Envoy of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  Mariam continued with her story as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “By the time I was ripe for breeding, my husband couldn’t get it up anymore. He was sixty by then, so one can’t be too surprised.”

  “You never thought of remarrying?” Godwin asked, calculating that ten years ago Mariam would have been quite a young woman.

  “What? And give up running the shop the way I like to? No, young man, I never gave it a moment’s thought. Since my husband died, I’ve nearly tripled the turnover, doubled the profit, expanded my product line, and won the best customers. I was the preferred purveyor to the Patriarch and the palace both. My marzipan delicacies in the shape of the the Holy Sepulcher, St. George killing the dragon, and even the martyrdom of St. Stephen have been praised by high and low—and yielded me a very pretty penny indeed. I had no less than five apprentices in the shop.”

  “Where are they now?” Godwin looked around, expecting to see them in a second wagon or at least walking along beside.

  “Stupid me,” Mariam declared, “I hired only girls. Cheaper and better workers, I said to myself, and so they were. Good girls, every one of them—and every one of them still a maid under her father’s care. When the surrender came, it was their fathers that decided their fate, and not one chose to head for Tyre.” She shook her head—whether in disgust or despair, Godwin couldn’t tell.

  Godwin hadn’t had a choice. If he had, he would have chosen Jaffa, because it was closest and offered the best prospects of finding a ship bound for the West. His ten years in the Holy Land had led him to the very brink of slavery; it was time to go home. “Why did you choose Tyre?” he asked Mariam.

  “I’m Syrian, young man. Not just Syrian Christian. My family only moved to Jerusalem from Homs after King Fulk offered incentives to Syrian settlers in order to repopulate the city you Franks depopulated in your first assault. I myself was born in Jerusalem, but my parents, aunts, and uncles were all born in Syria. While most of my apprentices came from Palestinian families prepared to relocate in Ascalon or any of the other coastal cities, I’ll feel much safer behind the walls of Tyre. But I will have a hard time getting started—unless you’d like to try your hand making marzipan, young man?” she addressed Sven jokingly.

  Innocently, Sven took her offer seriously and declared instantly, “I’d like that, ma’am!” And then he turned to his father on his other side and asked, “May I, Father?”

  “We’ll have to see about that,” his father equivocated.

  The column made camp roughly six miles north of Jerusalem that night. They left the wagons and carts on the road, unhitched the draft horses and offloaded the pack animals to let them graze hobbled, while the people built campfires and cooked the food they had brought. It was roughly one hundred miles from Jerusalem to Tyre, and most people had brought provisions for ten to twelve days.

  The Baron’s knights rode up and down the length of the camp, checking that all was in order. In the distance the Sultan’s cavalry, which shadowed them on both flanks, could also be seen making camp for the night.

  Godwin was surprised when the Baron’s squire rode up to inquire if he had any provisions. “My lord says you are to join us, if you don’t.”

  Godwin glanced at Mariam and then shook his head. “Thank my lord for his kindness and for thinking of me, but I’ve found a friend and will travel with her.”

  “As you wish,” the squire answered indifferently, and swung his horse around, anxious to get out of the saddle and rest himself.

  Godwin watched him ride away and then stepped over to the wagon to check on Sven. The boy was out cold, snuggled contentedly in a corner of the wagon between several bags of flour, raisins, candied fruits, and spices. He was covered by the softest blanket Godwin had ever felt. In sleep, Sven’s face was completely relaxed and beautiful.

  Godwin couldn’t resist brushing the boy’s long blond hair out of his face to look at it closely for a moment. He loved this boy more than anything in the world. More than his wife, who had deserted him, or his little girls—although the realization that he would never see them again still made his heart heavy. He found it impossible to remember, much less understand, all that had happened to him in the last forty days.

  He felt someone beside him and found Mariam holding out a mug of ale. “Come; it will help you sleep as well,” she suggested.

  Godwin nodded and returned with her to the little fire.

  “I expect you’ll try to rejoin your wife and daughters after we make Tyre,” Mariam remarked conversationally.

