The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  From what Denys had said, he doubted if she’d been able to coherently confess and repent her sins. But he knew that few priests would quibble about formalities at such a time; Christians on their deathbeds were usually given the benefit of every doubt. As much as he’d hated Agnes, he’d not have denied her salvation. He was not even sure he still hated her, for she’d chosen Baldwin over Sybilla, chosen her dying son over her family’s fortunes. He’d seen her as selfish and vindictive and grasping, yet she’d put Baldwin’s needs first and for that alone, she deserved to be spared damnation.

  “I am sorry, lad,” he said, tightening his grip on Baldwin’s deformed fingers, “so very sorry. . . .”

  Baldwin did not reply and William forced himself to be still, to wait until the younger man was ready to speak. He was close enough to hear the hitch in Baldwin’s breathing. “Did you know Queen Melisende, William?” Baldwin asked softly. “I never knew her myself, for she died the year I was born. My father told me that she suffered an apoplectic seizure, and when she awoke, she could neither walk nor talk. He said she lingered for months in a half-dead state, tended only by her sisters, who allowed no one else to see her like that.”

  Another silence enveloped them, as suffocating and dense as winter fog. “I am glad my mother was spared that, William. . . .” Baldwin’s voice was husky, and though he could not see them, William knew tears had begun to spill from those blind blue eyes. “It is just that . . . that I never thought she’d be the one to die first. I even took a bittersweet comfort in it, thinking at least I’d not have to mourn for my dead. . . .”

  CHAPTER 40

  February 1185

  Jerusalem, Outremer

  Nothing in Outremer was as William Marshal had expected. He’d assumed that he’d be fighting the infidels, but he’d yet to engage the enemy despite taking part in two campaigns: lifting the siege of Kerak and then riding to the rescue of Nablus. He’d imagined there was a constant state of war between the Franks and Saracens; that was not so. Even while Saladin was assaulting Kerak, trading caravans continued their journeys to Acre, Tyre, and Damascus. And now the newly appointed regent, the Count of Tripoli, had just made a four-year truce with the sultan, which meant that Will might well return home without ever bloodying his sword.

  Nor were the Poulains as he’d expected. In England and France, they were spoken of disparagingly, mocked as men seduced by the sinful luxuries of the Levant, soft and even effeminate with their love of baths and fine silks and Saracen cuisine, their shameful trust in Muslim medicine. Will soon discovered that he liked the Poulains. There was nothing soft about men like the d’Ibelin brothers, no matter how often they frequented the public bathhouses. And if Saracen doctors were more knowledgeable than Christian physicians, why not consult them?

  Will’s views on leprosy had changed, too. He’d known, of course, that their king was a leper, which was madness since one could contract the disease merely by breathing the same air as a leper. Yet if that were true, how had Baldwin ruled for nigh on eleven years without infecting anyone, not even his devoted squire? How could healthy men serve with the leper knights and never catch that accursed ailment? He was told that leprosy was an old and familiar foe in the Levant, not a new and terrifying menace as it was in other parts of Christendom, and he soon concluded that the Franks, Saracens, and Greeks were right and his countrymen wrong—that leprosy was not so contagious that those stricken must be shunned without mercy. And if leprosy was punishment for earthly sins, why had Baldwin contracted it as a child?

  He’d admittedly been nervous when the Archbishop of Tyre had arranged his initial audience with Baldwin. That unease soon passed, replaced by admiration. They’d established a connection from that first meeting, but the rapport that developed between them went beyond their shared loathing for Guy de Lusignan. Will was honored to be accorded these occasional private visits, for Baldwin rarely ventured out in public anymore.

  When he was ushered into Baldwin’s bedchamber, he was not surprised that it was so poorly lit. Baldwin did not want others to look upon the ravages of his disease, nor did he want to wear a kaffiyeh in the privacy of his chambers. Even though he knew Baldwin would not know if he stared, Will avoided doing so, feeling that would be a betrayal. Once greetings had been exchanged, Will let his curiosity guide their conversation and asked if it was true that the little king’s grandfather had arrived in the kingdom. “People are all talking of it, but I thought sea travel was not done during the winter months.”

