Humphrey looked skeptical. “How would it be possible for two peoples so opposed to one another to hold the same territory in peace?” he asked.
“Just as two families who have a blood feud do!” Imad ad-Din answered with a grin of delight. “Through marriage!”
“Marriage?” Humphrey still did not understand, and frowned in his confusion.
“Yes. We know that the English King brought with him a sister, the former Queen of Sicily. As a widow of more than a year, she is now free to wed. Al-Adil, may God bless him, is willing to repudiate one of his current wives to marry her. The King of the English would give to his sister the territories he now controls—Acre, Jaffa, and the coast in between—as her dowry, and al-Adil’s brother, the great Sultan, may Allah’s blessing be ever upon him, would give the rest of the former Kingdom, including Jerusalem, to his brother as his iqta. That way they could rule jointly as King and Queen over all the territories that were once your Kingdom of Jerusalem. Isn’t that a brilliant idea?” Imad ad-Din asked, smiling with apparently genuine delight at the idea.
Humphrey was too surprised to know what to think. “Queen Joanna married to al-Adil?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“But would she have to convert to Islam?”
“Al-Adil, may Allah bless him, didn’t say anything about that. I’m sure it would be far better for her if she did, but if she is stubborn, then it will not be necessary. But what of her brother? Do you think he will see the advantages of such an arrangement?”
Humphrey still couldn’t picture it, but the plan certainly had merit if it would work. “Christians would have the right to visit all the holy places without inhibition?”
“As would Muslims.”
“And the inhabitants could follow their own faith without being taxed extra?”
“Exactly. Everyone would be free to follow his own conscience. Obviously there are many details still to be worked out, but I can imagine that there could be separate courts for Christians and Muslims and Jews, and mosques, churches and synagogues would all be allowed to operate. The lords would be vassals of al-Adil and hold their fiefs from him, and he would divide them equally among Christians and Muslims.”
It all sounded too good to be true to Humphrey, but why shouldn’t something good come out of all the horrors that had gone before? Maybe God wanted peace in his homeland. Maybe he would prefer to see it shared, rather than torn apart and fought over. The more he thought about it, the more Humphrey liked the idea, and by the time he met with al-Adil the next day he was already an enthusiastic supporter of the proposal.
Ramla, early November 1191
Salah ad-Din’s reaction to his brother’s proposal was to burst out laughing.
Al-Adil, who had genuinely liked the idea (not least being King of Jerusalem), was less than pleased by his brother’s reaction. “Does that mean you want me to withdraw the offer?” he asked testily.
“Good heavens, no!” Salah ad-Din replied, still chuckling and shaking his head. “Malik Rik will never accept it. It’s a great joke. A great joke indeed. How did you ever come up with it?” He looked at his brother with wide, apparently admiring eyes, but al-Adil knew him too well. His brother was saying he should not dream of making himself a king. He was being told not to reach so high, and being reminded that he owed everything to his brother’s generosity.
Al-Adil bowed his head to his brother, a slightly bitter smile on his lips. He did not think Yusef was really more intelligent than he; he had simply been at the right place at the right time—and that, reluctantly! Yusef had not wanted to accompany their uncle to Egypt. But what difference did that make now? Today he was the Sultan, and all bounty came from him.
Salah ad-Din, meanwhile, had stopped laughing, and the smile faded from his face. He reached out and grasped his brother’s wrist. “Do not misunderstand me, Ahmad. I do not trust these infidels! They are all liars and cheats. They will promise us anything, and then behind our backs they will do the opposite. Look at the garrison of Acre! Fine, brave men who trusted in the words of the Polytheists!
“If I were to die tomorrow, Ahmad,” Salah ad-Din continued, “there would be no one to unite the Muslims. Everyone would start fighting among themselves again, and the Franks would again be able to defeat us piecemeal. I must keep this army together until we have thrown the last of the Franks into the sea! We must rid ourselves of this plague once and for all. Now, while we are strong. This proposal of a marriage and an alliance—it is nonsense, and the King of England, as he has been described to me, will recognize that. But we will pretend for a little longer that we take these negotiations seriously, so that they keep talking to us. Meanwhile the weather deteriorates, and we tear down the strongholds they might otherwise use against us.”
