The Last Crusader Kingdom

by Helena P. Schrader

  “Good man!” Balian exclaimed. “I must find some way to reward him for that. And your mother? Where is she?”

  Meg sighed. “She’s in there with Isabella,” she gestured with her head to the peaked door leading to the inner chamber.

  “Is she all right?”

  “You know Mama. She doesn’t always let you see what she’s feeling.”

  Balian smiled at that, then bent and kissed his daughter on her forehead. He stood to continue through the portal to the inner chamber.

  “Papa?”

  “Yes?”

  “Isabella has to marry again, doesn’t she?”

  “That, or abdicate in favor of her daughter Maria.”

  “Oh!” Meg obviously hadn’t thought of that. “But—But Maria’s only five!”

  “A regent would have to be appointed for her until she married. Traditionally, constitutionally,” he improved his own phraseology, “the regent is a minor monarch’s closest male relative. In Maria’s case her closest male relative is her father’s younger brother, Boniface of Montferrat. However, because she derives her right to the crown from her mother rather than her father, the High Court might rule that her mother’s closest male relative takes precedence. In that case, the regent would be Isabella’s half-brother, your brother John.”

  “John? But he’s only eighteen.”

  “Only? That’s more than old enough. The regency for a prince ends at age fifteen, remember, and from what you’ve just told me, John has already exerted authority and defended the interests of the Kingdom.” Meg continued to look skeptical, but Balian told her, “Think about it, Dove. I must go to your mother and Isabella.”

  He advanced toward the door to the Queen’s bedroom with the same determination and trepidation with which he led a charge against the Saracens. He knew he had no choice, and he felt nearly as helpless. He was in the hands of God.

  Entering the bedchamber, he noticed that the air turned sour and smelly. It wasn’t anything in particular, just a mixture of medicine, stale food, stale wine, maybe a whiff of vomit (perhaps that was just his imagination after Meg’s comments), and sweat. Two women Balian only vaguely remembered jumped up in shock and alarm at the sight of a man entering the inner chamber, then recognized him. They dipped their knees and bowed their heads with a murmured “my lord” as they backed away.

  Maria Zoë, dressed in black from her veils to her shoes, was sitting beside the bed, apparently reading aloud to Isabella. The latter was lying propped up on pillows inside the large box bed, which was hung with black curtains. Maria Zoë’s voice faltered as she registered the intrusion; then her eyes met Balian’s and her face relaxed. Something similar to a smile flitted across her face without reaching her lips. He advanced to her and took her hand as he turned to look down on Isabella.

  Meg had not been exaggerating: Isabella did indeed look terrible. Her face was puffy and splotched with red as if she’d been crying all day and all night ever since the accident. The skin around her eyes was so swollen and red that it made her eyes seem small and pig-like. Her lips were chapped, but she had several pimples on her chin and beside her nose as well. Her hair was greasy and hung in limp strands around her face.

  “My lady Queen,” he greeted her formally.

  “Don’t call me that!” Isabella wailed, lifting herself up and reaching out her arms to him. “Hold me, Uncle Balian! Like you used to do when I was a little girl!”

  Balian had no idea what he had been expecting, but certainly not this plea for comfort. It quite overwhelmed him, and he felt his throat tighten and tears sting his eyes as he knelt with one knee on the edge of the bed and pulled Isabella into his arms. They were both transported back to when Isabella had been a little girl of eight, dragged kicking and screaming from her home to live with her future in-laws at the order of the King. She had been imprisoned for three years in Kerak on the edge of Sinai, prohibited from even visiting her mother and stepfather. Balian and Maria Zoë had risked the wrath of the Lord of Kerak to go to her several times, and once Balian had gone alone. It had been during that visit that he had confessed his helplessness to rescue her from Kerak.

  “I’m just as helpless as I was when you were at Kerak,” Balian found himself confessing again as he held Isabella in his arms. She had been so little and skinny then. Now her figure was womanly and soft, but she clung to him in the same way. “I can’t bring Henri back, any more than I could rescue you from Oultrejourdain and his witchlike wife,” he told her, his throat so tight with unshed tears that it was audibly strained.

