Knight of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  After two years with the nuns, Maria Zoë was also prepared to admit to herself, if not out loud, that she was not keen on celibacy, either. It was true she had never found pleasure in her husband’s bed—and by the end of her marriage had abhorred it. But she was also acutely aware that Amalric, fat and shapeless as he had been, was not representative of all men. She remembered how much pleasure she had felt whenever she saw Balian d’Ibelin, and with each passing month in seclusion her eagerness for the weekly meeting with her escort increased. Each time the knight in command of her escort was replaced, she went to the meeting hoping the new commander would be Balian. And when it was not, she was disappointed, but she still enjoyed talking with whomever was “condemned” to spend two months providing her “protection” and a means of communicating with the Comte de Tripoli. Most of the knights had been bachelors, and she had liked more than one of them, returning flushed and excited from her weekly meetings. How much more exciting would it be if she were not in retreat from the world, but openly returning to it?

  Returning to the world, she found Jerusalem and the court exciting after two years with the Carmelites. Maria Zoë found pleasure she could not remember in the polished marble flooring on the gallery and the potted palms and blooming hibiscus in the courtyard; she noted the mosaics and the tapestries and the rugs with appreciation. She sighed deeply as she sank onto the large, soft bed of the chamber put at her disposal. (She was no longer housed in the apartments of the Queen—those were occupied by Agnes de Courtney.) Although Maria Zoë thought it was a disgrace that so unworthy a woman was housed in the royal apartments, she did not personally aspire to return there. She did not want to sleep in the bed she had shared with Amalric. She was happier here.

  She was happy, too, to put on a new gown with long inner sleeves of sheer silk the color of turquoise, and outer sleeves so long that the points brushed the floor when she let her arms hang. She happily retrieved a belt from her chest with strings of pearls edging it. Gems on a belt were an accent and garnish, but they did not weigh her down or restrict her movements. The gown itself was closely fitted at the bust and then flared slowly until it trailed behind her, two layers of silk that floated and billowed when she moved. The lightness of it all made her want to twirl and spin and dance, and Rahel laughed at her, while Isabella clapped her hands, catching her mother’s excitement.

  And yet, when the moment came to be presented to the King, Maria Zoë discovered she felt more insecure and frightened than she had nine years ago. As a thirteen-year-old bride she had still been her great-uncle’s puppet, schooled so incessantly to play her role that she had no room to be afraid. She had been Maria Zoë Comnena, the Greek Princess sent to marry the King of Jerusalem. She knew how to walk, how to stand, how to sit, how to smile, how to look pleased without smiling and look displeased without frowning. She had practiced everything again and again and again. . . .

  But what was she now? No longer a virgin bride who enchanted everyone who saw her by her nubile beauty and her staggering wealth and pedigree. Nor the Queen of Jerusalem and consort of the King. She was not even the Queen Mother. That position was taken and fiercely guarded by the woman who now glowered from the throne beside King Baldwin, the throne where once Maria Zoë had sat.

  Agnes de Courtney was no longer beautiful, if she ever had been. Maria Zoë suspected that she had not, because Maria Zoë had noticed that a lack of beauty often drove women to offer sex. A beautiful woman could afford to say no, and men would still desire her; a less attractive woman had to bait her snares. Agnes had certainly baited hers!

  If Agnes’ hair had ever been naturally blond, that was long ago; now she obviously used some kind of bleach on it. Her lips were painted on, and she’d applied so much kohl to her eyes that they were ghoulish, or so Maria Zoë thought. Her mouth was twisted into the mockery of a smile as she watched Maria Zoë approach. Maria Zoë could not decide what made that smile so bitter. After all, Agnes was sitting on the very throne that the High Court of Jerusalem had denied her thirteen years ago. She ought to be feeling triumphant.

  With a start, Maria Zoë realized it was Baldwin’s smile that so displeased his mother. Worse, Baldwin stood and came down the two steps from his throne to meet his stepmother on equal footing. He looked so radiant with happiness that it brought tears to Maria Zoë’s eyes.

