Knight of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  Maria Zoë still dreaded the confrontation with Sir Balian, but when she walked into the hall to join him for breakfast, his eyes lit up. The ice of the night before seemed to have melted entirely away with the dawn of the new day. Sir Balian bade Maria Zoë sit at the high table while he personally brought her what she wanted from the buffet, and then he sat beside her—although a good two feet away—and explained that he wished to show her Ascalon. “I hope you will then be able to report favorably on my service to King Baldwin.”

  “Baldwin does not doubt your service, sir.”

  “All the more reason that I should not misuse his trust,” Balian answered.

  The tour that followed had been vigorous and comprehensive, from the wall walk to a visit to the major churches of the city, the Roman baths, and the port. Maria Zoë had not walked so much since she’d retired from court, and she was footsore and weary long before Sir Balian brought her to the Bishop’s palace for dinner. The Bishop of Ascalon had prepared a sumptuous feast, and he was intent on plying her ear with a catalog of complaints and requests that he expected her to take back to the King and the Patriarch of Jerusalem. Maria Zoë was used to such meals and such appeals, and so endured it graciously, but she was relieved and delighted when Sir Balian returned and spirited her away, with a feeble excuse to the Bishop about her being overdue at the orphanage “of which she is the patroness.”

  Maria Zoë waited until she had remounted and Sir Balian had taken up his reins to remark, “I don’t believe I am the patroness of any orphanage in Ascalon.”

  “No, but the Hospitaller Sisters would be very honored and delighted if you would accept the patronage of their orphanage, madame.”

  “I see,” Maria Zoë answered carefully, and then could not stop from laughing. The look Sir Balian gave her then was so much like the looks Aimery de Lusignan had given her that she started to feel giddy.

  But first they faced the orphanage. Sir Balian explained, “There are more abandoned children in Ascalon than in most cities. That has to do with its history. There are many different peoples here. They live together in harmony for the most part—going to the same markets, the same shops, the same taverns. But men rarely like it when their women stray.”

  “Stray?” asked Maria Zoë, as if she didn’t understand him.

  Balian just smiled and continued, “Most of the children in the orphanage are of mixed parentage.”

  “The entire Kingdom is populated by people of mixed blood,” Maria Zoë pointed out, “starting with my own daughter.”

  “Yes, of course, and the bulk of the crusaders that settled here are like Roger Shoreham, my senior sergeant, who married a Coptic woman. The men who settled and married have raised their children with pride. But Ascalon has too many transients.”

  Maria Zoë thought that, too, could be said of the entire Kingdom, but she did not want to argue the point; she found it admirable that Sir Balian took such a strong interest in orphans. So they visited the Hospitaller orphanage.

  Maria Zoë was led around by a Hospitaller sister who was a plump and cheerful woman from Flanders, thrilled to be receiving a queen. When Maria Zoë asked if she could donate a hundred dinar and take on the role of patroness, the Hospitaller sister almost died of joy.

  When Sir Balian suggested they get some fresh air by going down to a seaside tavern outside the city walls, with tables directly on the sandy beach, to watch the sun go down, Maria Zoë started to think she, too, had died and gone to heaven.

  The outside tables stood unevenly in the sand, lined with crude benches of bleached wood. The proprietor became so flustered by the presence of the Queen that Sir Walter took him aside and lectured him. After that, the wine and the grilled catch of the day, dripping olive oil, simply appeared on the table, and the rest of the beach was empty—except for the table behind Maria Zoë and Balian, at which Rahel and Walter talked softly, while Dawit and Daniel shared a bowl of squid on the steps of the tavern.

  And now this.

  Maria Zoë was conscious of being slightly tipsy, but Sir Balian was dead sober. She had the feeling he’d been drinking water while she drank wine. One of the three doors to the rooftop terrace was open, letting in a soft evening breeze and the call of the gulls.

  “I hope you had a pleasant day, my lady.”

