“Ah, yes, of course.” Now that he said it, she did recognize him, although he had matured significantly; his lean body had filled out and his face looked like it could now grow a beard. “So you’ve been knighted,” she noted politely. Two years was a long time for a youth on the brink of manhood.
Walter grinned at her. “Sir Balian didn’t have any choice. He felt the city was inadequately defended, so he doubled the number of knights in Ascalon by knighting me.”
Maria Zoë looked suitably shocked, and Walter laughed. “And even so, he’d rather tilt with the quintain than with me. I fall off the horse from just thinking about the lance hitting me. Ah! Here’s the sherbet.” Walter went to open the door wider for a servant carrying a silver tray, laden with two glazed pottery bowls packed with sherbet, a bowl of cashews, and spoons. The servant set the tray down on the table beside Maria Zoë and offloaded it. Rahel motioned to Walter to sit with her lady, but he shook his head, adding graciously to the waiting woman, “Refresh yourself, my lady. You’ve had a hot ride, while I’ve been comfortable in the shade. But I will keep you company, if you like?” The question was directed to the Queen.
“By all means,” the latter assured him as Rahel sat down, and Walter grabbed a stool to sit astride at Maria Zoë’s feet.
Maria Zoë’s head was filled with questions that Walter could undoubtedly answer. For example, was Balian looking for a wife? And if so, where? And if not, why not? But she dared not ask.
“Did you come directly from Jerusalem, your grace?” Walter asked in the vacuum left by her own silence.
“Yes, we did.”
“Then could you be so kind as to tell us the latest news? Is it true Salah-ad-Din has left Damascus?”
“Yes, he has returned to Egypt. Our spies suggest there was a revolt, but Salah-ad-Din is said to have ruthlessly suppressed it with terrible bloodshed.” Maria Zoë had been with the King when this word was brought to him by a Syrian Christian who traded in ivory between Cairo and Damascus. “Our source says that he sealed off the quarter of the city in which the rebels lived and sent his men in to slaughter the women and children house by house until none survived.” Maria Zoë shook her head in aversion at the story, adding, “And now he is preaching jihad and threatening us with the same fate. It is said Salah-ad-Din has vowed to drive the Kingdom of Jerusalem into the sea.”
“Then this is an odd time to visit Ascalon,” Balian remarked softly, coming in the open door.
Maria Zoë started at the sound of his voice and looked up with racing pulse. He was exactly as she remembered him—no, he was much more handsome. Two years ago he had been a knight in her husband’s service: young, strong, tanned, and earnest, as befitted the only knight who dared serve a leper. Now he commanded a city, and his new position gave him stature. But the eyes were still the same molten bronze. No, they weren’t. They were much bolder. He looked her straight in the eye as he approached, and it took her breath away.
Balian’s skin was flushed from the steam bath and glowed with oils, and he smelled of balsam. His hair was still wet and looked almost black, but the drying strands looked as soft and silky as Maria Zoë’s own when her hair was freshly cleaned, only straight rather than curly. Balian’s chin was slightly darkened with the promise of a beard to come, as he had not taken the time to shave. Maria Zoë heard her heart thundering in her ears—and registered that this must be what the troubadours meant when they sang of a knight making his lady’s blood burn.
Balian had crossed the room, and he bowed deeply over her hand. “Welcome to Ascalon, your grace. I regret that without warning, we could not provide you with a more suitable welcome. I hope Sir Walter has been behaving himself and has made you feel at home?”
“Sir Walter is a paragon of chivalry, my lord,” Maria Zoë answered smoothly, too conscious of the turmoil of her emotions to realize how cool and aloof she sounded.
Walter had jumped to his feet when Balian arrived, and Rahel had stood, too. She again gestured to the seat she had occupied.
Balian shook his head to Rahel, gesturing for her to resume her seat. He looked over his shoulder and found a smaller chair, which he grabbed and placed before the table. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence in Ascalon, your grace?”
Balian could not have been more formal, and Walter wanted to kick him. That’s no way to court a lady, he wanted to shout at his lord, not any lady—much less one of the most beautiful creatures on God’s earth, with a queen’s dower portion on top!
