“But, Madame, she came with two knights and four squires, two grooms, and I don’t know how many dogs.”
“Send the squires and dogs into the lower hall. The grooms are here to take the horses around to the stables, and the two knights can be seen into the hall. Take my daughter to the solar and offer her wine. Then go down to the kitchen and see what light refreshments we can offer. I’ll be there in just a few moments.”
When Alys had withdrawn, Maria Zoë kicked off the clogs she wore for everyday in the house and slipped on stockings and shoes. She replaced her plain cotton veils with embroidered gauze and started down the stairs. To her surprise, Isabella was waiting at the foot of the staircase instead of in the solar. “Mama!” She kissed her mother on both cheeks and then urged, “Can we sit on the terrace? The weather is so pleasant.”
Maria Zoë agreed at once and reversed her steps with Isabella behind her. While the weather was indeed very pleasant, still warm and sunny but no longer humid or blistering as in high summer, she was fairly certain that Isabella’s motive for the change of venue was to be out of earshot of her knights. The Marquis de Montferrat was a man very conscious of status and appearance, and he insisted that Isabella never go anywhere in public without a “proper” escort. But whether knights, squires, or grooms, they were her husband’s men, not her own. Only the dogs were truly her own, and they trailed behind her now, panting and eager as only healthy young hounds can be.
The rooftop terrace was protected from the sun by a canvas awning, and from the wind by potted yews and oleander that alternated with one another. There were benches to sit on and a small mosaic table on which to set refreshments or books. Maria Zoë sent Alys, who had been trailing Isabella looking distressed and confused, to the kitchen for wine and refreshments before settling herself on one of the benches.
Isabella, she noted as her daughter made herself comfortable on the bench perpendicular to her, was dressed regally. She wore blue silk veils with a gold border, draped so the edge fluttered down her back. Her surcoat was likewise trimmed with gold, imitating the look of a heavy necklace across her breast. The insides of her wide sleeves shimmered, and the undergown was dusted with embroidered stars. While Isabella had always had a flair for dressing well, Conrad’s influence was evident in the emphasis on her wealth and status.
The woman beneath the clothes, however, looked strained. Although her skin was unblemished, smooth, and suffused with healthy color, there were streaks of blue under her eyes. Her well-formed rose-red lips were chapped, as if she’d been chewing them. Most of all, her expression was more sober than it had been in the early months of her marriage to Montferrat. Maria Zoë had sensed for several months that the “honeymoon” was over, and she suspected that Isabella was experiencing her first marital crisis.
Just three weeks ago, Isabella had joyously confided in her mother that she was pregnant at last, but this announcement had followed a period of increasing tension between Isabella and Conrad centered on the need for an heir. Maria Zoë surmised that something had gone wrong with the pregnancy and that Montferrat had taken the news badly. Reaching out to Isabella, she asked gently, “You wouldn’t be here to tell me I’m not about to become a grandmother, would you?”
“How did you guess?” Isabella asked amazed, before looking down at her belly with an expression both sad and angry. “My flux came after all. I don’t understand it!”
Maria Zoë sighed. Arguably the worst aspect of being a queen was the pressure to produce male heirs. Her failure to do so had strained her marriage with Amalric—and how different the history of Jerusalem might have been if only she had given him a healthy son! Had Isabella been a boy, the crown would have passed from Baldwin IV to her son without question, and Maria Zoë herself, with Balian beside her, would have been regent. But there was no point in thinking about that. She asked her daughter instead, “Is the Marquis very angry?”
“No,” Isabella claimed unconvincingly. “Seriously,” she stressed, making her mother more suspicious than ever. “It’s just . . .
Maria Zoë had been waiting for it. “Yes?”
“Oh, Mama! What’s wrong with me? First Humphrey was impotent, and now, when I have a husband who can hardly leave me alone, I can’t conceive! I’m beginning to think God is truly against me—”
“Don’t even say it. Humphrey’s impotence was not your fault. As for your failure to conceive, there could be many reasons.” She paused. At nineteen Isabella was an ideal age for breeding, and she had been married to Montferrat nearly a year, so for all Maria Zoë’s conviction, explanations were not readily apparent. She opted to suggest, “We should start by consulting the midwife, of course, to be sure there is no physical impediment, but we cannot exclude the possibility that the Marquis is to blame.”
