Anselm agreed, for the fastest stallion was of no use unless he could be broken to the saddle. Looking at his doomed young king, he yearned to offer comfort, even if it was a lie. “At least you were able to find a husband for your sister, my lord. If you sickened of a sudden, you could take to your bed knowing he can act in your stead.”
Baldwin found little reassurance in that thought, for even after three years of marriage to Sybilla, Guy remained an enigma to him. Baldwin did not doubt his bravery on the battlefield; the de Lusignans did not breed cowards. But a king needed more than courage and Guy’s judgment was still untested. He did not let himself express such doubts, not even with Anselm, and so he merely nodded, silently sending another prayer winging its way to God’s ear, that the Almighty keep his beleaguered kingdom safe from infidels, overly ambitious lords, and fools.
* * *
In May, Salāh al-Dīn finally lay siege to Aleppo. Its citizens put up a fierce resistance but were betrayed by their own amir, who secretly came to terms with the sultan and agreed to surrender the city. On June 11, the Franks’ greatest fear came to pass and Aleppo fell to Salāh al-Dīn. Baldwin hastily ordered their army to muster at Saforie, and they prepared to defend their kingdom.
* * *
Soon after arriving at Saforie, Baldwin had been stricken with a fever. Since he’d begun going blind, his mother had rarely left his side and she insisted that he withdraw to Nazareth until he recovered. He reluctantly agreed, only because it was just six miles from the army camp at Saforie, enabling him to stay in close touch with his scouts and battle commanders. Virtually every lord in the kingdom had answered his summons, as had Count Raymond of Tripoli. By now they’d heard that Saladin had left Aleppo, heading for Damascus. War was looming.
On August 17, the barons were suddenly summoned to Nazareth. Balian and Baudouin wondered if Baldwin’s spies had discovered where Saladin meant to strike first; many of the men were convinced he would besiege Beirut again, while others were sure that he intended to attack the strongholds of Toron and Chastelneuf. The uncertainty was abrading men’s nerves and the d’Ibelin brothers hoped that Baldwin would be able to end the suspense. They also wanted to know whom he would name to command the army.
The Archbishop of Nazareth had invited Baldwin to stay in his palace, even giving up his own bedchamber for the ailing king’s comfort. Balian and Baudouin expected to be ushered toward the archbishop’s great hall and they were alarmed when they were led, instead, into his private quarters. They’d not been surprised to be told that Baldwin’s illness had taken a turn for the worse; by now his lords were accustomed to his ongoing battles with one malady after another. But knowing how proud he was, they realized that he’d never have held a council in his bedchamber unless he was too weak to leave his bed.
Their first glimpse of Baldwin confirmed all of their fears. He was so deeply flushed that he seemed sunburned, his eyes glazed with fever and sunken back in his head. The windows had been opened to combat the stifling August heat, but Baldwin’s bed was piled high with blankets and as they approached it, they could see that he was shivering. He looked far younger than his twenty-two years and so vulnerable that Balian was not surprised to see Agnes, Joscelin, Denys, and William surrounding the bed, sentinels vainly seeking to ward off Death.
The Archbishop of Nazareth and the patriarch, Eraclius, were also present, and Balian recognized several of Baldwin’s doctors and his confessor. He was startled to see Guy de Lusignan, too, for he’d not heard that Baldwin had summoned Guy from Saforie ahead of the others. As men continued to file into the chamber, Guy signaled to catch the eye of his brother, Amaury, with a grin so jubilant that Balian stiffened. Beside him, he heard Baudouin mutter, “Sweet, suffering Christ,” and he knew his brother shared his sudden suspicion.
Although Archbishop Lethard’s bedchamber was a large one, it was still a tight fit for all the lords jockeying for position. Rank prevailed and space was cleared by the bed for Count Raymond, Reynald de Chatillon, the d’Ibelins, and the grand masters of the Templars and Hospitallers. There was some grumbling when Amaury de Lusignan forced his way to the front, but men grudgingly let him by, sensing that Guy’s star was finally on the ascendancy.
