“The day will come, when we will win
When we will take Jerusalem
For Him, not us; for Christendom!”
“We are alive, Salah ad-Din;
We are alive, and cannot die.
And we will take Jerusalem!”
The applause that followed was thunderous. Men jumped to their feet and were shouting, cheering, and clapping. Alys heard them, but did not dare look away from her husband. His smile was all that mattered, until—with a glance to the high table—he told her, “The King of England wants to meet you, Alys.”
Alys gasped and looked to the high table. King Richard was indeed gesturing for both of them to approach. Ernoul helped Alys up the steps, and caught her when she almost fell over backwards in her nervousness as she curtsied.
“You are a remarkable singer, child,” King Richard addressed her. “And your husband has the makings of an outstanding musician,” he added with a smile to Ernoul, who bowed deeply, more flattered and honored than he had ever imagined he could be. “Tell me, did your husband write that last song?”
Alys nodded vigorously. Her heart was stuck in her throat, and she could not have uttered a sound if her life depended on it.
“I will learn it,” King Richard declared firmly, and nothing could have meant more to Ernoul. The King turned to Ernoul, not out of disrespect for Alys, but rather because the King could see the state she was in. “Tell me, what brought you here? Whom do you serve?”
“I was born here, my lord King. My father held a knight’s fief in Ibelin, and I served Lord Balian as his squire at Hattin. That’s where I got this broken collarbone,” he pointed out. Only when his attention was drawn to it did King Richard notice the unnatural slope of Ernoul’s shoulders.
“The Baron of Ibelin is a man of many parts, it seems,” he observed, sounding not entirely pleased. “In addition to being a good soldier and a dubious diplomat, he is—I see—a patron of the arts. You serve him still?” he asked skeptically.
“Indeed, my lord King. As best I can, but no longer on the battlefield.”
“No, that would be a waste of your talents, young man,” the English King conceded. “Tell me your name and then name your reward.”
Ernoul had hoped for this, and he and Alys had even discussed how high they dared go. Ten bezants? Twelve? Even fifteen? Enough to have a little nest egg of their own, they had decided, insurance against bad times that never seemed too far away since Hattin. But Ernoul could not bring himself to ask for something so materialistic. “My name is Ernoul, my lord King, and all I ask is that you help us regain Jerusalem and the return of the captives. Give us back our homeland and our families.” For it was not just Sir Bartholomew’s daughters who had disappeared into Saracen captivity, it was Ernoul’s old parents, his tutor and all the household of his childhood.
Chapter 18
Tyre, early December 1191
MARIA ZOË COULD NOT HAVE EXPLAINED why, but she was suspicious from the start. The household had been in an uproar, and Helvis in particular had fluttered with excitement. “It’s Joscelyn! It’s Joscelyn!” she exclaimed, smiling broadly, and breathless with apparent delight (although to Maria Zoë’s knowledge she could not have met the boy ever before). “Sir Bartholomew’s grandson!” Helvis insisted, adding with breathless excitement, “and he’s escaped the Saracens and found his way here.”
“Here? Now?” Maria Zoë asked herself. She had never known either of Sir Bartholomew’s daughters very well. They had sometimes come for Christmas and Easter courts. Maria Zoë vaguely remembered stopping with one or the other of them once when she and Balian had been caught in a vile thunderstorm on the way home. She knew they both had young children, but the children did not attend on the lord and lady. Under the circumstances, there was no way Maria Zoë would have recognized one of those children now.
The boy who claimed to be Joscelyn d’Auber, the son of Beatrice d’Auber, was a good-looking boy with bright blond hair, blue eyes, and well-formed features and figure. He was certainly of Frankish descent, Maria Zoë conceded, but there was no particular resemblance to Sir Bartholomew. Maria Zoë also found it curious and suspicious that he said he’d “run away” and wanted “to serve the Baron of Ibelin.” Surely he would want first to see his grandfather and just be free?
Maria Zoë gave no outward indication of her unease. Instead she sent a squire with a letter to Sir Bartholomew. Meanwhile, Balduin (Henri d’Ibelin’s son) was told to give the new arrival some of his own clothes so he could discard the dirty rags he’d arrived in.
