John stood as still and tall as possible while the armorer slipped the coat of mail over his head, but when he shrugged his shoulders to try to get it to sit more comfortably, he was alarmed by how heavy it felt. He’d been cleaning his father’s armor for years, and he thought he was intimately familiar with it. How could it feel so different on his own shoulders? Olafsen was tugging at the hem of the armor and looking with a critical eye at the way it sat. “I think we’d better add five more rings to the girth and ten to the sleeves. You’ve got very long arms, Lord John.”
“That’s because he’s always snitching other people’s things,” Philip suggested maliciously.
“Philip! What sort of nonsense is that?” his mother rebuked sharply. She was at the high table going over the kitchen clerk’s proposed procurement for the coming week. Looking across the room to frown at her younger son, she saw her husband enter at the foot of the hall.
Because she wasn’t expecting him, she let out a startled cry of “Balian!” and jumped to her feet to greet him. Yet even before she had left the dais, she knew something was wrong by the grim expression on his face. She met him halfway down the hall, her sons behind her, and forestalled any comment on his part by asking, “What’s wrong? Was the Sultan’s answer so terrible?”
“It was—but not unreasonable,” he replied. “The Sultan pointed out that Montferrat was not in a position to give away things he did not possess—such as the territories recaptured and held by the English King. He’s right, and it was a fool’s errand, but what I don’t understand and can’t accept is that Montferrat told me to agree to these terms!”
“But how can you? If he can’t give away what he doesn’t control—”
“He’s willing to make a pact with Salah ad-Din! Willing to make war on his fellow Christians! All for the sake of securing his foothold here! Nothing matters to him but holding on to Tyre!”
“Weren’t Sidon and Beirut included?” Reginald de Sidon asked, leaving his chess game and his betrothed to join Balian and Maria Zoë in the center of the hall.
“What difference does that make?” Ibelin snapped at his fellow baron. “Salah ad-Din’s terms are that Montferrat take Acre! Aside from that being nearly impossible, it would mean an open break—no, open bloodshed—between Montferrat’s men and the Frankish garrison of Tyre. I’ll have no part of that!”
“Of course not!” Maria Zoë agreed, slipping her arms around him in a gesture of support and comfort to try to calm him down. She had not seen him this agitated in a long time, and she did not like the tension she saw on his face or felt in his taut body.
“I don’t see the harm in agreeing to those terms,” Sidon countered. “We don’t have to act on them immediately—just get acceptance in principle that Tyre, Sidon, and Beirut belong to us.”
Ibelin twisted free of his wife’s embrace to confront Sidon furiously. “Does Sidon mean that much to you? So much that you’d sacrifice Acre and Christian lives?”
“Doesn’t Ibelin mean that much to you?” Sidon shot back, with a significant glance toward Helvis, who was watching the exchange in alarm from the window seat.
Balian had to think about that only for a second before shaking his head firmly. “No! I would not go to war with my fellow Christians just to retain Ibelin—or Ibelin, Ramla, and Mirabel altogether, for that matter! Salah ad-Din seeks only to divide us among ourselves so he can conquer us separately—just as he did with his separate peace with Tripoli before Hattin. We must not let him! We must fight together!”
“And you’ve told Montferrat that?” Maria Zoë asked anxiously.
“Of course!” her husband snapped back.
“And how did he react?” Maria Zoë wanted to know.
“He called me a treacherous bastard and ordered me out of his sight—which was fine with me, as I don’t much care for the sight of him, either!”
That was exactly what Maria Zoë feared, at once sensitive to the difficult situation Isabella was now in. She was going to have to find some means of visiting Isabella at the earliest opportunity and possibly building a bridge to Montferrat.
“Look, I’m willing to take Montferrat’s answer to Salah ad-Din,” Sidon insisted, causing Maria Zoë and Balian to stare over at him, the former puzzled and the later angry. “Listen to me!” Sidon demanded. “Agreement is not the same thing as execution. We are already divided among ourselves, in case you haven’t noticed, and we should not ignore the possibility that the English King could also make a deal with Salah ad-Din—and who’s to say he would not be willing to sacrifice us for what he has reconquered?”
