Tripoli, County of Tripoli, July 1188
By chance or design, the released barons of Jerusalem entered the County of Tripoli exactly one year after their crushing defeat on the Horns of Hattin. It was July 4, 1188. The Sultan’s escort stopped but signaled them to continue into a deserted village at the foot of Mount Lebanon.
In the village the doors swung uselessly in the wind, testimony to the fact that they had been broken open by force—whether before or after their owners had departed was no longer relevant. The skeletons of a half-dozen horses near the village entrance suggested, however, that there might have been some sort of skirmish.
From there the released prisoners rode across largely abandoned countryside. Now and then, in the distance, they saw shepherds with flocks. They also came across a few tilled fields, but no sign of the men who cultivated them. After riding for almost two hours, they came to a vineyard. The wine stalks were half concealed in weeds, but underneath the weeds the shriveled grapes of last year’s crop still hung unharvested. They stopped to collect some of the raisins and drink from their water skins. The stillness was eerie, and they soon pressed on.
Not until they were about ten miles from the city of Tripoli did they encounter concentrated agriculture. The orchards around Tripoli were evidently well tended, and the vineyards here were in good condition. The men and women they passed stopped to stare, clearly unsure who these men were. Aimery supposed they made an odd impression, mounted on poor Arab horses but wearing chain mail and ragged surcoats. Certainly they had no banners to proclaim who they were, no squires to attend them, and no weapons, either. They were a sorry lot, he concluded, too sorry to even provoke alarm.
Yet somewhere along the way someone had taken the precaution to send word of their approach to the city. About two miles outside Tripoli, with the city walls already in sight, a handful of knights rode up in a cloud of dust and blocked the road. The barons of Jerusalem were not worried. They advanced steadily, straining their eyes to see if they could recognize any of the men ahead of them—and wondering when they would be recognized.
“That’s William of Tiberius.” Haifa was the first to put a name to a face. As he spoke, the young man spurred forward to draw up directly beside Guy de Lusignan, a look of amazement on his face. “My lord King? Is it really you?” Even as he asked, his eyes swept across the other faces and he nodded to each of them in turn. “My lords. Marquis. Have you all been set free? Without a ransom?”
“As you see,” Guy answered for them, while the others merely nodded.
William twisted in the saddle and called back to his brother. “Ralph! Ride at once to the citadel and tell the Queen of Jerusalem her husband is approaching! Eustace, tell my lord Bohemond that the King of Jerusalem and other barons of the Kingdom have been released and will soon reach the city!” Only then did he turn back to Guy and bow his head to him. “Welcome to Tripoli, my lords.”
They approached the city at a leisurely pace to give the messengers time to announce their approach. This afforded them time to learn from their escort what had happened in Tripoli since Hattin. William of Tiberius informed them that his stepfather, Raymond of Tripoli, had died within months of the disaster at Hattin. He suggested his stepfather had died of a broken heart, for the loss of the Kingdom he loved so well and had served so long. Aimery thought he detected an undertone of reproach for the king who—against the advice of Tripoli—had led them to that disaster. Aimery’s eyes lingered on his brother as Tiberius spoke, but if Guy heard the same undertone in Tiberius’ words, he ignored it.
Tiberius continued, explaining that lacking sons of his own, Raymond had, on his deathbed, bequeathed the still independent and rich County of Tripoli to the Prince of Antioch. Here Aimery raised an eyebrow, thinking that Tiberius and his brother must have felt slighted. They had been exceptionally loyal to their stepfather, and they had lost their inheritance (the barony of Galilee) immediately after Hattin. They had every reason to expect their stepfather to bequeath his county to them. But if young Tiberius resented the turn of events, he disguised his feelings well. He reported without apparent rancor that the Prince of Antioch had sent his second son and namesake, Bohemond, to assume control of Tripoli.
Setting aside Tiberius’ personal feelings, Aimery supposed Tripoli’s decision made strategic sense. To entrust the County of Tripoli, with the important coastal cities of Tripoli and Tortosa, to the only Latin Christian monarch still in control of his territory was more rational than to try to defend it with the limited resources of the County alone. Nevertheless, Aimery had little reason to hope the Prince of Antioch would be particularly generous to the Lusignans, while his younger son was an unknown quantity, a man Aimery could not remember ever meeting.