  “At last! We can be together openly!” Baldwin greeted Maria Zoë enthusiastically.

  Maria Zoë sank down into a deep curtsy as she had been taught, her forehead touching her knee—but as she rose up, she spontaneously grasped the King’s gloved hands in both of hers and raised them to her lips. It had not been planned, but in that moment—remembering that Baldwin could no longer use his hands, and therefore could not raise her up or kiss her hand as he otherwise might have done—she had felt the need to make the gesture for him.

  The look in his eyes as she returned his hands was worth all the gasps and the muttering of those around them. “Thank you, Tante Marie! I will never forget how you were my friend when everyone else scorned me, nor that you defied my father to meet with me and correspond with me. I will never forget that! You will always have a place at my court—and in my heart.”

  “My, my!” Agnes tutted in the background, but Baldwin either didn’t hear or didn’t care. In that moment he had eyes only for Maria Zoë.

  “Your grace, the greatest pleasure I can have is seeing you so well and so happy.”

  “But where is my sister Isabella?” Baldwin answered. “I have longed to set eyes on her ever since she was born!”

  Maria Zoë looked up, startled. “I didn’t think—a child in such a formal setting—” Children were never presented at court.

  “You are right. I am only impatient to welcome Isabella. I want her to feel at home here. You will bring her to my apartments this afternoon? After dinner?”

  “We will come before Vespers, your grace.”

  “Excellent. Now, let me introduce my lady mother, Agnes de Courtney,” the women exchanged venomous smiles, “and my Uncle Jocelyn, whom you also had no chance to meet before.” The Comte d’Edessa’s smile was considerably more sincere; in fact, it bordered on the importunate. “And here is someone you’ll also not know: my lord of Oultrejourdain, formerly Prince of Antioch.” Baldwin indicated Reynald de Châtillon, standing with Stephanie de Milly at his side.

  Maria Zoë had been told through Tripoli’s knights that Reynald de Châtillon had married Plancy’s widow, but she had not been prepared to meet this barbarous man at court. Châtillon had invaded Cyprus without warning or cause, burning, plundering, desecrating churches, and raping nuns. There was no one in Christendom that Maria Zoë considered more abhorrent than Reynald de Châtillon. She recoiled instinctively, taking a step backwards and refusing to offer him her hand. Châtillon only laughed. “Can’t forgive me Cyprus, eh?”

  Baldwin looked embarrassed, and Agnes at once hissed to her brother loud enough for all to hear, “You can see where her loyalties are: back in Constantinople.”

  “The sack of Cyprus, madame,” the Patriarch reminded the Queen Mother pointedly, “was condemned by the King of Jerusalem and his Holiness the Pope, no less than by the Greek Emperor.”

  Baldwin tried to divert attention from his mother by continuing with the introductions, saying, “Here’s someone you will remember: Aimery de Lusignan.”

  Lusignan bowed deeply to Maria Zoë and came up smiling. “I would not blame you if you don’t remember me, madame. I was and remain most insignificant.”

  “But an honest and honorable man,” Maria Zoë hastened to assure him with a gracious smile, to underline her words and contrast her behavior toward Châtillon.

  Later, when others had the attention of the King and Maria Zoë was left to fend for herself, she found herself straying about the hall, a little lost. It was strange to be just one person in a crowd. Strange not to have everyone staring at her. And strange, too, how many strangers there seemed to be here. Where had they all
come from? And where were the people she knew? Tripoli, the Archbishop of Tyre, and Balian …

  “Madame!” The voice caught her somewhat by surprise, as Aimery de Lusignan bowed gallantly at her side. “Might I offer you a little company? You seem most unjustly neglected.”

  “No, no. I was just looking for—where are the Comte de Tripoli, the Archbishop of Tyre, and your good friend the Baron of Ramla?”

  “Ah, the good Comte de Tripoli, naturally, felt it was time to return to his own lands, which he was forced to neglect while acting as Regent. Likewise the Chancellor asked leave to look after ecclesiastical affairs for a change, and Ramla is somewhere around.” Aimery scanned the room hastily, but then returned his gaze to Maria Zoë. “But I hope you do not take it amiss that I do not miss him.” Lusignan had moved a fraction closer to her and leaned down slightly to murmur, “I don’t want any competition for your attention.”