  “I just want to die!” Isabella wailed, tears flooding over her face. “I don’t want to live without Henri. He was everything to me. He made life worth living. It’s not the same as when Conrad died. We quarreled so much. He didn’t really love me. Henri loved me, Uncle Balian. He really did!”

  “I know he did, Bella,” Balian assured her, squeezing her tighter for an instant. “He still loves you—from beyond the grave. It must break his heart to see you like this.”

  “What am I going to do?” Isabella asked, pulling back a little, so that Balian held her only loosely with his hands on her shoulders. “Mama says I have to go on living. That I am still Queen of Jerusalem. That I have no choice but to serve my kingdom.”

  Balian glanced at his wife, and then turned back to his stepdaughter. “You certainly have to go on living,” he told her firmly. “If you take your own life, you damn your soul for all eternity, and so will be separated from Henri for eternity. He will certainly go to Heaven. You must know that?” he asked gently but reproachfully.

  Isabella looked down and nodded.

  Balian let go of her and backed off the bed, but remained standing beside it so he could hold her hand. “As for being Queen, if you truly want, you could abdicate and retire to a convent.”

  Isabella looked up at him hopefully. “Truly?”

  “Of course,” Balian assured her, despite the unhappy restlessness he could hear and sense behind him; Maria Zoë clearly did not approve of this advice. “But, of course, you would not be allowed to keep your children with you. You would have to turn all four of your little girls over to the care of the High Court.”

  Isabella gasped, and then hiccupped eloquently. “That’s not fair!” she protested.

  “Bella,” Balian reminded her gently, “a woman who renounces the world for God renounces all ties to her earthly family, and that includes her children. You know that.”

  “But if I remain Queen, I’ll be forced to marry again!” Isabella protested. “How can I marry again, when I know I will never love another man? Sharing another man’s bed would be abhorrent to me! Consummation would be rape!”

  This much Balian had expected, and he nodded calmly as he stroked the back of Isabella’s hand with his thumb. His calm acceptance of her outburst confused her, and she felt compelled to add, “I mean it, Uncle Balian. I could not bear to be intimate with another man after Henri. I would loathe him—and myself—for it!”

  Balian nodded again and assured her, “I believe you, Bella, and I know how you feel. I know I could never share intimacies with another woman, if God should choose to take your mother from me before He calls me to Him.”

  “So what is left for me to do? I can’t abdicate and retire to a convent without losing my children, and I can’t remain Queen without losing my sanity by being forced to take another man to my bed.”

  Balian drew a deep breath. “The High Court will insist on a marriage, but they’re hardly going to stand around in your bedchamber to enforce consummation.”

  “No, but what man would marry me for a crown and then risk losing that crown for lack of consummation?” Isabella shot back, making Balian smile inwardly. Isabella sometimes acted like she was all emotion, but underneath was a sharp brain.

  To Isabella he simply weighed his head from side to side, trying to win time. He wasn’t sure she was ready to really consider alternatives yet. He chose subterfuge. “Well, there are men like Hum
phrey who abhor sexual contact with women.”

  “Poor Humphrey!” Isabella exclaimed, and hiccupped again. Then she looked up sharply. “You don’t mean . . . ? Surely the High Court—you told me they would never accept Humphrey.”

  Balian sidestepped the question about the High Court by reporting truthfully, “Humphrey has taken vows as a monk. He has joined a community of reclusive Greek Orthodox monks and vowed both chastity and poverty. But there are other men . . . like him,” Balian noted cautiously.

  Isabella did not seem taken by the idea. He risked going further, and shrugged slightly as he remarked in what he hoped was still a purely speculative tone, “Or, alternatively, a man who already has a crown would be less obsessed with securing a second.”

  “Kings don’t exactly grow on trees,” Isabella countered snidely. “And a man used to ruling will have little concern for my feelings. I’m not naive. I listened very closely to what Queens Joanna and Berengaria had to say about their marriages!”

