From the far side of the door a deep voice boomed, “Just how long does it take for a man to confess?” That was the blustering Lord of Oultrejourdain, a rude and violent man, but a wily one as well. He held the rough, semi-arid lands to the south and beyond the Jordan, one of the most vulnerable parts of the Kingdom. It took a hard, courageous man to hold such lands, threatened from both Syria and Egypt, for Christendom, the Patriarch reasoned—but he disliked the Baron of Oultrejourdain nevertheless.
The men on the other side of the door were laughing now, apparently at a joke the Patriarch had not heard. That irritated him. Here they were on the brink of a catastrophe, and the barons could find nothing better to do than joke—probably about how many sins they had to confess. Damn them all!
The Patriarch pulled himself off his knees with an unconscious groan. His limbs were very stiff. He was nearly fifty, after all, and all his joints hurt. He brushed the dust off the front of his robes, adjusted his crown, and then with measured steps approached the door. He pulled both wings of the door open in a single gesture and had the pleasure of seeing the men-at-arms at the door jump in surprise. The crowd in front of him went deathly still, and they all stared at him.
“The King, my lords, is dead,” the Patriarch intoned, consciously refraining from adding, “Long live the King.” He saw his own horror reflected on the faces of the men before him. The Grand Master of the Hospitallers dropped his head and crossed himself, his lips moving as he prayed. The Grand Master of the Knights Templar scowled and crossed himself perfunctorily; one could see the wheels spinning in his head already, scheming as he looked about the room at the barons. The Constable of the Kingdom, the aging Lord of Toron, sank down onto a chest in despair. The Lord of Caesarea looked stunned, as if he had never imagined this could happen. The others were sober, deathly sober.
The Comte de Tripoli recovered first. A handsome man with long, curling black hair and a black mustache, he crossed himself and murmured, “God have pity on Jerusalem.” The men in the room echoed him—with the exception of Oultrejourdain, who growled instead, “God help us; are we to bend our knee to a leper boy or a chit of a girl?” Miles of Oultrejourdain was as dark as Tripoli, but stocky with a piggish face—or so it seemed to the Patriarch.
“This is no time to speak of the succession!” the Patriarch admonished. “Let us join in prayer for the sake of the dead man’s soul. Pater Noster . . .”
Every man in the room joined the Patriarch in the Lord’s Prayer, but no sooner had he said “Amen” than they were at it again.
“We need to call the High Court together.”
“Damn it, man! Look around you! Every baron on the High Court is right here in this room!”
“Except Beirut and Hebron,” the Hospitaller Master pointed out.
“They have been summoned and will be here any moment,” the Patriarch assured the assembled nobles.
“Then I say we convene the Court immediately—here and now, before the news gets out of this room. Hebron and Beirut either arrive in time to vote or count as abstentions,” the Comte de Tripoli proposed forcefully, and the others nodded with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
“Amalric is dead,” he continued, “and he left us just three choices: his son, who is probably suffering from leprosy; his daughter by that whore Agnes; or his daughter by the Byzantine Princess, Maria Zoë Comnena. I say we don’t have much choice: we take the girl related to the Byzantine Emperor.”
“She’s only two years old, Tripoli!” Sidon protested.
“So?” Tripoli countered. “We name a regent until she’s of an age to marry, and then select the best man to rule at her side.”
“No doubt you presume you’ll be Regent!” Oultrejourdain snorted.
“Whoever this High Court thinks best,” Tripoli replied coolly.
“There’s no precedent for a girl that young being crowned Queen,” the Templar Master pointed out.
“Much less for passing over two older children! Amalric’s children by Agnes de Courtney were explicitly recognized as legitimate before he took the crown,” Humphrey de Toron reminded his fellow barons.
Oultrejourdain rolled his eyes in disgust, but Barisan de Ramla seconded Toron. “My lord of Toron is right. We all recognized Amalric’s children by Agnes de Courtney as his legitimate offspring.”
“Just because your little brother has been playing nursemaid to the leper these past three years is no reason to assume you’ll have influence at his court, Ramla!” Oultrejourdain growled at him.
