“Oh, really?” Amalric asked sarcastically, making Maria Zoë blush. “Somehow, I never had the impression you were very enthusiastic about sexual intimacy—at least not with me.”
Maria Zoë gasped. “You cannot think I have been unfaithful to you!”
Amalric considered his bride and smiled cynically. He had always preferred married women to girls, precisely because virgins were rarely enthusiastic partners in bed. Maria Zoë’s beauty had seduced him at first, but her unresponsiveness—often with a twisted face and gasps of pain—had soon dulled his appetite. She seemed to dislike physical intimacy so intensely that he truly found it hard to imagine her risking her crown, her head, and her soul for the sake of carnal plea-sures—unlike Agnes de Courtney, who was always eager for variety in fornication. Nevertheless, he reasoned that it didn’t hurt to let his wife think he doubted her, so that she would be frightened as well as disinclined. In answer to her reply, he merely weighed his head from side to side and remarked, “You’re a beautiful young woman—and as such, weak and easily seduced.”
“Never!” she declared indignantly, her cheeks flushed. “And how should another man have a chance if you are there?”
“Where? You mean in your bed? Ah, well, believe me, it’s quite possible to make love in other venues—but that is a topic best saved for another time, and not exactly the reason you are here, is it?”
“My lord, as you said, the Kingdom of Jerusalem needs a male heir, and only you can sire him.”
“Indeed, but not necessarily with you.”
So the rumors were true, Maria Zoë registered, and he was considering setting her aside.
“I am your wife—”
“Perhaps not. If my marriage to Agnes was valid, then my marriage to you is bigamous, and you are nothing more than my concubine.” He let this sink in, enjoying the look of horror on Maria Zoë’s face. Like all Greeks, she considered herself fundamentally superior to other races, and Amalric took a certain pleasure in pointing out the weakness of her position. “I’m sure I could find a priest—even a bishop—who would argue the case. Should I so desire . . .” Amalric threatened with a mild, unfriendly smile.
“I’m sure you could, too, my lord,” Maria Zoë answered steadily, having recovered from the insult of being called a concubine. She wasn’t, after all, entirely unprepared for his line of attack. She was no fool, and she had given much thought to where this conversation might lead. Since he had played this trump, however, she drew hers. “And I’m just as certain that my great-uncle would see such a move as an insult incompatible with his status as your overlord.”
“The Greek Emperor is not my overlord,” Amalric retorted sharply.
“No? I thought that was the purpose of your trip to Constantinople last year—to renew your lapsed oaths of homage,” Maria Zoë pointed out coolly. Although Amalric had not seen fit to include her in his meetings with her great-uncle, her father had been present, and he had assured her that Amalric had dutifully acknowledged that he held Jerusalem as a vassal of Constantinople.
“The Greek Emperor generously offered me his protection, and I assured him of my goodwill—no more than that,” Amalric insisted, frowning sidelong at his beautiful doll-wife, who had never dared talk to him like this before.
Maria Zoë recognized that she could not argue this point, and changed her tactic. “Whether my great-uncle is your overlord or not, neither he nor my brother-in-law of Antioch will allow me to be set aside without consequences for Jerusalem.”
Amalric snorted in exasperation—because she was right. The Emperor in Constantinople had made it very clear that he considered himself the center of the universe and would take any slight to his prestige as lèse majesté, while Antioch had tied himself to Constantinople because he needed Greek support to keep the Seljuks at bay. This dependency was reflected in his marriage politics: Prince Bohemond’s sister Mary was the Emperor’s current wife, while Bohemond himself was married to Maria Zoë’s sister. In short, Amalric’s two most powerful allies would both side with his wife in any public dispute, and Jerusalem could not afford to fall out with both Constantinople and Antioch.
Amalric considered his wife again through narrowed eyes, registering that she was not as fragile, weak, or docile as he had taken her to be. She was clearly growing up. He grunted a second time. He was stuck with this wife for political reasons—and truth to tell, it was not such a difficult duty to get her pregnant again. “I’ll tell you what,” Amalric suggested, leaning closer to Maria Zoë and lowering his voice. “You make me feel welcome in your bed, and I’ll think about spending as much time there as we need to make a son together.”
