Envoy of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  The sound of voices echoing in the passage from the stables alerted Balian’s children to the fact that their father had evaded their ambush at the front door and taken them by surprise from the rear. With a cry of outrage, John ran across the inner courtyard and flung himself at his father just as the latter reached the kitchen entrance. The little boy collided with his father so hard that the tall man staggered slightly. Then he realized what had hit him and closed his arms around his son like a drowning man his rescuer.

  As Maria Zoë watched, her husband seemed to crack, and tears began flooding down his face as he clung to his son. Then Helvis and Margaret and Philip caught up with John, and he let go of John to try to embrace them all. Margaret and Philip were jumping up and down with excitement, while Helvis cuddled up against her father.

  Then one of his tears splashed on Helvis’ cheek and she looked up to ask, “Why are you crying, Daddy? Aren’t you glad to see us?”

  “Christ!” Balian gasped and broke down altogether.

  Maria Zoë gently but firmly pushed her bewildered children apart and took Balian in her own arms. “It’s all right, my love. You’re home safe.”

  Balian couldn’t answer, but he held her to him—and the children stood around gazing up at him, silenced and sobered by the sight of their father crying, while the household looked at one another in both concern and sympathy.

  Slowly, Balian got hold of himself and released his grasp on Maria Zoë. Taking a deep breath, he turned to Helvis and smiled at her through his wet face, reaching out to stroke her silky curls as he reassured her. “Yes, sweetheart, I’m glad to see you. You see, tears can be a sign of joy as well as sadness.”

  John immediately stepped forward to take his father’s hand and assure him, “I know that, Papa. I cried when we learned that you were alive and would come to us.”

  “Thank you, John.” Balian wanted to ruffle his hair but thought better of it, and patted his shoulder instead.

  “Come, let me show you our new home,” Maria Zoë urged, cognizant of the household staring at them. She slipped her hand through her husband’s elbow, leaving John on his other side. With the other three children in their wake, Maria Zoë led Balian through the kitchen, introducing the local staff. Then she guided him through what had been the merchant’s showroom and now housed the squires, and then darted through the rain across the inner courtyard and up the stairs wrapping around the courtyard to enter the house again on the first floor. Here Maria Zoë pointed out the interior stairs leading to the third floor, but led instead through the hall to the solar that stood at right angles to the hall over the showroom below.

  Someone had thought to light a fire here, and the room was warm compared to the rest of the house and lavishly furnished with the carpets and cushions Maria Zoë had loaded on their precious brood mares when she left Jerusalem. Because they occupied many fewer rooms in this modest merchant house than they had at the Ibelin palace, the room was almost as well furnished with rugs, chests, tables, and cushions as an Arab house.

  Maria Zoë led Balian to an armed chair before the fire and sent John to fetch wine for his father. “We just ate,” she told him, “so there is no need to bring snacks, but have Ernoul or one of the other squires help you—”

  “I can do it myself!” John answered, insulted, and ran off with Philip at his heels.

  Balian sat and took Margaret on his lap, while Helvis settled herself at his feet.

  “You’re going to stay with us now, aren’t you, Daddy?” Margaret asked, snuggling into the crook of his shoulder.

  “Yes, sweetheart,” Balian promised her.

  It was after dark before Maria Zoë could convince the children that they needed their supper and then had to go to bed. “Your father will still be here in the morning,” she assured them.

  Fortunately, they had been so excited the night before that they had hardly slept and were now falling asleep on their feet. Still, they insisted their father join them for supper and see them to bed. Balian sat with them in the kitchen as they had their light evening meal with their cousins, and then escorted them up to their bedrooms, which they now shared with Isabella, Eschiva, and Eloise.

  Eschiva and Eloise had greeted Balian when he brought the children to have supper with their own, and they stayed with the children, so Balian and Maria Zoë could be alone together at last, Isabella discreetly withdrawing. Because the bedroom was cold and damp on this rainy night, they returned to the solar, however, while Ernoul was sent to get the bedroom fire going and then prepare a bath for his lord.

