Envoy of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  The shouting and pounding moved from the street into the courtyard, and the occupants of the hall turned to look in alarm toward the entrance as they heard multiple pairs of feet pounding up the courtyard steps towards the first floor. An instant later a half-dozen men burst through the screens into the hall, bringing with them the cool, damp air of the outside, the smell of wet wool, and the sight of glistening conical helmets, for the rain made the steel shine.

  “My lord!” The leader of the intruders was the ruggedly handsome Norseman Haakon Magnussen, and he was followed by a half-dozen of his men. He paused, both to catch his breath and to be sure he had everyone’s attention. Then he announced: “Queen Sibylla of Jerusalem is dead!”

  The hall erupted. Men wanted to know how and when. Women crossed themselves and called down blessings on the dead. The children began asking each other what was going on, and the dogs started barking. Ignoring them all, Magnussen crossed the distance to the high table with long, loping strides that still bore the rhythm of the sea. On the dais, both Ibelin and his lady had sprung to their feet. As Magnussen reached them, Ibelin asked in disbelief, “You’re sure of this? The Queen is dead?”

  Magnussen met Ibelin eye to eye. “She succumbed to a fever that is sweeping through the camp and has claimed the lives of both her daughters, her uncle, and the Patriarch as well.”

  “Holy Mother of God!” Maria Zoë gasped. “What of my daughter? The Lady of Toron?”

  “She was well, last I heard, my lady,” Magnussen assured the Dowager Queen. While Maria Zoë crossed herself in relief and added a prayer for Isabella’s safety, Ibelin handed the Norse captain his own goblet of wine, which the Norseman downed in a single draught.

  “You say the Queen and her daughters are dead?” Ibelin pressed Magnussen, as the Norseman handed back the goblet. “And the Patriarch, and the Count of Edessa?”

  “Exactly.”

  That was, with the exception of Aimery de Lusignan, everyone who had supported the usurpation of Sibylla and Guy in 1186, Balian calculated, stunned. He had rarely seen such ruthless evidence of Divine Justice, albeit later than he would have liked. It even made sense that Aimery, who had repented that usurpation, had been spared. Then, alert as a hunting lion, he asked sharply: “And King Guy?”

  “He’s well, my lord. No sign of him getting the fever when I left.”

  Ibelin absorbed that, and asked in a calmer voice, “When did the Queen die?”

  “She died two days ago, my lord. As soon as I heard, I put to sea. We had a following wind and current and rowed whenever conditions permitted. I doubt any man alive could have beat me here.”

  Ibelin smiled at that and readily agreed. “I believe you, Master Magnussen. Sit down;” he indicated the chair beside his own, adding, “you must be hungry,” and he beckoned to Georgios to bring a place setting and food for the Norse captain. The latter gestured for his own men to take seats at the lower tables, where they were already surrounded and assaulted by questioners.

  “Tell me everything you know,” Ibelin urged, lowering himself into his chair but leaning forward in his seat. Behind him, his lady remained standing, far too agitated to resume her seat, yet determined not to miss a single word.

  “Despite all that has happened in the last year, the situation in Acre has not fundamentally changed since the siege started, my lord,” Magnussen began.

  It had indeed been an eventful year. Three great and powerful kings who had taken the cross had died: Henry II of England, William II of Sicily, and most devastating of all, Friedrich “Barbarossa,” the Holy Roman Emperor. The latter had been advancing through Asia Minor at the head of a mighty host coming to the relief of the Holy Land, when he had drowned while crossing a river. His death led to the almost complete disintegration of his army. Many of his vassals and their men simply turned around and headed home via Constantinople. Only about ten thousand continued on to Antioch, where they then halted. Montferrat had been forced to travel north to implore Friedrich of Swabia, the new commander, to bring his men south, but although Friedrich had come with most of his remaining knights, they brought a force of just five thousand men—one-tenth of the number who had set out from the Holy Roman Empire.

  Meanwhile, at the siege of Acre, a combined Frankish assault on the beleaguered city by land and sea had resulted in nothing but thousands of casualties. Likewise, an attempt to drive Salah ad-Din off the heights surrounding the siege camp had ended in bloody failure. Adding insult to injury, an Egyptian fleet had succeeded in breaking through the Frankish blockade to relieve the Saracen garrison.