Maria Zoë had fled from her ladies, even Rahel. They knew far too much about what the King expected of her and were too ready with advice. She did not want their advice. She knew what she had to do, but she hated it nevertheless. If only his seed would quicken in her womb again, then the ordeal would be over—at least for a while.
She had first sought the walled garden below the Tower of David, but had only succeeded in stumbling over one of the kitchen clerks making love to one of the laundresses. She had then fled to the stables to seek comfort from her mare, but that plan was ruined when she found half the household there, preparing to accompany her husband on a lion hunt he had organized for the Sicilian ambassador. So she fled toward the mews.
She was still a half-dozen steps away when she was startled by voices coming out of the mews, indicating there were people already there.
“You see, there are some advantages to not having any feeling in your arm,” a young male voice declared with a laugh. Maria Zoë gasped in shock, knowing that the speaker could only be addressing her afflicted stepson. Before she could step into the mews to rebuke the speaker for so much callousness, however, the boy started laughing.
The sound of the man and boy laughing together was so enchanting that Maria Zoë followed the sound on soft feet, anxious not to shatter the mood by her intrusion. As she reached the doorway and looked inside, she was startled by how much Baldwin had grown since she had last seen him, but to her relief he was still the beautiful boy she remembered. He was dressed for riding in hose and boots under a practical surcoat and his fine blond hair was covered by a tight-fitting, blue hood that framed his handsome face and brought out the blue of his large eyes. Standing beside him was a vaguely familiar young knight in leather hose, soft leather knee-high boots, and a leather gambeson, but no chain mail. Baldwin had a big falcon on his bare arm, and the talons of the bird dug into his soft, lifeless flesh, drawing blood. Even as she watched, the knight coaxed the bird back onto his own protected arm and hooded the bird expertly.
“He came to me!” Baldwin insisted in a breathless, excited voice, and the bird lifted and flapped his wings as if making a statement.
“Not exactly at the right time,” the knight commented, adding, “Let me see that arm.”
Baldwin held his arm out to the knight, propping up the right forearm with his left hand while the knight inspected it critically and concluded, “You should have it bandaged.”
“Oh no, Balian! What’s the point? It’s useless anyway. Dead! Please, let’s go hawking.”
“We can’t risk it yet. If we lose one of your father’s precious birds, he’ll dock my pay from now to doomsday.”
“Then take one of mine,” the Queen of Jerusalem offered spontaneously, stepping into the mews courtyard.
Both Baldwin and Balian spun about, startled. Balian at once bowed deeply to his Queen, but Baldwin let out a shout of joy and started to run forward—only to remember himself and stop in his tracks, an expression of pain on his face.
“Baldwin!” Maria Zoë reached out her arms to him.
“My lady, no!” Balian lunged forward and pulled Baldwin back, holding him fast in his own arms to stop him taking another step.
Maria Zoë turned on the young knight. “You do not fear to hold him, sir! Why should I?”
“My death is meaningless
, my lady. You hold the future of Jerusalem in your hands.”
“You mean my womb,” Maria Zoë snapped back. “And it is empty at the moment,” she added bitterly before ordering, “Let go of my stepson and do not presume to stand between us, Balian d’Ibelin.” She had remembered his name at last.
“No. My lady.” Balian stood his ground and they stared at one another.
“Don’t you know that our holy men kiss and wash the feet of lepers?” she told him sharply.
“What holy men do is not necessarily for queens,” Balian countered. “After all, holy men may actually seek the mark of the ‘holy disease.’”
He could see that she was surprised he knew the term, and he was grateful to the Archdeacon of Tyre for teaching it to him.
