“Greed is a deadly sin, Barry,” Balian answered, echoing what he had said to Henri only a few hours earlier, and adding before Barry could make any snide remarks, “I think I’ll go to Jerusalem as Hugh suggested.”
“Jerusalem,” Barisan countered, “is full of younger sons from every noble house in France, England, and the Holy Roman Empire. You don’t have a chance of standing out in that crowd. You should go to Antioch. Prince Bohemond is still young and hasn’t been in power very long. He will be in need of men to support him—and the competition isn’t as stiff in Antioch.”
Balian smiled crookedly. “Thank you for your faith in my abilities, Barry.”
“Oh, don’t be so thin-skinned! You know I didn’t mean it that way. I just want you to be successful. After all, the more successful you are, the more successful we are as a family.”
“I’ll try my luck with Jerusalem.”
Barisan shrugged. “As you wish, but don’t come crawling to me if things don’t go according to plan.”
“No, Barry. Never.”
Chapter 2
Jerusalem, Easter 1171
IF ONLY JEWELS COULD MAKE A woman happy, Maria Zoë Comnena thought as her ladies prepared her for yet another state dinner. Her great-uncle, the Byzantine Emperor Manuel I, had sent her as a bride to the King of Jerusalem, laden with jewels as a way to demonstrate his wealth.
Maria Zoë remembered all too vividly what it had been like when she arrived in Jerusalem at the age of thirteen. The marriage had been celebrated just two days after her arrival, before she had had any chance to recover from the arduous journey. Although she had been given French lessons to prepare her for her marriage to Jerusalem, at the time of her wedding she still needed to concentrate very hard to understand rapidly spoken French. She had been utterly exhausted, from the constant use of a strange tongue and from wearing the heavy, jewel-encrusted gown, long before her husband consummated the marriage.
The next morning she was presented to the court again, this time as a married woman, and she had been so tired she could hardly keep her eyes open—which sparked much jocularity and teasing, and the King had beamed with pride. Amalric had been proud of his little Byzantine bride. She was as pretty as a doll, with curly black hair, big amber eyes, a nubile white body, and the riches of Byzantium draped upon her.
That was five years ago. Now Amalric was also proud of her learning, particularly the fact that she could read and write in Greek, Latin, and French. The King had even been known to brag about the fact that she had read Aristotle and Plato. But such bragging was because he felt her learning, like her bloodlines and her beauty, reflected well on him. These things did not fundamentally alter his attitude towards her. Except in bed, he treated Maria Zoë with the greatest of courtesy, and her authority was never publicly undermined, but he never sought her advice or interacted with her on an intellectual level. She was his Queen, not his companion or friend.
As his Queen, he expected her to be immaculately dressed, coifed, and made up whenever she appeared in public. This started with a daily bath in rose water, followed by skin creams. Her fingernails and toenails were manicured. Then she was dressed in silk undergarments, over which came silk gowns and surcoats embroidered with bright silk, gold, and silver threads. Last but not least, she was laden with jewels: hairpins with pearl or rolled amber heads, earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders, necklaces with multiple strands of gold or beads of precious stones, bracelets as wide as an archer’s leather brace, and rings on every finger. A Syrian Christian had been employed for the sole purpose of outlining her eyes, rouging her cheeks and lips, coloring her eyelids, and styling her hair, which was never entirely concealed under the sheer silk veils that she wore.
The result was dazzling to the observer, and utterly stifling to Maria Zoë. She could not move naturally in her clothing, nor sit comfortably, nor relax even for a moment. She was transformed into a doll, her thoughts and feelings completely buried behind the façade.
Amalric also expected her to be punctual. As the time set for him to collect her approached, the ladies attending her became increasingly flustered and agitated. Maria Zoë just sat on her stool while they fluttered around her, completing her toilet with their expert hands. They had just pinned her veils in place when a sharp knocking on the door announced the arrival of the King.
“Come in!” Maria Zoë called, and at once the door was opened by one of the King’s squires, who then stepped back so his master could enter.
