The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “There is more to tell you.” Joscelin leaned forward eagerly. “Whilst there was no way to keep Raymond from claiming the regency, he did lose one of his most steadfast allies. The Archbishop of Tyre resigned the chancellorship not long after Baldwin’s death.”

  Eraclius rarely shared his emotions with the world; why give ammunition to rivals? But he was so startled by this that he could not hide his astonishment. “Why?”

  Joscelin shrugged, for he had no interest in why William had relinquished the post; it was enough that he had. “I do not know,” he admitted. “He has seemed downcast for months, even ere Baldwin’s death. I suppose he is grieving for Baldwin. Or he could be ill. I heard that he has stopped writing that history of his, too.” He dismissed the Archbishop of Tyre’s soul struggles with a wave of his hand. “What matters is that we now have a chancellor who is not in Raymond’s thrall, one who would right gladly support Guy de Lusignan and Sybilla should it ever come to that. The new chancellor is Peter, the former archdeacon of Lydda.”

  Eraclius smiled, for Peter of Lydda was indeed no friend to the Count of Tripoli. But why had Raymond agreed to Peter’s appointment? “Did Raymond not oppose this?”

  “Well, actually, he was quite reasonable about it,” Joscelin conceded. “I’d suggested Peter, expecting resistance, but Raymond said he’d defer to my judgment in this matter. I suppose he is trying to get his regency off to a good start even if that means cooperating with a de Courtenay.”

  “Or else he is trying to win you over to his side,” Eraclius said thoughtfully. “From what you’ve told me, his powers as regent are not unlimited, so he’ll need allies.” Something else was nudging his memory, something Joscelin had said earlier. He’d not followed up on it, disconcerted by the news of Agnes’s death, but after a moment, he remembered. “You said you thought it would be more beneficial for the little king to live along the coast. Is there a reason for you to be concerned about his health, Joscelin?”

  Joscelin hesitated. “He is a good lad, tries to do what is expected of him. I’ve become very fond of him, and my wife . . . she thinks the world of the boy. But he is not robust, is often ailing. Sybilla used to claim that if there was any contagion within a hundred miles of Ascalon, he’d be the one to catch it.”

  “Is that so unusual?” Eraclius knew nothing of childhood ailments and preferred to keep it that way.

  “Mayhap not. But in the past year or so, he’s started to suffer from lung infections that cause prolonged coughing and sometimes shortness of breath. Agneta and I grew concerned enough to consult that Syrian doctor of Baldwin’s, Abū Sulayman Dāwūd, swearing him to secrecy, of course. He examined the lad and diagnosed a malady called asthma.”

  Eraclius had never heard of it. “Is it serious?”

  “It can be. But he said it can be managed with diet and by inhaling certain herbs and getting enough rest. According to him, Saladin’s eldest son has this malady and the sultan’s doctors have had success in treating him.”

  Joscelin sounded hopeful that Baldwin’s asthma could be managed, too. Eraclius was less sanguine for he’d long ago learned that it was usually better to prepare for the worst. “I think,” he said, “that it would be wise if you accepted Raymond’s overtures of friendship. Do it gradually so you’ll not arouse his suspicions. Support him in council meetings, do not join de Chatillon and de Ridefort in their feud against him. Make him believe that the two of you can work together for the good of the little king and the realm. Can you do that, Joscelin?”

  Joscelin did not reply at once and Eraclius thought that was an encouraging sign, showing he was giving serious consideration to this proposed plan of action. “I think so. My sister could not have done it. God love her, Agnes’s every emotion was always emblazoned across her face for all the world to see. But I had years in which to learn how to keep my thoughts hidden, lessons that I dared not fail.”

  Eraclius was pleasantly surprised that Joscelin was proving to be such a valuable ally. He was puzzled, though, by his last cryptic comment. It was only later that he understood, remembering that Joscelin had been held prisoner by the Saracens for twelve years.