  Godwin started visibly, then shook his head grimly.

  Mariam looked surprised, but held her tongue, not wanting to probe.

  “You have to understand,” Godwin murmured, staring at the weak flames licking at the sticks stacked together. “My wife . . .” He licked his lips and swallowed. “My wife had a secret store of coins. Not enough to pay my ransom, but she could have paid for Sven, if she’d wanted to. Instead, she kept the money for herself.”

  “Christ have mercy on her soul!” Mariam exclaimed, crossing herself and glancing over her shoulder at the wagon. “She—she would—she abandoned her own son—or wasn’t he her own?”

  “He’s her son, all right,” Godwin answered grimly. “He’s her son, but she hates the sight of him.”

  “That can’t be!” Mariam protested instinctively. “He may be lame, but he’s a good boy. Didn’t I hear he helped you in the smithy?”

  Godwin nodded. “He worked the bellows better than any apprentice I’ve ever had. He’s a good boy, and he’s bright. But he’ll never make an armorer, and who else will ever take him in?”

  “I will. I told you. He can work in a kitchen just fine. Put him on a bench behind the table and he can work there all day long.”

  “Would you really give him a chance? A job, I mean. I may be free, but I have nothing. I have to start all over again from the bottom.”

  “Hmm.” Mariam bent forward to scrape some of the embers closer together and then lay another stick on the fire. “Seems to me that if we can find the right place, we could share an oven, which would save a lot of money on firewood. In a besieged city like Tyre, there won’t be an abundance of wood, and it’ll probably sell dearly.”

  “I sold my tools to raise my wife’s ransom,” Godwin admitted glumly. “I’ve no means to start up a shop again.”

  “Well, I’ve got some silver, if it comes to that. And I wouldn’t underestimate the Baron of Ibelin’s patronage, either. He’s a good man, I’ll give him that, but I daresay when he paid your ransom he had an eye on keeping a good armorer with him as well. I think if you approach him for assistance, you’ll find him receptive.”

  Godwin looked over at Mariam with a crooked smile. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’m not very good with business, I guess. If I hadn’t repaired weapons for free, or if I’d sold rather than given the Baron that great sword I made for him, I could have paid my ransom ten times over. My wife was furious with me.”

  “Well, I can understand that,” Mariam admitted, nodding. “It would have driven me to distraction, too, if my husband had been squandering his services. That’s another reason I never wanted to marry again—but that doesn’t mean we can’t try to help each other. My advice is free!” She laughed at that, upending her mug to finish her ale before pouring another portion.

  Tyre, November 22, 1187

  Georgios had been serving the Baron of Ibelin for roughly three months, and he had never seen him look so grim. Not even during the siege of Jerusalem. But now, with the city of Tyre at last in sight, Ibelin looked as if he had turned to stone.

  Georgios cast him a nervous sidelong glance. His cheeks were hollowed out and his eyes sunken in his skull. His hair, which had been a dark, lustrous brown before Hattin, now had a startling white strand that began at his temple. His lips were badly chapped and his face unshaven.

  “Damn him!” Ibelin spat out, making Georgios jump. “He’s not lowering the drawbridge.”

  G
eorgios looked back toward Tyre and at last noticed what the baron had seen moments earlier. The city was maintaining its vigilant stance, as if the approaching fifteen thousand people were an enemy army rather than Christian refugees. The bridges over the widened moat, which effectively turned the peninsula on which Tyre stood into an island, were both firmly raised; the gate and postern were shut. The ramparts were manned, and the late afternoon sun glinted on the helmets of the soldiers on the wall walk.

  Without a word to his squire, Balian put spurs to his aging palfrey and sprinted forward, leaving the slow-moving, lumbering column of refugees in his wake. Georgios was left kicking his less agile gelding to try to catch up. Ibelin galloped to the very edge of the moat and drew up sharply, shouting up at the walls even before his horse had come to a complete halt. “This is Balian d’Ibelin! I have some fifteen thousand Christian refugees from Jerusalem. I demand that the gates be opened at once!”

  Silence answered him, although Georgios could see men scurrying this way and that, apparently seeking instructions.