The question shook Balian to the core. He had not considered that possibility, and he shook his head at once. “I can’t believe Richard of England would do that!”
“And Guy de Lusignan?” Sidon asked next.
“Guy—God help us!” Balian shook his head in despair. He could not fathom the man’s mind, and so anything seemed possible. Then his blood ran cold, and he admitted, “I ran into Humphrey de Toron in Ramla. He claimed to be there representing the Kings of England and Jerusalem.”
“Toron? Who would choose him as an envoy? He eats out of Salah ad-Din’s hand!” Maria Zoë exclaimed derisively. Any remnants of sympathy for Toron had been extinguished by Isabella’s initial joy in her new marriage. Regardless of any strains in that marriage now—or indeed regardless of whether Montferrat was the right husband for her—the way Isabella had first blossomed after her divorce told Maria Zoë more than she needed to know about what kind of husband Humphrey had really been. In retrospect, she wished she had protested the validity of Isabella’s marriage to Toron the minute he had betrayed the barons at Nablus. They could have dissolved the marriage then, and Isabella could have married one of the Tiberius brothers or Antioch’s son—any nobleman with the backbone to challenge Sibylla and Guy immediately. Hattin need not have happened, and Isabella would have been happier sooner—and with a man better than Montferrat.
“But he speaks—and writes—exquisite Arabic,” Sidon was pointing out.
“And he hates me and Montferrat more than the devil—much less Salah ad-Din,” Balian himself noted, only belatedly grasping the danger he was in. He’d let his contempt for Toron blind him. Out loud he admitted, “Even if it were not the King of England’s intention, Toron would make a deal with Salah ad-Din that serves us up as appetizers to the Sultan’s Mamlukes faster than he’d pray a Pater Noster!” Balian was remembering the vehemence of Toron’s emotions in their brief encounter at Ramla.
“The Sultan has a guilty conscience when it comes to me,” Sidon countered, recapturing Balian’s attention. “He knows he broke his word and behaved dishonorably—and unlike our old friend Reynald de Châtillon, Salah ad-Din takes no pride in being a charlatan. On the contrary, he likes to think of himself as a man of honor. He is uncomfortable doing ignoble deeds. I think if I confront him face to face, remind him of his treatment of me, I can shame him into concessions without us having to actually fight our fellow Christians.”
Balian shook his head in disagreement. “I doubt it, but I’m not going to stop you from trying. If you offer to go, maybe that will help blunt some of Montferrat’s anger. He is so set on this, I fear he’ll take his anger out on Isabella.”
Maria Zoë caught her breath to hear her husband put her own fears into words, then reached for his hand and squeezed it in gratitude.
“I’ll go at once,” Sidon declared. As he bowed over Maria Zoë’s hand, he assured her, “I have the best interests of both your daughters at heart, Madame. I want to see Helvis installed as Lady of Sidon and Isabella crowned Queen of Jerusalem.” Turning finally to Balian, he added, “And, no, I won’t lead troops against Acre nor fight any man wearing the Cross—certainly not those who left their homes to help us regain ours. I honestly think I can shame Salah ad-Din into restoring what is rightfully mine, while further ensuring that he makes no deal with Lusignan or the Plantagenet that will harm our interests.”
C
hapter 17
Ramla, early November 1191
THIS WAS NOW HUMPHREY’S FOURTH MISSION to the Sultan on behalf of the English King. That King Richard put so much trust in him was a source of great pride, and Humphrey noted with satisfaction that in consequence of that trust, his status with the Lusignans had increased exponentially. Only Aimery still disdained him, but who cared about Aimery?
Humphrey was impressed that—unlike the Lusignans themselves, much less the bulk of the other crusaders—the King of England valued his mastery of Arabic and his understanding of the enemy. King Richard had grilled him for hours on everything he knew about Salah ad-Din, his brothers, nephews, emirs, tactics—even his wives. While Humphrey, obviously, knew nothing about the latter (and the question revealed the Plantagenet’s ignorance of Muslim society), he had been able to provide detailed information about most of the other topics, and the English King had been visibly pleased to find he had such an excellent source of valuable knowledge so near at hand.