Walter was right, of course. Maria Zoë felt as if she had been burned by ice. Balian had always been meticulously polite to her, of course, but before, it had been a façade. Hadn’t it? He had been polite to disguise how much he really felt for her, hadn’t he? She had been so sure of it at the time. She had believed in his affection for the two years she had been with the Carmelites. It was the conviction that he would be pleased to see her that had brought her here—two days’ ride from Jerusalem to the most vulnerable city in the Kingdom.
“The horse market,” she answered with immaculate composure. “It is rumored to be the finest not only in the Kingdom, but anywhere between Cairo and Antioch. I am in need of a new mount, and I thought I would come here. Of course, I was also interested in seeing this city, the only one in my late husband’s Kingdom that I never had the chance to visit before.”
“Mathewos, my head groom, will be able to help you with finding a horse, your grace. He comes from a distinguished line of horse breeders. His grandfather served the Emperors of Ethiopia.” Then, indicating the empty bowls, he announced, “You will need a proper meal. I’ll go see how the preparations—”
Walter forestalled him. “I’ll do that, my lord! If you’ll excuse me, my lady?” He bowed to Maria Zoë with a grin.
She had a smile for him and a nod, and then he was gone, leaving Balian no choice but to sit down again.
“You will not be staying long, then,” Balian surmised. “The horse market is the day after tomorrow.”
“No, probably not,” Maria Zoë agreed, thinking that she would freeze to death in this frigid atmosphere more surely than in the snows on Mount Olympus.
Father Laurence appeared in the door, smiling. “Your grace, your accommodations have been prepared for you now. I would be happy to take you there, if you wish. Will you also be requiring a bath?”
“Yes,” Maria Zoë agreed, standing. “Yes, I could use a bath.”
Balian was also on his feet. “You may ask whatever you wish of my household, madame. We will do all we can to make your short stay with us as pleasant as possible.”
“Thank you, Sir Balian. I am much indebted to you.” She smiled and held out her hand to him.
He bowed over it.
Maria Zoë swept out of the room with Rahel at her heels, and Father Laurence hastened after her to show her the way.
It took them some time to bring the cork-lined tub up to the corner room and heat water for it. The household servants carried up bucket after bucket of water, while Maria Zoë sat patiently in the window niche, watching the sun sink down the sky. It turned a vivid orange before it was lost from sight behind a bank of clouds. The tall palm in the garden of the house opposite loomed up, sharply silhouetted against the coppery sky.
“Your bath is ready, madame,” Rahel said softly, gesturing elegantly to the tub.
Maria Zoë left the window and moved slowly toward the bath, removing the circlet of silver from her brow and unwinding her veils as she came. She felt utterly exhausted and drained of all energy and emotion. The disappointment was over. Balian d’Ibelin was not the man she had imagined him to be. He was indifferent to her. Maybe even hostile, like her former ladies-in-waiting and most of the court, she had concluded.
But Balian had always been different, her heart protested. He had been her friend! Her only friend. Why had he turned against her? Had she offended him in some way? Did he blame her for leaving court two years ago? Or for not writing when she was away? She had wr
itten religiously to Baldwin; hadn’t he realized those letters were as much for him as for the King? Or was it something else?
She reached out to test the temperature of the water. As she had requested, it was tepid. She nodded absently, and Rahel came to help her out of her clothes. “You are unhappy, madame?” Rahel asked gently.
Maria Zoë nodded, but dared not say why.
Rahel worked deftly, unlacing and unbuttoning, then pulling the material off over Maria Zoë’s head, one layer at a time: the loose white surcoat trimmed with bands of bright embroidery, the striped gown, the gauze shift. She unpinned Maria Zoë’s thick, curly hair and combed it with her fingers. She gave Maria Zoë her hand as she stepped over the high sides of the tub, and she poured rose oil into the waters as Maria Zoë sank down into the water. She took a sponge, squeezed it under water, and released the pressure so it would soak up the rose-scented water. She removed the sponge and squeezed again, expelling the bulk of the water before gently using it to wipe away Maria Zoë’s tears. “Don’t cry, madame,” she whispered. “Not yet.”
