Knight of Jerusalem
Knight of Jerusalem: A Biographical Novel of Balian d’lbelin
Copyright © 2015 Helena P. Schrader. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Wheatmark®
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Tucson, Arizona 85718 USA
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ISBN: 978-1-62787-194-5
LCCN: 2014950453
Contents
Genealogical Charts
The Ibelin Family in the 12th Century
The Greek (Byzantine) Emperors in the 12th Century
Kings/Queens of Jerusalem 1131–1212
Maps
Jerusalem, 12th Century
Kingdom of Jerusalem
Baronies of Jerusalem
Introduction and Acknowledgments
1 Ibelin, Kingdom of Jerusalem, March 1171
2 Jerusalem, Easter 1171
3 Jerusalem, July 1172
4 Jerusalem, July 1174
5 Kingdom of Jerusalem, August 1174
6 Jerusalem, July 1176
7 Ascalon, August 1176
8 Ascalon, September 1176
9 Ascalon, November 1177
10 Ibelin, November 24, 1177
11 Ibelin, December 1177
12 Jerusalem, December 1177
13 Ascalon, April 1178
Historical Note
Note on Leprosy
Additional Reading
Also by Helena P. Schrader
The Ibelin Family in the 12th Century
The Greek (Byzantine) Emperors in the 12th Century
Kings/Queens of Jerusalem 1131–1212
Jerusalem, 12th Century
Kingdom of Jerusalem
Baronies of Jerusalem
Introduction and Acknowledgments
THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN, A TWENTIETH Century Fox film released in 2005 and directed by Ridley Scott, was based—very loosely—on the story of Balian d’Ibelin, a historical figure. Although Scott’s film, starring Orlando Bloom as Balian, was a brilliant piece of cinematography, the story of the real Balian d’Ibelin was not only different from but arguably more fascinating than that of the Hollywood hero.
Balian d’Ibelin was a younger son of Barisan d’Ibelin, an adventurer from Western Europe, who first emerged in history when he was named Constable of Jaffa and later granted a fief in the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the mid-1140s. Barisan then did what every selfrespecting adventurer did: he married an heiress, the heiress of Ramla and Mirabel. Although the existing sources are ambiguous, it appears that at his death his eldest son Hugh, evidently by an earlier marriage, inherited the paternal title of Ibelin, while Barisan’s eldest son by his second and richer wife inherited Ramla and Mirabel. Undisputed is the fact that his third son, Balian, was left empty-handed—a phenomenon unknown in earlier ages but increasingly a problem by the twelfth century.
Despite this handicap, Balian rose to such prominence in the Kingdom of Jerusalem that Arab sources describe him as “like a king.” Unusually, and in sharp contrast to his elder brother, he was not merely an outstanding fighting man and knight, effective on the battlefield in offense and defense, but he was also a diplomat and peacemaker. Balian played a decisive mediating role between factions within the Kingdom of Jerusalem and between the Kingdom and its external enemies, including negotiations on two known occasions with Salah-ad-Din himself.
Almost equally astonishing for a younger son, he made a brilliant marriage that catapulted him into the royal family—and indeed, his descendants would repeatedly intermarry into the royal houses of both Jerusalem and Cyprus. Furthermore, this marriage was as close to a love match as one can find among the nobility in the twelfth century.
Such a man, it seemed to me, deserved a biography—a biography based on all the known facts, not just those that fit into Ridley Scott’s film concept. But while there are many intriguing known facts about Balian, there are many more things we do not know, making a traditional biography impossible—just as is the case with Leonidas of Sparta. A biographical novel, on the other hand, is a medium that can turn a name in the history books into a person so vivid, complex, and yet comprehensible that history itself becomes more understandable.
That is my objective with this novel in three parts: to tell Balian’s story and to describe the fateful historical events surrounding the collapse of the Christian Kingdom of Jerusalem in the last quarter of the twelfth century, of which Balian was a part. The historical record is the skeleton of this biographical novel, but the flesh and blood—the emotions, dreams, and fears—are extrapolated from those known facts. I hope I have created a tale that my readers will find as fascinating, exciting, and engaging as I do.
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank my test readers Deanna Proach, Anna Clart, and Diana Page for providing invaluable feedback while it was still possible to make changes, and my editor Christina Dickson, who—as always—cleaned up my typos and erratic punctuation and polished the text. Last but not least, I wish to thank Mikhail Greuli for the evocative cover image.
Helena P. Schrader
Addis Ababa
2014
Chapter 1
Ibelin, Kingdom of Jerusalem, March 1171
“SIR BALIAN! COME QUICK! THERE’S BEEN an accident!” The voice was breathless from the exertion of taking the stone stairs two at a time.
Balian frowned and looked up from the deed he was holding. His elder brother had tasked him with settling a bitter dispute between two of their tenants, which turned on whether a half-dozen acres given as a dower portion could be inherited by sons of a second marriage. Balian was digging through the barony records in search of the land title, and was loath to be interrupted. “What, then?” Balian demanded of the speaker, one of the young grooms, not yet convinced this was something serious.
