“Is it over?” an archer asked.
“I’m not sure,” Aimery admitted.
King Richard was still sitting on his horse and staring to the north. Indeed, he’d shoved his helmet back onto his neck and was shading his eyes with his hand. Aimery followed his gaze. The sun was sinking down the western sky, and although they weren’t looking straight into it, it was bright and low enough to make it necessary to squint.
“There’s something on the road!” someone exclaimed in excitement.
“There are men and horses approaching from the north!”
“Saracens or Franks?”
“I can’t tell yet.”
“The Saracens withdrew. They must be Franks. It must be the army of Jerusalem.”
At last Aimery could decipher four riders leading the column, but he couldn’t make out what was on the banners. He squinted and held his breath as a light sea breeze lifted and then unfurled them with an invisible hand. Gold on white! The crosses of Jerusalem! And beside it: the red cross pattée on a field of gold for Ibelin.
Chapter 22
Jaffa, 1192
ON AUGUST 5 RICHARD THE LIONHEART had seemed invincible—indeed, immortal. Now, less than a fortnight later, he was debilitated by fever, and those closest to him feared for his life. The news of King Richard’s fever spread like wildfire through the Frankish camp. He had always been popular with his troops, but after his almost single-handed rescue of Jaffa, he was more a deity than a king. When men heard he was so ill he was delirious and too weak to sit, much less stand, a passive panic spread. The common soldiers began to collect in the streets in front of the citadel where Richard had been carried by his knights, while Masses were read for him to packed churches across the half-ruined city.
The lords collected in the anteroom of his bedchamber, and the stifling heat of August in Jaffa was made more fetid by the stink of medicines, blood drained from the King’s veins, clogged sewage in the street below, and the sweat of all of them.
Richard’s closest friends were here and his nephew, the new King of Jerusalem. They sat in glum, desultory silence, because there was nothing to say. The fierce Lionheart, who had alone challenged the entire army of Salah ad-Din, was now lying in a bed of sweat-soaked sheets, no longer lucid, and tossing about as if possessed. The doctors knew no cure, so the priests hovered nearby, ready with extreme unction.
Ibelin did not belong to the inner circle, so he had withdrawn to a window niche. From here he could catch a whiff of fresh air off the Mediterranean—when the wind blew. He was joined here by an annoying fly that insisted on crawling along the back of his hand or landing on the back of his neck, despite his repeated and increasingly irritated efforts to chase it away.
His thoughts circled morbidly around what would happen if King Richard died. For the Lionheart’s vassals and friends, it would be a catastrophe. Ibelin had heard enough to know that Richard’s heir was his treacherous and devious brother John, a man universally seen as unfit to rule. For the French King, on the other hand, King Richard’s death would be a godsend. Philip II would at once set to work stealing all the Plantagenet’s continental possessions. And Jerusalem? Since the English King had already declared his intent to return home, it arguably made no difference if he departed the Holy Land bound for England or for the grave. Either way, the crusaders would go too. The Kingdom of Jerusalem would be left to its own devices to defend itself as best it could.
At least they were rid of Lusignan—and while Champagne had been disappointingly indecisive during the march south from Acre, when Ibelin had explained what they’d done, he had embraced the plan. In retrospect, Ibelin felt a little guilty for not proposing it to him at the time, and concluded that Champagne—unlike Lusignan—might prove amenable to advice and guidance. He certainly seemed enchanted with Isabella, and that gave Ibelin double leverage.
But the question remained whether the barons and men of Outremer had sufficient resources to hold on to the territories the crusaders had won for them. Tyre seemed secure, and Acre was turning into a bustling city, the harbor choked with ships eager to carry all the goods that could make the Kingdom rich again. Haifa, Caesarea, and Arsur were hesitantly coming back to life—but only insomuch as Syrian, Coptic, and Armenian merchants were willing to cross borders with the goods transshipped and exported through these ports to the Western world. The flow of goods, and so the income, would stop instantly if the Sultan ordered his troops to stop it. Furthermore, the countryside in between these cities was empty. No one wanted to risk settling anywhere but behind high walls, and that meant that the cities were completely dependent on imports of food. It also meant that Salah ad-Din’s forces could surround each isolated city and reduce them one after another as soon as King Richard and the crusaders were gone.