Balian was pacing the ramparts of his city. It was completely dark now. The stars were sharp pinpoints in the sky overhead. Even the harbor-side taverns had slowly quieted down, and their torches had all but burned out. Balian just kept walking, annoying the guards, who hated being under the scrutiny of the Constable at this time of night. The breeze off the Mediterranean was fresh, almost chilly, hinting at the change of season in the offing. Soon the rains would come. . . .
Why had she come? Certainly not for a horse market that was only marginally better than those at Jaffa, Acre, Tyre, or Beirut, not to mention Antioch. To see this outpost of her husband’s Kingdom that she had not seen before? If she was taking a measure of her Kingdom, then why without Isabella? Isabella was second in line to the throne, and it would make sense to start introducing her to her inheritance—in all its breadth, depth, and danger.
Or was she consciously fleeing her maternal duties, in need of a break from them after being confined with the child for two years?
Balian had reached a section of the wall directly over the sea, and he paused to listen to the rhythmic crunch and hiss of the waves, slapping the shore and rolling over the stones as they retreated some two dozen feet below him. He leaned his elbows on the thick stone, still warmed by the heat of the day, and looked out to sea.
He had been surprised by his reaction at the sight of her. He had always known she was a beautiful woman, but since that one private interview she had always been a beautiful queen. Today she had been dressed for riding, in the loosely woven cottons of Gaza that gave shade without blocking out the breeze. Her gowns had been loosely fitted to give freedom of movement, and bleached a bright white to reflect rather than absorb the heat. These were the kind of clothes Richildis wore for every day, too. They made Maria Zoë seem more his equal than the bejeweled queen he had encountered, admired, and pledged himself to at court.
That was dangerous, he concluded, because she was too beautiful by half for the man in him. He had been completely discomfited by the sight and proximity of her, and he had tried to put distance between them, ashamed of his tangible physical reaction to her—fortunately hidden under his cotton surcoat. Now in the cool of night, his blood had calmed, but he was still unsettled by his reactions. He was attracted to this woman as he had been to no other. He admired her intelligence, and he sensed that there was a hidden gentleness in her as well. Balian was reminded of that one private interview he’d had with her—and how she had conspired to help ease Baldwin’s loneliness. She was not the restrained, haughty princess most people saw. He knew that. He knew that she was capable of strong feelings—loyalty for one, and sympathy for another. He had been told how she had kissed Baldwin’s hands when she returned to court. That said a great deal about her. Behind the façade of the perfect queen was a woman of deep—maybe even passionate—emotions. . . .
Baldwin shook his head to clear it. He was starved of female company, and at last freed of the restraints that had condemned him to a life of celibacy more rigid than any monk’s vows. He had already written to Richildis, confiding in her his desire to marry and asking her to make discreet inquiries about suitable maidens. But marriage negotiations could take months or even years. And Maria Zoë Comnena was here.
She was a widow.
A king’s widow.
But a widow, nonetheless. The rules of engagement were different for widows. There was no father or husband who could be offended. A widow, at least a mature woman such as Maria Zoë Comnena, decided for herself whom to take to her bed. Just as that bitch Agnes de Courtney did. And Maria Zoë was here in Ascalon, under his roof. . . .
When he returned to his rooms, he found both Dawit and Daniel asleep on the chest by the door. The sound of his return roused the boys. Dawit jumped up and came toward him, his hands outstretched to relieve Balian of his sword as he did each night. Balian unbuckled the weapon and handed it to the Ethiopian youth with a nod of thanks. Daniel pulled himself to his feet, using one of the posters of the bed for support, and stood awkwardly in the shadows, stammering, “You didn’t dismiss me, my lord, and Dawit said I could sleep here.”
“Only if you earn your keep,” Balian answered, sinking onto the edge of the bed and thrusting out his feet. “Remove my spurs and help me out of my boots and hose.”