  Maria Zoë moved her chair closer to her husband’s and took his hand in hers. He gripped it so hard it hurt, and she let out a little whimper in protest.

  “I’m sorry, my love.” He eased his grasp at once and looked over at her. “My God, you’re more beautiful than I remembered. You must be the most beautiful woman on earth.” He smiled at her for the first time. It was only a soft little smile, but it reached his eyes and moved her to stand up and come to kiss him. He reached up and pulled her down into his lap to kiss her hard and long.

  They kissed until Maria Zoë pulled back to remark, a little embarrassed, “I’m much too heavy for you now.” She started to get up.

  He shook his head and held her fast. “No, but I stink. I haven’t had a bath in twelve days.”

  “No matter. Ernoul’s preparing one now.”

  He kissed her again, more tenderly than passionately, and then she laid her head on his chest as Margaret had done. “Was what you said about Dawit the truth?”

  “Yes, every word of it. But it isn’t the siege that has embittered me. We fought well. Men, women, and even children. Franks, Syrians, and Armenians. The sacrifice of the lepers was terrible—but it was inspiring, too. Daniel said to me, “This is what King Baldwin would have wanted,” and he was right. They left their rotting bodies behind to be reunited with Christ, whole and beautiful as angels. And when I faced Roger after Gabriel’s capture, he too believed we were all doomed and that they would soon see each other again in heaven.

  “No, it isn’t the siege that angers me—it was what followed. When I negotiated with Salah ad-Din, I knew the city was full of refugees, as many as forty thousand people, who had fled their homes with only what they could carry with them. And most of them were women with children. It was clear that many of them would be incapable of finding five dinars for themselves and two per child. Think of it! A widow with four or five children needed fifteen dinars! Where were poor women to find that kind of money? I told Salah ad-Din that, but he answered that the Church or the treasury of the Kingdom would have to pay their ransoms. I managed to talk him into accepting a lump sum of thirty thousand dinars for ten thousand paupers—not knowing where I’d come up with money like that—and knowing that ten thousand was only a portion of the poor.

  “But I still was not prepared for what followed. It was a nightmare. To be sure, the Grand Hospitaller didn’t even let me finish speaking before he promised the full sum of thirty thousand—contingent on the agreement of the other brothers, but that was never really in doubt. Furthermore, the Hospital paid for the freedom of every soul in its care: the men and women in the wards of the Hospital, the old people in the hospice, and the children in the orphanage, too. But the Templars whined and prevaricated about the money they had being “deposits” that they could not release without breaking their word and sacrificing their honor—which they weren’t prepared to do. Eventually they gave me a couple thousand dinars that they collected by selling off equipment and wine. But the worst was Heraclius!” When he said the name, Balian’s entire face twisted with contempt and hatred.

  Maria Zoë instinctively stroked his arm, both in sympathy and to calm him.

  “That bastard! That egotistical, selfish, corrupt bastard would not donate a single dinar for the poor! His wealth, he claimed, wasn’t his. It belonged to the Church. He wasn’t saving it for himself, he protested—his hands dripping jewels. He was only saving it for fu
ture generations! I came so close to hitting him, I had to walk out. Just turned my back on him and left him standing!”

  Maria Zoë said nothing, just stroked his arm in sympathy until he had calmed himself enough to continue.

  “I next tried to convince Salah ad-Din to give me more time to raise a ransom for the poor by appealing to the Pope, but he turned me down—so when the forty days were up, I didn’t have enough for all the poor. I had to watch as roughly fifteen thousand Christians marched off to slavery—and Heraclius left the city with four wagons loaded to the brim with gold and silver plate, chalices, altar crosses, and reliquaries!” Balian was working himself into a rage at the memory of it, and Maria Zoë again stroked his arm to calm him, but knew better than to speak.

  “He didn’t even have the decency to look the people he condemned to slavery in the eye! He stole out of the city by the David Gate, turning his back on the women who will be ravished and the children brutalized because of him! But I had to watch them trudge out. . . .