The door to the sickroom opened, and all heads turned to see who emerged. The Bishop of Salisbury stood in the doorway and requested in a low but clear voice, “My lord of Champagne, my lord of Ibelin, the King is asking for you.”
“He’s lucid?” Champagne asked, jumping to his feet and plunging past the Bishop into the sickroom. Ibelin followed him at a more decorous pace, and the Bishop closed the door behind him.
The smells were even worse here than in the anteroom, and the sight of the usually so robust and powerful King lying listlessly and shining with sweat on crumpled sheets was shocking. But his eyes met Ibelin’s, and he gestured very faintly with his hand for him to approach.
“My lords.” His voice was little more than a raw whisper. “We must treat with Salah ad-Din.”
Champagne glanced at Ibelin, and seeing his consent, nodded vigorously.
“I want—you—” his eyes were no longer blue but smoke gray, and they were leveled at Ibelin— “to be my envoy.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Ibelin answered, surprised by how honored he felt.
“Go to him. Say—we have both suffered enough. We have—exhausted—one another. Tell him—if he grants me—terms—I will go home. But, if not—I will stay—and fight him.” Ibelin and Champagne exchanged a glance; the Lionheart couldn’t have fought a kitten in his present state.
The King saw and understood their look, but he insisted, “Don’t—bury—me—yet.”
“Of course not, uncle!” Champagne assured him.
Ibelin confined himself to saying, “I will go. What terms do you want me to offer? The status quo?”
King Richard nodded. “And Sidon—Beirut—the coast—from Ascalon to Antioch. True Cross.”
Ibelin nodded again. “We’ll start with that, and settle for the status quo.”
King Richard managed a ghost of a smile. “You understand me. Yes.”
Ramla, August 1192
The arrival of Ibn Barzan in the service of the English King caused a minor sensation in the Sultan’s immediate household. Although they had long since learned through spies that the English King and the most respected baron of Jerusalem were reconciled through the marriage of the King’s nephew to the baron’s stepdaughter, they had not expected Ibn Barzan to enjoy so much trust that he would be the English King’s envoy.
Because Ramla had not been rebuilt, the Sultan and his entire army was camped outside the city, on the fertile plain whose produce had once filled the coffers of the Baron of Ramla and Mirabel. The Sultan had a massive tent, divided by silk brocade walls into multiple chambers. He was traveling with three of his concubines, who were guarded by eunuchs in a cloth harem. He had his own chamber for bathing and sleeping, another for praying and a chamber for conducting business, as well as a spacious and particularly ornate chamber for holding councils or audiences. He sent for his brother and eldest son, and they joined him in his office to discuss the unexpected visitor.
Al-Adil welcomed the development, saying it simplified matters. Since Ibn Barzan spoke for the barons of Jerusalem, if he also spoke for Malik Rik, there was no longer any risk of them disagreeing or misunderstanding what had been said. Salah ad-Din’s eldest son al-Af
dal, on the other hand, was still smoldering over the shame of Jaffa. He had been a witness to the stubborn and insolent refusal of the Sultan’s army to continue charging the Frankish position on August 5, and he had seen Malik Rik’s unanswered challenge to the whole Saracen line.
Al-Adil found his nephew’s assertion that if he had not been “wounded” he would have taken up Malik Rik’s challenge somewhat disingenuous. He had, in fact, suffered little more than a facial scratch. This, to be sure, had swollen up the side of his face badly and pulled his mouth temporarily out of shape. It might, if he was unlucky, even leave a permanent scar, but it was hardly life-threatening, and it would not have seriously impeded his ability to fight on horseback. That al-Afdal would have been killed if he had taken on Malik Rik was equally evident to both his father and uncle, so they said nothing and let al-Afdal keep his pride.
Now, however, the teenager’s venomous demands that Ibn Barzan be torn limb from limb or cut to pieces were getting on al-Adil’s nerves. He glanced to his brother to see if the Sultan was going to silence his foolish whelp or leave it to him to do it. He was relieved when his brother made a dismissive gesture and remarked dryly, “Civilized people do not kill envoys, puppy.”
