Only after the Bishop of Lydda appeared to have calmed himself and regained his composure did the Bishop of Tripoli suggest in a gentle voice, “I did not mean to suggest you were not ever at risk, brother—only that King Guy was not in imminent risk of death when he took the oath to renounce his kingdom.”
“He did not renounce his kingdom!” Lydda retorted sharply, still agitated. “He promised to go overseas and never take up arms against the Muslims again.”
“Is that right?” Geoffrey looked to Aimery for confirmation.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Then all Guy has to do is take a boat to an island out in the harbor somewhere,” Geoffrey gestured contemptuously in the direction of the sea, “and then return. As for not taking up arms: he need not raise his arms against the Muslims—we can do it for him. His sword arm wasn’t all that effective anyway,” he sneered.
Aimery was about to point out that Guy was much more dangerous making decisions than fighting, but thought better of it. The Holy Roman Emperor and Henry of England were on their way, and they were not the kind of men who would bow to the likes of Guy de Lusignan or his opinions—whether he was technically King or not. They were both highly successful strategists and brilliant battle commanders. The bigger problem would be to get them to cooperate with one another, Aimery surmised.
“Yes, of course!” The Bishop of Tripoli clearly liked this solution that did not entail outright violation of an oath, while Lydda huffed, “He can do that, too, for all I care, but I say his oath is invalid anyway.”
“Then we are in agreement?” Geoffrey demanded, looking from one brother to the other and then to the bishops. “Guy will make a symbolic crossing of the sea, but he doesn’t leave the Holy Land. He acts like a king, whether he is one or not! And without taking up arms himself, he leds the rest of us in a campaign to regain Jerusalem. And that’s an end of it!”
Tripoli, July 1188
And then the Sultan came.
Not alone, but with his entire army.
Guy fumed that his “release” had been a mockery. “Like a cat with a mouse,” he suggested indignantly, “he let us go, only so he could take us prisoner again.”
“Don’t assume defeat!” Geoffrey rebuked him.
Guy frowned and ended the conversation.
Sibylla was considerably harder to silence. She wrung her hands and complained tearfully about not being able to take another siege. “Jerusalem, Tyre, and now this. I can’t take it,” she whined.
“Then sail away,” Aimery advised, with a dismissive gesture in the direction of the port.
“Where would I go?” she asked back blankly.
“Cyprus. Constantinople. Rome, for all I care,” Aimery told her bluntly.
“Stop it!” Guy protested. “First you tell me I can’t run away, and then you suggest Sibylla should. She’s the Queen of Jerusalem.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Aimery, you aren’t being helpful,” Geoffrey observed from across the room. While he shared Aimery’s assessment of both Guy and Sibylla, whether he liked the pair or not, they were who they were.
Aimery shrugged and wandered to the window to get another look at the army that was still assembling battalion by battalion and setting up their tents on the plain around the city. From this particular window he could not see the Sultan’s tent, but he hardly needed to. Spread out before him were at least a dozen emirs with fluttering banners, and the sunlight glinted on the tips of lances and the burnished surface of helmets. Salah ad-Din was so endlessly strong, Aimery reflected.
A loud knock on the door made Aimery jump and turn.
A pageboy stood flushed in the doorway. “My lords! I’ve been sent by my lord of Tripoli. He says ships have been sighted offshore, approaching fast.”
“Ours or theirs?” Geoffrey snapped, even as Aimery opened his mouth to ask the same question.
“We don’t know yet,” the page admitted.
“Oh, my God!” Sibylla wailed out. “It’s Tyre all over again. He’s brought up the Egyptian fleet to cut off our escape and prevent supplies from getting in!”
The three men looked at her. Guy’s expression was sympathetic, Geoffrey’s indifferent, and Aimery’s contemptuous. Then Geoffrey suggested simply, “Let’s go find out.”
