Isabella gave her mother’s hand a squeeze to indicate she knew what she was doing, and then stepped ahead of her to go on her knees beside her husband, everyone else making way for her in silent respect.
“Is—Is—”
“Shhh! It’s all right,” she told him, taking his other hand.
He flung his head from side to side, his breathing coming in ragged gasps, almost as if he were gagging. “Don’t—don’t—deliver—Tyre—aaaagh!” The pain overwhelmed him, and it was all Isabella could do not to writhe in empathy.
She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder, firm and calming. She swallowed down her instinct to scream in sympathy, and squeezed Conrad’s hand instead. “It’s all right, Conrad. No one is going to surrender Tyre. We have held it all these years. We will continue to do so.”
Her words were echoed by a rumbling of affirmative expressions and vows from the men crowded around them. Isabella became aware that many of these men, hardened veterans and detached priests, were openly weeping.
“Let—oh, Christ!” he cried out again, half rearing up off his pillow and clutching Isabella’s and the Archdeacon’s hands so hard that they both winced. As the pain receded, he panted until he was able to gasp out, “High Court—let them—successor—Christ help me!”
“You want the High Court to name your successor?” Isabella translated his words carefully, her eyes focused on his face.
He nodded, closing his eyes with relief at being understood.
Isabella thought to herself that it was just as well he was in agreement with what would certainly happen regardless, and then leaned and kissed him on the forehead. “I love you, Conrad,” she told him gently. “Forgive me, if I ever gave you grounds to be displeased.”
“Never!” Conrad gasped out, opening his eyes to look into hers. “Never! Bella Bella, Bella . . .” His voice faded away, and his eyes rolled back in his head.
The Archdeacon leaned forward to feel the pulse in Conrad’s neck, and Maria Zoë’s hand tightened on Isabella’s shoulder.
The Archdeacon crossed himself and started praying aloud. With an audible gasp, people across the room realized what had happened, and started dropping to their knees and crossing themselves. Someone in the crowd began to recite the Pater Noster out loud and others joined in. A woman at the back of the room started wailing.
Maria Zoë slipped an arm around Isabella’s waist and pulled her back to her feet. She turned her around and led her through the sea of mourners back to the stairs and up to her chamber. In the back of the Dowager Queen’s mind, she noted that Conrad’s reign had been the shortest of any King of Jerusalem yet.
Tyre, April 30, 1192
“Rashid ad-Din, commonly known as ‘the Old Man of the Mountain,’” Ibelin told Champagne grimly.
The Count had taken ship for Tyre the same hour that the news of Montferrat’s murder reached him in Acre. Because of the prevailing winds, he had been traveling overland to bring his uncle the news of the joyous reactions to Montferrat’s elevation. On learning that Conrad had been murdered, however, he left his horses and all but one of his knights behind and hired a coastal galley to take him back to Tyre.
His arrival had gone largely unnoticed in a city plunged into collective mourning. The keening of women and the chanting of prayers seemed to float up from the streets and hang over the city like a dark cloud. Black shrouds covered doors and windows, and even cloaked the ships in the harbor. Few people were on the streets, and those who were wore mourning.
Champagne had gone first to the archiepiscopal palace to offer his condolences to the widow, but he had not been admitted. He had paid his respects to the corpse, laid out in state before the altar at Holy Cross Cathedral, and he had lit two candles for Montferrat’s soul. Only then had he made his way to the Ibelin residence.
Ibelin had not seemed surprised to see him, and had readily answered his questions, including this one about who could possibly be behind the murder. At Ibelin’s answer he asked incredulously, “But why? Are you sure?”
“As sure as one ever can be. I’m the first to acknowledge that confessions under torture are of dubious value. The mob hacked one man to pieces, and the second only escaped a similar fate because he managed to escape to a church. Despite their rage, the men of Tyre weren’t ready to shed blood in a church. They dragged him outside with the intent of torturing him to death. By the time I arrived, they had so badly mutilated him that he was hardly recognizable as human. They claimed, however, that he had already confessed to being an assassin in the pay of Rashid ad-Din.”