Amalric of Jerusalem had once been a handsome man. Now, although he was only thirty-five years old, his once powerful body had become flabby to the point of obesity, and his once fine, blond hair was receding. His hazel eyes, however, were hawkish, and they lit up at the sight of his wife. He smiled as he came forward to kiss her on each cheek. “You look lovely, my dear! Absolutely lovely! You’ll have all the bachelors swooning at your feet—and my barons as well.”
Didn’t it ever occur to him that I don’t care about that? Maria Zoë wondered. What good are hollow conquests based on attraction to a façade?
The King took her hand through his elbow to lead her out of the chamber. “I swear, my dear, you become more beautiful with each day,” he assured her. Evidently he thinks women care only about being beautiful, Maria Zoë concluded with inner resentment.
Because she did not respond with blushing delight at his compliment, Amalric asked, “Is something the matter, my dear? Are you indisposed?” He associated indisposition with pregnancy.
“No, my lord. I am only anxious that the Assassins might take advantage of this gathering of all the important men in the Kingdom.”
Amalric’s face darkened instantly. He had recently concluded a treaty with the Shiite sect based in the Syrian mountains, who were famous for sending out Assassins to eliminate their enemies. The treaty had been a significant coup for King Amalric, but the Knights Templar had shown their contempt for the King of Jerusalem by striking down the sect’s ambassadors during their return journey. The diplomatic consequences were still unforeseeable, but the impudence of the Templars had provoked a domestic crisis. Maria Zoë knew that her husband had tried to seize the Templars responsible for the murders and punish them, but the Templars had met the officers of the King with open defiance, insisting they were subordinate to the Pope alone. In a rage, Amalric had sworn to teach the Templars a lesson. He had even threatened a military confrontation with the mighty Order. In the end, however, cooler heads had prevailed. He had been talked into sending a letter to the Pope demanding that the Templars responsible for the murder of the ambassadors be punished—and demanding that the Order as a whole be chastised and disciplined. Maria Zoë knew all that—but not from her husband.
Her attempt to provoke her husband into discussing the issue, however, failed flatly. Despite his scowl at the mere mention of the incident, he patted her hand and urged her not to “worry her pretty head” about the Assassins. “I promise you, we have everything under control.”
Maria Zoë gave up. This was not the time or venue for a renewed attempt to get her husband to view her as a mind, not just a body. They had already reached the great hall, and the assembled nobility raised a cheer for the King and Queen, falling in behind them as they descended to the courtyard of the citadel to walk in procession to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
King Amalric’s once-bulging muscles might be softening into fat and his blond hair receding, but the intelligence in his eyes was sharper than ever as he critically considered the young knight opposite him. He dealt daily with supplicants for favor, and he considered himself a good judge of character. Aimery de Lusignan, for example, was dangerously ambitious, but he was no fool. Balian was no fool, either, but he wasn’t really ambitious enough to make something of himself. He was the type of young man who still thought in terms of honor, and he was devout, too—genuinely devout, unlike the damned Templars! But the fact remained, Balian wasn’t ruthless enough to carve out a fortune by force nor cyn
ical enough to seduce an heiress. He was too upright and too idealistic—and that made him just the kind of man Amalric was looking for.
Still, Amalric hesitated for a moment, a twinge of guilt inhibiting him. After all, he did owe Balian’s older brother a favor. If Hugh d’Ibelin had not been willing to swear that Agnes de Courtney had been his betrothed and that he would take her to wife, despite her having lived for six years as Amalric’s wife and bearing him two children, neither she nor the Barons of Edessa would have agreed to the divorce.
“Balian, sit down.” Amalric indicated an armed chair with a Turkish cushion on the seat.
“My lord.” Balian lowered himself reluctantly; he felt better standing up. A man could more readily defend himself if he stood on his own two feet.
“You came here seeking a position at my court,” the King opened, stating the obvious.
“Yes, my lord,” Balian admitted.
“Well, I have need of a brave man. I presume you consider yourself brave?” he asked with raised eyebrows—knowing that no young knight would ever admit to doubting his own courage.