  Baldwin confirmed that the Marquis of Montferrat had indeed reached Outremer. “Ordinarily, men prefer to wait until the safer sailings in the spring, yet we do get messages or visitors if the need is urgent enough. In the marquis’s case, I doubt he fears much, be it storms or Saracens. He is approaching his biblical three-score years and ten, has come to devote his final years to the service of God and his grandson, and may God bless him for that.”

  Will knew that Baldwin feared Guy de Lusignan would attempt to weasel his way back into power once he was dead and a child ruled, a fear Will shared, knowing the de Lusignans as he did. Remembering now that the delegation headed by the patriarch and the grand masters had stopped in Italy to see the Pope, he asked if the marquis had brought any letters from them.

  “No letters, just news and none of it good. They met the Pope at Verona and whilst he gave them a warm welcome, he offered no tangible help for the Holy Land. The marquis said the delegation then headed north, to France and England. But they suffered a grievous loss at Verona, the death of the grand master of the Templars, Arnaud de Torroja. He was an experienced diplomat and his skills would have been very useful in their dealings with the English and French kings. His loss will be sorely felt here, too, Will. The Templars will have to elect a new grand master and I’ve been told that Gerard de Ridefort might well win that election.”

  Will had met Balian d’Ibelin’s friend, Jakelin de Mailly, who’d become the order’s marshal in the past year, and through Jakelin, he’d become acquainted with a number of other Templars, spending enough time with them to develop a deep respect for these soldiers of God. He said that now, adding, “I’ve liked all of the Templars I’ve met so far.”

  “Then you must not have met Gerard de Ridefort yet,” Baldwin said very dryly.

  “I take it you do not think highly of the man, sire?”

  “He is arrogant and obstinate, with a diabolic gift for detecting another man’s weakness and using it against him. Above all, he is not one to be trusted with the sort of power that their grand master wields. But if I tried to interfere in their election, all of the Templars would react with outrage, even those utterly opposed to de Ridefort, for they are fiercely independent.”

  Seeing that Baldwin was troubled by the likelihood of de Ridefort’s becoming grand master, Will fumbled for another topic of conversation. “I confess I was surprised to hear that the Count of Tripoli had made a truce with Saladin.” He’d been surprised, too, when Baldwin had named Count Raymond as regent, but he would not presume to question the king about his decision. He thought Balian d’Ibelin’s explanation was likely the correct one—that Baldwin had no other choice under the circumstances. Guy de Lusignan had proven unworthy and Reynald de Chatillon had proven too reckless.

  “Saladin wants this truce so he can move against the last Muslim ruler holding out against him, the amir of Mosul. And, yes, it can be said that we are making it easier for him to conquer Mosul. But we desperately need this truce, too, Will. We cannot fight off the Saracens whilst dealing with the accession of a child king.”

  Will was taken aback by how calmly Baldwin spoke of his own death. Did he truly believe it was so close? It was true that the loss of his mother had inflicted a wound that still bled. But rumor often had him at Death’s door and he’d always rallied.

  “Will, I asked you here tonight because I have some questions for you. Your loyalty to the man they called the yo
ung king is commendable. You served him well in life, and in death, too, by making this pilgrimage for him. Because you were one of his inner circle for so many years, you also got to know his father and his younger brothers. Since our kingdom’s future might depend upon what they decide, I want you to tell me about them.”

  Will did know these men well enough to answer Baldwin’s questions. But he feared his would be answers the king would not want to hear. “What do you want to know, my liege?”

  “We need not fear Saladin if my cousin Henry would accept the crown. Be honest, Will. Think you that he might take the cross and accompany Eraclius back to Outremer?”

  “No, sire. He is too busy fighting his own sons and keeping a wary eye on the French king.”

  “What of those sons? He still has three. Surely he could spare one of them for us?”