The rags, Maria Zoë noted, suited his story of being a runaway slave, but not his tanned and muscular body. For a boy of ten, he was remarkably well filled out, with not a scar on him. He was also astonishingly cocky for having been a slave for four years. Of course he would feel some euphoria to have escaped and then crossed, by his own account, almost a hundred miles of no man’s land, living off the rations he claimed to have stolen from his former master, but something about his story just didn’t ring true.
Maria Zoë sent for Sister Adela. As a woman who ran an orphanage and had dealt with hundreds of children in various states of distress, Sister Adela would surely have a better feel for what they should expect from a child who had endured slavery for four years and then escaped. Meanwhile, dressed in one of Balduin’s shirts, borrowed hose, and low shoes, Joscelyn was taken to the kitchens, and a trencher overflowing with leftovers was placed in front of him. He dug in heartily, while the children clustered around in excitement.
John, Philip, and Balduin pelted him with questions, while Helvis kept giving orders to the cook to bring more food. Margaret sat opposite the newcomer with her chin cupped in her hands and her elbows on the table staring in open fascination.
“How did you fall into their hands?” John wanted to know.
Joscelyn shrugged and stuffed bread into his mouth. “They just overran the manor and took all of us,” he answered with his mouth full.
“And then what?” Philip asked eagerly.
“We were tied up and put on a wagon that took us to Damascus.”
“Where are the rest of your family?” Balduin asked.
“We were together until we got to Damascus. That’s where the slave trader sold us to different masters.”
“And you’ve never seen your family ever again?” Helvis asked in horror.
Joscelyn shook his head, but he didn’t seem too upset about it, Maria Zoë thought. Was that normal? He’d been only six when he’d been taken captive and separated from his mother and older brothers. If John and Philip had been taken from her at that age and had lived four years apart, would they too be so indifferent to her, their sisters, and each other?
“What happened then?” Philip asked, more interested in the narrative than in feelings.
Joscelyn shrugged and looked down. “A merchant bought me.”
“And what did you have to do?” Balduin asked.
Joscelyn shrugged again. “Look after his things. You know. Like a squire does for a knight.”
“How can you compare a squire to a slave?” John protested indignantly. He was looking forward to becoming a squire, and did not want to think his future status was similar to slavery.
“Have some wine,” Helvis offered, setting a pottery mug in front of Joscelyn with cut wine.
Joceyln drew back and shook his head sharply.
“It’s the good wine,” Helvis assured him, “from Cyprus.”
“No! I don’t want it!” Joscelyn insisted, frowning. “Just water.”
“But—”
“Helvis!” Maria Zoë interrupted. “Do as he asks.”
Annoyed, Helvis did as she was told, while Philip asked eagerly, “Did he ever beat you?”s
“Only when I did something wrong,” Joscelyn answered. “He wasn’t bad.”
“So why did you run away?” Balduin wanted to know.
Joscelyn frowned. “Because the next master was terrible. You see, the first man
sold me to a man who beat me all the time and would hardly let me sleep and gave me almost nothing to eat. I had to get away from him!”
“Was he a merchant, too?”
“Yes, of course—a merchant of weapons!” Joscelyn exclaimed, with strange enthusiasm for the man who had beaten and starved him.
“Why didn’t you steal any of them when you ran away?” Philip asked.
“I couldn’t risk it—but I learned how to use them!”
“A slave?” John asked skeptically, and his mother nodded to herself, pleased. Even at twelve and a half, John was no fool.
“I did it secretly when he wasn’t looking,” Joscelyn answered unconvincingly.
It was ringing Nones, and that was when the boys usually went to the Ibelin stud for their afternoon ride and exercise. Even the presence of the exotic runaway slave could not distract them from that. Instead they jumped up, suggesting eagerly that Joscelyn come with them. “Wait till you see the horses!” Balduin told him excitedly.
Joscelyn made a face. “Frankish horses? They’re all dead meat!” he sneered.