  “You know I did, Sir Balian.” Maria Zoë leaned her head against the back of her chair and looked at him through half-closed lids. He had never looked more attractive to her than he did right now. He had not worn armor all day, dressing instead in a long parti-colored silk surcoat over suede boots and a long-sleeved silk shirt. The surcoat had short, broad sleeves, and half was a vivid marigold with the red cross of Ibelin scattered liberally across it, while the other half was bright blue with the five crosses of Jerusalem stitched in gold. The candlelight glowed on his dark hair.

  He had turned in his chair to stretch out his long legs and had crossed them at the ankles. He looked completely relaxed and content as he smiled at her over the rim of his silver goblet. “Will you grant me the boon of a question?” he asked her, tipping the goblet up to shield his face.

  “Of course.”

  “Why are you really here?”

  Maria Zoë started, held her breath, and then answered as she let it out. “Because these past two years I could not get you out of my mind, sir. Because I wanted to meet you again—and see if you were really the perfect knight I pictured you to be.”

  “Then I have no hope,” Balian answered with a small, twisted smile.

  “Hope of what?” Maria Zoë asked, puzzled.

  “Of winning your favor—since no real man can live up to the ideal of a perfect knight.”

  “You come very close,” she admitted, letting the wine speak.

  Balian put his goblet down and came around the table to stand beside her chair. “What do you want of your perfect knight, Maria Zoë Comnena?”

  “Please call me Zoë. There were so many Marias in Constantinople at my great-uncle’s court that we all went by our second names.”

  “Zoë means life,” Balian noted, sinking on his heels to be eye to eye with her.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “but most of my life I have been only a lifeless puppet.”

  “And tonight?”

  “Tonight? Tonight, I would like to be more than that.” She met his eyes. Two of the candles had gone out, and the room was very dark, lit only by the light of the stars and a sliver of moon admitted through the open door. Maria Zoë had the impression that Dawit had withdrawn, silent as always. Balian must have given him a signal.

  Balian leaned closer, and his lips hovered over hers. She could feel his breath and it made her tingle all over. Please kiss me, she prayed, but she did not make the first move. She couldn’t overcome her upbringing.

  Balian touched his lips to hers and felt them twitch and open. He put his hand behind her head and held her gently but insistently, his nerves alert for the slightest indication of resistance. But there was none. Maria—Zoë—was wax in his hands, waiting—no, smoldering—with inchoate desire.

  Balian sensed that for all that she was a widow, Zoë was innocent, too. King Amalric had not only been twenty years her senior, but by the time Zoë came to Jerusalem he had been a fat man with receding hair. Balian did not like to picture what it must been like for the delicate Greek maiden in his bed. He sensed that she had known only rape up to now—even if it was the sanctioned rape of marriage. She wanted him to show her love.

  Christ, he prayed silently, give me the strength and stamina to make the most of this, to drag it out as long as possible, to savor every second, for I may never have this chance again.

  “Balian, will you marry me?”

  His eyes widened with surprise, reassuring Maria Zoë that he had not done this for material gain, even before he asked, “Are you out of your mind?”

  “What is mad about wanting to repeat this?” Maria Zoë wanted to know.

  “Nothing. But this,” he dropped his head t
o kiss her gently, “is about love.” He kissed her again before drawing back to declare dryly, “Marriage is about politics.”

  “I know,” she retorted with a frown of irritation. “Nothing could have been more political than my first marriage! It took over two years to get the terms right, and I was an exchangeable commodity throughout most of it. I think my great-uncle considered five different female relatives at one time or another, before he finally decided on me. But at thirteen I was my great-uncle’s pawn, and now I am a queen.”

  “And I am the younger son of an adventurer and parvenu. Just what do you think your great-uncle would say if I asked for you to wife?” The question was rhetorical.

  “If you asked, he’d definitely say ‘No’ and throw you out of his court—assuming he didn’t order your tongue torn out for such impudence.” She giggled to indicate this was just a joke.

  “What a pleasant prospect!” Balian noted sarcastically, turning over to lie on his back to protest her teasing about such things.