Al-Adil nodded. He did not entirely agree with his brother. He thought a negotiated settlement had many advantages—not least the lives and treasure saved. But his brother had opened their meeting with a reminder of who was Sultan, and so he saw no point in arguing with him. Instead he simply asked, “And that goes, too, for the offer put forward by the Baron of Sidon?” Only a few nights earlier, Salah ad-Din had put on a lavish banquet for Reginald de Sidon, welcoming him as an ambassador of Conrad de Montferrat. Salah ad-Din had then met with him for several hours the following day in al-Adil’s presence.
“Ah.” Salah ad-Din sat back and looked more pensive. “The advantage of Sidon’s offer is that it sets the Franks against one another—like two dogs fighting over a bone! If I could be sure Montferrat would really fall upon the English King from the rear, I would be inclined to give him his little principality at Tyre and Sidon, maybe even Beirut. But I don’t see that Montferrat has the capacity to fight the English King—assuming he really wants to.”
“Doesn’t he have support from all the Frankish lords?” al-Adil asked, surprised.
“As King, yes; to fight his fellow Christians, I don’t think so.”
“He has the support of Sidon and Ibn Barzan, at the very least, and we know Ibn Barzan is like a king to them, for all that they pretend it is Montferrat on account of his wife. Montferrat is Ibn Barzan’s stepson and his puppet.”
“That’s what I used to think, too, but it is significant that Ibn Barzan did not return with Montferrat’s offer to make an alliance with us against the English King. Ibn Barzan is playing some other game. I don’t know what it is yet, but I am certain it does not involve fighting his fellow Christians for the sake of a couple of coastal cities.”
“We should try to find out what he is up to,” al-Adil warned. “He is a dangerous opponent.”
“Is that the reason you tried to poison him?” Salah ad-Din asked, taking his brother by surprise. Al-Adil had not realized his brother knew about that poisoned dart during the siege of Tyre, and it annoyed him that one of his own Mamlukes (for no one else had known about the assassination attempt) was his brother’s spy.
Salah ad-Din again built his brother a bridge by not dwelling on the issue. Instead he moved on, remarking, “I have not forgotten what Ibn Barzan cost me at Jerusalem. The worst thing that could happen is for him and the English King to become allies rather than adversaries. Toron assures us that the English King mistrusts him, and has not forgiven him for dishonoring his cousin by taking her from her lawful husband and giving her to another man. Yet I wonder if Toron is telling us the truth? It was his wife who was taken away, and what did he do about it?”
“Toron is a weak man. We’ve always known that—which is why he has been so useful to us.”
“Yes, he has been useful to us—to the extent that his own emotions do not blind him. From him we learned more about the roots and the depth of the antagonism between Malik Rik and Malik Phil. From his lips we have learned about Malik Rik’s alienation of the Germans and his bickering with the remaining French. From Toron we know that the new Templar Master inclines more toward Montferrat than Lusignan, and the Hospitallers the reverse. He has been an invaluable source of inform
ation. But does he really know what is in Ibn Barzan’s mind, now that they are sworn enemies?”
Al-Adil shrugged. “You’ve convinced me that he probably does not. What other spies could we use to find out more about Ibn Barzan and his plans?”
“Ibn Barzan has always shown an exceptional concern for the slaves we took after Hattin. You remember? He offered himself as surety for their ransom. Of course, he could never have raised it, so I couldn’t accept the offer—but again, last month when he was here he wanted the release of all the captives. Surely we could find one such captive whom we could let ‘escape.’ If he went to Ibn Barzan, I’m sure he would find employment and could then observe from inside his house.”
“We would have to find a slave willing to return to us with the intelligence,” al-Adil pointed out.
“Yes, of course: a convert, dedicated now to serving the True Faith.”
