much rouge and powder. She looked vaguely familiar to them both. Balian had a sharper memory than Jakelin and he was the first to remember; this was the bawd who’d run one of Acre’s better bordels during the early years of their friendship, long before Jakelin had taken holy vows as a Templar and he had wed a queen. After a moment, he even remembered her name: Clarice.
“Please help me, my lords! He has been swilling wine for two days and he’s so drunk there is no reasoning with him! He has destroyed all the furniture in his chamber and when another customer complained about the noise, he threw the man down the stairs. None of my girls are willing to go back in there, but he’ll soon want one again and what can I tell him?”
Balian and Jakelin exchanged bemused looks. “I am sorry, Clarice,” Balian said politely, for he’d never thought that courtesy was only for those of high birth. His brothers and friends had occasionally teased him about his misguided chivalry, but it had made him very popular during his youthful forays into bawdy houses. “I do not see how we can help. You need to ask the authorities to deal with this disruptive drunkard. Brother Jakelin and I are on our way to see the viscount. If you like, we can ask him to send a few of his men to restore the peace.”
“I dare not do that, my lord. He is not just another customer but a man of great importance.” Glancing around uneasily, she edged closer to Balian’s palfrey before revealing the identity of the “disruptive drunkard,” the marshal of the kingdom, Gerard de Ridefort.
Balian bit down on his lip to stifle a laugh and Jakelin suddenly had to cough. Clarice waited tensely as they sought to camouflage their mirth. “You can see why I cannot have him arrested. He’d never forgive me for shaming him like that and I cannot afford to have him as my enemy. But if we cannot get rid of him, he’s bound to start more fights with my other customers or hurt one of my girls. Please, Lord Balian. Who else can I turn to?”
She clasped her hands, gazing up imploringly into Balian’s face, her mouth trembling, her eyes moist. Balian was not naïve; he well knew that softhearted bawds were as rare as dragon’s teeth. But he’d never learned how to resist a woman’s tears. Heaving a sigh, he swung reluctantly from the saddle. “Come on, Jake, let’s get this over with.”
“Have you lost your wits?” Jakelin was staring at him, incredulous. “I am a Templar, Balian, cannot go into a bawdy house!”
“Even on a mission of mercy?”
“That does not matter. If I were to be seen entering a bordel, I could be expelled from the order. At the least, I could lose my habit and have to do a year of harsh penance. I cannot take a risk like that, Balian.”
Balian sighed again. “No, I do not suppose you can,” he agreed, handing his reins to Jakelin, and signaling for Clarice to lead the way. He just hoped that Baudouin would not find out about this, for his brother would never let him live it down.
The common room was crowded with Clarice’s whores and their customers, intent upon the drama at hand. Balian did not recognize any of the women, but he’d not been here for years and there was surely a high turnover in their precarious profession. “I assume you have a hireling to help you handle the drunks,” he said and Clarice gestured toward two men, one heavyset, the other tall and skinny, neither showing any enthusiasm for facing down a powerful lord. When Balian beckoned, they approached slowly, going no farther than the stairwell. Clarice had told him which chamber was Gerard’s and Balian shoved the door open, then waited. Nothing happened and he stepped inside. The stench hit him at once: the musky scent of sex mixed with vomit, sweat, urine, and wine. The light was poor, for the window was shuttered, and the August heat was stifling. The bed was rumpled, the sheet stained and ripped. Near the door, a chamber pot had been overturned, broken furniture lay scattered in the sodden floor rushes, and empty flagons were everywhere. Gerard had been holed up in this sty for two days?
Moving farther into the room, Balian called out Gerard’s name, then whirled as he thought he caught movement in the shadows. A figure was slumped against the far wall, legs spread out, head lolling back, mouth agape. For a moment, Balian feared the man was dead, but then he heard the wheezing. Not dead, dead-drunk. “Why me, Lord?” he asked alou
d. Getting no answer from the Almighty, he braced himself for the unpleasant task at hand.
Gerard did not stir even when Balian leaned over and shook his shoulder. Striding to the door, he shouted for Clarice’s hirelings. Once they saw that Gerard was unconscious, they responded to Balian’s orders with alacrity, eager to get the marshal out of their bordel before he woke up. One man went to fetch Gerard’s horse from the stable while the other one helped Balian drag Gerard to his feet. He mumbled a few times, but he did not seem fully aware of his surroundings or the men holding him upright. He was a dead weight, and both Balian and the hireling were swearing and sweating by the time they maneuvered him down those narrow stairs.