Shortly before the Battle of Arsuf, King Richard had explained to Humphrey that he wanted to open the lines of communication with the Sultan. He had confided in Humphrey when none of his other lords were present except the Bishop of Salisbury and Henri de Champagne, explaining that he feared that the massacre of the hostages at Acre, while necessary and justified, had constricted his diplomatic room for maneuver. He noted that the negotiations for the surrender of Acre had sown distrust on both sides—in the Frankish camp because the Sultan had failed to keep his word, and on the Saracen side because there had been no warning of the consequences.
“I should have warned him,” King Richard admitted to Toron candidly. “Given him one last chance to deliver in the knowledge of what I would do if he reneged. Now, neither of us trusts the other. Maybe that is the way it will always be, but you yourself said that the Sultan adhered meticulously to the truces he made with Baldwin IV and Raymond of Tripoli. Why not with me?” He’d paused and looked straight at Humphrey as if the question were not rhetorical. Humphrey assured him there was no reason why not, adding “If that’s what you want.”
“We’d be mad to waste men’s lives if we can get what we want without bloodshed! Jerusalem is ours, and I want it back. And not just Jerusalem—every place Christ walked and preached. But now isn’t the time to get into details. All I want at this stage is to meet the man face to face, look him in the eye, and let him look in mine. Let each of us take the measure of the other.”
That sounded eminently reasonable to Humphrey, so he had nodded his agreement vigorously. If nothing else, he thought to himself, the encounter would dispel the many myths that fogged vision on both sides.
But his first mission to the Saracens had failed. Humphrey had met with Imad ad-Din, who had welcomed him like a long-lost son, insisted on having him to dinner, and housed him in his own tent. Yet he reported the next day that the Sultan absolutely refused to meet with the English King. “Kings only meet after an agreement has been reached,” Imad ad-Din explained a little apologetically to Humphrey. “Once a truce or settlement has been reached, then kings meet to exchange gifts and the kiss of peace, but not before.” That made sense to Humphrey, too, and he reported this back to King Richard.
The English King had been annoyed, and thereafter distracted by military matters for several weeks. It had been mid-October before he again sent for Humphrey and announced his desire to contact the Sultan again. Salah ad-Din, he reminded Humphrey, had refused a direct meeting but had not excluded talking through intermediaries. He sent Humphrey to the Sultan’s court with a request that the Sultan name an envoy to conduct negotiations on his behalf. Imad ad-Din conveyed the request to his master, and then informed Humphrey that the Sultan would allow his brother al-Adil to meet with King Richard.
After delivering this message back to the Plantagenet, Humphrey had been tasked with arranging a meeting between King Richard and al-Adil, a mission that had taken him to Ramla for a third time. Shortly afterwards, the Sultan’s brother had met with the English King while Humphrey served as the translator. The meeting had not yielded immediate results, because King Richard had opened with the ridiculous demand for the restoration of all territories ever held by the rulers of Jerusalem since 1099, and homage for Egypt—a demand so lacking in legal basis that Humphrey had been embarrassed to translate it. To Humphrey’s relief, al-Adil had not taken offense—merely smiled and noted that the English King’s demands were “somewhat excessive,” while suggesting that agreement on something a little more reasonable might be possible. He told them he would consult with his brother.
The most important aspect of the meeting had been that Richard and al-Adil got along with one another, soldier to soldier. Within a very short time they had been bantering, making little jokes, and when al-Adil sent Khalid al-Hamar with a gift of ten valuable camels on the day after the meeting, Toron was very encouraged.