  No one had ever flirted with Maria Zoë before. The knights sent to wait on her at the convent had been too junior to risk this kind of open flirting. She realized in retrospect that in trying to stress that her treatment of Oultrejourdain was exceptional and justified, she had unintentionally given Lusignan encouragement as well. But it was not as if she wanted him to go away, exactly. On the contrary, she found his presence stimulating. He was a handsome man.

  “You have my attention, sir,” she answered him uncertainly, acutely aware of her inexperience. Most women her age, she thought, would know much better how to handle this. “I am most curious about all the changes that have taken place in my absence. Perhaps you could be so kind as to tell me what has happened?”

  “It would be my pleasure, madame. Shall we sit?” He indicated a window niche that had just been vacated.

  Maria Zoë was alarmed; a window seat, by its nature, tended to crush people together. Window niches were for lovers and conspirators. But how could she say no? It would seem rude. She nodded, and Aimery took her by the elbow and guided her to the window, gallantly helping her up the step. She seated herself carefully, spreading her skirts around her to indicate he should not sit too close. Aimery took the hint without appearing to notice. He smiled and asked, “Where shall I begin?”

  “First, how is it that for years everyone was afraid to even lay eyes upon Baldwin, much less be close to him, and now they flutter around him like moths around a flame?”

  “An apt analogy, my lady, because they flutter around but treat touching as the kiss of death. If you watch closely, you will see that even Edessa and the Queen Mother do not actually touch Baldwin, as you just did. The fear of contagion is still there, but it is overpowered by their greater need to be near the font of all patronage.”

  Maria Zoë nodded, her eyes following the crowd surrounding the King as he moved across the room toward two people who had just entered. Tracking her gaze, he exclaimed: “Ah, the Princess Sibylla, whom you will remember—”

  “As a silly girl!” Maria Zoë told him bluntly, stunned by the transformation that had taken place. “She’s grown up!” Sibylla’s features were too like her mother’s to be called beautiful, but she had also inherited her mother’s voluptuous figure, which was very top-heavy. She dressed to display her advantages, and like her mother was heavily rouged, with outlined eyes and a display of wealth Maria Zoë remembered all too well.

  “Um,” Aimery agreed, his eyes on her, “ripe for her wedding, it seems.”

  “Indeed,” Maria Zoë agreed, thinking that sixteen was indeed a riper age than thirteen, as she had been. “And the man with her?”

  “Reginald de Sidon’s youngest son. She seems rather taken with him at the moment, but last week it was the Caesarea boy, and the week before that, Tiberius’ son.” Aimery concluded guardedly, “She seems intent on enjoying her last months of freedom before the arrival of her husband this fall.” He changed the subject. “Do you see that bishop hovering near Edessa?”

  “Ye-es,” Maria Zoë confirmed, as she searched and finally found a remarkably young-looking man in ecclesiastical robes. He was as handsome as an archangel, with beautiful chestnut curls and perfect, regular features in a smooth-cheeked face.

  “He calls himself Heraclius. He is a native of these parts, illegitimate I believe; certainly obscure, albeit well educated.”

  “And already a bishop!” Maria Zoë remarked, stunned by his youth.

  “Exactly,” Aimery agreed, his lips tight and his eyes hard.

  “He must have some exceptional qualities,” Maria Zoë insisted, although her remark sounded naive even to her own ears.

  “Indeed, the willingness to service the Queen Mother; but if he looks nervous, it is because the Queen Mother appears to be tiring of him.”

  “But—” Maria Zoë was shocked. Of course, clerics were men. Of course, there were priests and monks who broke their vows. But an anointed bishop? And one who looked as innocent as an archangel?

  “The Queen Mother favors youth and beauty—even if it is found under a cassock, madame,” Lusignan noted acidly.

  “Surely you are not jealous of such a man!” Maria Zoë challenged Lusignan.