By the time they reached the city, word had spread that King Guy and “other prisoners” had been released and were approaching. People poured out of the shops, workshops, and houses to get a look at the arrivals. The mood was more curious than jubilant. Although here and there someone raised a lukewarm cheer, it did not catch on. Most onlookers remained silent or muttered remarks to their neighbors. It certainly didn’t feel like a homecoming, at least not to Aimery. Rather, he sensed wariness and disapproval in the crowd. He imagined the onlookers thinking: Who are these men, and why have they been set free while tens of thousands remain in slavery? Weren’t these the very men who had led the others to an unnecessary defeat?
Aimery was acutely conscious that they were in Tripoli, and the Count of Tripoli had broken out of the encirclement. If only he had been reinforced (as Aimery had urged and begged his brother to do), then many more men would have been saved. It would still have been a defeat, of course, but maybe enough of them could have broken free to at least defend the major cities. If a hundred knights instead of a handful, if thousands of sergeants rather than scores, had followed Tripoli out of the trap, they would surely have been able to hold Acre, Jaffa—and Jerusalem itself.
Riders were coming toward them from the direction of the citadel, and Guy drew up in astonishment. The small party approaching the released prisoners was led by Queen Sibylla, wearing her crown and a splendid silk brocade cloak of red and gold, flanked by the new Count of Tripoli, Bohemond of Antioch, and—to Guy’s astonishment—his older brother, Geoffrey de Lusignan.
“That’s Geoff!” Guy exclaimed in amazement to Aimery. “Where did he come from?”
“Lusignan,” Aimery answered, despairing of his younger brother’s intelligence.
Guy frowned in annoyance and snapped, “I know that! I mean: what’s he doing here?”
“I expect he’s come to help you regain your kingdom,” Aimery surmised.
“I’ve sworn to not even try,” Guy pointed out.
“But the rest of us haven’t,” Aimery reminded him.
Guy was no longer listening. Instead, in a dramatic gesture he spurred forward. Once he had closed the distance, he flung himself from his horse and grasped his wife’s stirrup. “Sibylla!” he called out for the audience of onlookers. “Beloved! My queen!”
Sibylla responded with equal pathos. She was riding sidesaddle in the Greek fashion and so easily slid down to fall into Guy’s embrace. “My lord,” she babbled, “my sweet lord! How I have prayed for this moment! To embrace you again in freedom!”
There in full view of the public, who were now straining and craning their necks to get a glimpse of this “historic” moment, they kissed each other on the lips.
Aimery grimaced at the unseemly display, so unbefitting a king and queen. Beside him the Bishop of Lydda muttered something about “wanton passion being the root of civil ruin,” by which Aimery presumed he meant Sibylla’s passion for Guy being the ruin of the Kingdom. Amen to that!
Meanwhile, however, Geoffrey had nudged his horse beside Aimery’s, and his bright blue eyes were penetrating and hard. Like all the Lusignans he was blond and attractive, with regular features that included a square chin and a slender nose. Guy might be the prettiest of the four br
others, but Geoffrey was unquestionably handsome in a hard, hawkish way. “So, you at least got yourselves out of the dungeon.”
“No thanks to you,” Aimery snapped back.
“Hugh was prepared to pay your ransom,” Geoffrey replied, referring to their nephew, the son of the eldest of the four Lusignan brothers, and, since his father’s death, the ruling Lord of Lusignan and Count of la Marche. “He could hardly be expected to come up with a king’s ransom, however.” Geoffrey shrugged to underline his helplessness, and he kept his eyes fixed on Aimery. “We have much to talk about,” he concluded.
“Indeed. Have you brought troops to regain the Holy Land?”
“Hugh sent me as an advance guard, if you like: twelve knights and a hundred men-at-arms. He’ll bring the bulk of our forces with King Henry.”
“King Henry is coming to the Holy Land?” No one had told the prisoners that.
“King Henry, King Philip, and the Holy Roman Emperor have all taken the cross,” his brother answered, surprised that this momentous news had not penetrated the walls of the citadel at Aleppo.