“Oh, I don’t think it could be his fault,” Isabella hastened to say, blushing slightly. “He’s so, well, so . . . virile.” She turned her head away as she spoke, embarrassed to meet her mother’s eyes while talking of these things.
Maria Zoë understood her daughter’s shyness and tried to keep her tone clinical. “My dear, no matter how active and well-endowed a man may be, his seed is not necessarily fertile. It takes fertile seed as well as fertile soil to produce new life. I know men tend to forget that, but that doesn’t make it any less true. I expect the Marquis is not the kind of man to doubt himself in any context—least of all in bed—so we’ll get nowhere suggesting it him. We’d be better off praying to St. Anne. Meanwhile, let me give you some lip salve to heal that chapping. You’ve been biting your lips again, haven’t you?”
“Oh, Mama! It’s not just that I’m not pregnant,” Isabella burst out, biting her lips as if to stop herself from saying more (and confirming her mother’s suspicions).
Maria Zoë reached out and put a hand on her daughter’s knee. When Isabella met her eyes she urged gently, “What is it, Bella?”
Isabella didn’t find it easy to answer because she was deeply confused. After Humphrey’s return from captivity their relationship had been marked by increasingly bitter quarrels that she had blamed on the lack of physical intimacy. But now the pattern was repeating itself, despite the fact that Conrad could not seem to make love to her often enough. If she had learned the hard way that a marriage without sex wasn’t a marriage at all, she was beginning to think that a marriage based only on sex was hardly any better.
She tried to explain things to herself as much as her mother, noting: “Conrad doesn’t seem at all interested in what I have to say. He seems to think I’m still a child.”
“Ah,” Maria Zoё commented. She’d had that problem with Aimery too and nodded knowingly.
“And it doesn’t help that he’s so—so angry! Not with me. It’s not about me at all,” Isabella protested defensively. “But he’s afraid all his achievements, all he did to rescue the Holy Land, will be forgotten now that the King of England has been so successful. First he took Acre and now Jaffa, and with the conquest of Jaffa the Lusignans’ position is stronger than ever. Apparently King Richard wants to revive Jaffa completely, not just use it as a base for the assault on Jerusalem. He’s urging merchants and tradesmen to return, and he’s brought masons and carpenters down from Acre to ensure the rebuilding is done properly.”
“That’s wise,” Maria Zoë noted, “Whatever makes your kingdom stronger, Bella, is in your best interests.”
“That’s just what I said!” Isabella burst out, “but Conrad told me I hadn’t ‘a peahen’s understanding of politics.’”
“What?” Maria Zoë stiffened sharply. “Were those the words he used?”
“Yes, and it wasn’t the first time he’s said things like that. He often tells me that I shouldn’t worry ‘my little brain’ about politics, and that I should ‘do what I’m good at’—meaning keeping him happy in bed. But I’m not particularly stupid, am I?”
“Of course you’re not!” Her mother (as expected) dismissed the notion imperiously. “And even if you were, h
e should show you more respect!” Maria Zoë’s eyes and lips were narrowed as she thought back on her encounters with Montferrat. He had always tried to flatter her with compliments about her body, and had been consistently discomfited by having to deal with her as an intelligent being. Amalric had tended to keep her out of politics, but he had never been dismissive of her opinions, much less overtly insulting. If Conrad was not able to accept that his wife had a brain when he was so dependent on her for his position, what was he likely to do if he was ever anointed king? Maria Zoë found herself beginning to wonder of this marriage had been such a wise thing after all.
Meanwhile, Isabella was trying to explain the tensions that had festered into the most recent clash with Conrad. “Did you hear that Salah ad-Din has torn down Ascalon?” Ascalon had been one of the few cities the Saracens had not demolished during their orgy of destruction in 1187 and 1188. Instead, after the Frankish residents had been expelled, it had been resettled with Egyptians.
“I did receive reports to that effect,” Maria Zoë admitted. Haakon Magnussen, whose restless soul could not remain in any one place very long, had been “scouting” (and, Maria Zoë suspected, pirating) along the coast. He’d reported that the Saracens were demolishing the towers and walls.
