The wind was fresh, whipping up whitecaps that frothed and snarled as if in indignation as the Norse ship overtook them, riding the waves down on the following wind. Running before the wind was comparatively comfortable, and despite the speed with which they ate up the miles, the deck was dry and warm. Furthermore, with the oars shipped, men were free to line the rail of the ship and watch the coast of Palestine slip by. Champagne joined Ibelin at the starboard railing.
Balian acknowledged the younger man with a nod, but he was too intent on trying to locate the coast opposite Ibelin to pay him much attention. It was a spot laden with memories. He had often ridden from Ibelin to the shore as a boy, because there was a stretch of beach on which one could gallop wildly without risking harm to horse or rider if one fell. He would never forget the first time he took Centurion there, either; the young stallion had reacted as if the breaking waves were vicious monsters racing to attack him, and he’d fled in panic. And it was here that he’d ridden with John in front of him on the saddle when he learned that King Baldwin IV was dead. Although he’d rarely seen the place from seawards, he wanted to believe he would recognize it.
“You’ve been a strong supporter of Montferrat,” Champagne broke in on his thoughts.
Ibelin turned slowly and reluctantly to look at the French count. On the whole, Champagne had impressed him favorably. He was a conscientious commander careful of his men and their needs, and he was a brave knight. Furthermore, Ibelin had never seen him drunk nor found him gambling, much less whoring as many of the other crusaders did. More importantly, he had been the first to declare he would not return with King Richard, but would remain in the Holy Land and continue the struggle to regain Jerusalem. Ibelin was thankful for that commitment, but he resented his meddling in the Kingdom’s internal affairs and was in no mood for a discussion.
“Yes,” Ibelin answered steadily, before wearily reciting the facts. “From its founding, the kings of Jerusalem were elected by the High Court. Guy de Lusignan was never elected. He usurped the crown and used his ill-gotten power to destroy the army of Jerusalem and lose the Kingdom. No man should have the right to lose a kingdom more than once—particularly when he had no right to it in the first place.”
“I agree with you, my lord,” Champagne hastened to assure the older nobleman. “I’m no supporter of Lusignan. I never have been. The Lusignans have an unsavory reputation for being troublesome and grasping. You know Geoffrey and Guy once attacked my grandmother and tried to take her captive?”
“Yes, William Marshal told me that,” Ibelin admitted, wondering what Champagne was getting at.
“So, you see, I understand why you oppose Lusignan—but why Montferrat?”
“He was the best man we had at the time,” Ibelin admitted. “I said once, and I was serious: if we’d known the King of France was recently widowed or the King of England’s betrothal to Princess Alys was not set in stone, we might have offered Isabella to eiter—or both—of them. If King Richard had been married to Isabella and so the lawful King of Jerusalem, maybe he would have agreed to stay,” he added morosely.
Champagne shared Ibelin’s distress over his uncle’s plans to depart and fell silent for a moment. Then he risked speaking his mind. “But what of Isabella? I mean, I saw her the night she was heartlessly dragged from Toron’s tent. I understand she consented to the marriage to Montferrat, but how much choice did she actually have?”
“She had the choice between Toron and Jerusalem. It was as simple as that,” Ibelin told him bluntly, as he wondered what relevance Isabella’s feelings could possibly have for this young Frenchman.
“My mother, you know, was a princess of France, and she had nothing to say about her marriage, either,” Champagne noted, “but there are times when I wonder how it is that we, as chivalrous knights, are supposed to protect ladies from harm and violence, when we routinely give young maidens into the hands of husbands they do not choose or want.”
Ibelin found himself amused but also attracted by Champagne’s reflections. “Chivalry” was a phrase on many of the younger knights’ lips these days. While Ibelin did not think the Holy Land had time for it in the present circumstances, it was not a bad thing in itself. Fighting men could always use a check on their tendency to exploit their power, and the Church had tried for centuries to control and redirect the instinctive violence of men raised to arms. If “chivalry” could channel violence into positive directions, so much the better. To Champagne he noted, “As a father, I endeavor diligently to ensure that my daughters will not be forced into marriages with men who will not treat them with the utmost respect, courtesy, and gentleness.”