“That doesn’t sound convincing to me,” Champagne noted dryly.
“Quite right,” Ibelin agreed, “but the confession wasn’t really necessary. You see, the murder bears the signature of Rashid ad-Din. The men were extremely efficient. They picked a time and place when Conrad was expecting nothing. They delivered fatal stabs almost before anyone knew what was happening. Most important, they were both members of Montferrat’s household—”
Champagne gasped in shock, exclaiming in disbelief: “What?”
“That’s the way Rashid ad-Din operates. He first infiltrates his trained killers into a man’s household and trust, and then they lie in wait until the perfect opportunity presents itself.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“For heaven. That’s what Rashid ad-Din promises his supporters: that they will go straight to heaven if they die in his service.”
“But what on earth can this Rashad ad-Din have against the Marquis de Montferrat?” Champagne asked, still confused and unsettled by events.
“It may sound trivial, but as we can see, the consequences were not,” Ibelin explained. “A couple of years ago, a ship foundered right out there under our noses. The crew turned the bows of the already sinking ship toward the shore and beached her, but I’m sorry to say some of the refugees, keen on salvage and seeking revenge for all they’d lost, killed several of the survivors before the garrison reached the ship. The garrison secured the rest of the survivors and brought them to Montferrat, including the captain. Fearing for his life, the captain promised Montferrat a huge ransom, and Montferrat correspondingly sent ransom demands to Rashid ad-Din. But the Old Man of the Mountain responded by claiming that far from owing Montferrat a penny in ransom for the release of his men, Montferrat owed him restitution for the men killed, the ship, and the cargo.”
“What sort of arrogance is that?” Champagne asked, shocked.
“The Old Man of the Mountain is not short on arrogance. He sees himself as a prophet, but I warned Montferrat to take him seriously. Instead, he summarily executed the shipwrecked men, thereby incurring Rashid ad-Din’s enduring hatred.”
“You’re saying this has nothing to do with the crown of Jerusalem?” Champagne asked, incredulous.
“Nothing at all,” Ibelin assured him.
At one level Champagne found that hard to believe, yet Ibelin was a rational man and his explanation made sense. “But the timing . . .” he protested weakly.
Ibelin shrugged. “Ever since Philip of France departed, Montferrat had expected Lusignan to try to murder him. When in public he was usually surrounded by several men-at-arms, men who searched the crowds and scanned the windows and rooftops for possible murderers and sharpshooters. But when the news arrived that King Richard had abandoned Lusignan and bought him off with Cyprus, Montferrat dropped his guard. That was what Rashid ad-Din’s men had been waiting for.”
Champagne shook his head in sheer disbelief at such profound perfidy, but he no longer doubted Ibelin was right.
“There is something else we must discuss,” Ibelin continued in a sober tone.
Champagne looked over expectantly.
“The Patriarch arrived yesterday. He was accompanied by Sidon, Haifa, Caesarea, and Galilee, all of whom came expecting to offer their congratulations to Montferrat. They arrived just in time to learn that he was dead.”
Champagne nodded absently.
“We met earlier today to discuss the succession.”
“Good God, my lord! Montferrat isn’t even is his grave yet! The Queen must be in a state of terrible shock!”
“Her mother is with her,” Ibelin answered simply. “But unless you tell me that King Richard has changed his mind about leaving and is now prepared to remain in the Holy Land as commander of the assembled Frankish forces—or better yet, to take up the crown himself—we can’t afford to delay. The Queen of Jerusalem is a widow, and she needs a consort who can take King Richard’s place as the unquestioned leader of the forces of Christendom in the struggle to regain the Holy Land.”