They were not alone in this intention. The Sultan’s army was still gathering and the activity in his camp was entirely peaceful: tents were being erected, latrines dug, field canteens set up. There was consequently no need to man the walls beyond posting lookouts, and everyone, garrison and citizen, was free to head for the port. The Lusignans found that men-at-arms, priests, laundresses, and other knights and ladies were all streaming out of the citadel and down the hill toward the city.
Being mounted, the Lusignans overtook most of these, but the streets of the city were already flooded with people. The crowds only thickened as they reached the narrow headland that jutted out from the coast to the west. Everyone was being jammed together here, and the horses became more a hindrance than a help. Certainly, calling out “Make way for the King of Jerusalem” got them nowhere. People turned and stared at Guy and his brothers, but no one made way for them.
Geoffrey pointed toward a stairway leading up to the wall walk, and they forced their way across the flow of people to the wall. Here, they tied the horses at the foot of the stairs and climbed up.
Again they were not alone. The walls were already lined with people, all straining to see the approaching ships. The Lusignans were not hesitant about ordering people out of their way or shoving them aside, but given the sheer drop to the street below on the inside of the wall walk, they still had to be cautious; it took time to reach the narrow western salient.
Here, of course, the crowds were thickest, and it was only with shouting and insistence that they forced their way to the very front, joining Bohemond of Tripoli. The latter acknowledged them with a nod of his head before returning his attention to the sea.
The sun was low in the sky, making identification of the ships more difficult. Sunlight bathed the surface of the water, which was ruffled by a light breeze. It danced off the shifting surface, creating a constant glitter. In other circumstances it would have been beautiful. The bright sunlight, however, turned the ships to silhouettes, and the profile of Frankish and Saracen ships did not differ sufficiently for landlubbers to easily distinguish one from the other.
All that was certain was that this was a huge fleet. By now the leading three ships were close enough to be shortening sail, but beyond them were eighteen vessels clearly identifiable as galleys against the light. Behind them were an innumerable number of dark spots that slowly grew and took shape, while yet more dark specks emerged out of the glittering horizon. People kept calling out the numbers they thought they had counted: twenty-nine, thirty-six, forty-two.
“Does the Sultan have that many ships?” Guy asked his brothers in awe.
Geoffrey grunted ambiguously, because he didn’t know. Aimery reminded his brothers, “He has the means to build them, and has had the winter to do so.”
A commotion drew their attention to the right. “There! There!” A man was shouting so shrilly he sounded like a hysterical woman. “A cross! There’s a cross on the sail!”
They all looked back at the approaching fleet, squinting and shading their eyes with their hands.
A second shout went up. “Holy Trinity! It’s true! They have crosses on their sails.”
But still many doubted. They strained their eyes even harder. Then the lead ship swung into the wind to hand the mainsail—and in that moment, as the sail slowly sank, scores of onlookers simultaneously saw the unmistakable imprint of a black cross on the white canvas.
The cheer that went up was deafening to those in the midst of it. It spread down the length of the wall like rolling thunder, and tumbled to the streets below like the roar of a waterfall. People waiting anxiously in the shadow of the wall recognized the tone more than the content a
nd started shouting and cheering.
From across the water, faint but unmistakable, came an answering cheer. The crews and passengers of the first crusader fleet to reach the Holy Land since Hattin realized with relief that they had made landfall at a Christian-held port. They were fifty galleys sent by the King of Sicily carrying five hundred knights and thousands of archers and men-at-arms.
Tyre, August 1188
A pain stabbed through her belly so sharply that Mariam gasped and dropped the kindling she was trying to bring over to the fireplace. The small logs clattered loudly on the tile floor, and the noise brought Godfrey from the forge with an angry admonishment: “Mariam! I’ve told you before! Let the apprentices do the heavy lifting!” The sharpness of his voice sprang from his concern, and his face was furrowed with worry.
Although the pain was ebbing, Mariam was too alarmed by it to even retort. She just stood trying to catch her breath, and Godfrey crossed the distance between them to collect the dropped kindling, set it beside the fireplace, and lead his woman to a bench against the wall. “Mariam, you need to see a doctor—or a midwife.”