  Baldwin’s face was in shadow, but Will could hear the hope in his voice, and he did not know what to say. The youngest, John, would gladly come if he thought there was a crown in the offing; he was just eighteen, though, a battle virgin, and Henry would never let him go. The middle son, Geoffrey, had no more interest than Henry in crusading. The eldest son, Richard, was a superb soldier and he cared greatly about the fate of Jerusalem. But he was at war with his father and feared that Henry might disinherit him while he was in the Holy Land.

  He’d waited too long to answer. “You do not think any of them will come, either,” Baldwin said softly, “do you?”

  “Richard will come once he is king. I know the man, sire, and can promise you that.”

  Baldwin knew what Will did not—how quickly time was running out. Others might see glowing embers capable of being coaxed back into flames again; he saw only a cold hearth, nothing but ashes and cinders.

  There was so much sorrow in his silence that Will cursed himself for not lying. “Why do you think aid from the West is so crucial, my liege? You’ve thwarted that swine de Lusignan, and have gotten your lords to swear allegiance to your nephew. Surely your people will rally around young Baldwin once he becomes the king. Unless . . .” He paused, struck by an ugly thought. “Do you not trust the Count of Tripoli to be loyal to the little lad, sire?”

  Baldwin surprised him by saying that he did trust Raymond not to usurp the throne from his nephew. “He thinks of himself as a man of honor and there’d be no honor in betraying a child, a child he’d sworn to protect. But if the lad dies ere he reaches his legal majority, I think Raymond would be sorely tempted to make his own bid for the crown. He’d have a strong blood claim, so why not? I daresay he is sure that he’d rule better than either Sybilla or Bella.”

  “Most of us would rather see a man on the throne than a woman, sire. Is it that you do not think Count Raymond would make a good king?”

  “In truth, I do not know what sort of king he’d make. It would not be easy to rule a land as divided as ours is. But I’d rather see Raymond crowned than Sybilla, for she will never agree to part from Guy. And if Guy ever becomes king, I fear Outremer would not survive for long.”

  Will could not argue with that chilling judgment, for he agreed with it. He could see that Baldwin was tiring, so he made his excuses and departed soon thereafter. Jerusalem was rife with gossip about the king’s latest illness. The most alarming rumor was that Baldwin’s kidneys were failing. While only doctors knew how these organs functioned, Jerusalemites still understood that, if this were true, it boded ill for their king and for them. Will had yet to meet anyone who was not praying fervently for Baldwin to fend off Death again. He shared their fears and when he spotted a church, he stopped. Not even caring if it was Latin, Greek Orthodox, or Armenian, he slipped inside and lit a candle for the stricken King of Jerusalem.

  * * *

  It was the first week in April but a fire burned in the hearth. There was even a brazier heaped with coals, for Baldwin had begun to suffer from chills. He was propped up on pillows, the bedcovers concealing his nudity from visitors, for he no longer had the strength to dress. He smiled when the archbishop was announced, but William was dismayed by how much ground the king was losing from day to day. His skin had taken on a greyish cast, and although he’d lost a great deal of weight in recent weeks, his face was puffy and swollen around his eyes, which William now knew was a common symptom of kidney ailments.

  “You . . . are . . . just in time, William, for the . . . others will . . . soon be here.”

  William’s smile did not waver, for he’d learned by now to disguise his distress at the erratic pattern of Baldwin’s speech; constantly short of breath, he often had to pause between words as he struggled to draw more air into his lungs. They were not alone. In addition to the ever-present Anselm, Denys and Joscelin were there. Joscelin looked so wretched that William felt a surprise stirring of pity. As much as he disliked Baldwin’s uncle, he could not deny Joscelin’s misery; he’d yet to recover from his sister’s sudden death and seemed overwhelmed by the realization that Baldwin, too, might soon be dead. After greeting the men, William approached the bed. “Are you sure you feel up to this, lad?”

  Baldwin was learning to expend his energy—and his breath—cautiously, so he merely nodded. Feeling a small warm body pressed against his hip, he clumsily stroked the dog’s head and Cairo’s tail thumped a loving rhythm against the blankets. He must have dozed off then, for when he awoke, he heard other voices. William was leaning over the bed, saying that the most important members of the High Court had arrived and were awaiting the king’s will.