“I’ve had no word from my uncle,” Champagne answered in obvious distress. “I do think this might persuade him to remain, at least until a new King can be elected. He is committed to regaining Jerusalem. No one should doubt that. He’s sincerely committed,” Champagne repeated, at pains to defend his favorite uncle. “But he can’t just let John and Philip rob him of everything his father and he have fought for over the last half-century. They fought for it together far more than they fought each other, although most people forget that. But surely you see that he cannot just abandon his inheritance? He doesn’t really have a choice. He has to go home, but he might be persuaded to delay his departure a bit, as long as he leaves before the winter storms shut down the sea lanes back to Europe.”
Ibelin let Champagne run on until he had run out of things to say. Then he continued in his somber voice, “We—the Patriarch, Galilee, Sidon, Haifa, Caesarea, and I—discussed possible candidates for Isabella’s consort.”
Again Champagne shook his head in distress. “It’s too soon. You can’t possibly ask Queen Isabella to even think about a new husband yet. I feel so very, very badly for her!” Champagne’s concern and sympathy were written all over his face.
“Which is to your credit, my lord,” Ibelin answered. “And also one of the reasons that I raised your name.”
“What?” Champagne was taken so totally by surprise that he started physically, and then stared at Ibelin in disbelief.
“Unless I have been misinformed, you are neither wed nor promised.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“But what?” Ibelin prompted him. When Champagne remained tongue-tied in sheer shock, Ibelin continued. “You are nephew to both the King of England and the King of France, which will surely assure you the support of the Plantagenet’s vassals and the support of Burgundy and his Frenchmen. You have been here longer than most of the other crusaders, and you have demonstrated both your courage and your discretion at the siege of Acre, the Battle of Arsuf, the march on Jerusalem, and most recently at Ascalon. I really can’t think of a single reason why you are unsuitable.”
Champagne shook his head in continued disbelief, remarking lamely, “But if I accept the crown of Jerusalem, I can’t ever go home. What is to become of Champagne?”
“What is to become of Jerusalem if you don’t remain?”
Champagne shook his head again. “This is too sudden, too unexpected. I would have to consult my uncle. King Richard must be consulted in any case.”
“He very explicitly turned the decision over to the High Court of Jerusalem,” Ibelin reminded him.
“Yes, but the High Court isn’t here.”
“No, but if you agree, the Patriarch, Galilee, Caesarea, Haifa, Sidon, and I will send a joint message to the remaining members of the High Court with our recommendation. We could have an answer in five or six days.”
“I must consult my uncle. I will do nothing without King Richard’s explicit approval,” Champagne insisted still flustered.
“But you will consider it?” Ibelin pressed him.
“Yes—on one condition!” Champagne’s tone was urgent, almost desperate. Ibelin waited with raised eyebrows.
“That Queen Isabella agrees freely. I will not have her forced into a marriage she does not want.”
Ibelin nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”
Tyre, May 2, 1192
The funeral was over, and Isabella was relieved to be back behind thick stone walls, protected from the prying eyes of the curious by more than black cloth. She stripped away the short veil that had covered her face, and then unpinned and unwrapped the rest of the long veils with a sigh of relief. Her mother took the veils from her and set them aside. “I’ll send for sherbet,” Maria Zoë assured her, going to the door and conveying the request to someone beyond.
Isabella sank down in the nearest chair and took a deep breath of the clean, fresh air coming off the sea through the unshuttered window. As her mother returned from the door, their eyes met. “I don’t know what I would have done without you these last four days, Mama,” Isabella confessed.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Maria Zoë answered on the brink of tears, “what else are mothers for?”
Isabella’s lips turned up to indicate she wanted to smile but was still too miserable. “Before Kerak, I thought mothers were for sweets and pets and excursions.” She added sadly, “Nothing has ever been the same after Kerak.” She leaned her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, one hand on her belly containing her precious child, Conrad’s child.
Maria Zoë felt as if her heart would break. Isabella was just twenty years old. Although she too had been widowed at twenty, Amalric had not been stabbed to death, nor had she been in love with him. Most important, with his death she became a dowager. His death had freed her to withdraw from public life, to marry the man of her choosing and shape her own destiny. None of those options were available to Isabella.