She reached up with the back of her hand to wipe away a tear of pain—and fear. She knew she was with child, and she knew she was too old, too fat, and too full of sin for this to end well. Godfrey closed his powerful hand around her plump one. His hand was black with soot, hers white with flour. The callused feel of his hand on hers only made her cry harder. She loved him so much, she could not even pretend she regretted the sin they had committed. She had found in his arms such ecstasy and such comfort. Yet if she did not learn to repent what she had done, she would burn forever in hell—and as a pastry mistress she knew something about the torments of intense heat. That frightened her almost as much as the pain of childbirth itself.
“Let me get you some water,” Godfrey offered helplessly. He understood Mariam’s fears, and he shared them. He lost sleep trying to think what he could do to help. Was there some sacrifice he could make that would please God enough to forgive them? What could a poor, near-penniless armorer do that would please God that much? Since the siege of Tyre had lifted, the demand for his services had plummeted, and they were almost completely dependent on Mariam’s bakery to keep them in food, firewood, and clothing. (Sven was growing like never before, now that he ate at Mariam’s table and worked in her shop rather than his dad’s.) Godfrey had literally nothing he could give away to the Church to appease God’s anger.
Mariam pulled herself together. As he brought her the water, she smiled up at him. “I’ll be fine, Godfrey. These pains are normal.”
Godfrey didn’t believe her, and she read his disbelief on his face. Before she could speak again, however, they were interrupted by Sven coming from the shop. “Mama! Mama!” he called as he swung himself forward on the crutches. “Mistress Alys has come for the things you made for the Dowager Queen.”
The Ibelin household would be celebrating the first communion of their younger daughter Margaret, and Queen Maria Zoë had ordered marzipan treats in the shape of Ibelin and Jerusalem crosses. Mariam had worked most of the previous day on the order, and Sven himself had painted them this morning. They had made more than the Queen requested and would be sharing the rest with their own guests this evening, for Haakon Magnussen and his mate had promised to bring fresh fish and wine for the privilege of a homemade meal and Mariam’s sweets. Godfrey suspected that the Norse seafarers needed the sweets far less than Godfrey needed the fish and wine, but they always made it sound the other way around.
Alys trailed in Sven’s wake. Mariam had first met Alys when Ernoul brought her with him throughout the spring, spending whatever pennies he had to buy her a meat or cheese pie. She’d been in rags, a frightened wraith with eyes far too large for her face and hands as tiny as a bird’s. Mariam had overheard some of her apprentices making incensed remarks about “honest girls” not serving “whores,” and she’d taken Ernoul aside to ask him about Alys. He had defended her reputation with an insistence that rang a little false in Mariam’s ears, but then, who was she to judge another woman? She was, after all, living in sin with and pregnant by a man not her husband.
Today was the first time she had seen Alys since Ernoul had taken her to wife. While Alys would never be a beauty, her whole face radiated joy as she entered. Mariam couldn’t help smiling at her. “Now, isn’t that a pretty gown!” she exclaimed, knowing how much Alys had been ashamed of her rags. By the look of it, the Dowager Queen and her daughter had dug into their own clothes chests to find suitable clothes for Ernoul’s bride. The shift was simple but of good-quality linen, and the surcoat was brightly-dyed cotton. It being August and very hot, the latter was sleeveless, but it was a bright marigold yellow trimmed with red ribbons that laced up the sides.
Alys brushed the front of the dress with the palms of her hands in wonder, her eyes beaming with pride. “Ernoul likes this one best, too!” she admitted, “but I have two shifts and three gowns. And look at my shoes!” She lifted her skirts six inches and thrust out a foot in Mariam’s direction, showing off soft leather shoes with a strap. “And I have stockings now, too!” Alys added for good measure, hitching her skirts a little higher.
Mariam nodded approval, and then because she still didn’t feel well enough to stand, she signaled Alys over to her. “Come, show me the wedding ring.”