Before Maria Zoë could think of a response, Baldwin himself broke into the debate. “Balian’s right, Tante Marie. My father has forbidden us to even see each other. You would not want Sir Balian punished.” Looking up at Balian, he added, “You can let go of me. I’m not going to go any closer. Do you think I want Tante Marie to get this disease—no matter what you call it? I would not wish it even on my worst enemy!” Turning back to his stepmother, who for five years had been like an older sister to him, he added, “But I am so pleased to see you, and there’s no risk if you keep distance between us. Please stay and talk to me—just a little. Have you seen Sibylla? Is it true I have a little sister now, too?”
Maria Zoë was overwhelmed by Baldwin’s pleas and by his calm and maturity. He was so poised and yet so fragile. She wanted more than ever to embrace him as she had before he was sick. Baldwin had been the only one in the whole strange court who had not been in awe of her—the only person she had dared be herself with. Even his sister Sibylla, although only a year older, had been more reserved, almost resentful, as if she knew her mother had been sent away to make room for Maria Zoë. But Baldwin had been only two when his mother was sent away, and he had been raised by a wet nurse. He had accepted Maria Zoë without reservation. They had played together, laughed together, sung songs together, and comforted each other.
“We have so much to say to one another, Baldwin, but we must find a more suitable place!” She glanced around at the mews, which stank of birds and the raw meat fed to them.
“My lady, the King has expressly—” Balian started nervously.
“Do not presume to tell me what to do, Sir Balian.” Maria Zoë cut him off sharply again, her tone of voice reminding him she was his Queen and had been born into the royal house of the greatest empire on earth. “I know perfectly well what the King has ordered—no less than Prince Baldwin does. And we are both prepared to defy him, aren’t we, Baldwin?” she asked her stepson, smiling.
The Prince broke into a broad smile. “Yes! Oh, yes! Balian! I have an idea. Let’s go riding. Maria Zoë has not seen how well I ride now.” He turned back to Maria Zoë. “Sir Balian has taught me how to ride even though I can’t use my right hand. I have a wonderful gelding, Misty, who understands everything—well, almost. He’s just learning, you see, and so am I, but you’ll be amazed by what we can do already. Please! Let’s go for a ride together,” he begged, looking back and forth between the adults.
Balian, stung by Maria Zoë’s earlier rebuke, waited to see what she would say.
“That is a good idea, Baldwin, but we must be clever, or we might be caught by someone who would betray us just to ingratiate himself with your father. I think we should proceed separately, but meet up somewhere outside the city. What do you think, sir?” She turned to Balian, no longer feeling defensive, and all her earlier haughtiness was gone. Indeed, she was gazing at him with eyes almost as big as Baldwin’s. She seemed to be pleading for his approval of her plan.
Balian hesitated. Although the knowledge that Baldwin was here in the mews kept most people away, the longer they lingered, the greater was the risk that someone might find them here. It would indeed be better to ride out as he usually did at this time. So he nodded once. “I will take Prince Baldwin to Bethlehem and back, my lady.”
“Excellent!” Maria Zoë agreed with a dazzling smile of approval for Sir Balian. He could not have picked a route more suited to the alibi of a chance meeting. What could be more natural for a woman, just recently recovered from childbed yet desperate for another child, than a pilgrimage to the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem? “We will rendezvous tomorrow,” she announced.
“Why not today?” Baldwin started to protest.
Balian shook his head at the boy. “Queen Maria Zoë will have her reasons, Baldwin. Besides, we are late for our ride already. To ride so far after a late start would irritate Archdeacon William. Tomorrow is wiser.” He nodded to Maria Zoë and she smiled back at him, flattered to have her proposal described as “wise.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” she declared, and turned so suddenly that her silk skirts billowed out in a swirl of color. And then she was gone.
Baldwin’s excitement at meeting with his stepmother transmitted itself immediately to his young gelding. No sooner had they crossed the drawbridge from the citadel into the city than his horse started shying at every little thing, from the barking of dogs to the pigeons landing in the street ahead. With his brother’s accident yet so vivid in his memory, Balian became alarmed, and he ordered the Arab groom Abdul, assigned to the Prince because he was a slave and had no say in the matter, to take the boy before him on his own horse. Abdul always rode out with them just in case this might be necessary, but the Prince protested furiously. He wanted to show his stepmother he could ride, not arrive at the rendezvous sitting in front of a groom like a baby. “I can manage by myself! I can manage!” he insisted stubbornly.