“That means Geoffrey de Lusignan will get his county. Conrad is afraid of that.” Isabella confided in her mother. “Especially since he has no means of gaining Sidon and Beirut—not with all the fighting men following King Richard.”
“Ah, yes,” Maria Zoë was beginning to understand. After the fall of Acre, the Kings of France and England, in council with the other leaders, had brokered a deal whereby Guy de Lusignan was recognized as King of Jerusalem so long as he lived, and Conrad de Montferrat was recognized as his successor. The deal also named Conrad de Montferrat “Count” of Tyre (to include the lordships of Sidon and Beirut), and Geoffrey de Lusignan Count of Jaffa and Ascalon. While the latter appointment was (ominously from the Montferrat perspective) the traditional fief of the heir to the throne of Jerusalem, at the time it had also been completely fictional, as neither Jaffa nor Ascalon had been in Frankish hands. With the capture of Jaffa by the English King, and Ascalon within grasp, the situation had changed; Conrad had good reason to be unsettled by this increase in Lusignan strength, while his own remained unchanged.
Isabella continued with agitation born of the argument that had spawned this visit, “Conrad wants to negotiate with the Sultan. He thinks he might be able to talk him into ceding Beirut and Sidon without a fight, but he can’t go himself. When I encouraged him to try, he called me an idiot and reminded me what happened the last time he’d negotiated with Salah ad-Din.”
“Oh? He called you an idiot for the fact that he threatened his own father with a crow-bow?” Maria Zoë was rapidly losing her patience with her son-in-law.
Isabella forged ahead, determined not to get distracted from her mission. “What I was thinking, Mama, Uncle Balian seems able to talk to Salah ad-Din. Do you think he might go to the Sultan on Conrad’s behalf?” Isabella asked hopefully. “I’m sure if he went he’d be successful, and then Conrad will be grateful to all of us. He has promised to give Beirut to Uncle Balian once he has control of it,” she reminded her mother hopefully.
“The Sultan, or one of his emirs, also tried to assassinate your stepfather; have you forgotten?” Maria Zoë reminded her daughter.
“But that was during the siege,” Isabella protested. “When he asked for Humphrey’s release, he was courteously received.”
“Sir Bartholmew was courteously received,” her mother corrected. But Maria Zoë could also sense how much hope Isabella placed in this mission and she honestly did not know how else to help her daughter. She could hardly barge in on Montferrat and lecture him on how he ought to treat his wife!
She put her hand on Isabella’s cheek and then leaned forward to kiss her forehead. Drawing back, she promised with a smile, “I’ll ask him. We can send a messenger by the first ship out tomorrow. But remember, I can’t promise anything. All we can do is ask if he’ll consider going to the Sultan on the Marquis’ behalf.”
Although he had responded to his wife’s summons, leaving his men behind in Jaffa under the command of Sir Galvin, Ibelin was far from excited about the diplomatic initiative Montferrat wanted to launch. He heard Montferrat out in complete silence, glancing now and again at Isabella, who sat at the table with them.
Montferrat laid out all his arguments, and Ibelin still said nothing, sipping his wine slowly instead. Montferrat was forced to prompt him: “Well, will you do it?”
“Go to Salah ah-Din on your behalf with these terms?” The very way he put the question made it sound like Montferrat was mad.
Montferrat had ordered Isabella to let him do the talking, but she could not could not keep silent any longer. “Please, Uncle Balian!” she pleaded.
Montferrat thought Ibelin’s expression softened when his eyes settled on his stepdaughter. Isabella looked wonderfully soft and lovely at the moment, in garnet and ruby tones that brought out the red highlights in her hair. Conrad was amazed that even after a year of marriage, he still found her as attractive as he had four years ago. Her sexual attraction, however, was unlikely to move her stepfather, and Conrad felt a growing resentment that she had come up with this hare-brained scheme to request Ibelin’s assistance.
Ibelin turned back to Montferrat, and the softness had gone out of his eyes. “No, I’m not prepared to take those terms to Salah ad-Din.” The eyes he leveled at Montferrat seemed molten with smoldering anger, while the lines around them were very distinct. His jaw, darkened with the first shadow of a beard, was set.