  “It’s true. Kings are used to getting their own way, but if he felt as you did . . . ”

  Isabella frowned and sat up straighter, drawing her hand out of Balian’s. “What do you mean, ‘feels like I do?’ How can anyone feel like I do?”

  “You’re right, Bella. No one could feel exactly as you do. You have suffered an exceptional blow. Henri was young and strong and healthy, and he had survived the battle with al-Adil only a week earlier. You must have seen God’s grace in that and felt secure in His love for both of you. Nor is this like Conrad’s assassination, because Conrad had made many enemies, and he had always lived on a knife’s edge.”

  Isabella was frowning ever more intensely, and her body was taut. “You have someone in mind, don’t you, Uncle Balian? You’ve already decided for me.” She sounded resentful.

  “No, Bella,” he answered steadily. “I have not decided for you, nor can I. The choice will be the High Court’s.”

  “Certainly!” Isabella spat out indignantly. “And whose voice will be loudest and strongest there? You know they’ll do whatever you suggest.”

  “No, Bella, it’s not that simple,” Balian countered calmly. “Furthermore, I can assure you that none of us on the High Court would impose our wishes upon you. We may suggest candidates to you, but it will be your choice. The Church, if nothing else, insists on consent—as you well know. You cannot be forced into a marriage against your wishes.”

  “Who?” Isabella demanded.

  Balian looked over his shoulder at Maria Zoë, because he had not had a chance to discuss this with her yet. He would have much preferred to consult her before sharing his idea with Isabella.

  Maria Zoë got to her feet and joined him at the side of the bed. She said nothing, just looked up at him expectantly.

  “I’ve spoken to no one about this—least of all the prospective bridegroom,” Balian told his wife and stepdaughter. “And there’s no need to discuss this immediately. I only—”

  “I want to know who you are thinking about!” Isabella told her stepfather sternly and precisely, her lips clamped together.

  “Balian didn’t do such a bad job choosing last time, sweetheart,” Maria Zoë reminded her daughter, leaning forward to stroke Isabella’s arm as she spoke, while looking again at Balian with raised eyebrows.

  “I was thinking of a man who is also in mourning. A man grieving for the woman he loved, the mother of his children, and yet a man who is already king and so would not marry you for a crown, but rather for sake of defending your kingdom for you. A man who has proven his worth on the battlefield many times, but is also wise in counsel—”

  “Aimery?” Isabella gasped out. “Eschiva’s Aimery?”

  She sounded so shocked that Balian didn’t dare speak. He nodded mutely.

  “It would be like betraying Eschiva!”

  “If it is just a formal marriage, as you want, without any intimacies, then how is that a betrayal of Eschiva?” Maria Zoë asked gently.

  Isabella looked at her mother, then back at her stepfather. Her expression was unreadable, but Balian took it as a good sign that she was not shouting at him hysterically or telling him to get out of her sight.

  “Sweetheart, nothing has to be decided right now,” Maria Zoë suggested reasonably. “Why don’t you let your ladies take you down to the baths, and then you could go visit your little girls, while I see about a proper meal. We can have a quiet family dinner with Meg and John to celebrate your stepfather’s arrival. Then maybe you can get a good night’s rest and we can talk again in the morning. What do you think?”

  Isabella looked at her mother tensely, her mind clearly sorting through a variety of possible answers before she took a deep breath and agreed. “Yes, Mama. I think you’re right. It’s time I left this bed, washed, and dressed. Don’t think I have agreed to this marriage!” she warned her parents sharply, but then continued in a calmer voice, “Still, I can’t continue hiding from the future, can I? I have to face it, and it’s easier to do that if I’m not a stinking wreck. Henri always wanted me to look and act like a queen. . . .”

  “Because you are, Bella,” Maria Zoë reminded her softly, her hand still on Isabella’s arm.

  Isabella looked at her mother as if she wanted to protest, but then she nodded. “Yes, I will concede that much: I would rather be queen than give up my little girls. I’ve neglected them, haven’t I?”

  “No,” Maria Zoë answered with a tired but relieved smile. “You needed time to grieve, and it would have done your children no good to see you in this state. When you go to them, you need to be strong enough to comfort them.”