“And Isabella is your stepdaughter,” Champagne burst out, an undertone of reproach audible in his voice.
“Indeed. And I reproach myself that I failed to stop her demeaning betrothal to Toron—though I tried. And I reproach myself even more that I did not challenge the sham marriage of a child of eleven. I do not, however, reproach myself for her marriage to Montferrat. Contrary to what men say in the English camp, he is not a monster. He is a highly cultivated nobleman who speaks Italian, French, Latin, and Greek. He is well-read, and you will hardly find anyone more courteous than he—when he wants to be. He was very gracious to Isabella when she first arrived in Tyre, then nothing but a refugee from Jerusalem whose husband and kingdom were in Saracen hands. Furthermore, Montferrat assured Isabella’s mother and me that he admired her and would treat her with tenderness. I have every reason to believe he has kept his word. Isabella blossomed after her marriage to him, and she is now expecting.”
To Ibelin’s surprise, Champagne looked genuinely relieved. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that!” he exclaimed. “The image of her that night—it’s haunted me. I’ve felt guilty for not doing more to protect her. But if it is as you say and she is truly happy with Montferrat, then I can rest more easily.” He flashed Ibelin an embarrassed smile. “No doubt you are categorizing me as a hopeless romantic!”
Ibelin smiled back. “Perhaps, but there are worse things to be in this ugly world. I’m rather pleased to see that a man who can fight as well as you do can also be romantic.”
“Eleanor of Aquitaine’s grandson?” Champagne quipped back. “I was nursed on power politics and troubadour lyrics in equal measure.”
Ibelin laughed, and then started with surprise at the sound. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed so simply, without undertones of guilt, bitterness, or irony. Something about the sunshine on the deck of the Storm Bird on this April day and the company of the young Count of Champagne had lifted his spirits.
But when he looked back toward the coast, he realized they were already far north of Ibelin, and the shadows slipped back into his heart.
Tyre, April 28, 1192
Isabella was weeping miserably and inconsolably. It wasn’t supposed to be like this! This should have been one of the happiest days of her life. Five days ago, the Storm Bird had docked in Tyre with her stepfather and the Count of Champagne. They had brought word that the High Court of Jerusalem had elected Conrad king, and that King Richard had accepted their decision and acknowledged Conrad.
The city had gone wild with jubilation, and the stream of well-wishers had been overwhelming. Isabella had lived for two days in a dream of unbounded joy. All the factional fighting was over. The crusaders would acknowledge Conrad, and he would be able to lead them to victory as he had at Tyre. Isabella was even secretly delighted that King Richard was going home, because he would surely have tried to interfere and undermine Conrad’s authority.
With great pomp Conrad had gone to the cathedral and, in a voice pitched for the most distant corners of the great church, given thanks to God, adding, “Lord God, You created me and placed a soul in my body. If You judge me worthy to govern Your Kingdom, then see me crowned. But if I am not worthy of this great honor, then strike me down.” The crowd had waited with bated breath as he dramatically flung open his arms and lifted his face to the ce
iling over the apex of the nave and transept. Light was pouring in and seemed to surround him with a halo. No thunder growled, no lightning struck. The crowd went wild with jubilation.
Everything was so good, so perfect. Why did they have to quarrel? The spark for the fight had been trivial, but the underlying issue was Conrad’s continued refusal to listen to anything she had to say about governing the Kingdom they had so long coveted. His tone had moderated after the crusader drive on Jerusalem had failed miserably and the French had withdrawn from Ascalon. Rather than call her a “peahen” he was more likely just to say: “Leave that to me,” or “Don’t worry your pretty head about that,” or “I’ll do what’s best.” But this time he had snapped irritably, “When I need the advice of a pregnant girl, I’ll ask for it.”