“I do, my lord,” Balian assured him, aware that he was being cornered.
“Yes, well, all young knights think themselves brave,” Amalric continued, admitting the pointlessness of his question, “and most think that a few daring tricks at a tournament are proof of it!” he scoffed. “I have need of a household knight who has more courage than most men—old and young and tournament champions included. I can’t tell you how many men have already failed the test of courage I have set them.” He exaggerated; only two men had in fact rejected his offer to date.
Balian frowned, trying to imagine what test of courage could have daunted so many contemporaries. Less intelligent men, Amalric noted, would have jumped up and down and demanded to be put to the test.
“If you accept the position I offer,” the King continued, “you will earn my enduring gratitude, and when the time comes, I will reward you with an heiress.” The orphans of the King’s principal vassals, those who held land directly from him as tenants-in-chief, automatically became wards of the King, and he could dispose of them in marriage. To avoid this, many barons preferred to marry off their heirs while they were still children. Nevertheless, life was so uncertain that many heiresses fell to the King despite their parents’ best efforts. Amalric, furthermore, found the promise easy to give, because he did not believe Balian would live long enough to collect the promised reward. “What say you?” he prompted Balian.
“Let me hear what the position entails first,” Balian countered; Amalric’s offer struck him as far too generous to be true. He smelled a rat.
Amalric immediately switched tack, turning to flattery. “My eye has fallen on you because you are a remarkable horseman. All noblemen can ride, of course. Your brother was the last man I would have expected to be killed in a riding accident. Yet you still stand out.” Amalric studied his victim for a reaction and was gratified to see he had struck the mark.
Balian was proud of his horsemanship; it was one of the few skills he thought he excelled at more than Barry. But he saw through Amalric nevertheless, and shook his head, noting, “You flatter me, my liege.”
Amalric was forced to deny it: “Not at all. Not at all. I saw you the other day, during the hunt, using your bow the way the Turks do, guiding your horse with your knees alone.” This was true enough. He had been struck by Balian’s grace as he galloped with the reins dropped on the horse’s neck and the bow raised in both hands. He had been bareheaded and his silky black hair had blown out in the wind, his surcoat billowing out behind him, drawn tight by his sword belt at his slender waist. In that moment he had looked as beautiful as a Greek statue of Castor.
“I had a good instructor,” Balian answered.
“A Turk, I presume?”
“He was a captive who converted to Christianity and served in my brother’s garrison.”
“You are a good pupil, then,” Amalric concluded, adding sharply, “but are you also a good teacher?”
“I don’t know,” Balian admitted. “I’ve never tried to teach anyone.”
Amalric nodded. “The task I have in mind for you will require that you demonstrate both great courage and an aptitude to teach.” Balian looked surprised, but before he could respond, the King moved in for the kill. “You know my son by my first wife, Baldwin, has fallen ill.”
Now Balian understood which way the wind was blowing, and he held his breath in alarm: the rumors were that the Prince had leprosy. No one said it out loud, of course, but the Prince had not been seen in public for almost a year. The less people saw of him, the more they suspected the worst. The trap yawned ahead of him, but he saw no escape.
Amalric pressed ahead. “He is now ten, and while the good Archdeacon of Tyre tutors him in all subjects necessary for the intellect, the Archdeacon cannot teach him horsemanship. I need a knight to do that. I think you would be ideal.”
If the boy has leprosy, Balian thought, that’s little short of a death sentence. He wanted to jump to his feet and tell the King to go to hell. But he did not dare, so the King kept spinning his web, saying in a reasonable tone of voice, “Of course, if you don’t have the courage, I won’t blame you. As I said earlier, others have already rejected the job, and I truly won’t hold a rejection against you. I’m sure I’ll find someone eventually. This Aimery de Lusignan, the young man from Poitou who arrived this spring, might be brave enough to take on this task.”
Bastard! Balian thought to himself, conscious that the King was a master of manipulation. He must have noted that Aimery de Lusignan and Barry were almost inseparable. He must guess that Balian resented that—especially the fact that Barry kept holding Aimery up as an example of what a man had to be like to get ahead in the world as a younger son.
