Baldwin thought that between them, surely Raymond and Joscelin could protect his nephew’s rights. “And Guy?” He sighed with relief when they reassured him there was no support for Guy de Lusignan amongst the members of the High Court and no one had proposed that he be named as regent or guardian for young Baldwin despite being the boy’s stepfather.
“Thank God for that much. . . .” Baldwin could feel another wave of fatigue sweeping in, too powerful to resist, reminding him of the riptides that could carry unwary swimmers out to sea. But something was not quite right, something they ought to have mentioned. . . . His brain was as exhausted as his body and it took a few moments to realize what had been omitted. “What happens if . . . Baldwin dies ere he reaches fifteen? What provisions . . . were made for . . . that?”
Another silence followed, telling him that they’d hoped he’d not ask that question. He waited and Denys eventually said in a very neutral tone of voice that if such a tragedy occurred, they agreed that the regent would be the one with the best claim, which most took to mean Raymond. This regent would rule until there was a decision about the succession from a special royal commission consisting of His Holiness the Pope, the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick, the English King Henry, and the French King Philippe. They would determine amongst themselves whose claim to the crown was stronger—Sybilla’s or Isabella’s.
God have mercy. Baldwin wondered who’d proposed this lunatic, unworkable plan, clearly drawn up out of desperation by men unable to agree on the most logical heir, Raymond.
All they could do was pray that young Baldwin reached his majority and proved himself to be a worthy king. If not, they could only hope that Humphrey de Toron would finally show some backbone, show that he had the constable’s blood flowing in his veins.
Baldwin noted with drowsy surprise that he could consider their kingdom’s future with something almost like detachment, as if his head and not his heart were engaged. Was that because he could do nothing to change what would happen? That he’d done all he could and Outremer was now in God’s keeping? Or just that he was so very tired?
“Thank you for telling me. . . .”
They held their breaths, for they’d been sure he’d be angry and upset by even the possibility that Sybilla—and therefore Guy—might have an opportunity to claim the crown. They were taken aback when he said nothing more. Moving closer to the bed, they saw that his eyes had closed and they realized he’d fallen asleep again. It was only then that they could admit to themselves there would not be another miraculous recovery. Baldwin was truly dying.
CHAPTER 41
April 1185
Jerusalem, Outremer
The fifth King of Jerusalem to be named Baldwin had his crown-wearing ceremony in the Holy Sepulchre. The crown was so large that it had to be padded to fit and was so heavy that he’d soon developed a pounding headache. The churchyard was crowded and he hesitated at the sight of this sea of strangers, blinking like a baby owl as he emerged from the dimly lit church into the bright April sunlight. He was a handsome child, with the fair coloring of his parents, but of slight build, looking even younger than his age to the spectators, especially the women.
It had been planned for him to walk from the Holy Sepulchre to the Temple of Solomon so he could be seen by the citizens of the city. But because of his small size, there was some concern that he’d not be visible to the crowds thronging the streets, so it was decided that he’d be carried to the temple. Balian was chosen for that honor, both because he was the tallest of the lords and because he was Isabella’s stepfather.
Baldwin had not balked when he was told of this change in plans, yet it was obvious to Balian that the boy did not want to be carried as if he were a toddler. He knew his son, Johnny, would have hated that and he was two years younger than Baldwin. Kneeling so their eyes were on the same level, he suggested that Baldwin ride on his shoulders so he could better see his subjects. Baldwin considered this and then nodded. But when he realized that he would tower over all of them, he grinned, the first time Balian had seen him react like a typical seven-year-old.