Alys danced over with her hand held out, and Mariam held it to examine the simple gold band she wore on her left ring finger. The ring was not adorned by any stones, engraving, or other ornament, but that did not detract from its value in Mariam’s eyes. She knew from Godfrey that Ernoul had sold his sword to obtain the money to pay for it himself. His sword, he reasoned, was of no use to him with his shattered shoulder, and he hadn’t wanted to marry his Alys with a ring given him by his lord or anyone else. Mariam respected that.
The ring inspection over, Mariam pulled herself to her feet to fetch the box in which the marzipan was stacked, but Godfrey angrily gestured for her to sit down again and on her directions fetched it himself. Alys was pulling out her purse to pay when Haakon Magnussen and his mate, Eric Andersen, pushed into the crowded kitchen.
On a hook Eric held a fish large enough to feed a dozen people, and Haakon had a small cask over his shoulder as they swept in. Salt had crystallized on their eyebrows and turned their hair to stiff strands, but they were clearly in good spirits.
“You’ll never guess what’s happened now!” Magnussen declared, as he clunked the cask down and righted himself to stand with his hands on his hips. He was too eager to share the news to wait for Godfrey to ask about it, so he continued. “King Guy has been set free, and the King of Sicily has sent a fleet of fifty galleys, crammed full of fighting men.”
“Where did you hear that?” Godfrey asked, coming forward to take the fish from Andersen and fling it down on a large wooden cutting board.
“We ran into a merchantman running down the coast from Tripoli. It should dock in a few hours. On board were a bunch of people who’d been in Tripoli when the fleet arrived, and some Hospitallers who’d crossed over with the Sicilian fleet. They said King Guy and ten other noble prisoners have been released.”
“Which others, sir?” Alys asked, knowing even after her short stay in the Ibelin household how anxious both Eschiva and Isabella were about their respective husbands.
“I didn’t catch the names,” Magnussen admitted. He was unfamiliar with the geography of the Holy Land and except for place names he’d heard in the Bible, he recognized no titles.
Alys knew the Ibelins would want to meet the ship so she handed over payment in a hurry, and ran all the way back to the Ibelin residence.
Aimery stood at the railing of the poop, trying not to get in anyone’s way as the crew maneuvered into the harbor. The trick was to reduce the weight on the ship enough to avoid collisions with the other ships at anchor, but not lose maneuverability or become becalmed too far from the shore to cast a line. This was a difficult maneuver in the crampe
d and crowded inner harbor, and it entailed many incomprehensible (to landlubber Aimery) bellowed orders and much rushing this way and that by the barefoot sailors as they hauled on one line, then heaved on another. The progress seemed painfully slow, and the heavy ship appeared to glide at a snail’s pace.
“It seems to take forever, doesn’t it?” a Hospitaller sister standing at the rail beside him remarked out loud, echoing his thoughts.
“It does,” Aimery agreed, glancing over at her. She was no longer young—probably over forty, he judged—but she was handsome and had a proud bearing. “Your first trip to the Holy Land?” Aimery inquired, more to distract himself from the nerve-racking slowness of their progress than out of genuine interest.
The Hospitaller sister started in surprise and then cast Aimery a smile. “No, my lord Constable. I was born in Outremer. The last year on Sicily was my first time away from it in my life, and even that was too long. I thank God with all my heart that I have been allowed to return. This is home to me, and I hope He gives me the grace to die here—in freedom and in Christ.”
The fact that she recognized him, although Aimery felt he had changed greatly in his year’s imprisonment, made him ask uncomfortably, “Should I know you, Madame?”
“No, there’s no reason why you should. My name is Sister Adela, and I ran the women’s ward of the Hospitaller establishment in Nablus. The Dowager Queen liked to include me in major feasts when she was there. I saw you at the high table with my lord of Ibelin several times, but there’s no reason you should have taken note of me.”
“How did you come to be in Sicily?” Aimery asked, his hunger to understand what had happened while he rotted in the dungeon of Aleppo awakened interest in the nun.
Envoy of Jerusalem Page 21