“Are you crazy?” Philip asked, outraged, while John told him off hotly: “My lord father breeds the finest horses in all of Syria! The Sultan’s studs included. He’s interbred Arab and Frankish horses to produce the strongest, fastest horses alive!”
“John, don’t exaggerate; just take Joscelyn along with you,” Maria Zoë suggested, shooing the boys out of the kitchen.
A few minutes later Sister Adela arrived in answer to the Dowager Queen’s summons, and Maria Zoë explained what had happened. She concluded with a simple: “The problem is, I don’t believe him.”
Sister Adela looked surprised. “Why not? Why should he be lying—and who is he, if not Sir Bartholomew’s grandson?”
“I don’t know the answer to that, but I think he is Muslim, loyal to the Sultan, and here to poison my lord husband.”
“Ah.” Sister Adela understood. As a Greek princess, Queen Maria Zoë Comnena had been born and raised on intrigue; she was quicker to spot it than mere mortals. Adela asked next, “What do you want from me?”
“To convince me I’m wrong!” Maria Zoë countered with a short laugh. “I’d much rather think that he is Sir Bartholomew’s grandson, home safe and sound. It would give poor Sir Bartholomew something to live for again, and ease his conscience a little.”
Sister Adela nodded. She too liked the old knight, and thought the safe return of at least one of his five grandchildren might ease some of his pain.
“Come with me,” Maria Zoë urged. “They’ve all gone to the stud.”
By the time the women arrived, the boys were already mounted and engaged in a fierce competition that entailed racing, jumping over small obstacles, and attacking one another on horseback. John held a little aloof from the fray. He was significantly taller than his brother and cousin, much less Joscelyn, and since Centurion was with his father, he was riding one of the younger destriers-in-training, a larger and more powerful mount than the ponies his brother and cousin rode. John was making (mostly unsuccessful) runs at the quintain. Philip and Joscelyn, on the other hand, were both ten, and Balduin was a healthy eight-year-old used to playing with his elder cousins.
The women made no effort to interrupt the rough game, although Sister Adela shook her head once and remarked, “I don’t know how you can be so calm. I’d be terrified for their life and limb if they were mine.”
Maria Zoë laughed. “Believe me, it will only get worse. First they’ll get old enough for jousting and tournaments, then they’ll go to war and start fighting men intent on killing them. The more they learn here and now in these games of war, the more likely they will be to survive real war.” She then drew attention to the paddock, where Philip had his arms around Joscelyn and was trying to drag him off his horse while the newcomer resisted. “Do you see that? That boy is no stranger to horseback, and you can’t tell me a slave of a weapons merchant would have learned to ride. Watch him! He’s keeping the horse under him with his legs alone, and by doing so, he’s escaping being pulled down. I wager if we gave him a bow, he’d be able to hit a target at the far side of the paddock at full gallop.”
“My lady! What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that boy’s a Mamluke. A slave, yes, but a slave in training as a mounted archer in the Sultan’s elite bodyguard.”
Sister Adela looked at her askance, still resisting the idea. “Surely not!”
“Look at the way he rides!” Maria Zoë insisted, her eyes still leveled hostilely on Joscelyn as he managed to get his horse to start backing up, and in so doing dragged her son Philip out of his saddle to crash down into the dust. Maria Zoë did not flinch as her son fell, but her eyes narrowed on Joscelyn. “The Sultan has tried to kill my lord husband once before, and suddenly this boy turns up out of nowhere, claiming to be the grandson of one of my husband’s closest household knights. Not only does he arrive here, he asks to be taken into my husband’s service! We ought to be insulted that Salah ad-Din thinks we are so stupid as to fall for this ploy!”
Sister Adela looked from Maria Zoë to the blond boy, who was pumping his fist in the air in triumph, oblivious to the fact that Balduin was about to launch an attack on him from behind. The eight-year-old charged his horse straight into Joscelyn’s, and, dropping his reins, used both his hands to push the newcomer off his horse. Meanwhile, Philip had managed to get to his feet, and he grabbed Joscelyn as he fell. He wrestled him to the ground and, sitting astride him, started hitting him in obvious fury.