Isabella had flown into a rage, reminding him that “being pregnant” wasn’t entirely her fault and that it was, moreover, her primary duty as Queen. She had, she knew, overreacted—but that was part of being pregnant!
The fight had been very ugly, with them both shouting at each other loud enough to frighten the servants away, and then Conrad had stormed off to have dinner with the Bishop of Beauvais, “where he wouldn’t have to listen to hysterical drivel,” slamming the door behind him.
Isabella had steamed and fumed at first. She paced the beautiful chamber overlooking the sea, and relived the quarrel in her head with embellishments and new arguments. But at some point her anger had turned to despair, and she sank down onto the soft cushions in the window seat, her head against the wall, and wept. Why didn’t Conrad want to listen to her? Why didn’t he respect what she thought? Why was their marriage all about sex and nothing more?
Her mother’s marriage to Uncle Balian wasn’t like this. Uncle Balian sought out her mother’s advice and usually followed it. Eschiva disliked politics and so spoke rarely about issues of state, but when she did, Aimery took note. Even Reynald de Châtillon had taken Stephanie de Milly’s opinions into account some of the time. They didn’t always agree on things, but he’d listened. How could Conrad, who was so much kinder, so much more refined and civilized, be less respectful of her opinions that the infamous brute Oultrejourdain?
Isabella was left with the answer that it was her fault. Her opinions were trivial and shallow, ill-conceived and foolish. Maybe Conrad didn’t respect anything she said because she didn’t say anything worth hearing? The more she told herself this, the more convinced she became, until she was just blubbering in the window seat, feeling utterly worthless.
The light faded from the sky as the sun sank below the edge of the sea, and the breeze sprang up again from the ocean. From below the window came the sound of waves crashing against the stone base of the city walls. Isabella’s tears dried. She got to her feet, stiff and unsteady. Instinctively her hand fell to her belly, feeling for some sign of life. She hoped her weeping did no harm to the precious life in her womb.
Conrad had been so happy when she gave him the news, she reminded herself. He had lifted her off her feet and covered her face with kisses. “A son!” he’d declared. “A son for Jerusalem! What Lusignan could never deliver.”
Isabella had not dared to remind him that they didn’t know it would be a son. She had basked in his happiness, relieved that he was so pleased, and convinced that the strains and squabbles and snide remarks of the previous four months were over. She had told herself that from now on they would live in perfect harmony—at least until the child was born. If it was a girl, the problems would undoubtedly start again, she knew, but she prayed that it would be a son.
And then the news arrived that the High Court and King Richard had recognized Conrad as king. She had been overjoyed. It was sheer delight that had made her brain brim with ideas. She’d wanted to appoint royal officials—a constable, a marshal, a chancellor. But Conrad had all but bitten her head off, accusing her of wanting to hem him in. She had backed off. Later, however, she’d suggested that he send word to Salah ad-Din that the treaty they’d made was off. “You can’t just break your word. You need to tell him what you’re doing and why—just as Uncle Balian did when he decided to stay in Jerusalem,” she had argued. Conrad had responded by saying sarcastically, “It may come as a surprise to you, but your stepfather isn’t perfect. Leave diplomacy to me; you don’t understand it.”
She hadn’t liked that answer, but she hadn’t argued. Instead, the remark had festered, just like his other brushoffs of her opinions. Tonight, when all she’d said was that he ought to discuss a coronation outside of Jerusalem with the Patriarch when he arrived, he’d answered with the cruel quip about not needing the advice of pregnant girls. She had exploded.
She shouldn’t have done that. She knew that. It got her nowhere with Conrad and detracted from her dignity. By now the whole palace knew that she and Conrad had quarreled. And everyone would blame her: the hysterical pregnant girl.
A knock on the door startled her and she looked over warily, patting her face to try to determine if it was obvious she had been crying. Surely not in the gathering gloom of dusk, she thought. Yet she still wanted to be alone, so her tone was terse and unwelcoming. “Who is it?”