“I can make inquiries and see if there is a suitable Frankish Mamluke willing to serve us in this.”
“I’m sure you will find a suitable young man,” Salah ad-Din answered with a smile, adding, “And don’t be so sad about ‘losing’ the crown of Jerusalem, Ahmad. It has never brought its wearers much joy.”
Acre, November 1191
Rain showers confined the women indoors, and some servant had been careless with the firewood, allowing it to become damp. Smoke billowed into the room, causing even the dogs to retreat, and Queen Berengaria was indignant. Queen Joanna, on the other hand, seemed merely depressed. She had wrapped herself in a fur-trimmed woolen shawl and huddled over a book. “I thought there was sunshine here all the time,” she complained to Eschiva. “We’ve had rain for almost a week now!”
“Thank God,” Eschiva answered, with a smile intended to cheer up her royal employers. “We need the rains of November to March to refill the cisterns and water our orchards and make the earth fruitful come spring.
“Pilgrims always complained about the heat and sun of the Holy Land,” Berengaria took up the theme. “Never about rain!”
“That’s because most pilgrims come in the spring and depart in the fall, before the winter storms and rains begin.” Eschiva reminded them.
Berengaria nodded, but continued complaining. “This damp cold is terrible! The houses weren’t built for it. At least at home we have bigger fireplaces and lower ceilings, and warm wooden floors. These tiles chill my feet right through my shoes!”
There was something to that, and Eschiva noted, “Your slippers are far too thin, my lady. We should try to find you some warmer footwear.”
“Do they sell shoes at the souk?” Queen Joanna asked, sitting up a little straighter. Both Joanna and Berengaria found the covered markets of Acre alluring. On a day like this, when they couldn’t enjoy being outside, the prospect of being able to shop without being exposed to the rain was particularly appealing.
“Of course!” Eschiva was pleased to have found some means to distract her royal companions from their boredom. “There are dozens of shoemakers in the souk—or at least there used to be. I don’t suppose all have come back, but many will have.”
The queens looked at one another. “Shall we go and see what we can find?” Joanna asked her sister-in-law.
“Yes! And we can stop for a snack at one of the little cook shops, too. One that sells that delicious grilled flatbread.” Berengaria had discovered a fancy for some of the native food.
“And have fresh pomegranate juice.” Joanna added. “There’s that little corner stand that sells fresh fruit juices, remember?”
Pleased with their enthusiasm for the outing, Eschiva declared, “I’ll go warn your knights we will need an escort,” and stepped out into the anteroom.
The men of the queens’ household were predominantly knights in King Richard’s service recovering from illness or injuries. They came and went as men recuperated enough to rejoin the King, and others in need of rest replaced them. As a result Eschiva did not know many by name, and they seemed an interchangeable lot who spent an inordinate amount of time dicing and gambling. She avoided these young men and instinctively sought out the elderly Norman-Sicilian knight Sir Norbert, one of the few knights who had come with Queen Joanna from Sicily.
Sir Norbert was grizzled and greying, a man of few words, and Eschiva knew little about him beyond his apparent devotion to Queen Joanna. Sir Norbert was filing his fingernails in a window seat, but he put the file away and stood up at the approach of Eschiva. “My lady,” he acknowledged her with a slight bow.
“The queens would like to go to the souk for a bit. Queen Berengaria needs some warmer shoes, and—”
The door opened with a bang and they both looked over, annoyed by someone bursting in so roughly. Eschiva’s attitude changed instantly, when she recognized her husband. With a cry of surprised delight, she abandoned Sir Norbert and ran to him.
Aimery’s coif was gleaming with water, and his cloak was dark with rain. He shoved the coif back off his head and pulled the cloak off his shoulders to shake off some of the water before Eschiva reached him. As he took Eschiva in his arms and bent to kiss her, she exclaimed how cold his skin was. “You’re chilled through! Come to the fire.” He did not resist as she led him toward the fire, which was struggling in the large fireplace and smoking as much here in the large hall as in the queens salon.