  Morale was further undermined by the fact that the command of the land forces around Acre splintered more with the arrival of each new contingent of troops, from Friedrich of Swabia with the remnants of the German crusade, to the Counts of Champagne and Flanders with the advance guard of the French. The French did not recognize the primacy of Swabia, the Germans were contemptuous of the French, the Danes and Frisians recognized no authority at all, and the Pisans and Genoese, who had worked jointly in the sea assault on Acre, had since fallen to bickering again.

  Magnussen was summarizing. “The arrival of new fighting men is offset by the casualties incurred either in the near perpetual skirmishing or through illness. The latter has been most deadly this past month.”

  “What is it? Dysentery?” Maria Zoë wanted to know.

  The Norseman shrugged; he was no doctor. “It ignites a high fever and it kills fast, but it is not dysentery. Something else. It’s taken the life of Friedrich of Swabia in addition to the Patriarch, Queen Sibylla, her daughters, and Edessa. Furthermore, supplies are running short again, and the winter storms haven’t even started yet. Things are only going to get worse, not better.”

  “And still no word of the French and English Kings?” Ibelin asked, exasperated.

  “They have both reached Sicily, my lord, but it is too late in the year to sail east now. I had that news from a Sicilian mariner who arrived only the day before Queen Sibylla died. He also reported that the young English King made a huge fuss about his sister’s dower being sequestered and the lady herself confined against her will by King Tancred. He described King Richard as hotheaded and arrogant, and did not think he got on well with the French King.”

  Ibelin found himself wondering how much more bad news he could bear, and his expression reflected his grim mood. They had put so much hope and trust in the relief armies that the Holy Roman Emperor and the French and English Kings had promised to bring east—but the German army had disintegrated, the French were dying like flies while their King tarried, and the English had yet to arrive at all. Furthermore, the English King, far from being the formidable Henry II, was now Richard of Poitou, a man with a bad reputation. He had rebelled against his august father and driven the good King to an early grave. Ibelin had no reason to think well of King Richard.

  On the other hand, the death of Sibylla and her daughters, he reminded himself, was surely a divine sign. Sibylla had never exercised her authority independently, much less intelligently. She was little more than the conduit for passing royal power to her husband and heirs. But with her daughters dead, her heir was her half-sister Isabella.

  Balian glanced over at his wife. Her expression was worried, her brows drawn together, her eyes turned inward. He guessed she was far ahead of him in considering the implications this death had for all of them.

  “Master Magnussen,” Ibelin turned to his guest. “Make yourself at home, but forgive me if I withdraw with my lady wife.”

  “Of course, my lord.” The Norseman nodded curtly to the Dowager Queen. He found her rather intimidating and never felt fully comfortable in her presence—in large part because he was more attracted to her than was good for him.

  Ibelin offered his arm to his wife. Together they made their way down the hall and up the internal stairs to the only room in the house where they had a shred of privacy: their bedchamber.

  No sooner had the door clunked shut behind them
than Maria Zoë declared, “Isabella is now the rightful Queen of Jerusalem.”

  “I know, but I very much doubt Guy de Lusignan—much less Geoffrey de Lusignan—is prepared to acknowledge that, and you’ll find no one among the barons of Jerusalem willing to pay homage to Toron. He burned his bridges when he left us in the lurch at Nablus.”

  “Isabella said he fought very bravely and that all the barons showed him great respect after he was so badly wounded.”

  “We’re not barbarians, Zoё. I’d have treated him kindly, too, if he’d been willing to return here during his recuperation. But being nice to a man when he’s wounded is not the same thing as vowing fealty to him as King.”

  “You’re saying you’d rather have a man known to be an incompetent ass than a youth who—”

  “Has proved himself treacherous? Yes. Remember, he didn’t just betray us at Nablus; he was thick as thieves with the Sultan’s secretary Imad ad-Din.”

  “And he has been fighting the Saracens ever since he returned. You don’t seriously think he is the Sultan’s man, do you?”