Aimery crossed himself in gratitude. He had never imagined there might be that strong a response in the West. Hadn’t these same monarchs all refused to come to Jerusalem when Baldwin IV begged them to do so three years ago? Baldwin had offered them the keys to the Kingdom, foreseeing the disaster Guy would be, but not one of these powerful Western leaders had been willing to come then. They had not even been prepared to send one of their sons!
But then Aimery had to laugh inwardly at his own indignation. When Baldwin IV had made that offer, he and Guy had been desperately afraid Henry of England just might send one of his troublesome sons to challenge Guy’s right to the throne. Aimery had calmed Guy’s nerves (and his own fears) by arguing that the Plantagenets were too preoccupied with their fratricidal quarrels to come to Outremer, and he had been right. But now, when it was too late, when the Kingdom was already lost, they were coming. It could only be God’s doing, he reminded himself—hastily making the sign of the cross in gratitude and awe.
“I expect it will be next year before they actually set off,” Geoffrey continued practically. “They have to regulate their affairs and organize their forces first. The Holy Roman Emperor will come by land, I hear, but both King Henry and Philip of France plan to come by sea. King Henry’s building his own fleet.”
“Christ! That will take forever! Don’t they recognize how urgent the situation is?” Aimery answered, as his euphoria over so much support met the reality of waiting a year or more to see it.
“What’s the rush?” Geoffrey asked back, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You’ve already lost most of the Kingdom.”
“Of Jerusalem, yes, but Tripoli and Antioch are still threatened!” Aimery shot back. “You can’t seriously think the Sultan will leave them be? When we left Damascus we could see the troops flooding in. He’s clearly preparing a new offensive against us.”
“Indeed? Then we have even more to talk about,” Geoffrey concluded. He turned his attention from Aimery to Guy, who had finally finished greeting his wife and was approaching his elder brothers.
“Geoffrey!” Guy called up. “Sibylla tells me you are the harbinger of a great host that is gathering to relieve the Holy Land!”
“So I am,” Geoffrey agreed, swinging down from his horse to embrace his youngest brother. Then everyone remounted and they continued to the citadel, where a hasty welcome feast was being prepared.
Tripoli, July 1188
“You did what?” Geoffrey asked Guy in disbelief.
Guy shrugged, but looked shamefaced, while Sibylla gaped at him literally open-mouthed. The Lusignans had withdrawn to the solar after dinner and were among themselves.
“Half of Christendom is coming to your aid, and you’ve abandoned your kingdom!” Geoffrey shouted in outrage.
Afraid someone would hear, Guy gestured for his brother to quiet down.
“I’m not going to be quiet!” Geoffrey roarded back, louder still. “The most powerful rulers in Europe have pawned their crown jewels and taxed their subjects to the bone to raise a mighty force for the rescue of Jerusalem, and the King of Jerusalem is going to sail away with his tail between his legs?” Geoffrey had worked himself into a rage, and he was shouting so loudly that even Aimery winced.
“I don’t understand,” Sibylla interrupted, frowning in evident puzzlement. “An anointed king can’t just set his crown aside. What is given by God—”
“God had little to do with it!” Aimery snapped. “You stole the throne and you know it!”
“I am the rightful Queen of Jerusalem and Guy is my husband!” Sibylla answered stubbornly, sticking out her lower lip and pulling herself to her full height—which to a half-starved Aimery hardly looked greater than her breadth. She had put on a lot of weight this past year and was very round and flabby.
“You needed the consent of the High Court to be crowned, and the Templars and I made damned sure the High Court court didn’t have a chance to meet before Heraclius went through with that sham coronation—and even that was on the condition that you divorce Guy!”
Geoffrey’s eyes darted from Aimery to Sibylla and back and then he broke in. “Right or wrong, Guy’s been crowned, anointed, and acknowledged King for two years!”
“Go out in the streets, Geoff, and ask how many of the men out there are prepared to follow King Guy anywhere!” Aimery answered bitterly, pointing to the window. In the stunned silence that answered him, he added, “And as for God, ask if what happened to this kingdom since Guy was crowned was truly His will. If so, then I say it was God’s punishment for Guy usurping the crown!”
