The men in the tent remained respectfully silent as the dazed and bloody princess crossed between them to the exit. No sooner had the flap fallen closed behind her, than Caesarea growled, “Hebron is right! We’re the fools for following the man.”
“We all took oaths to him. Have you forgotten?” Bethsan reminded them all.
“How could I forget? But so did Ibelin, and I don’t see him here,” Haifa noted.
“Would that he were!” Haifa retorted. “If anyone could have rallied the rabble today, it would have been him. They trust him, after what he did at Hattin.”
“Our men trust him; the pilgrims don’t know him from Adam,” Caesarea countered. “It was the Germans and Danes who broke ranks first. They weren’t listening to any of us, and I doubt they would have listened to Ibelin, either.”
“We have to put our faith in the Holy Roman Emperor and the Kings of England and France. Once they arrive, Guy de Lusignan will be of no consequence,” Scandaleon suggested.
“And until then?” Hebron asked.
“You won’t see me risking my neck or my men for Lusignan. I’m pulling back to Tyre.” It was Haifa who spoke, but none of the others contradicted him. Nodding grimly, they dispersed.
Tyre, December 1189
The death of the Saracen ship kept the city entertained for almost two days. She first hove into view on the afternoon of St. Nicholas, battling against a strong southerly gale. She clawed her way to windward, making only a couple hundred feet per tack, but was almost beyond the city when a sudden gust almost capsized her, making her fall off and run before the wind, losing almost all she’d gained in a day of hard sailing.
As darkness fell, the exhausted crew threw out a sea anchor and tried to ride out the storm. By dawn the following morning she was down by the starboard bow, and wallowing in the troughs rather than riding the waves. Apparently some of her planking had been reamed during the fight to windward the day before or during the night.
By noon, the sailors were throwing crates of cargo and provisions overboard to lighten her. People from the shanty town north of Tyre streamed down to the beach to try to retrieve the objects thrown overboard—and watch the nautical entertainment.
At dusk on the second day the ship was still afloat but only barely so, and by dawn of the third day it was obvious she was beyond rescue. As the sky lightened behind a heavy overcast that was still spitting sporadic rain showers, the crew hauled in the anchor, set a rag of sail on the boom, and turned toward the shore with the intention of beaching her to save their lives.
Word of the impending wreck spread rapidly. People rushed up onto the walls to watch, while those in the shanty town flooded to the shore, eager for salvage. Although the wind had abated, the breakers were wilder than ever. The ship, waterlogged already, foundered in the crashing surf and started to break up a good hundred yards offshore.
Sailors began to jump overboard, and were caught in the raging surf. Observers saw men upended and rolled over many times by the ravenous waves before they sank permanently beneath the frothing surface. Only a handful of men, those who managed to hang on to some part of the ship long enough to reach the rocky beach, survived. Two were killed as they staggered ashore. The others, terrified by the murder of their colleagues, started shouting in Arabic that their master would pay a ransom. “Who’s your master then?” An Arabic speaker shouted out, raising his arm to hold back his revenge-thirsty companions.
“Rashid ad-Din Sinan!” The shipwrecked men shouted back. “Rashid ad-Din!”
“You’ll hear him referred to as ‘The Old Man of the Mountain,’” Ibelin patiently explained to Montferrat.
“Meaning?” the Italian asked back with raised eyebrows. A man had arrived earlier in the day, claiming to represent Rashid ad-Din Sinan and seeking an audience with Montferrat. After a highly unsatisfactory meeting, in which—despite the man’s apparent command of French—Montferrat had the feeling the emissary and he were not communicating in the least, Montferrat had sent for Ibelin. They were seated now in the lovely solar of the archiepiscopal palace, whose tall northern windows looked out at the glistening sea breaking at the base of the wall below. The floor was paved with bright glazed mosaics depicting the Garden of Eden, complete with lifelike snakes and lizards lurking among palms, figs, and apple trees. The groin-vaulted ceiling overhead was plastered and painted with stars.
“He’s the leader of a Shia sect, headquartered in the mountains west of Tortosa.” Ibelin gestured vaguely out the glazed window toward the north.