“My lord’s horse has just galloped over the drawbridge without him.”
That got Balian’s attention: his elder brother was not the kind of man to be unhorsed easily, as he had proved often enough in battle and joust. But he was over fifty now, and his pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela two years earlier had left him with a chest ailment that gnawed at his health. On the other hand, today’s mishap might have been an ambush of some kind. Robber bands and renegades still operated in the mountains to the east, and they might have come down onto the plain because the winter had been harsh and they were short of supplies. It would be just like his brother to try to stop the looting of one of his villages—even if he were alone with no one but a young and inexperienced squire in attendance. Hugh d’Ibelin was nothing if not courageous.
Whatever had happened, Balian was determined to find out. He pounded down the spiral stairs and careened into the castle ward. The stallion had raced home for the safety of his stall, but he felt guilty for leaving his rider behind and so was now tearing around between the keep and the outer walls, trying to avoid the increasing number of grooms and men-at-arms trying to catch him. Balian joined the others, anxious to see if the horse was wounded—or covered in his brother’s blood.
They were so focused on catching the horse that they didn’t notice the man who came running over the drawbridge and collapsed, panting, just inside the barbican, until he called out: “Lord Balian! Lord Balian! Come quick! The Baron is badly injured.”
Balian turned to look at the man in surprise that rapidly turned to horror as the words sunk in. The messenger’s long kaftan and sandals marked him as a tenant farmer from one of the Syrian villages, and the wooden cross hanging around his neck marked him as a Christian as well. “What happened?” Balian demanded in Arabic, but
then turned to order one of the grooms to saddle his fastest horse before turning back to the breathless farmer.
The farmer shook his head. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there. It happened near the crossroads.” He gestured and spoke in a rush of Arabic too fast for Balian, whose command of the language was limited. Balian grasped intuitively, however, that this man was just the last in a chain of runners. The accident had taken place several miles away, and word had been sent by improvised relays of men passing the message on when they could run no farther. What Balian didn’t understand was why his brother’s squire had not come with the news himself. Was the squire or his horse also injured?
“Alexis!” Balian called out to his brother’s older, more experienced squire, who had been attracted by the commotion in the ward. The young man needed no further orders; he simply nodded and ran toward the stables for his own horse.
Within little more than ten minutes, Balian and Alexis set out for the place where the road to Ibelin crossed the main road from Jaffa to Jerusalem. They were armed and wearing hauberks in case there had been some kind of ambush. They also had fresh horses and set a fast pace, splashing through puddles on the road and cutting across country where they could do so without damaging crops. They skirted around villages of flat-roofed stone houses that stood out white against the lush, green fields. Just short of the main road, they caught sight of a horse tethered near a stand of palm trees beside the main road. There was no sign of any skirmish—no bodies, no lost equipment, not even torn-up turf. Beside the horse, however, Balian made out a figure sitting on the ground. The figure rose to his feet when he spotted the riders and came towards them, waving.
Balian drew up beside the squire. The youth looked up at him, deathly pale, and Balian could read the fear in his eyes. “Sir! Your brother’s gravely injured! Come quick!”
“So why didn’t you come yourself instead of sending farmers on foot?” Balian asked angrily.
“I—I didn’t think—I should leave my lord alone, sir. I’m sorry—”
Balian had already lost interest in the squire. He swung himself down from his stallion, Alexis following his lead, and strode to the imperfect shade of the palms, where Balian could see his brother laid out on his cloak. The sight made him catch his breath. His brother’s face was contorted with pain, and although the air was chilly, his skin was drenched in sweat. Balian dropped on one knee beside him. “Hugh! What happened?”
The injured man answered with a gasp, and then opened his eyes and found his younger brother’s face. “Thank God! Balian! Fetch me a priest!”
Balian turned around, “Alexis, ride back for a litter!”
When he looked back at his brother, however, the injured man was shaking his head. “No point in that,” he gasped. “Find me a priest.”
Balian looked up at the two squires, horrified. He wasn’t prepared for his brother to die. Hugh, thirty years his senior, had been more a father to him than a brother. Their father had died when Balian was only eighteen months old, and it had fallen to their father’s eldest son, Hugh, to raise his three half-brothers, his father’s sons by a late second marriage. Balian had no memories of their joint father, but he could remember Hugh carrying him on his shoulders as a toddler, teaching him to say his prayers beside his bed at night, showing him how to ride and play chess, and a thousand other things. Because Hugh had no children of his own, he had lavished attention and affection on his younger brothers, and Balian had returned the affection instinctively at first, then more consciously as he grew up and realized it could have been so different.
His other brothers had not been so lucky. His younger brother Henri was born after their father’s death, only weeks before their mother’s remarriage. He had lived with his mother until her death and then with her relatives. His older brother Barisan, their father’s namesake, had initially been raised with Balian by Hugh at Ibelin, but at sixteen he inherited their mother’s barony of Ramla and moved away. For the last eight years, Balian had been treated like Hugh’s only son.
“I need a priest, Balian,” his brother’s voice broke into his thoughts.