“Uncle Balian!” Isabella cried out in despair. It was not just his refusal to go that wounded her, but the thought of what Conrad would do and say to her the minute her stepfather was gone. Desperation gave her the courage to speak despite Conrad’s orders to the contrary. “Think what it would mean if we had peace!” she pleaded. “If we could start to rebuild without fear of losing everything again! If the Sultan agreed to restore Sidon—as he actually promised once already—Helvis could marry and take up her position as Lady of Sidon.”
Balian looked at his stepdaughter with sympathy, but then turned his eyes again on her husband. “There is nothing in these terms about the tens of thousands of Christian captives. The King of England was persuaded to include them in the terms of surrender for Acre; I expect no less of you.”
“You mean you would go to Salah ad-Din on my behalf if my offer included a demand for the return of Christian captives?” Montferrat sounded surprised, and then shrugged. “I don’t see why he should agree to that, but you’re welcome to include the demand, as far as I’m concerned.”
It was the way he shrugged that angered Ibelin most, but he kept his emotions on a tight rein. “You’re right; there is no reason to think he would agree to the release of all the captives. How many Saracen prisoners and slaves do we have in Tyre?”
Montferrat shrugged again. “There are some three hundred prisoners in the dungeon that we took when we seized their ships. I have no idea if anyone is holding slaves privately.”
Ibelin said nothing, but he was clearly not pleased. He did not like this deal, and he did not like Montferrat’s apparent indifference to the rest of the Kingdom, much less the captives. The deal amounted to selling out everything south of Tyre, agreeing not to interfere in the Sultan’s war against the crusader army, in exchange for having Salah ad-Din recognize Montferrat’s right to hold the County of Tyre (including Sidon and Beirut).
On the other hand, such recognition would have distinct advantages, Balian reminded himself. Salah ad-Din had long vowed he wanted to drive the Christians into the sea. If he could really be convinced to acknowledge their right to any territory, it would a victory of sorts. A bloodless one at that.
Ibelin reached for his wine and sipped it again. It was a heavy, sweet wine from Cyprus. Not really his taste at all.
Isabella t
ried again. “Surely the release of three hundred Christians is better than the release of none. You could specify captives from Ibelin, Ramla, and Mirabel.”
Balian studied Isabella. Maria Zoë had told him Isabella’s marriage was strained by her failure to produce an heir, and that Montferrat also showed little respect for her mind. He saw what her mother had seen: the circles under her eyes and the frailness of her body. She reminded him of Eschiva in the early years of her marriage. The difference was that his brother had given Eschiva to Aimery, while he was to blame for Isabella’s marriage to Montferrat. If taking Montferrat’s embassy to Salah ad-Din would help her in a difficult situation, it seemed like the least he could do. What was there to lose, really? Montferrat wasn’t helping the crusaders anyway, so a promise not to help them did not weaken them in any way. If it secured peace in the north and the return of some of the captives, that was a step in the right direction. The King of England and the powerful forces under his command might still wring a military victory in the south. Last but not least, meeting with Salah ad-Din would reveal something about what he was thinking at this point in time. Unlike Maria Zoë, Balian did not think he was personally in any danger. He was convinced that whoever had tried to assassinate him during the siege of Tyre had done so simply to achieve a military objective, not out of personal hatred.
Ibelin nodded. “All right. I’ll take your peace offer to Salah ad-Din.”
Isabella jumped up and flung her arms around him in gratitude. “Thank you, Uncle Balian. I knew I could trust you! I knew it!”
Saracen headquarters, Ramla, early October 1191
Ramla had been his mother’s inheritance that passed to his elder brother Barry at her death. Barry had immediately taken up residence in Ramla, although Balian remained in Ibelin, and it had been here that all Barry’s children had been born. Even after Barry had officially renounced his inheritance and left it along with his infant son in Balian’s care, Balian had not moved to Ramla. In Balian’s mind, Ramla remained Barry’s and Eschiva’s home, not his own. But that did not make it easy to see the rooftops flying the Sultan’s banners nor find the town flooded with Saracen troops. It wounded him to see the crosses on the churches replaced with crescents or simply discarded, and it ignited a slow-burning fury when he saw the doors to chapels shattered and the insides gutted. By the time he was led to his brother’s fine town residence and told this was the Sultan’s headquarters, Balian was deeply regretting his decision to come on this mission.
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