Once they reached the common room, Balian shoved Gerard onto the closest bench, grabbing him in time to keep him from toppling to the floor. Balian accepted a cup of wine from Clarice as they waited for her man to bring Gerard’s horse around to the street, and decided he’d stop at the public baths, wanting to wash away the stink as soon as possible.
“I’ve never seen a man drink so much. It was like he was a bottomless pit.” The speaker was so scantily clad that Balian lost control of his eyes for a moment. She grinned and he could not help grinning back. She was young, with a tumble of ash-blond hair, a sharp intelligence gleaming in the depths of greenish-blue eyes, and an ugly bruise angling across one cheekbone. When Balian asked if Gerard had done that, she gave a nonchalant nod.
“My face got in the way of his fist. He’d never done that on past visits. But he’d never gotten so besotted before.” She regarded Gerard impersonally, with neither hostility nor sympathy, showing more interest as her eyes appraised Balian. “You want to go abovestairs for a quick one? Clarice said there’s no charge.”
“I think I’d best get Gerard out of here ere he comes to and starts another brawl.”
She shrugged and her gaze shifted back to Gerard, who’d begun to snore. “When he sobers up, tell him he is still welcome here.” She caught Balian’s expression and shrugged again. “I’ve been with worse. He pays for what he gets without trying to want more for free like some do. But he was already in his cups when he showed up, raving and ranting like a madman about being betrayed, cheated of a rich heiress by some count.”
Balian studied her with sudden interest, for her words had triggered a memory of old gossip about Gerard. What was it? Ah, yes, that Count Raymond had promised to give Gerard the next available heiress in his domains. “This count . . . was it the Count of Tripoli?”
“Yes, that’s the one! It was quite a tale. As best I could make out, a lord died and Gerard expected to marry his daughter. But a Pisan merchant wanted her, too, and he offered the count the girl’s weight in gold. So the count gave the girl to him instead of Gerard.” She laughed at the sheer absurdity of a world in which such things could happen. “I can see why the count would snatch at that offer. Yet it may be a bad bargain, for he’s earned himself an enemy he’ll not want. That one,” she said, pointing to Gerard, “will nurse a grudge to the grave and beyond.”
Balian agreed with her, but that was Count Raymond’s concern. Clarice was signaling to let him know Gerard’s horse was outside. On impulse, he reached for the girl’s hand and kissed it in his best courtly manner. She looked startled and a little pleased, giving him a come-hither look that was almost sincere, waving as he and the hireling hauled Gerard toward the door.
Jakelin was still waiting, not happily, grumbling impatiently as Balian and Clarice’s men tried in vain to rouse Gerard so he could mount his horse. “How do you always manage to drag me into craziness like this, Balian? Just throw him over the saddle and let one of the men ride behind him so he does not fall off.”
Jakelin’s suggestion actually worked and Gerard was soon draped over his horse like a large sack of flour with one of the men perched on the palfrey’s haunches, no longer an unwilling accomplice after Balian tossed him a few coins. Then Jakelin asked an awkward question. “Now what? What do we do with him?”
That gave Balian pause. After a moment to reflect, he flashed a wicked smile. “Amaury de Lusignan has a town house in Acre. Since Gerard has just joined the de Courtenays’ feud against the Count of Tripoli, we’ll let Amaury deal with his new ally.”
* * *
Baudouin returned from Constantinople with a promise from the new government to honor Manuel’s agreement to pay his ransom. He also brought gossip that was undeniably entertaining but troubling to those hoping for stability and peace in the Greek empire. Manuel’s will had compelled his widow to take holy vows in order to retain custody of their son, and Mary had soon shown herself to be a very unwilling nun. The new protosebastos was Maria’s uncle. He was also arrogant, avaricious, and excelled at making enemies, who then became Mary’s enemies, too, for it was widely believed that they were lovers. Baudouin’s assessment of the Greek empire was both pithy and alarming. It was, he said, “a sinking ship.” Joscelin reached Outremer not long afterward, and he was equally pessimistic, warning Baldwin that their kingdom could expect no help from the Greeks in their struggle against Saladin.