The King continued, “Then again, I really don’t know why you hesitate,” letting a touch of annoyance creep into his voice. “It’s not as if, as a riding instructor, you would have much physical contact with my son. There’s no reason you can’t teach from a distance, so there’s no reason to assume you will catch the illness he has—whatever it is. I still visit my son daily, you know, and I’m as healthy as ever.”
Yes, Balian thought, but you have prohibited your precious young wife and daughter from visiting him. Indeed, the boy was kept sequestered in the Jaffa Tower, away from everyone but his servants and the Archdeacon of Tyre.
Yet the King was right, too: he could teach riding from a distance. Maybe it was pure cowardice to refuse this opportunity for reward—or worse, a sin. Besides, the King was offering him no alternative: it was this or nothing.
Balian drew a deep breath. He believed deeply in God, and that meant he believed unexpected developments were often the work of the Lord. He lifted his head and looked the King in the eye. “I will accept this position, my lord.”
Amalric broke into a broad smile. “Well done!” he exclaimed, clapping Balian on the back with his powerful hand. “I knew I’d taken the measure of you correctly!” Turning practical, he added in an ordinary tone, “As a knight of the household, you’re entitled to food, lodging, a new mantle each year, and an annual salary of one hundred dinar. I’ll have my clerks enter you on the rolls right away.” The King got to his feet, the audience over, and Balian stood and bowed to him. He felt no sense of exuberance or accomplishment, only dread and uncertainty, but he was resolved to take this chance nevertheless.
William, Archdeacon of Tyre, led Balian along the interior gallery toward the Jaffa Tower. The Archdeacon was not yet an old man, but he was no longer young, either; Balian had heard that he’d spent sixteen years studying in the West before returning to the city of his birth to serve the King. Balian judged he was roughly half a century old. He wore long ecclesiastical robes and soft doeskin slippers, so his feet were silent on the checkerboard of light and dark marble paving stones. “He is a very bright boy,” the Archdeacon told the young knight. “He is exceptionally quick to pick up
on things, and he has a sharp analytic capability that often surprises me. More than once he has made observations that would honor a grown man. If it weren’t for his illness, I would rejoice that the Kingdom of Jerusalem had been blessed by such an intelligent boy as its heir.”
Balian nodded, and the Archdeacon looked at him sidelong. “You fear contagion,” he concluded.
Balian took a deep breath. “Shouldn’t I?”
“You should, for despite what the King says, the boy is almost certainly struck by leprosy. The King does not want to believe that, and as long as we can pretend it might be something else, we do. But in your shoes, I would assume it is leprosy. That said, the danger of contagion is far less than many people believe—especially under the circumstances. You see, the son of a king can afford what commoners cannot: to be bathed morning and night, and to have fresh bandages and fresh clothes each day. The bandages and clothes removed at night are boiled in large vats with salts that sterilize them. I personally wear cotton gloves when I am near Baldwin, and I change my gloves each day, sending the dirty gloves to be sterilized in the same way. I would strongly recommend you bathe nightly as well. I make no promises—after all, none of us know how Prince Baldwin became infected—but there is no reason to see this assignment as a death sentence.”
Balian glanced at the churchman with a wan smile. “Am I so easy to read?”
The Archdeacon laughed. “In this case, yes—but mostly because it is what everyone thinks. Only slaves attend Baldwin, because—I am ashamed to admit—none of the Christian servants were willing to take on the duties of looking after him.”
“The Prince of Jerusalem is surrounded by Muslim slaves?” Balian asked, shocked.
“And you and me,” the Archdeacon reminded him with a smile, but then he grew serious and halted. They were still a good ten paces from the entrance to the Prince’s suite of rooms, guarded by men-atarms in the livery of Jerusalem. The Archdeacon lowered his voice and looked Balian in the eye. “You and I will be working closely together in the months, maybe even years, ahead. I wish to know more about you.”
Knight of Jerusalem Page 3