People had been gathering since midmorning along the planned route: the two major thoroughfares of the city, the Street of the Patriarch and the Street of the Holy Sepulchre. They soon saw in the distance the round silhouette of one of Jerusalem’s most distinctive buildings, on a site sacred to three religions, Islam, Christianity, and Judaism. Known to Muslims as the Dome of the Rock, where Muḥammad was said to have ascended to Heaven, its fate had hung in the balance when Jerusalem fell to the men of the first crusade. Its leaders had decided not to destroy it and converted it into a church, the Templum Domini, the Lord’s Temple. The nearby al-Aqsa mosque was renamed the Temple of Solomon and turned over to the new order pledged to protect pilgrims in the Holy Land; they would take their name from it—the Knights Templar. It was here that young Baldwin’s coming kingship would be celebrated with a great feast.
Although the procession had attracted large crowds, their enthusiasm was muted. While some waved and clapped, others watched in somber silence. Cheers seemed perfunctory and Balian was glad that Baldwin was too young to notice, too young to understand why so few rejoiced, too young to realize what a burden had been placed upon his frail shoulders.
* * *
Balian sealed the letter with wax, then handed it to the messenger. By now the man knew the routine, for his lord and Queen Maria had been exchanging letters almost daily since he’d been summoned to King Baldwin’s deathbed.
No sooner had he left than Baudouin arrived. “What are we having for dinner?”
“I thought I was to join you today,” Balian reminded him, and his brother shrugged.
“You have a better cook than mine.” Baudouin fished some dice from his scrip. “Let’s play hazard. Without something to occupy your brain, you’ll do nothing but brood about Maria.”
“Of course I worry about her, Baudouin. She is just a month away from giving birth!”
“You’ll be back with her by then. Surely God will finally show Baldwin some mercy and not let him linger much longer.”
Balian started to confide how much he feared for Maria each time she entered the birthing chamber, catching himself in time. Baudouin was the last man who’d need to be reminded of the dangers of childbirth. As their eyes met, he saw that his brother was thinking, too, of Elizabeth, the wife who’d died to bring his son, Thomasin, into the world.
With an effort, Baudouin banished Elizabeth’s ghost. “I see an empty table,” he said and started across the hall toward it. “What shall we wager to make it interesting? How about putting up Khamsin as the stakes? I’ll offer that new palfrey of mine.”
“You have a droll sense of humor, Brother. Khamsin? When pigs fly.”
Baudouin grinned. “It never hurts to try. I’ve been thinking that one of us ought to look after Anselm. Should we ask him to join your household or mine?”
“As usual, I am two jumps ahead of you,” Balian joked. “I’ve already spoken with Anselm. He said Baldwin has provided very generously for him and he plans to rent a small house in the city for himself and Baldwin’s dog, then offer to help at the leper knights’ hospital.”
“I’m gladdened to hear that. We ought to have known that Baldwin would assure Anselm’s future. He’s always been openhanded, a fine quality in a king. Did you hear that he has given a royal fief to the little king’s grandfather?” But Balian was no longer listening, watching the cleric cross the hall toward them.
“My lords.” He bowed respectfully “The archbishop has sent this message for you.”
Balian broke the letter’s seal. When he looked up, his face showed no surprise, only sadness. “William says we must come at once.”
* * *
William looked so devastated that Balian fumbled for words of comfort and asked if Baldwin had been shriven yet, hoping it might give the archbishop some consola
tion to remember that Baldwin was assured entry into Paradise.
William nodded, making a game attempt to smile. “I heard his confession myself. He . . . he said he was sorry that his sins were so boring.”
There were others in the chamber—Denys and Joscelin and several doctors. But they saw only the man in the bed. Balian wanted to tell Baldwin that he’d never met anyone who’d shown such courage. His throat had closed up, though. Baudouin had no such trouble. “It is Baudouin of Ramlah, sire. Balian is with me, too. I promise you this—that we will never let that treacherous turd de Lusignan even get within sight of your throne.”
That was not the usual deathbed promise or prayer. But they were sure they saw Baldwin smile.
* * *
Baldwin felt as if he were underwater, swimming up toward the light. He was surprised how bright it seemed near the surface and he wondered if he’d already died. So he whispered William’s name, sure that the archbishop would be with him until his heart stopped beating. If William did not answer, he must be dead. As simple as that.
“I am right here, lad.”