When Baldwin began to speak, the men had to crowd in even closer to hear, for his voice was slurred and too faint to carry far. “Once I was sure that . . . that I was a leper, I promised that I would rule only as long as my health permitted. . . . That day has come, for I am too ill to lead our army into battle against Saladin. . . . After much thought, I have decided to name my sister’s husband, the Count of Jaffa, as regent of the realm. . . .”
Baldwin had to pause often for breath. “I will retain the kingship, the city of Jerusalem, and an annual income of ten thousand gold bezants. . . . All else will be given over to Count Guy. He will rule the kingdom with the advice and consent of the High Court and he will command the army. . . .”
He paused again, this time as he struggled to suppress a coughing spasm so severe, he sounded as if he were strangling. Those watching could only wait helplessly until it passed. The chamber was strangely silent, aside from Baldwin’s ragged breathing and the occasional shuffling of feet. All had known since they’d learned of Guy’s marriage to Sybilla that this day was coming, yet it somehow caught most by surprise. Some still saw Guy as an alien interloper and remained resentful that he’d swooped in to claim such a prize for himself. Even those most enthusiastic about Guy’s appointment as regent were motivated more by self-interest than by confidence in his abilities. Others were not yet convinced that he would be equal to the challenges of kingship at a time when the very survival of Outremer was at stake.
“I want my vassals to swear fealty to the Count of Jaffa.” Baldwin could not see the joy that lit Guy’s face. The other men did and many of them did not like it. Baldwin had halted to catch his breath. What he said now wiped Guy’s smile away. “But first I would have Count Guy swear an oath of his own. . . . I want him to avow that whilst I still live, he will not aspire to the crown or alienate from the royal treasury any of the cities or castles still in my possession.”
It was obvious to them all that Guy had not expected such a stipulation and that he resented the implication—that Baldwin did not fully trust him. He frowned and glanced toward his brother, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Their eyes held for a moment and then Guy nodded, too, saying that of course he was willing to take such an oath if the king requested it. But when William at once stepped forward, holding out a jeweled reliquary, the look Guy gave the archbishop was not a friendly one. He solemnly swore upon those holy relics, though, that he would not attempt to usurp the king’s crown. His smile reappeared, then, as one by one, the lords of the realm came forward to swear fealty to him as regent and to acknowledge that the command of the army and the government and the future of their kingdom were in his hands.
* * *
Once they’d exited Baldwin’s bedchamber, the men broke into small groups to discuss this dramatic development, some clustering around Guy, others gathering to hear Baudouin and Raymond openly express their doubts about Baldwin’s decision. Balian preferred to confide his misgivings in privacy and he and William slipped away in search of it. They eventually found the solitude they sought in the cathedral cloisters and sat down on a bench in one of the carrels.
“I assume you argued against this, William.”
The archbishop sighed. “I tried. Baldwin pointed out that he had no real choice, for the crown will pass to Sybilla and Guy when he dies.”
“Were you responsible for that sine qua non oath Baldwin demanded of Guy?”
William was amused by Balian’s unexpected use of that Latin legal phrase. “No, that was Baldwin’s idea. But he decided to demand it of Guy after I told him of the rumors I’d heard, that Guy has been seeking out lords of the realm and promising to make it worth their while if they’d support his claim to the crown.” Ant
icipating Balian’s next question, he shrugged. “Were those rumors true? I cannot say for a certainty. Guy would hardly have approached me or you or Baudouin or Raymond, after all. All I could tell Baldwin was that such rumors had been circulating for a while. Since he felt the need for such an oath, Baldwin obviously gave some credence to them.”
Balian did, too. Unlike his brother, he could not fault Guy for wanting to be king. But he found it troubling that even after three years, so many remained dubious. Why had Guy not been able to win over the other lords? Jealousy alone could not account for it.