“Shia?”
“Yes—Muslim heretics, if you like. The Fatimids were also Shia, but this sect is more radical. They follow the teaching of an imam, who they claim teaches the only legitimate interpretation of the Koran. That naturally makes them anathema to the rest of the Islamic world. They have been rigorously persecuted by the orthodox Muslims. To avoid obliteration, they retreated into the mountains and have built, I am told, spectacular, impregnable fortresses there, but I have never seen them personally. They are reputed to be exceptionally fanatic.”
Montferrat snorted. “The Saracens are all fanatics!”
“Not really. Indeed, far from it,” Ibelin observed dryly, finding himself annoyed at having to explain all this. Montferrat, with all his experience in Constantinople, he felt, ought to know better. He continued, “However, this sect is too weak to fight their opponents openly, so they have developed the tactic of targeting the leaders. When they want to weaken their enemies, they send out men who blend into the surroundings of their intended target. Once these men have won the trust of their enemies and ingratiated themselves enough to have unfettered access to their intended victim, they murder him. Raymond of Tripoli’s father was murdered in this way, and it is rumored that they came close to killing Salah ad-Din.”
“But they’re Muslims. Why would they want to kill Salah ad-Din?” Montferrat wanted to know, gesturing irritably for one of his servants to put another log on the fire that blazed in the fireplace on the far side of the room.
“Because,” Ibelin answered as patiently as possible, “Salah ad-Din is Sunni, for a start. Second, he brought down the Fatimid Caliphate. Third, he persecutes Sinan’s followers in his territories, and finally, Salah ad-Din brought an army to root out the entire sect from their mountain refuge. However, the Sultan’s close escape from death at the hands of a man who had infiltrated his bodyguard appears to have dissuaded Salah ad-Din from attacking them again.”
“I see, but what right has the man to send demands to me to pay him restitution for the loss of his ship, cargo, and crew? I didn’t cause them to wreck! Furthermore, I’m holding the captain and four other crewmen captive. He ought to be offering to pay me ransoms, not demanding restitution! That’s what the captain promised.”
Ibelin considered this calmly and remarked, “The Old Man of the Mountain is nothing if not arrogant and audacious. He once claimed to be interested in converting to Christianity just to win the trust of King Amalric. Ultimately, his right to make demands is based on his ability to eliminate those who anger him.”
“Nonsense!” Montferrat dismissed him. “If Salah ad-Din can’t break the defenses of Tyre, how does this Rashid think he’s going to do it?”
“He doesn’t dream of doing it. He doesn’t need to. If you don’t give in to his demands, he will view you—not Tyre—as his enemy.”
“And how is he going to attack me if he can’t take Tyre?” Montferrat countered, gesturing expansively to the room around him, but indirectly including the powerful walls that had withstood all assaults so far.
“As I said, by sending men out to kill you—assassins, we call them.”
“He may be able to infiltrate the ranks of the Sultan’s bodyguard with his men, but he can’t disguise his fanatical Muslim followers as Christians,” Montferrat retorted contemptuously. “Why, they’d betray themselves just by what they eat—or rather don’t eat—and by praying all the time.”
“The Assassins fol
low different rules,” Ibelin warned.
“Well, then, they’ll be discovered the first time they have to go to Mass.”
“I doubt it. These men are very clever and very well trained.”
“I can see you’ve been intimidated, Ibelin, but I’m not so easily cowed.”
“Well, my lord,” Ibelin answered evenly, although he was inwardly seething, “I’m far too long in the tooth to bristle at every insult to my courage, but consider the fact that I have nothing to gain by urging you to be wary of making an enemy of Rashid ad-Din, while you have everything to lose by not heeding my advice.”
“I’m not going to pay some damned Muslim heretic restitution for a ship that just happened to go aground under my nose! The poor people who salvaged things from that ship have already lost their homes and livelihoods, and I don’t begrudge them taking what they could from the sea. As for the sailors, most of them drowned. While the murder of the other two was unfortunate, it’s hardly a cause for demands like these. One thousand gold bezants! The man’s crazy!”