Eskinder, the head groom, leaped over the fence, ran out, and tore Philip off his bested opponent. John had stopped in his exercises to watch what was happening, his fractious mount snorting and stamping his foot in impatience.
“What are you going to do?” Sister Adela asked softly.
“See what Sir Bartholomew says—and meanwhile keep the boy, whoever he is, as far away from my husband as possible.”
Sir Bartholomew, dressed in the robes of a Augustine monk, was on his knees praying before the altar of the Virgin. When they ushered young Alain into the chapel, the commotion behind him interrupted his concentration. Annoyed, he concluded his Ave, crossed himself, and rolled on his heels to stand up with an unconscious grunt.
Alain was shocked by the sight of him. Sir Bartholomew had always been a well-built man—not as tall as Ibelin, but not short, either. He’d had broad shoulders and muscular arms, the upper body of a man good with sword, shield, and lance. Now he was nothing but sagging skin on fragile bones, for he had been fasting so continuously that he’d passed out several times. Finally, the abbot had felt compelled to order him to eat—and order him to stop flagellating himself as well.
“Sir?” the squire began uncertainly. “I bring a letter from my lady the Dowager Queen.” He removed the letter from the inside of his gambeson and held it out.
Sir Bartholomew stared at it with hostility. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? He’d served both Ibelin and his lady well, and they had been good to him in return, but now he had to focus on his black, embittered soul. “I don’t want to read it,” he told the squire bluntly.
“Yes, you do, sir!” Alain countered eagerly. He was the son of a knight of Hebron. He’d had no news of his father since Hattin. He and his mother and sister had taken refuge in Jerusalem, and they had been there during the siege and surrender. Only nine at the time, Alain had not officially taken part in the defense. However, unknown to his mother, he had snuck out several times to help carry water to the defenders, and he’d helped stoke the fires under the pots of molten tar. The siege had been the most important episode in his life—until now. “Your grandson escaped! He made it to Tyre and is now in the household of the Dowager Queen,” Alain explained, excited.
Sir Bartholomew stared at him, stunned, until he finally managed to ask, “Bart?”
“No, Joscelyn.”
“Joscelyn? But he’s just a baby!”
“Six when he was taken
; ten now.” Alain, at thirteen, didn’t think ten was such a “baby.”
“You are certain of this?” Sir Bartholomew asked, dazed.
“Read the letter, sir!” Alain urged, grinning.
Sir Bartholomew took the letter at last and broke open the seal almost brutally. He didn’t have the patience to read the letter. His eyes flew over the text, seeking the message Alain had already relayed. “. . . claiming to be your grandson Joscelyn . . .” the Dowager Queen had written.
Claiming to be, claiming to be . . . She doubted it. Sir Bartholomew doubted, too, but only in his head. In his heart he believed God had answered his prayers. How long had he been here? Not yet fully four months. He spun around, sank down on his knees, and began thanking the Virgin profusely and passionately.
Two days later they docked at Tyre. Alain was enjoying himself. Sir Bartholomew was so excited, anxious, frightened, hopeful, and full of plans for his grandson he could hardly think straight. Alain had taken care of everything for him: booking passage, packing his things and buying food for the passage, securing a reasonably good place on deck, and on landing, hiring a couple of donkeys that happened to be on the quay.
When they arrived at the Ibelin residence, Sir Bartholomew was almost paralyzed with sudden anxiety. “What if it isn’t Josh?” he asked Alain helplessly.
“But it is!” Alain assured him, grinning, paying off the donkeyman, and taking their meager baggage onto his own shoulders.
They knocked and were admitted at once. The squires in the hall greeted Sir Bartholomew cheerfully. He’d been their training master until he withdrew from the world, and he was popular with them because he was better tempered and easier on them than his successor Sir Galvin. “Your grandson’s here!” several of them told him at once, and Sir Bartholomew nodded numbly. “Where is he?”
“Upstairs taking his lessons with the other children,” they told him in chorus.
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