  Baldwin waited until he heard them approach the bed. “My lords . . . my doctors tell me . . . I am dying. I summoned you to . . . do homage again to my nephew . . . and to choose a regent to rule . . . on his behalf . . . until he reaches legal age. . . .”

  He heard only silence. Surely this was not a surprise to them? When they finally began to speak, they sounded shaken, uncertain. Several were talking at once, making it difficult for him to identify the speakers, and he realized he’d gone as far as he could; it was up to them now. “I would choose the Count . . . of Tripoli as regent, but the . . . choice must be yours. Discuss it and tell me . . . your decision.” He sank back then, exhausted even by this brief exchange.

  There was another murmur of voices, then a closing door, and he slid gratefully into oblivion, painfree and peaceful.

  When he awoke again, he sensed he was not alone. “Anselm?”

  “Here, my lord. Have you need of a chamber pot?” He shook his head, for his urination flow had decreased drastically in the past week, and drank from the cup Anselm provided, wondering if a man had ever been knighted for providing his king with a river reed.

  “My lord, the archbishop and Lord Denys are here to tell you about the High Court session. Do you want to talk with them now or later?”

  “Now. . . .” Baldwin heard footsteps and then a familiar hand had closed around his own.

  “It is William, lad. The session went very well. They discussed the various candidates for regent and were all but unanimous in choosing Count Raymond as regent for the little king.”

  The corner of Baldwin’s mouth curved, hinting at a smile. “William . . . surely it is a mortal sin to lie . . . to a dying man.”

  He heard the older man’s ragged intake of breath. When William finally spoke, his voice was unsteady. “I ought to have known better. . . .” His words trailed off in an unspoken apology and Baldwin tried to squeeze his hand to show he understood.

  Denys cleared his throat. “William was right. They did choose Raymond. But you were right, too, Baldwin, for there was nothing peaceful or even civil about it. Whilst most of the members of the High Court voted for Raymond, he was fiercely opposed by a very vocal minority, led by Joscelin, Reynald de Chatillon, and the new grand master of the Templars.”

  “Why . . . ?”

  Denys understood what Baldwin wanted to ask. “Why was de Ridefort there? He talked his way in, insisting that he
had a right to be present, for his Templars had a stake in the outcome. Since he was not a member of the High Court, he ought not to have participated in the discussion; of course, he did. Not even a gag could shut that man up. And Reynald and Joscelin were glad to have an ally. They launched one verbal assault after another upon Raymond, each one more vitriolic than the last, accusing him of wanting the crown for himself and even of being hand in glove with Saladin. He angrily denied all of their accusations, but they were unrelenting and he finally declared that he’d accept only the regency, not the personal guardianship of the young king, too. He said that he would not give his enemies the opportunity to blame him if the little lad were to die ere he reached fifteen.”

  Denys and William exchanged glances. They did not know if Baldwin had been told just how often his young namesake and nephew was ill. The lad might well outgrow these childhood ailments, and most thought it was likely that he would. But none of them ever forgot that the mortality rate for children in the Levant was alarmingly high.

  Baldwin did not know how to interpret their sudden silence. “What happened then? I would hope they selected Joscelin to act as the boy’s guardian, for he’d be the natural choice. He and his wife have been caring for the lad since my mother’s death.”

  They were able to reassure him, saying all had agreed Joscelin ought to have the boy in his care. Raymond had then wanted to be compensated for the expenses he’d incur as regent and it was decided to give him the royal fief of Beirut. There was some turmoil when it was proposed that all of the royal castles in the realm be placed in the keeping of the Templars and Hospitallers. Raymond took that as a grave insult, but it passed when even some of his supporters saw it as a harmless concession, albeit one that called his honor into question. The session ended after authorizing a formal crown-wearing ceremony for the little king, to be followed with another oath-taking by the lords of the kingdom, pledging their fealty and loyalty to the lad.