“Possibly,” Ibelin concurred, “but that only makes him more dangerous. Now, you’ve heard what I have to say. You can take my advice or leave it.” Ibelin got to his feet and stepped down from the window seat, which was lined with marble benches. As he crossed the chamber, one of the young deacons who served Montferrat brought Ibelin his cloak. He thanked the cleric for it and swung it over his shoulders. Only at the door did he pause and look back to warn Montferrat one last time. “Think twice, Montferrat. The Old Man of the Mountain makes a far better friend than enemy.”
Chapter 10
Siege camp at Acre, mid-October 1190
SIBYLLA WAS FINDING IT HARD TO breathe. That triggered panic—but the more she panicked, the more she sweated, and the harder it was to breathe. It felt as if a dead weight were sitting on her chest, pressing down, and her shoulders hurt her terribly, as if she’d been lifting something heavy.
She let out a cry and thrashed in her sweat-soaked bed. Her eyelids were far too heavy to lift, so she cried out again. Where was everyone? Why wasn’t someone cooling her brow with wet cloths or offering her chilled water to drink? She could feel the flies crawling on her arms and face. Someone should have been waving them off. Had everyone abandoned her? She cried out again.
“Hush, my lady.” The male voice was calming but unfamiliar. Sibylla struggled to open her eyes and squint at the world around her.
The voice apparently belonged the monk bending over her bed. He was tonsured and wore the black robes of the Benedictines. When he saw Sibylla’s eyes slit open, he held out a wooden cross with a silver crucifix upon it. “Here, my lady, hold this. It will comfort you.”
Sibylla was far too weak to protest, but she frowned. Her head was throbbing, and the pain in her shoulders seemed to be getting worse, while the weight on her chest was surely a thousand tons. She was so weak, and the air was so heavy. . . .
“Your daughters are dead, my lady,” the priest told her in a low, solemn voice, now that she was holding the crucifix.
“Which daughter?” Sibylla gasped out, trying to lift her head from the pillow and opening her eyes wider.
“Both, my lady,” he answered steadily.
“Both? How is that possible?” Sibylla wailed. “How can God do this to me?” She started flinging her head from side to side. “No! It can’t be true! You’re lying to me! Where is the Patriarch? I demand to see the Patriarch!” She might be a shapeless slab of sweat-soaked fat, but she was still the Queen of Jerusalem.
“The Patriarch, my lady, is dead. We buried him at Prime this morning.”
“Heraclius?” Sibylla gasped out, going instantly still in horrified disbelief. Since she had been fourteen and had come to her brother’s court, Heraclius had been the churchman she loved and trusted best. As a maiden she had been jealous that the strikingly handsome priest had been her mother’s lover, and she had fantasized about luring him away from her mother’s bed to her own. She had used him as her confessor, too, knowing full well he could not condemn sexual appetite, since he had so much of it himself. He always obligingly set only light penance for her sexual escapades—most of which had been more imagined than real, until she slept first with Ramla and then with Guy. After she’d fallen in love with Guy, all her sexual dreams had centered around him, of course, but Heraclius had remained her sympathetic confessor. She could confess to him her desire, her obsession, and all the violations of Church law with respect to timing and position, because she knew he enjoyed hearing what she did in bed. And, of course, he’d crowned her queen when half the bishops and all three archbishops were balking.
“Yes, my lady,” the Benedictine answered steadily. “As I said, we buried him at Prime. We’ll bury your daughters and your uncle Edessa at Vespers.”
“Uncle Joscelin?” Sibylla was spinning now, dizzy with disbelief. “He’s dead, too?” Was everyone who loved and supported her dead? How was it possible?
“He died during the night, my lady. We found him dead this morning.”
“My God! My God! How can this be?” The pain appeared to be spreading out from her shoulders, down her arms, and the weight on her chest was crushing her.
“Thousands are sick with the fever, my lady,” the black monk reminded her. “Thousands.”