“If you’re thrown, my lord, your father will hang me!” Balian shot back—not entirely truthfully, but he knew Baldwin’s concern for his safety was one of his few weapons.
“No, he won’t!” Baldwin shot back, seeing through Balian. “He understands about horses! Just proceed! Misty will follow your stallion!”
“I could take Misty on a lead,” Abdul offered.
Balian was skeptical about whether putting Misty on a lead would calm him, since his nervousness stemmed from Baldwin’s own excitement, but he could think of no alternative. “We could try that,” he replied cautiously.
Abdul removed a lead from his saddlebag and maneuvered his horse beside Baldwin’s so he could click the shackle on the ring on Misty’s noseband intended for this purpose. Then, holding the line short so that he rode just a few feet ahead of Misty, he nodded to Balian to proceed.
Ten minutes later they had left the crowded, noisy streets behind, passed through the Zion Gate, and started down the steep slope against the stream of pilgrims, hawkers, and beggars trudging towards the walled city. As they started up the far slope the crowds thinned, and Misty calmed down enough for Balian to consent to Abdul removing the lead. Baldwin was still angry, however, so he refused to even look at Balian. Instead he focused only on Abdul, thanking him with a smile.
Balian tried to bridge the hostility by untying his canteen and holding it out to Baldwin. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No!” Baldwin replied stubbornly.
They continued their journey for a half-hour, and then on the outskirts of Bethlehem, paused to water the horses. Here Baldwin turned Misty away from the others and started toward the drinking trough not on a straight line, but making him move laterally first to the left and then the right, in a display of horsemanship he had worked on for weeks and weeks. Misty, as if feeling guilty for misbehaving earlier, performed perfectly.
“Well done!” Balian called out after his charge, but Baldwin only lifted his chin in response. At the trough he tried to make Misty back up before drinking, but the horse was thirsty and ignored him. He thrust his head toward the trough and sucked the water up, slurping loudly.
A pilgrim in long white cotton veils trimmed with blue embroidery emerged from the old Byzantine chapel to their right. The veils were pulled up over
her head and wound around her shoulders, covering everything but a foot of shirt below the edge of the veil, almost like the way the Arab women wore their veils—only white instead of black. Baldwin automatically kept his eye on her. She went over to a native woman holding two native horses. One of the horses was little more than a nag, very bony with long ears, but the other mare had a beautiful coat that gleamed in the sun, and she arched her neck and pricked up her ears as the pilgrim went to mount. The saddle was covered in red velvet and decorated with silver, and the bridle had red tassels on it. Baldwin guessed it was the Queen even before she swung herself easily into the saddle and turned to ride towards them.
He rode to meet her, bowing his head as they drew up opposite each other. “My lady! What a coincidence!”
She flung the veils back over her head to expose her face and smiled at him. “Indeed, sir. What brings you so far from Jerusalem?” Balian was struck by what a truly beautiful woman she was. It wasn’t just all the jewels and silks that made her beautiful, he noted; on the contrary, these things distracted from her natural beauty. Wearing nothing now but white cotton veils and a gown with a woven blue border, she seemed far more radiant. Had he been an artist, Balian thought blasphemously, this was the woman he would have used as a model of the Virgin Mary.
At last Baldwin noticed her and let out a shout: “Tante Marie!” He trotted over, beaming with pride, and Maria Zoë turned her attention to her stepson. “You ride better than anyone I have ever seen!” she told him. “Or is that a circus horse, that he does such tricks?”
“No, of course not!” Baldwin protested. “I taught him everything myself—with a little help from Sir Balian,” he conceded, with a smile at Balian to indicate he had been forgiven.
“Shall we ride a ways together, then?” Maria Zoë asked. She indicated the road that coiled its way up the hill toward the cluster of white buildings surrounding the imposing dome over the Church of the Nativity.
Knight of Jerusalem Page 5