  “No; I think he’s a spineless, self-pitying youth who has none of the qualities essential in a good king: courage in word and deed, good judgment, decisiveness, a sharp understanding of men and how to lead them, and the charm to inspire loyalty. Humphrey is indecisive, weak-willed, afraid of responsibility, retiring, and humorless. Sibylla’s death is a God-sent opportunity to place the future of Jerusalem in the hands of a man capable of regaining it. We cannot squander such a chance by putting the crown on the head of a man who has already proved himself inadequate!” The heat of his emotions made Balian’s tone sharp and far less polite than usual.

  Maria Zoë was silent for a few moments. Her opinion of Humphrey had never been quite as low as Balian’s, but her views were colored by the fact that Isabella loved him so much. She knew Isabella would be loath to part from him. But Maria Zoë was a crowned queen, and she had been raised in the imperial court of Constantinople. In power politics there was little room for affection. Indeed, a princess’ love (not to say lust) for an unsuitable man had plunged them into this abyss in the first place. If Sibylla had married the Lord of Ramla instead of the woefully inadequate Guy de Lusignan, the army of Jerusalem would not have been lured onto the plains behind the Horns of Hattin, and the Kingdom would still exist today.

  “So,” Maria Zoë concluded, “if Isabella is to be recognized as Queen by the High Court of Jerusalem, she will have to set Humphrey aside —as Sibylla so singularly failed to renounce Guy.”

  “Exactly,” Balian confirmed, “and she’ll have to do it before, not after, the coronation. After Sibylla’s betrayal, no one will accept a mere promise. She’ll have to divorce and remarry a man acceptable to the High Court before she is crowned.”

  “And who do you think that might be?” Maria Zoë wondered out loud.

  Balian shook his head and sighed. “I haven’t a clue at the moment. Sidon’s single. We could dissolve his betrothal to Helvis to clear the way for him to marry Isabella.”

  Maria Zoë frowned. She liked Reginald de Sidon, but she did not see him as exceptional enough to be raised above his peers. Besides, he was over 60. “Bohemond of Antioch?” she suggested instead.

  “Maybe,” Balian agreed at once. “That would unite Tripoli and Jerusalem—but even better would be Raymond of Antioch. That marriage would unite Antioch and Jerusalem, but I’m not sure if either prince of Antioch can be lured south to take part in the siege of Acre. Then again, there’s also no reason why they should. The decision to besiege Acre was another of Guy’s harebrained ideas that made little tactical sense. It would have been far more rational to retake Sidon, Beirut, and Gibelet in order to re-establish continuous control of the coast from here to Tripoli.”

  “Yes,” Maria Zoë agreed absently. She generally left military tactics to her husband, but conceded, “It’s a pity Montferrat did not support your effort to recapture Sidon. Which reminds me of Montferrat. He’s very likely to put himself forward as a candidate for Isabella’s hand.”

  “Montferrat?” Balian frowned. “Why?”

  “He is not a humble man,” Maria Zoë observed dryly. “I think he fancies a crown—and Isabella.”

  Not for the first time, Ibelin was struck by his wife’s political acumen. She had gauged Montferrat perfectly. Within hours of learning of Sibylla’s death, Montferrat made a call on the Ibelins. Notably, Montferrat did not send for Ibelin, as he had so often done in the past. Instead, he rode to the Ibelin residence with a large retinue. He had also gone to the trouble to dress in his best finery, including a feathered cap and a sable-lined velvet cloak. Montferrat’s changed behavior drove home to Ibelin that his own status had changed overnight with Sibylla’s death. He might only be the titular baron to a lost lordship in a kingdom that had almost ceased to exist, but he was also stepfather of the sole legitimate heir to that kingdom.

  Montferrat’s retinue was left on the ground floor, and Montferrat was escorted to the solar on the floor above. Since there was no door separating the solar from the hall, the area was not secluded, but it offered comparative privacy. Georgios and Ernoul provided wine, nuts, and dried fruits and then positioned themselves at the juncture with the hall to prevent others from coming near enough to eavesdrop.