  * * *

  It was a week before Michaelmas when Balian and Maria received an urgent message from Denys: William was very ill and they needed to get to Tyre as soon as possible. They’d last seen William in July and had agreed that he seemed very disheartened. But they’d not thought he was ailing, so they did not know what to expect when they reached Tyre.

  Upon their arrival, they realized how serious this illness must be, for Joscius, the Bishop of Acre, was there and so was Count Raymond. If the regent had been summoned, William must be dying. This distressing conclusion was confirmed even before they spoke to Denys, for how else explain the abject, obvious misery of the archbishop’s clerks and servants, or the solemn crowds gathering outside the archbishopric palace?

  Denys knew this was no time for false optimism and as soon as they followed him into the archbishop’s solar, he told them that William’s doctors held out little hope for his recovery. They were both shaken, for William had been an important part of their lives since Maria was thirteen and Balian only a few years older. Denys answered their shocked questions as candidly as he could, no easy task since he considered William a dear friend, too. “The doctors say it is a liver ailment, likely a cancer. His liver is swollen and his skin has taken on a yellowish tinge.”

  Maria sat down suddenly in the closest seat and Balian put a supportive hand on her shoulder. “Why did he not tell us he was so ill?”

  “I do not think he realized it. At first the symptoms were easily dismissed: loss of weight, feeling very fatigued. We know he is still mourning Baldwin, so I think he assumed his tiredness and waning appetite were only to be expected as he grieved. But even if he’d alerted his doctors earlier in the summer, it would not have changed the outcome. Cancers are very difficult to treat.”

  Denys let his words fade away, thinking of an old superstition that deaths often happened in threes. First Agnes and then Baldwin and now William. Rallying then, he said, “He will be so glad that you arrived in time. He wanted very much to be able to bid you farewell.”

  * * *

  William had been sleeping and awoke with reluctance, for his dreams were far more pleasant now than his reality, carrying him back into his past where he was united with his parents, both long dead, and his brother, Ralph, slain at the battle of Marj Ayyun. Baldwin often frequented these dreams, too, the son of his soul, miraculously restored to health and happiness. Ever since William had taken holy vows, he’d struggled, like most men and women, to embrace the Lord’s will rather than his own. But now that he knew it was God’s will that his earthly time would soon be over, it was surprisingly easy to accept.

  He saw that his friends were still at his bedside: Balian and Maria, Denys, Joscius, and Raymond. He’d been blessed in his friendships, for certes. He was sorry they were grieving for him, wished he could assure them he did not mind dying now. It might even be an act of mercy by the Almighty, sparing him from having to bear witness to the coming apocalypse that he so feared. He could not tell his friends that, of course. Especially not Balian and Maria, for they had young children and that gave them a vested interest in Outremer’s survival. He must say or do nothing that might take away their hope or their faith in their family’s future.

  He must have fallen asleep again, for when he opened his eyes, he could tell that night had fallen. Balian and Maria were still keeping sentinel by his bed, Denys dozing in one of the window seats. He hoped Raymond had gone; he was too busy to spend days with a friend who was taking too long to die. At least he was the regent now. If any man could save their kingdom, surely it was Raymond? But he was a swimmer surrounded by sharks.

  William still remembered his first sight of sharks on his initial trip to the West, all the more terrifying because only their fins were visible, le
aving him to imagine the sleek deadly bodies hidden by the waves. They’d appeared as if by magic when a sailor fell overboard, attracted by his panicked splashing. He’d been saved from them, though, scrambling up the rope ladder thrown down by other sailors. Raymond might escape his sharks, too. He might be able to thwart Reynald de Chatillon and de Courtenay, mayhap even outwit the spider who spun his webs from the patriarch’s palace. But what of Saladin?

  “William . . . you’re awake. Can we get you some wine? Are you hungry?”

  He shook his head, managing to find a reassuring smile for them. How wonderful that their marriage had brought them such blessings. He’d gladly take credit for the part he’d played in it. “Balian . . . I’ve told my clerks to make copies of my history of the kingdom. I want you and Maria to have one. You, too, Denys.”