“There’s been no certain diagnosis,” Ramla insisted disingenuously, provoking Tripoli to declare, “Only because his father wouldn’t allow it; we all know what it is.”
Before Ramla could protest, however, the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Guillaume de Hebron. He was covered in dust and smelled of sweat. No sooner did he step into the room than he recognized what had happened and crossed himself. He looked as shaken as the rest had felt moments earlier.
“The High Court of Jerusalem is in session,” Tripoli told the newcomer brusquely, adding that they were discussing the succession, and continued as if they had not been interrupted: “When we recognized Amalric’s children by his first marriage, no one knew the boy had leprosy. Things have changed.”
There was a grumble of apparent approval for this remark, and someone asked, “How old is the elder girl now, Agnes’ daughter?”
“Sibylla? She must be thirteen or fourteen.”
The collected barons looked dubious. Without exception they were all married men, which excluded them from contention to be Sibylla’s consort, though some had sons of a suitable age. It fell to the Hospitaller Grand Master to articulate the thoughts of all. “She too would need a regent until a suitable husband can be found.”
“Quite,” Tripoli agreed, “so why not take the better filly in the first place? Emperor Manuel is our most powerful ally, and he will be far more disposed to support his great-niece than the children of a notorious harlot! For all we know, Sibylla will take after her mother.”
Tripoli’s insinuations set off a wave of protest, with the Patriarch pointing out that Sibylla had been in a convent since the age of eight.
Someone thought to ask the Patriarch, “Did Amalric say anything about the succession in his last hours?”
The Patriarch looked embarrassed, and unconsciously fidgeted with the large, gem-studded cross that hung around his neck on a thick chain. “King Amalric talked a great deal about his son, saying he was intelligent and wise beyond his years. He doted on the boy.”
“As a father should,” the Hospitaller Master reminded them sternly, “especially a son stricken with a mark of Divine favor!”
“That has nothing to do with our decision here!” Oultrejourdain countered. “Amalric may have loved his leper son, but the idea of a leper king is preposterous!”
“Why so?” the Hospitaller Master asked. “Christ showed great favor to lepers. Did he not cure the lepers and raise them out of their ritual expulsion from Jewish society to show that the Jews were wrong to reject them? Indeed, He has been known on more than one occasion to take the form of a leper himself! It is a well-recorded fact that He appeared as a leper to St. Martyrios of Lyconia in the lifetime of Pope Gregory I. Clearly, Christ has sent us a leper to be our king so that we might learn the humility that St. Martyrios showed, and bow down before the most miserable of the afflicted.”
“Well, that’s not what the Saracens believe!” the Templar Grand Master snapped back. “The Saracens will mock us from Aleppo to Cairo!”
“It is sometimes useful to be underestimated by one’s foes. . . .” Hebron remarked almost as an aside, but everyone turned to stare at him. He felt compelled to continue. “A leper king with a strong regent would not be such a bad combination.”
“If the boy really does have leprosy, he won’t last long. How long can lepers live?” Oultrejourdain asked. “Then what happens?”
“Three years from now, Sibylla w
ill be seventeen, and we’ll have had time to send to the Kings of France and England for a great prince to be her husband,” Humphrey de Toron pointed out.
“And in six years, Isabella will be eight, over the age of consent, and we can just as easily find a husband for her,” Tripoli countered.
The Patriarch scowled, “The Church frowns upon marriage among minors.”
“Quite right, my lord,” Tripoli agreed with a gracious bow in the direction of the Patriarch; but as he righted himself he declared forcefully, “but the defense of Jerusalem may force us to take actions that are less than perfect.”
“If the leper lives only two more years, he’ll have lived long enough to come of age!” Oultrejourdain reminded them with a growl, “and that’s the worst of all possible scenarios.”
“Does anyone know how healthy he is?” Hebron asked, and all eyes turned on the Baron of Ramla. He had never laid eyes on his brother’s young charge, however, and could only report: “Balian says he’s losing the feeling in his left hand now.”