“Yes, my lord!” Daniel sprang to obey, instantly awake. After helping Balian at the baths he had followed him to the palace, ostensibly in search of Michael, but really just to avoid going home to face his parents. But Michael was busy helping sort out accommodations for the Queen’s escort, and had no time for Daniel. So Daniel loitered around the kitchens until he was kicked out, and found himself in the stables helping fix up stalls for the horses of the Queen’s party, then watering and feeding them. By then it was dark, and Dawit went to attend on Sir Balian. Mathewos, however, invited Daniel to share his bread and wine. Daniel hadn’t waited to be asked twice; he was famished, not having had a proper meal since his disgrace three days ago.
Mathewos had known Daniel all his life, and he knew he was in disgrace. He shared his evening meal with him, seated side by side on a tack chest in the tack room. Mathewos was a man of few words, and he did not harass Daniel with impertinent questions, just shared his wine glass with him, until Daniel asked, “Couldn’t you use extra help here, Mathewos? Now that Dawit is squire to Sir Balian, you must be short-handed with the horses.”
Mathewos nodded and looked out the tack-room door to the stables. Even now they were only half full, because they had been built to take caravans and their escorts. But then he dashed Daniel’s hopes by saying: “Sir Balian must decide if we hire more men; I cannot do that.”
“But I come free—or nearly so,” Daniel continued desperately. “I’ll work just for a roof over my head and two meals a day,” he offered.
Mathewos seemed to consider this, but then shook his head. “You must talk to Sir Balian. I’ll have Dawit take you to him.”
Not long afterwards, Dawit returned to say good night to his father, and his father told him that Daniel needed to speak to Sir Balian. “He’s gone out,” Dawit admitted. “But Daniel can wait for him with me.”
And so Daniel had gone with Dawit to Balian’s chamber and waited with him there for Balian’s return. Daniel had never taken much notice of Dawit before, because he had his own circle of friends. Dawit, like his father, and like the horses, was shy. Daniel had not valued that before, but he did now. Dawit, like his father, did not ask him why he had been late for work that fateful morning three days ago, or how he could talk back to his master. He did not ask any questions at all. He just showed Daniel how he turned down Sir Balian’s sheets and laid out his nightshirt, how he fetched water in a pitcher and a pottery goblet to set on the table by Sir Balian’s bed. He checked that the privy was clean and smelled fresh, and he lit a candle. He spoke very softly about what “Sir Balian likes,” and Daniel could see how much he wanted to
please. “You like him, don’t you?” he asked when all was finished and they sat down to wait.
“Yes. He’s a good master.”
“Serving a knight is different from being a ’prentice,” Daniel defended himself. “A knight is someone. If I were in your shoes, I’d never let Sir Balian down, either.”
Dawit just nodded. Eventually they fell asleep waiting, only to be woken by Balian’s return. Daniel was so eager to assist that he fell over backwards as he pulled off the first of Balian’s boots. Balian laughed shortly and then advised, “Take it easy.”
“But, but—sir—my lord—did you mean what you said? May I stay?”
Balian dropped his braies and swung his feet onto the bed. “Stay?”
“I mean—”
“Oh, you want a job? Being unemployed at the moment and all.”
“Sir, I can explain what happened, if only anyone would listen to me. It wasn’t just irresponsibility. I—”
“Shhh! I’m tired. I need to sleep. Put your head down, and we’ll see how I feel about taking on a disgraced baker’s boy in the morning.”
“But—”
Daniel felt Dawit’s hand on his arm and looked over angrily. The Ethiopian was shaking his head slowly in warning. Daniel bit his tongue and sank back onto the floor. Dawit signaled for him to come over and share his pallet. Gratefully, Daniel did.
They were alone at a small table, set up in Balian’s private chambers. The room was lit only by the four-pronged bronze candelabra on the table, and they were being served by Dawit, who was so silent and discreet he seemed to fade into the shadows in the corners. Maria Zoë did not know exactly how she had ended up here.
The day had started well, however. Rahel had woken her with the news that Sir Balian wished to show her Ascalon, since she had a day of waiting until the horse market. Rahel had been smiling broadly as she announced this, and she had made Maria Zoë dress in the same gown she had worn for her reintroduction at court, only without the jeweled belt.
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