  They thanked him so sincerely that he felt sure they were not humoring him, that they understood the significance of his work. A History of Deeds Done Beyond the Sea would be his legacy. No matter what happened to Outremer, he’d told its story. Its kings and queens and its valiant, stubborn people would be remembered. A private smile touched his lips at that, for he might even be remembered, too.

  * * *

  William died on Michaelmas, September 29, at age fifty-five, and was buried in Tyre’s great cathedral. He died before word reached Outremer of the bloody end to Andronicus’s usurpation in Constantinople, for that had occurred earlier in the month. Andronicus had decided to execute a distant cousin, Isaac Angelus. Isaac, an unassuming man who’d seemed an unlikely candidate to spearhead a rebellion, found the courage of desperation, resisting arrest and fleeing to sanctuary at Sancta Sophia Cathedral, where he called upon the people to overthrow the tyrant. His cry became the spark to ignite a bonfire and the citizens of Constantinople rose up against the man they’d grown to hate and fear. Andronicus tried to flee with his little French empress and his favorite concubine, but they were soon captured. While the women were not harmed, Andronicus was mutilated and tortured before being turned over to the people who’d suffered under his erratic cruelties for the past three years. They put him to a prolonged and public agonizing death. Isaac, the man who’d almost inadvertently brought about his downfall, was then proclaimed the next emperor of the Greek empire.

  * * *

  The death of Baldwin and the accession of a child were welcome developments to the Saracens. But in December, Salāh al-Dīn fell ill with a quartan fever, what later ages would call malaria. His illness dragged on for months and on several occasions, he was feared to be dying. The empire he’d created suddenly seemed in peril, as many of his amirs and allies began to consider what they would do if he were no longer in power. Al-‘Ādil hastened from Aleppo with Syrian physicians and Salāh al-Dīn slowly began to convalesce. He did not fully recover until early March 1186, when he came to terms with ‘Izz al-Dīn, the amir of Mosul, who swore allegiance to the sultan. Salāh al-Dīn was now free to fulfill his promise to launch jihad against the kingdom of the Franks.

  CHAPTER 42

  August 1186

  Acre, Outremer

  Joscelin’s wife had dropped to her knees by the bed and her sobs were convulsing her entire body. None of the men seemed to know what to do. The doctors were already edging toward the door, as if wanting to flee the scene of their failure. The Bishop of Acre tried to offer some words of comfort; Joscelin doubted that Agneta even heard him. Raymond was obviously at a loss. Joscelin felt that way, too, even though this was his own wife. They were all mourning Baldwin’s death, both for his tragically brief life and for the terrifying void that suddenly loomed ahead of them. But Agneta’s visceral grief cut to the bone, too painful to witness. When he could endure it no longer, Joscelin tried to assist her to her feet. She resisted, though, and he was grateful when Raymond’s wife took charge.

  “Let her be,” she told Joscelin. “I’ll stay with her whilst she grieves for the little lad.”

  Joscelin willingly surrendered the responsibility to Eschiva. For a moment, he hovered beside Agneta, his eyes filling with tears as he gazed down at the small body in the bed. Baldwin had not even reached his ninth birthday. Moreover, his death could be catastrophic for the kingdom. Remembering that time was of the essence, Joscelin glanced over at Raymond and then toward the door. Raymond understood and followed him from the bedchamber.

  After they’d settled themselves in the palace solar, they waited until a servant withdrew after bringing them wine. Joscelin noticed that the count’s eyes were red rimmed, proof that he, too, grieved for the little king. Taking a deep gulp of wine, he thought that Raymond’s regency had gone far more smoothly than he’d expected. Following the patriarch’s instructions, he’d done his best to get along with the count and Raymond had showed himself willing to compromise. That past December, he’d even agreed to return the fief of Jaffa to Guy and Sybilla, an act that outraged some of his own supporters. Joscelin had actually begun to think that he and Raymond could work in tandem to protect the kingdom until Baldwin reached manhood. But then the boy’s asthma attacks grew worse and during this last one, his heart apparently stopped.