The men in the room groaned or shook their heads in collective distress, most of them still unable to grasp how it had come to this. The Bishop of Acre crossed himself and closed his eyes, his lips moving in apparent prayer.
“Crowning the boy is, nevertheless, the simplest solution,” Humphrey de Toron announced into the stillness. “Anything else raises legal questions, which could be used to tear the Kingdom apart. Crowning Baldwin king also buys us time to find husbands for both his sisters. And should the Saracens think us weak, they will find out otherwise—so long as we are united behind a strong, capable regent.”
Toron was astonished by the silence that greeted his words, for he had expected more bickering. As he looked around the room, however, he realized that distasteful as the thought of a leper king was, it was the lowest common denominator. Even the majority of the barons seemed to accept this, although someone muttered sadly but resignedly, “Jerusalem in the hands of a leper.”
Only one man remained obdurate: Miles de Plancy, Baron of Oultrejourdain. “You can’t be serious! You would pay homage to a leper? Put your hands between his foul and disintegrating fingers?” he asked, outraged. “Kiss his stinking hands? Not I!” he declared.
“In that case, Oultrejourdain, I would say you have disqualified yourself from the post of regent,” Tripoli concluded calmly, trying to keep the note of triumph from his voice as he stepped towards the center of the room.
Amalric’s closest male relatives on his father’s side were the Prince of Antioch—whom no one in Jerusalem wanted to see take control in Jerusalem—and Tripoli. His closest male relative on his mother’s side was Joscelin, Comte d’Edessa, whose county and person were in Saracen hands. In terms of administrative experience, however, Toron and Oultrejourdain were the most credible candidates for the regency, as both had served under Amalric, the former as constable and the latter as seneschal.
“Not so fast, Tripoli!” The Templar Grand Master tried to stop the turning tide. “Your qualifications for regent are hardly immaculate—not after the debacle at Antioch. Six years in a Turkish prison hardly qualifies you to be Regent of Jerusalem, either.”
Tripoli flushed a violent shade of red. He, along with Prince Thoros of Armenia and a Byzantine army under Constantine Coloman, had rushed to lift a Syrian siege of Antioch ten years ago. Nur-ad-Din had been forced to retreat when confronted by the combined Christian forces, but the Christians had then made the fatal mistake of pursuing too hard, and had been lured into an ambush. Tripoli did not like to be reminded of either his capture or the ensuing six years in a Syrian prison. “At least I’m not a common thief like our friend Oultrejourdain!” he retorted, referring to the latter’s reputation for attacking convoys of Egyptian and Syrian merchants traveling through his lands—despite safe conducts issued by the King of Jerusalem.
“Enough!” The Patriarch of Jerusalem managed to raise his voice above the clamor. “My lords! The King of Jerusalem is dead. His heir is a thirteen-year-old boy, possibly suffering from leprosy and likely not to live long enough to achieve his majority. His sisters are unmarried and so disqualified from the crown until such time as they are wed. We must unite behind a strong regent.”
“Amen!” The Grand Master of the Hospitallers seconded his statement.
“Don’t look at me!” Toron protested, holding up both hands. “I’ll gladly remain constable, but I will not take on the burden of the regency. I’m too old for that. It would probably kill me, and then you’d need to find a younger man anyway.”
There was a moment of silence and then Ramla, with a flush revealing that he was conscious of his own daring, announced: “I give my vote to Raymond de Tripoli.”
“And I,” followed the highly respected Guillaume de Hebron.
“Me, too,” Caymont echoed, followed by Bethsan, Nazareth, Sidon, Blanchegarde, and Bethgibelin.
“The Hospital stands behind Tripoli,” the Hospitaller Master intoned next, turning to glare at his counterpart from the Knights Templar.
“You don’t need my vote,” the Templar growled. “You have a majority already.”
They all stared at Oultrejourdain. He stood with his arms crossed and his legs apart. “You kiss his ulcerous hands and grovel at his foul feet! I will not pay homage to a leper—nor take orders from you, Tripoli!” Then he turned and stalked out of the room.