Today he was in Ramla to find out what terms Salah ad-Din was willing to consider. He was also sincerely looking forward to the iftar that he would share with Imad ad-Din as soon as the sun went down and the evening prayer ended. Since he had never spent time in Ramla when it was in Frankish hands, he found nothing particularly odd or offensive about seeing the streets crammed with the diverse soldiers of the Sultan’s armies. There were black-skinned Nubians with their round shields and naked chests (despite the chill of early November), Berbers in their blue robes, Bedouins and Egyptians in flowing kaftans and white turbans, Turks with baggy trousers and knee-high boots, and Kurds with tight-fitting tunics and painted, spiked helmets. The diversity was significantly greater than in the Frankish camp, but the Saracens had the advantage of all speaking Arabic, Humphrey thought with a twinge of envy. The Christians, in contrast, were divided by their many languages, since only the priests and nobles spoke Latin.
Humphrey made straight for Imad ad-Din’s residence in one of the many townhouses of Ramla. Although founded by an Arab sultan in the early eighth century, Ramla had been destroyed by earthquakes and abandoned before the arrival of the Franks. The first Frankish settlers had built on the foundations to some extent, but on a much smaller scale, and the city as it now stood was architecturally Frankish in character. While many of the churches had been converted into mosques, there had not yet been time to build minarets, and the call to prayer came from the rooftops instead. Humphrey had timed his arrival well, and the muezzin fell silent just as he drew up in front of Imad ad-Din’s temporary residence.
The porter recognized him and grinned as he bowed to the familiar young Frankish lord and let him inside the dim entryway. A slave woman with shaved hair scuttled for the shadows at the arrival of a guest, the wet rags with which she had been wiping the floors leaving drops of water that gleamed in the light angling in from the courtyard. From deeper inside the house came the enticing smells of delicately spiced dishes—cardamom, cumin, cinnamon, and garlic mixing together with the pungent odor of roasted lamb, grilled goat, baked chicken, chickpeas, carrots, and onions.
Imad ad-Din had spotted Humphrey and hurried forward to embrace him warmly. “I was hoping you would join me today or tomorrow. Come join the feast. Evening prayers are over.”
They were soon seated comfortably beside a low table groaning with dishes both sweet and savory. Humphrey washed his hands in the bowl offered by a slave boy, and dried them on the offered linen towel, before accepting the steaming water flavored with hibiscus flowers and sweetened with honey that Imad ad-Din liked now that the nights were chilly.
They spoke at first of personal matters, Humphrey inquiring after Imad ad-Din’s sons, and learning he had become a grandfather twice over since they had last met. “Alas, only two granddaughters, but three of my daughters-in-law are still pregnant. Maybe one of them will be more blessed. And you?” he asked gently and delicately. “Have you news to share?”
Imad ad-Din, of course, knew perfectly well that Humphrey’s wife had been shamefully taken from him and given to another man. He found the en
tire incident on the one hand disgusting, and on the other hand satisfying evidence of the Franks’ moral depravity. The idea that noblemen might contrive to take another nobleman’s wife away from him against his will was mind-boggling. If Humphrey had divorced the woman, that would have been simple and straightforward, but Humphrey had not. Still, it was far too delicate and humiliating a matter for Imad ad-Din to allude to directly.
Humphrey was grateful for that, although sometimes he wished there were someone he could talk to about the whole sordid affair. While the Lusignans were outraged about the political consequences of his wife’s abduction, they also tended to blame him. Geoffrey had said outright, “If it had been my wife, I’d at least have taken up the gage and fought for her!” No, Humphrey got no sympathy from the Lusignans. . . .
Seeing his guest was brooding, Imad ad-Din changed the subject altogether. “You will have an audience tomorrow with al-Adil, may Allah smile upon him, but if you like, I will tell you the content of what he will say so you can prepare yourself.”
“That would be very kind of you,” Humphrey returned gladly to the present. The reminder that he was here on an important mission helped him forget the pain and humiliation of losing Isabella almost a year ago to the day.
“Al-Adil, may God’s blessings be upon him, has struck upon a positively brilliant idea,” Imad ad-Din enthused. “It is a way for both Muslims and Christians to retain hold over the sites holy to our respective faiths. It is a way to bring peace and prosperity back to this troubled land. It is surely a divinely inspired plan, praise be to God!”
Envoy of Jerusalem Page 47