  Ibelin cursed under his breath in a steady stream, threatening Conrad de Montferrat with various kinds of torture, mutilation, slow death, and damnation. Finally a voice called out from the walls of the city, “Just a moment, my lord! My lord of Montferrat will be here shortly!”

  Ibelin swung his horse on forehand to look back at the column of refugees he had been commanding for eleven days. It was still far behind, moving at its snail’s pace, but very visible to the men up on the walls of Tyre.

  “He knows exactly who we are and what we want,” Ibelin snarled to his squire without looking at him. “He’ll have had spies out watching for us ever since he learned from Sir Bartholomew the terms of the surrender.”

  “Ibelin!” The call came faintly from the closest gate tower.

  “Montferrat?” Ibelin answered, narrowing his eyes against the sun and trying to identify the man who had addressed him.

  “The same. I’m lowering the footbridge. You may enter alone.”

  “I’ll tear out his jugular with my own teeth!” Ibelin answered under his breath to Georgios, his eyes fixed on the gate opposite. As they watched, the narrow wooden bridge from the postern jerked slowly down from its upright position to the horizontal. Ibelin jumped down from his horse and flung the reins over its head to hand them to Georgios. “Wait here!” he ordered as he strode in the direction of the bridge, which had just settled on the dusty soil this side of the moat.

  Ibelin was wearing helmet and hauberk, but his legs were encased in knee-high, suede leather boots rather than the heavy and uncomfortable chain-mail chausses he wore for battle. His short-sleeved surcoat was particolored—red on the right and bright marigold on the left—and it was studded with crosses in the contrasting color. Made of fine Gaza cotton, it rippled and flowed as he strode angrily across the bridge.

  As he approached the far side of the bridge, a man emerged from the narrow, peaked-arch door of the postern. Georgios could see only that he was wearing a purple surcoat with what looked like gold trim. Ibelin recognized the well-formed and attractive face of Conrad de Montferrat, who bore a striking resemblance to his elder brother William, Queen Sibylla’s first husband.

  The latter bowed (a little mockingly, Ibelin found), but Ibelin did not return the courtesy. Instead he roared in a harsh, strained, and raw voice, “What the hell do think you’re doing keeping your gates shut! I have fifteen thousand refugees who have lost practically everything they owned and have been on the road eleven days. They need to get inside these walls before dark so they don’t have to camp out another day! We only have a few more hours of daylight as it is! You shouldn’t be wasting time with whatever goddamned formalities these are!”

  “If you’re finished?” Conrad answered with raised eyebrows and an air of superiority.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ibelin snapped back. “I’m simply asking if you’re done ranting, so I can get a word in edgewise.” “What the hell is there to say? Lower the goddamned bridge and open the gates!”

  “No.”

  For all his bluster, from the moment he realized that Tyre was remaining on the defensive even after the column of refugees was in sight, Ibelin had been expecting exactly this answer. It was anticipation of Montferrat’s refusal to admit them that had ignited Ibelin’s rage. He was not surprised by Montferrat’s “no,” and the confirmation of his suspicions had a chilling effect.

  Balian d’Ibelin was an exceptionally tall man. He took two steps closer to Montferrat to stand towering over him. “Say that again!” he ordered in an ominously soft voice.

  “I obviously don’t need to,” Montferrat countered, backing up a step so he was not so directly under Ibelin’s glare—and nose. “You heard me the first time, and you understood me. This city is already overcrowded, and at any moment the Saracens may decide to resume their assaults. We’re already under siege, cut off by both land and sea. We cannot—I repeat—cannot admit fifteen thousand more refugees, most of whom are women and children.”

  “You’re saying you intend to deny women and children refuge, after all they have suffered already?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Unless I have been misinformed, the terms of the surrender of Jerusalem were that those who could raise their ransom were free to depart Jerusalem with what goods they could carry and proceed unmolested to Christian territory.” Sir Bartholomew had evidently reported the surrender terms faithfully. “Well,” Montferrat made a flippant gesture with his hand in the direction of the north. “Let them proceed to Tripoli! Tripoli is not under siege!”