“Give me five minutes to prepare him!” Balian begged his brother, who had come with the news that the High Court had agreed to crown Baldwin and had named Tripoli Regent.
“Of course,” Barisan answered, glancing over his shoulder at his fellow barons, who were approaching from the far end of the gallery in a gaggle. “Of course. Try to cover up the worst of the ulcers, will you? You can put gloves on his hands, can’t you? So we don’t have to kiss his diseased hands?” Barisan’s face was twisted with revulsion at the mere thought of kissing a leper’s hands.
Balian nodded wearily. “I’ll do my best,” he told his brother, and passed through the heavy doors into the lower chamber of the Prince’s apartments. Here he stopped to collect himself. Barisan might be worried about having to kiss a leper’s hands when he gave the oath of fealty, but Balian had a different worry: Baldwin loved his father.
William of Tyre had heard the knocking on the door that Balian had answered. He stood in the stairway from the Prince’s bedchamber on the floor above and asked anxiously, “It’s over?”
Balian nodded.
William crossed himself. “And the High Court? Have the barons recognized Baldwin or passed him over?”
“They have recognized him, and will be here in just a few minutes to pay homage.”
“Well, thank God for that, at least.” The churchman paused. “Can you keep them here while I break the news to him?”
Balian sighed. “I will try, but I doubt it.”
“Do what you can.”
William of Tyre turned and climbed up the stairs. Balian held his breath, listening. He heard the Archdeacon murmur, “Baldwin, I am afraid I have some very bad news.”
“My father? Is his condition getting worse?” Baldwin’s voice at thirteen was beginning to break, but it quavered now, like a boy’s.
“No, Baldwin, your father is beyond pain and misery. He is with Christ.”
There was dead silence. Then a very tentative, “He—he’s dead?”
The Archdeacon must have nodded, because Balian heard no answer.
After a long silence, Baldwin caught the echoes of a strained voice, “And he didn’t even send for me. . . .”
Hearing the pain in Baldwin’s voice, Balian mentally cursed the dead King for neglecting to take leave of the boy who loved him so much. But Archdeacon William countered firmly, “Your father named you his heir, my lord. You are now King of Jerusalem. The barons are coming to pay you homage.”
It was at that moment that Baldwin broke down and started sobbing. Balian ordered the guards to admit no one until he gave them permissio
n to do so, and took the stairs two at a time to go to Baldwin. Through his tears, the boy looked up at him with pleading blue eyes. “Balian, how can I—how can I—I don’t want to be King! I don’t want—everyone staring at me—I can’t move the fingers on either of my hands!”
“My lord, this is God’s will!” the Archdeacon admonished him. “You have no choice.”
Baldwin ignored his tutor to focus on his friend. “Balian! Help me!”
Balian reached up and brushed away the King’s tears. Then he took him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “My lord, you do not need the use of your hands to be King of Jerusalem, any more than you need them to ride. You will be King by the force of your mind and the courage of your heart.”
“They’ll scorn me! They’ll revile me—” Baldwin’s face was crumpling up again, all the memories suddenly vivid of his first months after the rumors started to spread about his leprosy.
Balian gripped him more firmly. “No, they won’t! They will not dare—”
A loud pounding on the door below interrupted them. “My lord!” one of the guards called out, alarmed. “The High Court of Jerusalem and the Regent of the Kingdom demand admittance!” The guard sounded intimidated.
“I’ll hold them!” the Archdeacon volunteered, sweeping down the stairs.
Balian turned back to Baldwin. “Your grace—”
“Don’t call me that! We’re friends, remember?”
“Yes, but you are also now my King,” Balian insisted.
“And you can accept that?” Baldwin asked, frowning.
“I do—and so will they. Believe me, they will be astonished when they see you, for you look healthy still. More than that: you are a handsome youth. Your face is utterly untouched, and we will hide your discolored hands in the embroidered gloves Queen Maria Zoë gave you.”
Baldwin swallowed. “You’ll stand behind me, Balian? Right behind me?”
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