It was then that he heard his name being called. Anselm was striding up the cloister walkway, waving to attract his attention. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you, Lord Balian! The king wants to see you straightaway.”
* * *
Agnes glowered at Balian as he entered the bedchamber, as if he had barged in, uninvited. “Do not overstay your welcome,” she snapped. “The king is very tired.”
Balian merely looked at her. It was Baldwin who responded, saying, “I am going blind, not deaf, Mother. Now, if you’ll pardon us, I need to speak privately with Lord Balian. . . .” There was such obvious affection in the rebuke that Agnes did not object. Leaning over the bed, she kissed her son on the forehead, then gave Balian one more admonitory glare before reluctantly departing the chamber.
Balian thought Baldwin looked even worse than he had during the council. “Sire, I can come back after you’ve rested. Surely whatever you want to tell me can wait for a while.”
“No, it cannot. . . .” Baldwin tried to sit up, sank back against the pillows. “Balian, Bella and Humphrey . . . they must wed, as soon as possible. . . .”
“Sire, no! Bella is too young!”
“She . . . is in her twelfth year. . . .”
“But she’ll not be twelve for nigh on six months, and twelve is the canonical age for marriage. Sire, you know that. This makes no sense.”
“Balian, I am dying. . . .” Little more than a whisper, but the words echoed in Balian’s ears like thunder. Why had he needed to be told?
“My liege, surely your doctors can . . .” Can do what? Prolong his suffering?
“The doctors do not even know what is causing my fever. . . . They urged me to make my peace with God.” When Anselm put a cup to his lips, Baldwin managed a swallow or two. “For Bella’s sake and for the sake of the kingdom, she must be wed ere I die. . . . I’d not have her become a pawn, used as a weapon against Sybilla. . . . She deserves better and . . . and if we war amongst ourselves, we are well and truly doomed. . . .”
“Sire, I promise you that we’ll see her wed to Humphrey. I give you my sworn word. But let the marriage wait until she is older, at least fourteen. Eleven is too young!”
Baldwin no longer had breath for persuasion, even for speech. Nor did he see any point in it. He understood why Balian and Maria would resist, did not blame them. But as long as Bella was free to take a husband who might become king, she’d be too much of a temptation for many men. For better or worse, the crown must go to Sybilla and Guy. It was the last thing he could do for Outremer—avoid a disputed succession. “There is no other way,” he said hoarsely. “They must be wed. . . .”
Balian opened his mouth to protest further, then saw the futility in it. How could he badger a dying man? He could not even argue that this was too high a price for Bella to pay, not when Baldwin had sacrificed his health, his youth, and now his life to defend the kingdom that was their homeland and the beating heart of Christendom.
* * *
Salāh al-Dīn left Damascus on September 17 and struck the first blow of his campaign against the Franks on September 29, attacking Bethsan. The garrison of the castle and the townspeople had gotten advance warning of his approach and fled to safety at Tiberias, leaving the town to be plundered by the Saracens. The next day a contingent of soldiers coming from Kerak under Humphrey de Toron’s command was ambushed by some of the sultan’s Mamluks and over a hundred of Humphrey’s men were taken prisoner. On that same day, Guy de Lusignan led their army out of Saforie toward a looming confrontation with the sultan’s forces.
CHAPTER 34
September 1183
Nazareth Hills, Outremer
The constable of the realm, Amaury de Lusignan, was leading their vanguard through the hills surrounding Nazareth. So far they had not come under attack, but he knew that would not last, for he’d lived in the Holy Land for more than a decade, time enough to have mastered the strategies of war as practiced by the Franks and Saracens. While he’d often bloodied his sword in France, he’d had to learn about the forced marches, for they were unique to Outremer. Nor had he encountered fighters like the Saracens before. They swooped in like hawks and then flew away to safety, harassing and infuriating the Franks with their hit-and-run tactics. He thought it was fortunate that they were so vulnerable to the Franks’ greatest weapon—a coordinated charge by well-armored knights and their heavier, fiery-tempered destriers.