A timid knock indicated that a servant had returned with sherbet, and Maria Zoë answered it. She brought the tray into the room and set it on the table before Isabella, rather than let the servant in.
Isabella opened her eyes and looked at her mother. “You look exhausted, Mama. I think these last days have been as hard on you as on me.”
“No. Hard, but not that hard.”
“You spoke to Uncle Balian at length before the funeral. What has the High Court decided to do with me now?”
Maria Zoë was relieved that Isabella recognized her position so clearly. She answered steadily, “The High Court has not had a chance to respond to the changed situation. The members are dispersed.”
Isabella nodded wearily but noted, “The Patriarch, Uncle Balian, Galilee, Haifa, Sidon, and Caesarea are a very strong faction. What have they decided?”
“That you must remarry as soon as possible. The Kingdom cannot give you a year of mourning.”
“I know that,” Isabella answered with a slightly irritated sigh. “My question is: whom do they want me to marry now?”
There was an edge to Isabella’s voice, and Maria Zoë hesitated to answer. She and Balian had agreed not more than an hour ago that it was too soon to broach the subject with her. They had agreed she should be given at least the day of the funeral, and perhaps another as well, before discussing the marriage proposal. Since she had raised the subject herself, however, it seemed disingenuous for Maria Zoë to pretend that she did not know what was afoot. “They have a candidate in mind, but he refuses to consider the match unless you are in full agreement,” Maria Zoë admitted.
Isabella smiled cynically. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that, do you?”
The cynicism made Maria Zoë sad, and she admitted, “I understand your bitterness, sweetheart. I would probably react the same way in your shoes.”
“So, who is it?” Isabella insisted, adding, “It doesn’t make it better to drag it out. I’d rather know sooner than later. It will help me adjust.”
“I’m not sure if you know him,” Maria Zoë started, trying to remember if Isabella had ever met the Count of Champagne. He was, after all, very much in the King of England’s camp, and had, to her knowledge, never set foot in Tyre until the day he brought the news that the King of England had abandoned Lusignan. Then she remembered and said out loud, “But he was at the siege of Acre when you were there with Humphrey before
the arrival of the Kings of France and England.”
Isabella sat up straighter and looked at her mother with a curious expression. “Who?” she asked again.
Before Maria Zoë could answer, there was a loud banging on the door. This was not the timid knocking of a respectful servant hesitant to interrupt, and there was urgency in the knock as well. Maria Zoë turned toward the door and raised her voice to call out. “Who is there? The Queen and I do not wish to be disturbed.”
“This is the Bishop of Beauvais with an urgent message from the Duke of Burgundy, Madame!” a deep male voice answered.
Isabella caught her breath. She acknowledged that her divorce from Humphrey had been the right—indeed, the only moral—thing to do, but she still hated the man who had dragged her from Humphrey’s bed. “I don’t want to see him!” she told her mother sharply. Maria Zoë opened her mouth to protest, but Beauvais strode into the room without awaiting an invitation.
Both Maria Zoë and Isabella jumped angrily to their feet at such an impertinence, and Maria Zoë sharply admonished, “You are not welcome here, my lord Bishop! Nor have you any right to intrude upon a bereaved widow in her chamber. Get out this instant or I will have you removed by force!” It was not an empty threat: the Bishop had evidently bluffed and bullied his way this far, but the uncertain household servants and guards were hovering in the hall in evident agitation. At the Dowager Queen’s words, four of Montferrat’s men-at-arms took heart and pushed into the room, their hands hooked in their belts and their stance belligerent.
The Bishop of Beauvais was, as usual, dressed in chain mail under a surcoat with crossed bishop’s croziers, silver on red, as his motif. He cast a look over his shoulder at the men-at-arms and then looked again at Maria Zoë and Isabella. Isabella looked fragile and frightened, particularly pale against the solid black of her widow’s weeds, but Maria Zoë was clearly not intimidated by him. He saw her eyes flicker to the men, and the very subtle but decisive jerk of her head inviting them deeper into the room.
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