Baldwin felt a twinge of disappointment. He was ready for it to end. “Who . . . else?”
“When you fell asleep, I told Denys and Joscelin to get something to eat. They will be back soon. Your chaplain is here and your doctors.” William hesitated, then said that people were weeping in the streets. Baldwin did not reply. He seemed to be drifting, an odd sensation that put him in mind again of water. Once, as a boy, he’d accompanied his father to Kerak and slipped away to splash in the Salt Sea. He’d cut his foot on the rocky bottom, but it had been fun to float in the warm water, even if William had scolded him for that bit of folly afterward.
“Anselm . . .” Knowing what he wanted, the squire bent and lifted Cairo onto the bed.
William leaned over and kissed the younger man’s forehead. For a moment, time seemed to fragment and he was back in that stable stall on a June evening nigh on ten years ago, holding Baldwin as the boy wept. The memory was so vivid that it was as if he were reliving it, inhaling the scent of horses and straw, feeling Baldwin’s head against his shoulder, hearing the uneven rhythm of his breathing after he finally fell asleep, and then echoes of his own whisper, “Ah, Baldwin, what a king you would have made. . . .” He could think of no better epitaph for Baldwin than that.
* * *
Baldwin died on April 15 in the eleventh year of his reign as King of Jerusalem. He was buried beside his father in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He was not yet twenty-four.
* * *
Balian awoke to the chiming of the city’s churches, reminding him that it was Easter morn. Ernoul had already laid out his clothes. As Balian pulled his shirt over his head, he heard the youth ask when they’d be returning to Nablus. “There is a High Court session on Tuesday that I must attend. Then we’ll go home.”
Balian had crossed to a washing basin and was splashing water onto his face when his other squire, Brian, burst into the chamber. “My lord,” he panted, “a messenger from Nablus!”
The man’s clothes and face were streaked with dirt, evidence of hard riding. “Your lady . . . she wants you home, lord, for her birth pangs have begun!”
* * *
Khamsin seemed to sense his master’s urgency, for he summoned up so much speed that Balian’s men had trouble keeping up with him. The messenger had told him that Maria had gone into labor at sunset, but more than that, he did not know, only that the baby was not due until sometime in May. And this was April 21.
Dusk was falling by the time they saw the orchards and olive groves that surrounded Nablus. In the months since the Saracen attack, the resilient townspeople had made impressive progress in rebuilding their homes, shops, and lives. Normally that was a source of pride to Balian, for he and Maria had done all they could to aid in the town’s recovery. Now he saw none of it, the buildings passing in a blur as he urged Khamsin through the city streets toward the palace. The gates were opening by the time he reached them. His stallion came to a halt in the middle of the courtyard and he slid to the ground as his niece hurried toward him.
“You need not fear, Uncle!” Etiennette’s smile was like a sunrise. “She gave birth this morning to a son, small but healthy.”
* * *
Maria was propped up by pillows, looking pale and tired. Sitting on the bed, Balian took her in his arms, not yet having the words to express his relief.
Maria felt the prickle of his stubble against her cheek, showing her he’d not taken time that morning to shave. She reached up to brush his windblown hair back from his forehead, aware that not all husbands would have responded with such urgency to her plea. “Your son is going to be a handful, my love. Not only did he insist upon arriving nigh on a month early, he peed on Etiennette and Maud swore it would have been easier to swaddle an eel.”
Fear had ridden pillion behind Balian all the way to Nablus, had still trailed after him as he’d taken the stairs two at a time to Maria’s bedchamber. But Maria’s teasing tone stopped it in its tracks and it had made an ignominious retreat by the time a wet nurse entered the chamber, giving Balian his first glimpse of his new son. He did not stir even as he was settled into his father’s arms; by now, Balian was an old hand at cradling newborns.
“Is Maud still here?” he asked, thinking that if Scriptures said a virtuous woman was more precious than rubies, so, too, was Maria’s elderly Saracen midwife. He well knew that not all premature births had happy endings.