“I’ve been on the road since daybreak,” he explained. “And it’s been raining most of the way.”
“What brings you, Aimery?” Eschiva asked, certain that he had not come just to see her.
“I’ve got letters for the queens,” he answered, glancing toward the inner chamber.
King Richard had been good at keeping his bride and sister informed of developments. He wrote terse, practical letters for the most part, which clearly disappointed the romantically inclined Berengaria. Joanna, on the other hand, appreciated the fact that if he took the time to write longer, more poetic and flowery letters, they would have fewer of them. “My father never wrote my mother,” she’d try to explain to Berengaria. “Even when they were passionately in love with one another,” she hastened to add, as Berengaria’s face betrayed what she was thinking about the stormy relationship of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine. “He could never take time to write. The best he did was order some hapless clerk to ‘write something nice to the Queen’—which, I assure you, produced some of the most hilarious pieces of correspondence you can imagine. My mother saved several of them and shared them with me when I was little, simply because they were so entertaining.”
If King Richard had now sent the Constable of Jerusalem to deliver these particular letters, then they had to be particularly important, Eschiva surmised. “Let’s take them straight in,” she suggested and led her husband toward the inner chamber.
Berengaria and Joanna had been looking for capes or cloaks with hoods to protect them from the rain. One of the chests was open and half the contents already scattered about in the course of their search.
“My ladies,” Eschiva called to them as she entered. “My lord husband has brought letters from King Richard.”
The queens at once stopped what they were doing and spun about. Berengaria reacted first, running forward eagerly and smiling. “At last! I was beginning to worry he had completely forgotten us!”
Aimery loosened the cords at the neck of his coif so he could slip his hand inside the padded gambeson underneath his hauberk. He extracted two letters. Checking the writing on the front, he identified the letter for Berengaria and handed it to her. She at once spun away, her gown and veils billowing out around her as she moved to the window seat to break the seal and read the letter at once.
Meanwhile Aimery turned to Joanna, the letter for her still in his hand. “My lady, your brother charged me with delivering this and awaiting your answer. I think you will need some time to consider your reply, however, and I hope you will allow me to take my wife from you briefly. We have not seen each other in weeks and would relish a little time alone together.”
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“Of course, my lord!” Joanna answered with a smile, taking the letter from him. “Eschiva has been wonderful to us and has earned more than a little break. When do you need to return to my brother?”
“I should set out no later than the day after tomorrow, but will not monopolize my lady’s time. I have other errands I must also attend to. I will bring her back tomorrow morning, if that is agreeable?”
“I assure you, my lord, we do not begrudge any moment she can spend with you.”
Aimery thanked the King of England’s sister, and taking Eschiva on his arm, he withdrew. In the antechamber he retrieved his cloak and guided Eschiva down the corridor and steps to the courtyard, where his squire waited with the horses. “I hope we can obtain lodging with one of the religious houses,” he told her as he helped her up into his own saddle and then swung up behind her.
As they rode out into the street and the drizzling rain, Aimery wrapped his arms and cloak around his wife to keep her as warm and dry as possible. Eschiva didn’t mind the rain at all. It had been at least a decade since they had ridden like this, like lovers, two to a saddle. Nor did she mind that the front of his surcoat was damp, or that the chain mail under it was cold to lean against. She felt loved and young again, and it was almost jarring to have him remind her she was the mother of a boy nearly ten by asking her how Hugh was getting on.
“Queen Berengaria spoils him rotten,” she admitted with a little laugh. “He’s going to be a terrible charmer when he gets a few years older.”
Aimery laughed at that. “Must take after his Uncle Guy.”
“Oh, you weren’t so bad in your prime, as I recall—or were the rumors about you and the Queen Mother false?” she teased, looking up at him from the safety of his arms.
Aimery snorted. “You aren’t supposed to know about that, dearest, but since you do, I must confess that it didn’t take a lot to seduce Agnes de Courtenay.”
Safe in his arms with Agnes de Courtenay long dead, Eschiva could laugh.
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