Al-Afdal flushed at the insult and opened his mouth to protest, but his father cut him off with an upturned hand. “Do not make me angry. Go tell Imad ad-Din to escort Ibn Barzan to my audience chamber and to stay with him there while we change.” The Sultan and his brother were dressed very simply at the moment, for they had not been expecting guests.
Imad ad-Din had no reason to like Ibn Barzan. On the contrary, he was inwardly indignant at the way he had treated his friend Humphrey de Toron. As a good servant to his Sultan, however, he graciously received the Frankish envoy, ensured that he was comfortable, and ordered chilled water served to him from a silver decanter into a ruby-red glass. Since there was still no sign of the Sultan or his brother, however, Imad ad-Din had no choice but to reluctantly engage the unwelcome guest in small talk.
Sinking onto the abundant pile of cushions to one side of Ibn Barzan (to leave the cushions opposite vacant for the Sultan and his brother), he eyed the unwelcome visitor through a superficial smile. Ibn Barzan was a striking man. God had made him tall, but Imad ad-Din had to admire how straight he sat for a man his age. Equally notable was how slender he was without being fragile. The Sultan had a very noticeable potbelly these days, but not Ibn Barzan. His stomach was flat and firm, his chest and arms muscular. Only his face showed his age and the strain of five years of continuous warfare.
“I am sorry you did not bring my good friend Humphrey de Toron with you, my lord,” Imad ad-Din opened.
“My former son-in-law is now on Cyprus with the Lusignan brothers,” Ibelin answered readily.
“A very talented young man,” Imad ad-Din noted.
“Undoubtedly,” Ibelin agreed. “It was his misfortune to be his father’s only son. As a younger son, he would have been free to pursue a Church career. I’m sure he would have made an outstanding scholar. As an abbot or bishop, he would have been greatly admired by all.”
Imad ad-Din raised his eyebrows in a gesture of disagreement, but said nothing. Instead he asked, “And the English King’s nephew: he is more suited to be King, although he has so little sense of honor?”
“In what way does the Count of Champagne lack honor?” Ibelin asked back in evident surprise.
“What honorable man would marry a woman carrying another man’s child?” Imad ad-Din asked back, unable to disguise his revulsion for such a filthy relationship.
“Ah,” Ibelin nodded, “I understand.” Once reminded, Ibelin remembered that Sharia Law expressly prohibited marriage to a pregnant widow. “But this is not dishonorable among Franks,” he told the Sultan’s secretary. “On the contrary, the Count of Champagne is much admired, indeed revered as exceptionally honorable, because he has assumed responsibility for his wife’s unborn child—as Joseph did for Jesus.”
Imad ad-Din made a face and shook his head in irritation. He was relieved that the arrival of the Sultan, with his brother and son, made an answer to such nonsense unnecessary.
Ibelin got to his feet at the sight of the Sultan and bowed from the waist, while Imad ad-Din bowed his head all the way to the floor. The Sultan seated himself directly opposite Ibelin, flanked by his brother and son, and made sure Ibelin had received refreshments before inquiring about his journey and health. He used the assurances of good health from his guest to segue into inquiring after King Richard’s health. “We hear he has been very ill.” The Sultan wanted his guest to know how well informed he was. “Has he regained lucidity?”
“Well enough to give me his instructions,” Ibelin answered steadily. He had not doubted for a minute that Salah ad-Din knew the state of King Richard’s health—probably as well as any of them.
“I hear he craves fruit,” the Sultan continued. “If you would allow me, I will send him the very best plums and pears from Damascus as a gift for Malik Rik from me. We just received a caravan with fresh fruit.”
Ibelin bowed his head again in thanks. “That is very generous of you, Excellency, and would be most welcome.”
“The air of Jaffa is not the best. I suspect he would feel better sooner if he moved to someplace higher.”
“The air of Jaffa was left putrid with corpses, but it has improved much over the last week,” Ibelin answered with a smile, taking mental note that the Sultan still had his eyes on Jaffa and would attack the moment Richard was gone.