  Montferrat bowed deeply to Maria Zoë Comnena, kissed her hand, and opened in Greek. “It never ceases to amaze me, my lady, how you defy the laws of nature to look as young and radiant as a maiden! It is always a pleasure to look upon your face.”

  “And it never ceases to amaze me that men think a compliment on a woman’s looks is the best means to ingratiate themselves,” Maria Zoë answered in French, to ensure her husband understood what she was saying. “I am wise enough to know flattery when I hear it, my lord, and old enough to resent being patronized. You are here on account of my daughter Isabella, the rightful Queen of Jerusalem, not to make me empty compliments. Please, sit down, so we can discuss the situation like rational human beings.” She indicated a chair at a round mosaic table before the hooded fireplace, then seated herself between Montferrat and her husband. Her high-necked purple gown was embroidered with gold, and her long, flowing sleeves, lined with shimmering gold silk, cascaded on either side of her chair. Balian had to suppress a smile at Montferrat’s evident consternation, for she was indeed both beautiful and regal at that moment.

  The handsome Italian was unused to having women dismiss his gallantries, but he bowed his head graciously and took the seat offered. He slowly sipped the wine Ibelin poured for him, using the time to recover his composure. Then he set down the enameled glass goblet, smiled, and made the best of a bad start by admitting, “Indeed, Madame, I am here about your daughter. It will not have escaped your notice that I was enchanted by her from the day we met, and I have been distressed by her enforced absence. I most certainly would not have subjected my tender and noble wife to a siege camp—if I had one. But my marriage to your kinsman has been dissolved at her behest, leaving me solo.” He paused, apparently expecting some comment. When none came, he was forced to continue. “With the death of her sister, Isabella’s safety is more important than ever, not for herself alone but for the Kingdom she embodies. She should not remain exposed to the dangers of disease and enemy action any longer. She must be brought to safety—back to Tyre—at once.”

  “Just how do you propose to remove my daughter from her husband, my lord?” Queen Maria Zoё replied.

  Montferrat cleared his throat. “My lady: as you said yourself, your daughter is the rightful Queen of Jerusalem. Her husband by rights should be King, but Toron is clearly neither inclined to nor suited for such an exalted position—certainly not in the present crisis. For the good of her kingdom, your daughter must set Toron aside and marry a man capable of regaining her kingdom for her.”

  “The laws and customs of the Kingdom of Jerusalem are very clear on the subject of the marriage of a princess designated as the heir,” Ibelin interjected. “T
he selection of a female heir’s husband is reserved to the High Court of Jerusalem. King Baldwin IV ignored the laws and customs of the Kingdom when he allowed his sister Sibylla to marry Guy de Lusignan without the consent of the High Court. If Isabella were to set aside her current husband, who was likewise selected without the consent of the High Court, then it will be the High Court of Jerusalem, not her mother or I, who selects her consort.”

  “Regaining Jerusalem will require the help of all of Christendom,” Montferrat answered solemnly, meeting Ibelin’s gaze. “A man with close ties to the most powerful kingdoms of the West would, therefore, be ideal.”

  Ibelin could hardly deny that, so he conceded, “True enough.” Then he asked, as if he didn’t already know the answer, “Did you have someone in mind?”

  “I’m first cousin to Friedrich Barbarossa, late Holy Roman Emperor, first cousin to Louis VII, father of the ruling King Philip II of France, and nephew to Duke Leopold of Austria, who now commands the remnants of my cousin’s German crusade since Friedrich of Swabia has also died. Nor should you forget that the High Court found my brother William a suitable husband for Sibylla, when she was heir to the throne. Last but not least, I have demonstrated my commitment to the Holy Land by my presence here these last three years, and I have demonstrated my ability to defeat the Sultan in battle.”

  “Then you wish to sue for Isabella’s hand?” Ibelin concluded, their eyes locked.

  “Yes, I do.” Montferrat’s face was flushed by the intensity of his emotions. The fire burning in the grate was reflected in them—a purely physical coincidence that nevertheless underlined the ambition smoldering inside.

  “I will put your proposal to the High Court,” Ibelin answered, adding realistically, “or at least those members of it present in Tyre.”

  “Do they constitute a quorum?” Montferrat immediately wanted to know.