  “If,” Maria Zoë continued, rising up on one elbow and leaning over to look down on him, her long, thick hair cascading down like a black curtain around them. “If, on the other hand, I asked him, his answer would more likely be, “Why?”

  “I somehow doubt,” Balian reflected, brushing a strand of hair away from her face with the back of his hand to see her more perfectly, “that my love for you would bear much weight with the Emperor of the Eastern Empire.”

  “Not at all,” Maria Zoë agreed readily and matter-of-factly. “But there are other reasons.”

  “Such as?” Balian asked cautiously and curiously.

  Maria Zoë smiled and dropped down to rest her head on his naked shoulder, nestling closer to him as she did so. “Baldwin cannot have heirs of his body.”

  Balian did not answer. It was hardly news to him, and she knew it.

  “Princess Sibylla is due to marry at St. Martins and may have a litter of healthy little boys with her Italian marquis—or she may not. Life is so uncertain. Meanwhile, my daughter Isabella is second in line to the throne.”

  “She has been for the last four years. What does that have to do with making me a suitable consort for the Dowager Queen of Jerusalem?” Balian’s tone was so earnest that Maria Zoë concluded he was seriously considering her proposal.

  “Isabella needs a strong protector. As long as Tripoli was Regent, she had one, because he favored her claim to the throne. And Baldwin dotes on her—maybe even more than he doted on Sibylla. But Baldwin—” She hesitated to say it out loud because she knew how much Balian loved the King, but it had to be said—“Baldwin is very much under the influence of his mother and uncle at the moment. . . . And I’m not so sure they have Isabella’s best interests at heart.”

  Balian still did not answer. Again, she was not telling him something new—but until tonight Isabella had been only a name, a fact, the King’s second daughter and the second in line to the throne. For the first time he started to see her as something more than that, as the precious child of the woman he loved.

  Maria Zoë continued softly, “If—as—Baldwin becomes weaker,” Maria Zoë continued softly, “I’m afraid Isabella will need—I will need—a man who is strong enough and courageous enough to defy Agnes and Edessa, for they will certainly try to control her—or even eliminate her.”

  Balian took his time answering, for he could sense that her fears were very real, and in all honesty he could not dismiss them as unfounded. Agnes de Courtney was not the woman he would like to trust his child’s fate to! But he also had to be honest about his own power. “Any baron of the Kingdom—not to mention an Armenian or Greek prince—would be more suitable for the role of protecting Isabella than I, Zoë,” Balian answered solemnly. “I owe everything to Baldwin, and when he dies I stand to lose my post here—and my ability to protect you and Isabella.”

  “Not if you are married to a Byzantine princess and have the ear of the Emperor of the Eastern Empire,” Maria Zoë insisted.

  Balian couldn’t picture it the way she did. He saw only that he would be brushed aside as a man of no consequence. If he challenged the Queen Mother and Edessa, who would support him? Montferrat, as the future husband of Sibylla, would automatically side with Agnes de Courtney, and he enjoyed the support of the Holy Roman Emperor. Tripoli, to be sure, favored Isabella’s claim to the throne, but his power had been neatly checkmated by Oultrejourdain, who hated Tripoli and so had thrown in his lot with the Courtneys. His brother would support him, of course—Barry had long urged him to “seduce a heiress”—and even Lusignan might line up behind him, but was that enough? Somehow he couldn’t shake the conviction that with Montferrat, Agnes de Courtney, and Oultrejourdain against him, he was far more likely to end up dead or chained in a dungeon for the rest of his life. He shook his head firmly at the thought.

  “Then just what was this all about?” Maria Zoë reared up and demanded with big, reproachful eyes. “A night’s entertainment? Am I just a conquest? A trophy? Something to brag about to other men?” She was naked. All her layers of protection were stripped away—not just the physical ones, but the emotional ones as well. With each question her anger grew, until her eyes were dark with fury.

  Balian knew he had been right to imagine she had a passionate inner core and knew, too, that he was playing with fire now that he had laid it bare. He reached up to pull her back down onto his chest, but she resisted him. He could see her anger fueling itself. Like embers caught in a sudden breeze, the fury glinted sharply in her eyes.