In answer the door opened and her mother stepped inside, closing it firmly behind her to exclude what appeared to be a crowd of people strangely gathered in the hall. Her mother’s expression was so sober that Isabella wanted to crumple up in a corner again. No doubt the servants had gone running to her mother to report that rather than behaving like a queen she was screaming at her husband like a fishwife.
Her mother was advancing through the room, and Isabella looked down, too ashamed of herself to meet her mother’s eyes.
Maria Zoë didn’t stop until she could enfold her daughter in her arms. She kissed the top of Isabella’s head and whispered “Sweetheart,” in a voice so gentle that Isabella was instantly terrified. Why was her mother comforting her? “What is it, Mama?”
Her mother didn’t answer right away. Instead she guided her daughter gently but firmly to a chest and there turned and pulled Isabella down beside her, her grip still firm around Isabella’s waist.
“Mama? What has happened?” Isabella asked again. Now that her senses were alerted, she was aware of the muffled sound of many voices from beyond the door. The whole household appeared to be awake and agitated. Someone was shouting. Hurried footsteps pattered past the door.
“Sweetheart.” Maria Zoë took one of Isabella’s hands in the hand that was not around her waist. “Something terrible has happened.”
“What?” Isabella demanded.
“Conrad was attacked on his way back from the Bishop of Beauvais’ residence.”
“Attacked? What do you mean, ‘attacked’?” Conrad was attacked verbally all the time, but clearly that was not what her mother meant.
“Two men with knives.”
“Mama?”
“The crowd killed one on the spot, but the other was apprehended, and your stepfather is interrogating him now.”
“But what of Conrad? Where is he? How is he?”
“Bella,” Maria Zoë grasped her hand so hard it almost hurt, “he’s downstairs in the hall—”
Isabella jumped to her feet, but Maria Zoë remained sitting, holding her daughter’s hand so firmly that she could not break away. “Let me go, Mama!” Isabella protested frantically. “I must go to him!”
Maria Zoë nodded but held her fast. “Yes, you must go to him, but not until you are prepared.”
Isabella felt as if her blood had turned to ice. She stared at her mother.
“He is dying, Bella. A priest is with him.”
Isabella swallowed; her throat had constricted so much she could hardly breathe.
Her mother was speaking softly and calmly. “He fervently wants to see you. He has been asking for you. But—”
“I must go at once!” Isabella cried out and tried again to break free of her mother’s grasp, but Maria Zoë held her back.
“Bella, listen to me.” She did not r
aise her voice, and her tone was still gentle, but so intense that it stopped Isabella in her tracks. “These men knew what they were doing. They stabbed him in the stomach and kidney. He is in extreme agony.”
“Oh my God,” Isabella gasped. “Oh my God.” She was overwhelmed with guilt. How could she have quarreled with him about anything, much less for calling her a “pregnant girl”? Tears were streaming down her face again.
Maria Zoë stood and took Isabella in her arms again. She held her tight and kissed her on the head. “Sweetheart, I’ll be with you as long as you need me. We’ll go down together.”
Isabella let her mother guide her out the door, through the crowds of gaping servants, and down the stairs into a hall overflowing with people—friends, retainers, priests, soldiers, and sensation seekers. Isabella recognized some faces, but most seemed to be strangers. They stared at her as her mother cleared a path through the crowd to the center of attention.
They had laid Conrad down on a carpet hastily spread on the edge of the dais in front of the table. A chair cushion had been placed under his head. Blood was everywhere and the stench was vile. Isabella was reminded of that day in Acre when Humphrey had been brought to her wounded. That helped prepare her for the blood and stench. But Humphrey had been half unconscious, while Conrad was very much awake—writhing and grimacing, gasping and stammering words.
The Archdeacon of Tyre was beside him, holding his bloody hand. Seeing Maria Zoë and Isabella approach, he bent and whispered in Conrad’s ear. Conrad, gritting his teeth and sobbing to try to get control over the pain, turned his face in Isabella’s direction. His eyes were already sunken deep in his skull. His skin was bloodless and glistening with sweat.
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