  “No, of course not,” Lusignan answered hastily, then tipped his head to one side and added, “but I cannot deny I am jealous of his rapid rise to wealth and influence. It would seem I have been employing the wrong tactics.”

  “But I heard you have been married, my lord. Is that not true?” Maria Zoë was sure one of Tripoli’s messengers had mentioned something about Lusignan “getting an heiress at last.”

  “Married, yes, but my bride is only eleven—and even I’m not so jaded as to bed the girl. I’ve promised to wait until she’s fourteen. And in any case, I’ll only inherit Ramla when her father dies—and if he has no sons in the meantime.”

  “She’s the Lord of Ramla’s daughter?” Maria Zoë asked, surprised and excited. This at last gave her the opportunity to ask the question she had been burning to ask all evening. “And Sir Balian? The Baron’s younger brother. What has become of him? I would have expected him to rise high in King Baldwin’s court after his years of loyal service.”

  “Yes, one would have expected that, but he does not enjoy the favor of Edessa or the Queen Mother. She was his sister-in-law, you know, and apparently her marriage to his brother was quite acrimonious. At any rate, she doesn’t like Balian, and both she and Edessa are jealous of the affection the King still bears him.”

  “Has he left court?”

  “I’m not sure. There were rumors he had taken service with the Archbishop of Tyre, but I don’t believe he’s left Jerusalem yet. Why?”

  Maria Zoë felt guilty, because her interest was far from innocent, but she had had years of practice disguising her feelings and found an indifferent tone of voice in which to continue. “I just remember how well he looked after Baldwin when no one else would go near him. He seemed a good man.”

  “Yes,” Aimery agreed, his eyes watching her closely. “But as his brother pointed out, he bet on the wrong horse. Five years nursing a leper, and he hasn’t been given so much as a cast-off cup in reward. Such is the gratitude of princes.”

  Maria Zoë looked from the bitter smile on Lusignan’s face to the man he was staring at across the room, King Baldwin. The King was surrounded by his family: his mother, his uncle, and his sister, with his mother’s lover hanging in the background and anxiously trying to become part of the circle.

  “There appears to be only one way into that circle, my lord,” Maria Zoë found herself observing.

  “Yes, I noticed,” Aimery answered, looking down at her with a wistful smile. “And it would have been so much more pleasurable seducing you.” Was there the slightest hint of a question at the end? Maria Zoë wasn’t sure, but she was sure what her answer was.

  “No, my lord, don’t waste your time on me. I have nothing to give you.” She held out her empty hands. She had, of course, her widow’s portion—notably the castle, town and lordship of Nablus, which ensured she had sufficient income to support
a suitable life-style—but the terms of the entailment prohibited her portion from being passed on; it reverted to the Crown at her death. This meant she had nothing in her gift—no titles to bestow upon a husband, much less a lover.

  “A pity,” Aimery whispered wistfully, and their eyes met.

  Maria Zoë felt her pulse racing. Why not? some part of her brain said. Why not let this handsome young man teach her what love was? The romances were full of illicit lovers, and it was not as if she would have been betraying anyone. Not even Aimery’s eleven-yearold bride could object to her husband taking his pleasure elsewhere while waiting for her to grow up.

  Aimery seemed to be contemplating the same thing. He moved his head just a shade closer, watching for her response. Maria Zoë raised her face and held her breath. If he kissed her …

  He drew back, raising her hand to his lips instead. “Farewell, ma dame,” he murmured and then withdrew, leaving Maria Zoë alone and confused in the window niche.

  Maria Zoë pulled the embroidered cap down over Isabella’s red-dish-brown curls and tied it under the chin, so that only a few wisps escaped around her soft, clear face. “There you go, Princess!” she told her daughter with a smile. Isabella chortled, then broke away to run to her mother’s dresser, grab the hand mirror, and look at herself. Maria Zoë could not remember being so interested in her own reflection at that age, and she hoped it was not indicative of excessive vanity. Isabella turned her head from side to side, inspecting herself critically, and then put the mirror down and smiled at her mother. “Shoes?” she asked. “Can I wear my new shoes?”