  “Do you feel conquered?” he asked her, stroking her naked shoulder. “Defeated?”

  She met his eyes and the fire died down, but it was not extinguished. Instead, her eyes burned with something more intangible. “No,” she admitted honestly, remembering both how humiliating the consummation of her marriage had been and how utterly different and exhilarating it had been to make love to Balian. But that led her back to her dilemma. “But if you will not marry me, what is our future, Balian? Am I just to ride away tomorrow or the day after?”

  “I hope not!” Balian answered and pulled her into his arms again. This time she did not resist. He stroked the back of her head and then nuzzled the hair over her ear until he could reach it with his tongue. “I would that this could go on forever,” he whispered into her ear.

  She turned her head to look at him. “You mean like Aimery and Agnes de Courtney?”

  Her tone was stinging, and Balian knew he was on the brink of a precipice. Last night he might have been in control of the situation, but this morning he was not. He had to tread very, very carefully if he did not want to destroy what had been born between them. “How could it be like that when you are so utterly unlike Agnes de Courtney?” he murmured, meeting her eyes.

  Maria Zoë considered him solemnly. “That was neatly parried, sir,” she admitted, but she did not sound in the least appeased.

  “Five years in the service of a king teaches even a country bumpkin some things,” he countered.

  “But I’m serious, Balian,” she pleaded, and Balian noticed a sheen of tears over her eyes, which ignited a wave of protectiveness in him.

  He covered her eyes with kisses. “Don’t cry, Zoë. There’s nothing to cry about.”

  “Yes, there is,” she protested, surrendering to her tears, because his sympathy had melted the very last of her defenses. “I love you, Balian. I love you as I think no woman ever loved anyone before. I love you because I’ve never been allowed to love anyone, and you’re the first man who ever treated me like I was not just a jewel, a prize, a tool, and a trophy—” she dissolved into heartrending sobs that left Balian utterly helpless.

  Part of his mind was laughing at him, noting: “You got more than you bargained for.” And another part was preaching to him, saying, “See how you’ve abused the trust of an innocent child!” But mostly, he just felt desperately protective and wanted to make Zoë happy again. “Zoë, don’t cry,” he pleaded. “Look! A new day is dawning
, and there is no reason why it cannot be as beautiful as yesterday.” He parted the striped linen bed curtains, letting the rose-colored sunshine pour in through the eastern window.

  “You’re telling me to live one day at a time,” Maria Zoë answered in a strained voice as she pulled herself together.

  “Yes,” Balian answered slowly, reflecting on what he had said. “Yes. Today we are both richer for what we have—for knowing how we feel about one another. Let us make the most of that. God alone knows the future, and God knows that things can change in the most unexpected ways. Who would have thought, four years ago when we first met in the royal mews, that we would ever lie together like this?”

  She looked up at him with molten eyes, but said softly, “You are right, Balian. We must be thankful for what He has given us.” Then she closed her eyes and offered him her lips instead.

  Chapter 9

  Ascalon, November 1177

  “SALAH-AD-DIN!” THE MAN SHOUTED UP TO the lookouts on the ramparts of the barbican. “With his whole army!” He gestured wildly to the south with one hand while trying to drag a reluctant overloaded mule toward the closed Gaza Gate with the other. It was nearly midnight and the gates were locked and barred, but the watch peered down at not just one man with a mule, but dozens of people streaming toward the city by the light of the setting moon.

  The captain of the watch squinted into the darkness, trying to estimate the number of refugees. Then he turned to the man next to him and said, “Better rouse Sergeant Shoreham. I’m not opening these gates without his orders.” He leaned over the ramparts and shouted down to the man with the mule, “Patience! We’ll let the lot of you in at once, not piecemeal.”

  By the time Roger arrived, his hair sticking up in all directions, the crowd at the gate had grown to an angry, milling mob of nearly a half a hundred people, including squalling babies, whimpering children, and pleading women. “Salah-ad-Din!” the men kept shouting and gesturing. “He’s coming with his whole army!”