The Sultan’s mouth smiled back; his eyes did not. “What is it that Malik Rik has asked you to convey to me?”
“Nothing that you do not already know: that your army is exhausted, your emirs in rebellion, your troops insolent, and your treasury depleted.”
As Ibn Barzan spoke, al-Afdal’s face flushed, and he could not contain his indignation. Even before Ibelin had fully finished, he burst out, “Those are lies! All lies! We are a thousand times stronger than you! The emirs worship my father—”
“Oh, is that why they refused to obey his orders in front of Jaffa? Is that why Malik Rik could challenge your whole army, and not one man was willing to cross swords with him? I was led to believe your father was very angry about that.” Ibelin’s eyes cut to the Sultan, who was looking distinctly annoyed.
“Lies!” his son replied hotly. “Any one of us could kill Malik Rik with one hand tied behind his back—”
“Enough,” his father silenced him sharply, and answered himself. “Malik Rik’s own brother is in revolt against him. His former ally, Malik Phil, is in league with his enemies and preparing to invade his lands. If he survives his current illness—may Allah grant that he does—he must return across the sea, and with him will go all the others who came from the West.”
“Indeed,” Ibelin agreed. “And I will be glad to see them go.” Their eyes locked. Ibelin continued. “In our Holy Book it is written: there is a time for war and a time for peace. A time to sow and a time to reap. It is time for the men of war to return home and for us to sow our fallow fields.”
“Let Malik Rik depart with his invaders.” The Sultan dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and then looked more intently than ever at Ibelin. “After they have left, if you acknowledge that you have been worshiping a prophet, not a God, and heed the word of Mohammed, may God’s blessings be upon him, then I will give you all of Palestine as your iqta.”
“There are many men who have fought loyally with you for decades, Excellency, who would rightly object to such a generous gift to a new convert.” Ibelin glanced significantly at al-Adil.
“Let me and God deal with them, for His joy in saving your soul would far outweigh any perceived injustice visited upon others.”
“I am too insignificant to presume to know what will bring joy to the heart of God, but I trust that He will inspire me to do that which pleases Him, and that is to bring peace to His homeland. Will you not listen to King Richard’s terms?”
&nbs
p; Salah ad-Din held his eyes, and he saw that Ibn Barzan was not in the least tempted by his offer. He nodded curtly.
“King Richard is willing to recognize your control of the highlands, including Jerusalem, in exchange for your recognition of Frankish suzerainty over the coast and coastal plain from Ascalon to Latakia. He proposes an exchange of prisoners, to include all captives taken from the Kingdom of Jerusalem after Hattin and still in slavery. Last but not least, he demands the return of the Cross captured at Hattin that we revere, but which is worthless to you.”
Al-Afdal looked flabbergasted, al-Adil bemused, and Salah ad-Din stony. “I will consult with my emirs and other advisors,” he told Ibn Barzan dryly. “Is there anything you would like while you are waiting? Food, or a bath, perhaps a woman? I have many very delectable slave girls, some of whom are blond and Christian.”
Ibelin concluded that the Sultan was furious with him and refused to react to the provocation. “I’m not in the mood, but if you have any wine from Ibelin I would enjoy that.”
The Sultan smiled coldly and flung at him ascerbically, “You’ll have to grow it yourself!” Then, ordering Imad ad-Din to see what refreshments he could find, he departed in obvious ill temper.
Jaffa, August 1192
The Sultan flatly refused to return the True Cross, dismissed as preposterous the recognition of Frankish control over any place not securely in Frankish hands (i.e., Beirut and Sidon), and demanded that the Franks withdraw from Ascalon, Gaza, Darum, and Jaffa as well. The only territory he was willing to allow them to retain was the coast from Arsur to Tyre. It was this answer that Ibelin brought back to Jaffa.
Although Ibelin had been told that the English King was much better, he was still in bed. When he was told these terms, he turned his head to the wall, and did not speak for so long that Ibelin began to wonder if he had been dismissed. “Should I leave you, my lord?” he asked softly.
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