* * *
It had been a brutal summer for the Egyptians, one of searing heat and continuing drought. The coming of winter at least offered a respite from the soaring temperatures, if not from the drought, and made it easier for people to observe the holy fast during the month of Ramadān, when all devout Muslims must refrain from food and drink from sunrise to sunset. Fasting was one of the Five Pillars of Islam and a cause of concern to al-‘Ādil, for his young wife Āliya was in the fourth month of a pregnancy that had been difficult so far.
Returning to his residence in the Lesser Palace at al-Qāhira, he found her resting in her bedchamber, attended by Jumāna and Jawhara, a new slave skilled in midwifery and childbirth. Āliya’s face lit up at the sight of her husband and she would have risen to greet him had he not objected. Even her heart-stopping beauty could not hide the signs of stress; she was very pale, her eyes deeply shadowed and narrowed, as they did whenever she was stricken with a headache. Having two wives and several concubines, al-‘Ādil had considerable experience with pregnancy. A woman with child usually had a round, full face, but Āliya’s was drawn, almost gaunt. Leaning over the bed, he took her hand, yet refrained from kissing her, for that was forbidden during the hours of fasting. Despite the warmth of the room, her skin was cold to the touch and he felt a throb of relief that he’d realized her danger in time.
“I spent the morning consulting with imams, Āliya, and they all agree that a pregnant woman need not fast during Ramadān if that fast could harm her or her child.” When she started to protest, he gently put his finger to her lips. “I also spoke to several doctors, and they, too, agreed that it can be dangerous for a woman with child to go from dawn till dusk without even a sip of water. They told me that the symptoms of severe thirst include headaches, cramps, fatigue, and dizziness, all of which you’ve suffered since you began the fast.”
Āliya could deny none of it, nor that her body desperately craved fluids. But fasting was a sacred obligation for all Muslims. “Other women have been able to do it, Ahmad.” Although she got along well with his first wife, she occasionally felt a rivalry pang, and she could not help adding, “Halīma has fasted during Ramadān whilst she was with child.”
“And you may be able to do so, too, but not this time, Ghazāla.” As he hoped, his use of that pet name made her smile. Thinking it was lucky that she’d given birth to their daughter a fortnight before Ramadān began and that the timing of their son’s birth had also spared her a Ramadān fast, he told Jawhara to have the cooks prepare a meal for Āliya and to fetch dates and pomegranate juice at once. Then, he tried to ease Āliya’s qualms by reminding her that those unable to fast during Ramadān could make it up later and, although she need not pay the fidyah, he would right gladly do so, feeding the hungry for each missed fast day.
Her conscience assuaged, Āliya lay back aga
inst the pillows, and when Jawhara returned with the dates and drink, she gratefully gulped the juice, even nibbled at a few dates to please Ahmad, although food had become the enemy in this pregnancy. He soon had her laughing, relating the latest rumors he’d heard in the souk, and teasing that people were saying women were giving birth to twins in unusually high numbers this year.
After drinking another glass of juice, Āliya confided that she was feeling better. “Will you be seeing Yūsuf this afternoon? When do you think he’ll be hearing that Aleppo is ours?”
Aleppo was on al-‘Ādil’s mind, too. The news had caught them by surprise. When Nūr al-Dīn had died, leaving his eleven-year-old son, al-Sālih, as his heir, Yūsuf had seized his chance and was soon the sultan of Egypt. Whilst al-Sālih was too young to offer a serious challenge, he remained a threat, a rallying point for Yūsuf’s enemies. But al-Sālih had suddenly been taken ill two months ago and died eighteen days later. On his deathbed, he’d bequeathed Aleppo to his cousin, ‘Izz al-Dīn, amir of Mosul. Yūsuf had acted swiftly, ordering Taqī al-Dīn and Farrukh-Shāh to keep ‘Izz al-Dīn from reaching Aleppo. He had set up relays of carrier pigeons to get word as soon as possible and then the most difficult part began—the waiting.
“We ought to be hearing soon,” al-‘Ādil assured Āliya, smiling, for once they controlled Aleppo, the Franks would be surrounded, and after Yūsuf defeated the last of his Muslim enemies, he could turn his attention to fulfilling his promise of jihad against the Franks. Al-‘Ādil did not share his brother’s zeal for jihad; he was a pragmatist at heart and thought it was easier to coexist with the infidels than to try to destroy them. But he understood that Yūsuf’s frequent use of jihad as justification for attacking fellow Muslims had run up a debt, one that would eventually become due. Already there were those who questioned why he’d continued to make truces with the Franks, others who called his sincerity into question because of those truces.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 50