  “Tripoli is damn near a hundred miles away! These women and children have already traveled that distance to get here. They are exhausted—emotionally and physically. They need rest and security.”

  “They would have neither in Tyre,” Montferrat answered bluntly. “Salah ad-Din is close on your heels. According to my scouts, he is no more than two days behind you with his whole army. He plans to finish the job of conquering the Kingdom of Jerusalem by capturing this city—the last in the entire Kingdom to hold out. The battle for Tyre will start at the latest three days from now, and anyone inside this city will be subject to the dangers of siege engines and assaults—neither of which are my definition of peace and security. Furthermore, the longer we resist the assaults, the more we consume our supplies. Even without your fifteen thousand refugees, we will run short of food within three months. With your fifteen thousand, it will be more like three weeks! I can’t—and won’t—take that responsibility!”

  They stared at one another. They were both hardened veterans of battles and siege warfare, and they recognized that they were well-matched equals. Ibelin had fought at Montgisard, on the Litani, at Le Forbelet, in the sieges of Kerak, and finally at Hattin before taking over the defense of Jerusalem. Montferrat had a reputation from the interminable wars between the Holy Roman Empire and the Holy See. More recently, he had almost single-handedly won the decisive battle that defeated Alexios Branas’ rebellion against the Greek Emperor, and then had brought spirit and determination to the demoralized city of Tyre, saving it for Christendom. As they faced each other now, it was Montferrat who softened his stance first.

  “You have but recently been in my shoes, my lord. You know what I’m talking about. The commander of a city under siege sometimes has to make hard decisions—decisions that will surely seem heartless and cruel to the clerics and chroniclers that come after us. But they do not know the sound and smell of battle, whereas you, Ibelin, are a fighting man. You know what I’m saying is true. I cannot afford to admit fifteen thousand women and children to this city when I am about to be blockaded by sea and invested by land. I cannot reduce our fighting capacity or chances of holding this city as long as all hope of regaining the Holy City depends upon our ability to hold Tyre. Tyre must hold out long enough for reinforcements to arrive from the West.”

  Ibelin knew that Montferrat was right. He recognized it both in
tellectually and in the marrow of his warrior bones. Montferrat was right—but how could he go back and tell the people he had led here that they were not welcome? He found himself arguing, “Not all those fifteen thousand refugees are women and children. There are over three hundred men among them who helped hold Jerusalem. Men who stood in the breach when the walls came down and fought Salah ad-Din’s thousands to a standstill.”

  “And they are welcome in Tyre!” Montferrat was quick to agree. “Anyone who can contribute to the defense of this city—first and foremost, yourself—is welcome. But I cannot and will not admit noncombatants.”

  “Most men—or should I say honorable men—fight for their wives and children, not for pay or glory.”

  “The fighting men may bring their wives and children into the city,” Montferrat made another concession, “but not their sisters, brothers, parents, and cousins. Fighting men and their immediate families only—and, of course, your household.” He smiled as he said this, hoping it would mollify Ibelin.

  Ibelin just stared back at him with a look between hatred and despair. Then he nodded and turned away.

  Hardly anyone in the refugee column slept that night. There was too much commotion as families argued among themselves, women complained, children cried, and old men raged. Eventually people started sorting themselves out, and those remaining in Tyre extricated themselves from the main column.

  To Ibelin’s astonishment, most of his own household opted to continue to Tripoli. They had had enough sieges for a lifetime, the cook explained emphatically, speaking for his entire staff. Likewise, the laundresses were badly shaken by their near encounter with slavery and insisted on continuing. Sir Constantine announced his intention of going all the way to his relatives in Constantinople, and even the Ibelin marshal, the Ethiopian Mathewos, opted to continue to Tripoli.

  “The girls are terrified,” he explained, nodding in the direction of his daughter and daughter-in-law, both of whom had been widowed in the last days of Jerusalem’s defiance. “Beth cannot bear the thought of facing another siege, and I want to give my grandson a chance to see Ethiopia.”