Yet the charge had to be perfectly timed, not unleashed until the commander felt it would do the most damage. It was a constant challenge to exert that sort of control over prideful knights, men whose natural instincts were to strike back when attacked. Amaury had seen even highly disciplined Templars and Hospitallers break ranks when they could endure no more, and he was determined that none of the men in his squadron would shame themselves like that. Because he’d proven himself at Montgisard, at Marj Ayyun, at Forbelet, and in chevauchées beyond counting, men knew he’d not been chosen as constable just because he was Guy’s brother. He’d earned their respect where it counted, on the battlefield.
But he often found himself wondering if they would accord Guy that same respect. Guy had never fought in a pitched battle or commanded an army; until now, his greatest accomplishments had taken place in Sybilla’s bed. Amaury thought it only natural that the Poulains would harbor doubts about Guy. He shared them, for he knew something about his younger brother that few did—how easily he was influenced by the opinions of others.
They’d been on the march for about two hours when the attacks began. Mounted archers appeared on both sides of the road and the infantrymen protecting the knights’ horses reeled back under a withering barrage of arrows. Men began to die. Amaury shouted for his men to keep moving, to hold the line. Some of the Saracens were heading for the vanguard’s rear, hoping to encircle them. As long as his men did not break formation, though, they would win this skirmish.
Those infernal Saracen war drums were throbbing, making a hellish racket, and the air was vibrating with shouts and curses and insults. Up ahead he saw that the road was curving and it occurred to him that this would be a very nasty place for an ambush. But he was proud of his men for showing such discipline . . . until they did not.
It happened without warning. Several knights could take no more and suddenly spurred their stallions against their tormentors, shouting the battle cry of St. George. Amaury yelled a warning; it was already too late. Others joined in the charge, a few infantrymen almost getting trampled when the knights shot past them. Within moments, all was chaos. “To me! To me!” Amaury shouted till his throat was raw. But he saw with horror that they were being separated from one another and would soon be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
It was then that he heard it—the clarion call of trumpets, sounding like Heaven’s own harps—and he turned in the saddle in time to see the knights thundering toward them. It was as perfect a charge as he’d ever seen, the Franks riding stirrup to stirrup, lances couched, catching the enemy by surprise. Horses reared, going back on their haunches, and then the Saracens who were not down on the field were in flight, veering off in all directions to thwart pursuit.
Amaury soon corralled his scattered squadron. There were bodies on the ground, most of them wounded, a few riderless horses milling about in confusion. Yet the losses they’d suffered could have been far worse. Sheat
hing his sword, Amaury rode over to thank his rescuers.
But at the sight of that familiar red cross on their shields, he swore under his breath, for he most definitely did not want to be indebted to his estranged father-in-law; Baudouin would enjoy lording that over him until Judgment Day. The d’Ibelin brothers moved their stallions forward to meet him; recognizing Balian’s infamous Demon, Amaury reined in at a discreet distance.
“I am fortunate that you happened to be in the neighborhood,” he said, with a tight smile.
Baudouin regarded him coolly. “Count yourself lucky that I thought my daughter is too young to be a widow.”
Balian was friendlier. “A scout reported that the vanguard was under attack and we did not want you to have all the fun.”
“Well, I am glad that you were so eager to join in the revelries.”
Baudouin shrugged. “Your bones would be bleaching by the side of the road by the time your brother decided who should come to your aid.”
Amaury frowned at this insult to Guy, but Balian also caught the curve of his mouth, as if he’d suppressed an involuntary smile. He found that quite interesting; so Amaury had some misgivings about Guy’s leadership, too. He watched as Amaury turned away, giving orders to deal with the wounded and the dead. His men obeyed him with alacrity, which was also interesting. Glancing over at Baudouin, he said, “I think Sybilla married the wrong de Lusignan.”
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