  “You wouldn’t believe it. I was sitting there beside the Sultan, his men around us already making jokes about what they were going to do with the women, and I recognized amidst the new slaves the very man who had made my sword. Oh, that’s right, you don’t know about it. A Norse armorer had heard that I had returned to Jerusalem without a sword and made a new one for me.” Balian had removed his heavy sword hours ago, when the children were still with them. He now gently pushed Maria Zoë off his lap, stood, and retrieved the sword from where it was leaning against the wall. Holding it horizontal in his hands, he pulled the blade partway out of the sheath to reveal the bronze etching on the blade: Defender of Jerusalem.

  “That’s beautiful!” Maria Zoë exclaimed, and held out her hand to take it from Balian as he added, “Look at the pommel, too—the crosses of Jerusalem on one side and Ibelin arms on the other. Furthermore, it’s extra long—made specially for me. But unbeknownst to me, the man couldn’t raise the money for his own ransom! He gave me this, Zoë—refused any kind of payment—but couldn’t raise his own ransom when the time came. He paid for his wife and daughters, but had not enough money to buy his own freedom or that of his crippled son. I saw him in that column, carrying his son on his back—”

  “Oh, Balian, surely you could have found twelve dinars—” Maria Zoë interrupted.

  “But what of the others? There were fifteen thousand of them!” Balian retorted in angry anguish. “While the Sultan’s men brought the armorer out of the crowd, I begged Salah ad-Din again to let me stand surety for all of them. I begged him to hold me while I wrote to the Pope and the Kings of France and England for more money—”

  “Balian!” Maria Zoë gasped, horrified by what this would have meant.

  “But he refused,” Balian answered, shaking his head grimly, his gaze no longer in the room or on his wife but back in Jerusalem. “By then the armorer and his boy were in front of me. Naturally, I begged Salah ad-Din to let me buy them. Again he refused, saying they were a gift from him. His brother al-Adil at once spoke up and asked for a gift of a thousand slaves—and, emboldened, I asked for the same number. Salah ad-Din granted both our wishes, so we saved another two thousand souls. . . .”

  Maria Zoë put down the sword and pulled Balian into her arms as she insisted earnestly, “You did the best you could.”

  “But it wasn’t enough!”

  “Let God be the judge of that.”

  “I have nothing to give my sons!” Balian cried out, breaking free of her embrace and turning his back on her.

  “Oh, Balian! You can’t mean that?” Maria Zoë answered reproachfully.

  “We have nothing, Zoë,” Balian turned back to face her, his face limp with defeat. “Ibelin, Ramla, Mirabel—all overrun by our enemies.”

  “Yes, like Nablus and the rest of the Kingdom. But you have more important things to give your sons than land!”

  He stared at her blankly as if she were mad.

  “You can teach them that a brave man leads by example and that a Christian lord sacrifices his treasure for the sake of the poor. You can help them understand that nobility is not material wealth, but the ability to disdain greed and self-interest for the sake of others. Most of all, you can show them that courage is not mere fearlessness in the face of physical danger, but rather the ability to face whatever fate God grants us with equanimity, perseverance, and faith in the goodness of God.”

  Balian smiled at her sadly. “It sounds to me like they will learn all that from you, not me, Zoë.”

  “No!” Maria Zoë contradicted him. “They won’t! They need you, too. Even if you can give them not a single dinar, Balian, you can give them most precious gift of all: you can give them a father’s love.”

  Pulling her back into his arms gratefully, Balian capitulated. “Yes, you’re right, Zoë. I can do that.”

  Chapter 4

  Aleppo, November 28, 1187

  THE SOUND OF THE VOICES BEYOND the door, followed by the turning of the key and the screeching of the door on its hinges, attracted the attention of all the prisoners. Some sat up or even stood. “Too early for dinner,” someone remarked warily.

  The door clunked against the wall as it was shoved back by a strong arm, and Humphrey de Toron walked in wearing a clean kaftan and smelling of balsam soap. He was growing a beard now and wore a turban as well as a kaftan. He looked every inch the elegant young Muslim scholar—except for being blond. “Come to try to convert the rest of us?” Haifa snarled, and had the satisfaction of seeing Toron wince.