  Raymond was the first to break the fraught silence. “I could not tell you how many men I’ve seen die over the years. But none of those deaths were as bad as this one.”

  Joscelin was in full agreement. He feared that he’d be haunted for the rest of his life by the look of panic in the boy’s eyes as he struggled to get air into his lungs. “At least he is no longer suffering. Yet I cannot help wondering why God took Baldwin and not Saladin’s son. Where is the fairness in that?” When Raymond said that he’d heard al-Afdal’s asthma was milder and more easily treated, that seemed unfair to Joscelin, too. But he was prodded into action by this reminder of how knowledgeable the Count of Tripoli was about their Saracen foes, knowledge that his enemies found quite suspicious.

  “It seems callous to talk about the succession when the little lad is just hours dead. But we dare not wait, not when the very future of the kingdom is at stake.”

  “The succession is settled,” Raymond said coolly. “We all swore on the True Cross that if the boy king died prematurely, a regent would rule whilst a royal commission decided who had the stronger claim, Sybilla or Isabella.”

  “And when we swore, we all silently prayed that it would never come to pass, for even then we knew how difficult it would be to enforce. Just notifying the Pope, the kings of England and France, and the Holy Roman Emperor will take months! But we’re stuck with it, so all we can do is to make sure you’re chosen as regent, and that will not be easy. You have very faithful enemies, Raymond, who’ll be cursing you as long as they have breath in their bodies. If we are to thwart them, we must act quickly.”

  Raymond’s dark eyes were fixed upon Joscelin’s face, utterly inscrutable. “So, you are offering to take my side in the coming storm? May I ask why?”

  “Can we speak candidly? If it were up to me alone, of course I’d rather see Sybilla on the throne than Isabella; Sybilla is my niece. But I do not think that is going to happen. Let’s assume that this royal commission actually gets around to choosing our queen. The English king is not going to pick Sybilla. Yes, she is his cousin, but so is Isabella, and she is not married to Guy de Lusignan. Henry has good reason to loathe Guy; what king would ever forgive an attack upon his own queen? Even though he and Eleanor are now estranged, it is a matter of royal pride. If he selects Sybilla, he’d be rewarding Guy for an unforgivable betrayal and, from what I’ve heard of the English king, he never forgets a wrong done him.”

  “So, you truly believe they would pick Isabella?”

  Joscelin nodded. “I do. The Pope wants the English king’s goodwill and the Emperor Frederick likes rebellious vassals no more than Henry does.”

  Joscelin could not tell if Raymond agreed with him; he continued to listen impassively.

  “But whatever the royal commission decides, we will be facing
a crisis of monumental proportions, Raymond. The problem is not with Sybilla or Isabella. It is that they are both married to men unacceptable to most of the Poulain lords. No one wants to see either one as king.”

  For the first time, he detected an emotion on Raymond’s face, a glint of grim humor. “That seems to be the one thing we can all agree upon,” he said dryly.

  “The best we can say about Guy is that he is no coward. Humphrey may not be one, either, but many of the lords think he is. Whether it is because he is almost as beautiful as a lass or because he acts as meek as a novice nun or because Reynald has been mocking him since marrying his mother, I do not know. Fairly or not, many see him as a weakling, not man enough to defeat Saladin.”

  “If men think Humphrey is a coward, would they not see Guy as the lesser evil, then?”

  “I thought about that, too,” Joscelin admitted. “But there is one dramatic difference between the two sisters. We know that Sybilla will never leave Guy, not even if it costs her a crown. Whereas there is still hope that Isabella would prove more amenable to reason. She is very young, just fourteen, so she’s not likely to be as stubborn as Sybilla. Moreover, we’d have the support of her family, for all know that Maria and Balian were never in favor of that marriage. And once Humphrey de Toron was sent back to Kerak to write poetry or play the lute, the High Court would be only too happy to crown Isabella . . . and her new husband.”