  Isabella drew a deep breath. It meant a great deal that her mother did not reproach her for her behavior—because deep inside, she felt guilty about it. She had been self-indulgent these past ten days, and she knew it.

  Then she looked up at her stepfather. He was still looking concerned and uneasy. “You see, Uncle Balian? You’ve managed to drag me back from the precipice after all. How do you do it?”

  “I didn’t, Bella,” Balian told her, reaching out to pull her into his arms again. “You did it all on your own.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Last Kingdom

  Acre, Kingdom of Jerusalem,

  December 1197

  THE ROYAL WEDDING WAS SET FOR the Saturday before the first Sunday in Advent, so that the feast would not be constrained by fasting. The fact that the German crusaders had marched north and taken control of first Sidon and now—if reports were to be believed—Beirut, meant that the subjects of the Queen of Jerusalem were (gratefully) among themselves. They had come to love their young Queen and wanted to give her a “proper” wedding, particularly since none of her three earlier weddings had been celebrated in great style. Her first wedding had taken place in a castle under siege when she was just eleven years old. The second had been hastily concluded in a tent during the bitter siege of Acre. Her third marriage, to Henri de Champagne, had been conducted in even more haste, barely a week after the assassination of her second husband. Not once had Isabella been celebrated by her subjects.

  Now the commune of Acre buried their many rivalries and came together to plan festivities to mark the marriage of their Queen. To the wonder of the rest of the population, Pisans, Venetians, and Genoese worked hand in hand, while the guild masters and other communities—whether Syrian, Armenian, Latin, or Jew—likewise joined forces to plan a worthy celebration. Furthermore, all the various communities opened their coffers and engaged in a frenzy of preparations to make this event a testimony to their loyalty, their increasing prosperity, and their determination to survive as a kingdom. The King was dead; long live the King!

  The streets had been scrubbed so clean that the stray dogs had moved out of town in search of food. The drunks and beggars had been rounded up and temporarily incarcerated in the city jail. The prostitutes were sternly ordered to wear “respectable” clothes or risk arrest. The churches had been decked in lavender and late-blooming roses,
and from terce onwards their bells pealed in joy. Long banners of white stitched with crosses of gold hung from the windows of the houses, flapping and twisting in the breeze, while the arms of Jerusalem fluttered from all the rooftops.

  Half an hour before midday, the large galley that had been lying offshore ran out her oars and started to maneuver towards the harbor entrance. Inside the harbor, the ships ran up their bunting and began to blow their foghorns in a cacophonous greeting.

  At the same time, the gates of the royal palace opened and a long procession emerged. It was led by the exiled canons of the Holy Sepulcher, followed by the clerics of every church in the city—except the Cathedral of the Holy Cross, where the Archbishop and all his minions were preparing the wedding Mass. Behind the churchmen came knights in gleaming armor on brightly caparisoned stallions, both men and mounts bearing the arms of Jerusalem on surcoats and trappers. Next came the barons of the High Court, flanked by their ladies, ending with the Lord of Ibelin/Paphos and the Dowager Queen of Jerusalem. Immediately behind them, on a mare cleaned and curried to an almost perfect white and tacked with gold accoutrements, came Queen Isabella. For the first time in eighty days, she had set aside the black of mourning, and was dressed in purple and gold. Behind her came her half-brother John and half-sister Meg, followed by the rear-tenants, aldermen, and leaders of the commune of Acre.

  Meanwhile, in the harbor, the blue galley trimmed with yellow had gone alongside the quay, the standard of Lusignan flapping from the masthead. The gangway was run out, and on deck the passengers waited, immobile and hushed. As the head of the procession emerged from beside the Court of Chain, a noticeable ripple of motion seized the men aboard the ship. As the clerics moved along the quay to make way for the rest of the procession, a man with a bushy mane of graying hair emerged from the aft accommodations of the galley. He was dressed in bright-blue robes trimmed with gold, and wore a closed crown on his head. He moved slowly to the end of the gangway and waited until the Queen of Jerusalem approached the edge of the quay. He then stepped up onto the gangway and waited again.