“I made her go home, for she was even more exhausted than I was.” The skin under Maria’s eyes looked bruised, but the smile she gave Balian held so much love that it took his breath. “Do you still want to name our lad after Philip the Apostle? Whilst I know he is one of your favorite saints, would you rather we name our son in Baldwin’s honor?”
Balian gazed down at their sleeping son, already at home in this brave new world beyond his mother’s womb. “No, Marika,” he said sadly, “Baldwin is not a lucky name.”
* * *
Eraclius and the grand master of the Hospitallers landed at Acre in mid-July. Joscelin had taken the boy king to Acre after Baldwin’s funeral, hoping the sea air might prove healthful for the delicate child, so he was the first lord to welcome the patriarch and the first to tell him what had occurred in the kingdom during the two years that their delegation had been in the West.
Much of what Joscelin related was not only unknown to Eraclius, it was shocking. He’d already heard of Guy de Lusignan’s abrupt fall from grace and he was not surprised to learn of Baldwin’s death. The election of the Count of Tripoli as regent was unexpected and alarming, but he was thankful Joscelin had retained custody of the little king.
What stunned him was the disclosure of Agnes de Courtenay’s sudden death that past November. She’d been forty-nine and while many saw that as elderly, Eraclius was five years her senior, so he thought that was much too young to die. Nor was he pleased by the rest of Joscelin’s family news. Guy and Sybilla rarely ventured from Ascalon and public opinion remained hostile to him. Sybilla showed no signs of discontent with the marriage that had cost her so much—her son and most likely a queenship. She’d given birth to a second daughter that spring, Joscelin reported, and Eraclius wondered why the Royal House of Jerusalem sired so few sons; how different their history might have been if only Baldwin had brothers instead of sisters.
Momentarily distracted by these musings, he focused again on Joscelin. The other man was telling him that Guy and Sybilla were very bitter, convinced the crown ought to have passed to her, not to her son. Eraclius was relieved that Joscelin was still on good terms with his niece and her husband. He prided himself on his pragmatism and that required looking to the future, making contingency plans in case the boy king did not grow to manhood. He’d heard of the marriage of Baldwin’s sister Isabella to the de Toron stripling during his sojourn in the West and had concluded
that he’d rather have Sybilla than Isabella on the throne.
Neither Guy nor Humphrey were likely to inspire soldiers to fight for them, but at least Guy’s courage was not in question. Moreover, if Isabella became queen, she could no longer be kept away from the baneful influence of the Greek and the d’Ibelins. She’d have the backing of the Poulains, too, whereas Guy and Sybilla would be desperately in need of allies. They’d naturally turn to him for counsel and support, grateful to have the patriarch on their side. There would be a price for such support, of course, and he and his Church would be the beneficiaries of that royal largesse.
God willing, it would not come to that. Far better to have the opportunity to instruct and guide little Baldwin, to mold him into a king who would be devoted to the Church—and to the man who headed it. It was fortunate that the young were usually as malleable as clay. A stray phrase from Scriptures popped into his head then, something about a fly in the ointment. Their fly was named Raymond de St. Gilles and they must never forget how dangerous he was. If the boy king died, Raymond would strike like a horned viper.
The patriarch paused to imagine a kingdom ruled by the Count of Tripoli, finding that a deeply troubling vision. Thankfully, Raymond did not lack for enemies. Joscelin de Courtenay would be adamantly opposed to him. So would Reynald de Chatillon. And the new grand master of the Templars. Eraclius had mixed feelings about Gerard de Ridefort. He was unpredictable, as reckless as Reynald, and so consumed with hatred for the Count of Tripoli that Eraclius sometimes wondered if that grudge of his had driven him half mad. It was natural to want to avenge himself upon the man who’d wronged him. But he suspected that de Ridefort would willingly see the world go up in flames as long as Raymond was amongst those charred to ashes and blackened bones. He would be useful, though, even if he did require careful handling.
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