“The nearest Latin priest is at Ibelin. I’ve sent Alexis for a litter—”
“There’s an Orthodox church in the next village,” Hugh cut him off. “Send for him!” That his devout brother would think of turning to an Orthodox priest made it even more certain that Hugh thought he was dying, but Balian still refused to believe it—even though he dutifully sent the squire for the Syrian priest.
Balian reached for his brother’s hand; it was so cold it chilled him. “What happened, Hugh? Were you attacked?”
“No. Nothing so dramatic. My stallion shied. I fell badly. I heard my bones crack. In my neck.”
“Can you move your legs?” Balian asked anxiously.
“No. Now you know why I want the priest.”
Balian crossed himself and started praying silently. “We’ll get you back to Ibelin—” he started to assure his brother, but his brother cut him off.
“No. Just—fetch me—a priest.”
“He’s on his way, Hugh,” Balian assured him, holding his hand.
The cold hand flinched slightly and then closed around Balian’s with surprising strength. His brother clamped his teeth together, apparently fighting a wave of pain. As the pain eased somewhat, Hugh started speaking earnestly. “Balian, I’m sorry to leave you like this. I had hoped —” He broke off with a gasp and held his breath until the pain had eased again. “Never forget that our father was a younger son. He came to Outremer with nothing. Nothing but his sword and his courage.”
Balian nodded. He himself had grown up knowing that with two elder brothers, he would inherit nothing. Hugh was still speaking. “He won Ibelin with his service to the King and nothing else.”
Balian nodded again; he was intimately familiar with his father’s history even if he had never known the man. Hugh had fought alongside their father for a decade and had raised Balian on tales of his father’s strength, courage, and wisdom.
“Barry will inherit Ibelin now—since I have no issue.” The dying man’s regret was audible, and Balian’s heart went out to him. Hugh’s mind, however, was on the younger brother he had raised like a son. “You’ll always have a place in Barry’s household—but that will bring you little. Neither honor nor fortune.”
Balian had to agree with that. He was only two years younger than their father’s namesake and in consequence had always lived in his brother’s shadow. Barry was tall, blond, and powerfully built. He cast a big shadow.
“Better to seek honor and wealth elsewhere,” Hugh advised, grasping Balian’s hand firmly for emphasis. Hugh and Barry had become increasingly estranged ever since Barry came of age and took control of Ramla. Ramla had an income four times that of Ibelin—and Hugh, who’d held Ramla for almost ten years as guardian for his younger brother, naturally felt the loss of both income and prestige. It didn’t help that the loss of Ramla had coincided with the “return” of Hugh’s lost bride, Agnes de Courtney. She had done much to poison the atmosphere between the brothers.
“Jerusalem,” continued the dying man, drawing Balian’s attention back to the present. “Go to Jerusalem.”
Balian frowned. He had been at court often enough with his brothers as a child, even attending the coronation and later the marriage of King Amalric, but he had not been to Jerusalem since he was knighted two years earlier and came to live again at Ibelin with Hugh.
“Jerusalem owes me a favor,” Hugh remarked, his contorted face twisting into a kind of smile, “and since I cannot call it in, I want you to. Go to Jerusalem and tell him I sent you on my deathbed to collect the debt.”
Balian suspected this had to do with his sister-in-law, Agnes. Amalric’s succession had been controversial at the time and contingent on him setting aside Agnes de Courtney. Balian speculated that it was only because Hugh had agreed to take Agnes back that it had been possible for Amalric to persuade her, the Patriarch, and her po
werful family to accept the dissolution of her marriage to Amalric. Then again, it didn’t really matter what debt the King owed Hugh, as long as it helped Balian in a court overflowing with young men who had come to seek their fortunes from all over Christendom. Balian wasn’t convinced he had much of a chance of rising among such competition, but he supposed this was as good a place to start as any. “I’ll go,” he assured his brother.
The pain had its grip on the dying man, and he could only clutch his brother’s hand and grind his teeth in answer. When the pain receded, he asked again for the priest.
Balian squinted down the road, straining his eyes until at last he saw motion. He waited until he was sure, then reported: “The priest is coming, Hugh.”
Sure enough, Adam was riding beside a Syrian Orthodox priest, who was sitting sideways upon a little donkey. The donkey was trotting as fast as it could, and the Orthodox priest’s black robes, white beard, and black hat bobbed comically up and down. Balian got to his feet and approached the priest respectfully. “Father, my brother has broken his back in an accident. He wishes to confess and receive the sacraments.”
“I understand, my son,” the priest answered, indicating a leather satchel containing the Host and the sacred oil.
The Baron of Ramla and his family arrived at Ibelin in a blinding rainstorm. Thunder grumbled in the distance and flashes of lightning occasionally split the darkness, but the driving rain fell so hard that it drowned out voices and the ringing of church bells. The water rapidly filled the gullies and ran down the streets and alleys of the villages along the way, turning them into muddy streams. The high road, meanwhile, turned to a morass of cream-colored mud and began to wash away in places, slowing progress so much that the Baron’s party, although they had left Ramla before Nones, arrived at Ibelin only as dusk was falling.
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