  Toron recovered rapidly, and replied with dignity, “No, I would not attempt something so futile. Nor do my clothes denote a change of religion—”

  “No, just a willingness to toady to our jailers,” Aimery de Lusignan sneered, emerging from the darker reaches of the dungeon. He too was bearded, but not by choice.

  Toron turned to the Constable. “My letter to the Sultan has yielded fruit,” he announced bravely. “Queen Sibylla is to be allowed to go to Tyre, and the Marquis de Montferrat is to accompany us.”

  “Me?” The aging Marquis reared up on his pallet. “Why me?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Toron admitted, “but Imad ad-Din hinted that your son Conrad might pay your ransom.”

  “Ah, Conrad.” The old Marquis smiled at the mention of his son’s name. Conrad was his second son, but after his firstborn came out to Jerusalem to marry Sibylla and died there, Conrad had been his greatest asset in the wars against the Holy See. Except for that unfortunate incident when he’d rebelled against the Archbishop of Mainz, he’d been a powerful ally, a natural leader of men, fearless in battle, and a charmer in council. For the others in the room he remarked, “He married Emperor Isaac Angelus’ sister, you know, and was raised to the position of Caesar. He certainly has the funds to buy my freedom.”

  “Put in a good word for the rest of us, would you?” Caesarea suggested bluntly.

  “You can be sure of it, my good lords. For all of you. All I need is to get word to Conrad. He’s a good boy.”

  There was little love lost between the old Marquis de Montferrat and Sibylla of Jerusalem. Her affection for Guy de Lusignan, his son’s successor, was, to put it politely, excessive, and the aging Marquis had heard enough rumors about Sibylla’s neglect of his grandson to think her a poor mother as well. Nevertheless, no adherent of chivalry could be completely unmoved by Sibylla’s current state. She was clearly suffering some kind of stomach ailment, and although she was traveling in a litter, they had to make frequent stops for her to seek out a toilet. Furthermore, Sibylla looked ghastly. She had puffy eyes, splotchy skin, and cracked lips.

  Because of Sibylla’s condition, the little caravan made very slow progress along the road from Aleppo to Hama, Homs, and finally Baalbek. They stopped at caravansaries every night, the Sultan’s Mamlukes unceremoniously expelling all other guests to make room for them. Their slow pace afforded the Marquis the opportunity to bathe at public baths, visit barbers, and have hi
s surcoat washed several times along the way. He had also been given a change of underwear. All this encouraged him to think his fortunes were about to change for the better.

  Just beyond Qal’at Subaiba, Sibylla’s condition took an abrupt turn for the worse. She started groaning and then crying out in pain. The lady traveling with her, a native Syrian chosen by their jailers to accompany her, looked genuinely alarmed and insisted they get her to a doctor immediately. Being in the middle of farmland as far as the eye could see, the best the escort could do was to get her to one of the typical adobe peasant farmhouses. Here a brood of children stood around gawking and getting underfoot as the Sultan’s Mamlukes commandeered everything.

  Sibylla was carried inside and the women of the household closed around her, while one of the Mamlukes galloped back toward Qal’at Subaiba for a doctor. After that, they waited while the Queen of Jerusalem screamed in obvious agony inside the mud hut. As the day dragged on, intermittent rain showers made the wait even more miserable.

  Eventually the screaming stopped, to be followed by sobbing. Montferrat thought he heard Sibylla call for Guy several times, but he couldn’t be sure. Eventually the doctor arrived, disappeared inside, and returned, shaking his head. There was nothing he could do. It was all over.

  “What?” Toron asked.

  “She has miscarried a child,” he announced, looking at the two Franks significantly but refraining from further comment.

  They spent the night and the next day there to give Sibylla time to rest and cry herself out. Then they set off across territory that had once been Christian but was now controlled by the Sultan of Egypt and Damascus.