“This is a pointless discussion!” Geoffrey snapped. “Half of Christendom is on its way here to regain the Holy Land. Guy—King or not—has no business departing! If no one else, our nephew Hugh expects him to be here leading the fight, and so does our liege lord, King Henry!”
“Oh, since when have you become so respectful of King Henry?” Guy sneered.
“Since he gave us back the Marche, you fool!” Geoffrey snapped.
“Don’t talk to my husband like that!” Sibylla protested.
“I’ll talk to my brother any damn way I like!” Geoffrey snarled at Sibylla, before turning on Guy again. He took a step nearer and jabbed his finger at Guy’s chest. His eyes glinted with fury, and Aimery could remember the way he’d always bullied them as children. “You are going to stay here and fight Salah ad-Din whether you like it or not! Anything else would disgrace the Lusignans in the face of the whole world—not to mention the living God!”
“I swore an oath on the True Cross!” Guy protested, but his discomfort was reflected in the high pitch of his voice.
“Get me a priest!” Geoffrey ordered Aimery. “Any priest! But the Bishop of Tripoli or Lydda would be a good start!”
Aimery understood Geoff ’s intentions and went willingly. Although he was himself still not certain Guy was the best man to lead this fight, he was determined to fight for his adopted country. Furthermore, he appreciated Geoffrey’s point that, bad as Guy was, his running away now would discredit him even further—and so the whole family.
Aimery eventually found the Bishops of Lydda and Tripoli sharing a flask of wine at the archiepiscopal palace. After he explained the situation, they agreed to return with him to the citadel. Altogether it was about an hour before he returned to the solar with them. Here they were confronted by the sight of Sibylla in tears in the window seat, while Guy stood literally backed into a corner, looking as harried as a rabbit.
Geoffrey had his back to the door, so Guy caught sight of the worthy bishops first. He called out to them in relief. “My lords! Come help us out!”
The churchmen exchanged a wary glance, but advanced deeper into the room with practiced dignity.
“My brother is insisting I break my oath to Salah ad-Din,” Guy exclaimed, stepping around Geoffrey to come to the center of the room, “but you were there, Lydda, you s
aw me swear on the True Cross!”
“I did indeed, my liege,” Lydda answered, and Aimery cocked his ears at the use of “my liege.” Lydda could just as easily have used the more generic “my lord.” Instead, by choosing to emphasize his subordination to Guy as his King, he was signaling support for Geoffrey. “And I saw that the oath was extracted from you under duress. It was your only means of securing not just your own freedom, but that of your brother, myself, and other nobles. Such an oath is no more valid than if a mother were forced to swear something to free her children, or a wife to free her husband.” He smiled in the direction of Sibylla.
“And you agree with that, my lord bishop?” Guy asked the Bishop of Tripoli in astonishment.
Tripoli was more ambivalent, weighing his head from side to side before answering cautiously. “It is certainly true that an oath taken under duress is invalid, as my worthy colleague suggests. On the other hand, it could be argued that in the absence of physical force, duress was not in play. After all, your life was hardly in danger—”
“Of course our lives were in danger!” the Bishop of Lydda interrupted hotly, with a look of reproach at his fellow bishop, who had not suffered Saracen imprisonment. “Our brother-in-Christ was hacked to pieces before my very eyes!” Lydda reminded them in a voice explosive with outrage. His entire face was distorted by the horror he was reliving. “The sword sliced him open at the junction of his neck and shoulder, and stuck fast halfway to his heart! His life’s blood gushed out all over the wagon! When they seized the cross from me and flung it to the ground, his blood poured down on me! I wore his blood for damn near a year!” the Bishop rasped out. There was so much fury and pain in his voice that it stunned and silenced the other men in the room.
Aimery noted mentally that the Bishop of Lydda was not used to the violence and gore of the battlefield as were the rest of them. That made his experience at Hattin all the more traumatic. They had all worn the blood from Hattin in captivity, but for Aimery and the others, most of that blood had been from men they’d killed to stay alive. He conceded that wearing the blood of an unarmed friend would have been considerably more disturbing.
Envoy of Jerusalem Page 20