But Sibylla didn’t care about the others, the commoners, the soldiers and whores. What were they compared to Heraclius, Uncle Joscelin, and her two little girls? Sibylla started weeping as the news sank in. Her little girls, her bright-haired little girls, the gift Guy had given her since his return. She’d wanted sons, of course, for Jerusalem, but Guy had not reproached her for only giving birth to girls.
“Guy!” she called out, half lifting herself off the pillow. “Guy!” She was suddenly terrified that Guy, too, had died, and she gasped in a voice constricted by pain and breathlessness, “Where’s my lord husband? Where is King Guy?”
“He is seeing to the funeral arrangements of your daughters, my lady.”
“Good Guy,” she murmured, falling back onto the pillow exhausted and dripping sweat again. But now her heart was palpitating, and she let the crucifix fall to press both hands over it in alarm. It was too much! Heraclius, Uncle Joscelin, and her little girls. All she had left in the whole world was Guy. Why did God hate her so? Why did He take away everything she loved? Hadn’t she suffered enough already?
She flung her head from side to side. She did not know where to turn for help or comfort, and the pain was becoming unbearable. It was everywhere now.
The black monk retrieved his crucifix, and firmly pressed it into her hands again. “You would do well to confess your sins, my lady. Your time is nigh.”
“What?” She tried to sit up, but the strain was too much. She sank back on the pillows, and the sound of her pulse pounded in her ears. It felt as if her heart were thrashing about in her chest trying to get free.
“Confess your sins, my lady,” the priest urged insistently.
“No, no! What have I done to deserve this? I am Queen of Jerusalem.”
“And where is Jerusalem now, my lady? Is Mass still read over the grave of our Lord Jesus Christ? Can pilgrims still bring gifts to the Church of the Nativity? Are not both shrines besmirched and befouled by the followers of the false prophet Mohammed?”
“But that’s not my fault!” Sibylla wailed, her heart beating faster than before. It seemed to be pumping so much blood into her veins that she was sure her head would soon burst apart.
“In your coronation oath you swore to protect the Holy Sepulcher, yet it is trampled under the feet of infidels. And you swore, Madame, to protect the people of Jerusalem, but tens of thousands now groan under the yoke of Saracen masters. Christian maidens are deflowered and debauched by Muslim men while their fathers and brothers watch in helpless agony, chained to the oars of Saracen galleys and driven with whips to the stone quarries or the infamous tin mines. All because of you, Madame.”
“No, no!” Sibylla re
ared up to scream at him in furious protest. Her eyes widened, and her eyeballs seemed ready to pop out of her head. She clutched at her heart between her massive breasts, and her tongue protruded as she gasped for breath that would not come. Then she blacked out. Five minutes later she was dead.
Tyre, mid-October 1190
Alys was singing solo while Ernoul accompanied her on a harp. The overcrowded hall of the Ibelin residence was so still one could hear the rain pattering on the closed shutters. Alys had always had a beautiful voice, but when she was a half-starved girl straining to be heard above the squabbles and laughter of sailors and soldiers, it had often been lost amidst the ruder noises. Nor did a ragged beggar command the same respect as a young woman dressed, as she was now, in a gown of saffron-colored cotton under an embroidered surcoat of carmine. Her hair was modestly covered by a wimple, and the neckline of her gown was so high there was no skin exposed between veils and bodice. No one coming upon her here for the first time would dream that in the past she had been taken for a whore. But mostly it was the elegant accompaniment of the harp that made men think of royal courts rather than taverns. Ernoul had mastered this new instrument to an exceptional degree.
Alys was singing a song of grief for a lover gone to an early grave. Ernoul had composed the song himself, but he’d told his audience it originated from a great Western troubadour, knowing they’d be more impressed that way. The combination of text and performance had captivated everyone. Nanny Anne was dabbing her eye with her sleeves and sniffling, while several squires were looking decidedly lovesick. Even the more jaded members of the household were so absorbed by the song and the singer that a loud hammering on the door below was ignored at first. Only when male voices started shouting for admittance did Ibelin gesture irritably for one of the squires to go and see who it was. The mood, however, had been shattered. Alys ended the song abruptly, reaching for a glazed pottery cup filled with wine.
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