Knight of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  Maria Zoë was trapped, and that made her furious. She got to her feet and faced Balian.

  Her anger was reflected in his face. He bent to kiss his niece absently—almost roughly—and then turned her briskly around by her shoulders and sent her to her mother, who was already calling, “Eschiva! Time for bed!”

  “But Uncle Balian just—”

  “You can see him in the morning.”

  “But—”

  “That’s enough!” Richildis clapped her hands and with a nod to Gudrun, who pulled Beth out from behind the tapestries, she pushed both girls into the spiral stairwell, with Gudrun—and Rahel—on her heels. The door to the stairwell thumped shut, and the high-pitched voices of the girls receded upwards.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Balian demanded, without even taking his helmet off.

  “Because I knew you’d be angry,” Maria Zoë retorted, her chin high and her cheeks flushed.

  “Not half so angry as I am now!” Balian answered. “What the hell were you planning to do? Kill my child behind my back?”

  “You didn’t seem too concerned about his fate when you were making him!”

  “Nor did you!”

  “I asked you to marry me!” Maria Zoë countered. “If you had—”

  “How in the name of Sweet Jesus Christ can I marry you when I have nothing to give you?” he shouted in his fury.

  “What did Châtillon bring Princess Constance? Or Lusignan your brother?” Maria Zoë shouted back.

  For a moment they stared at one another, but Balian was wet and weary and the anger was already ebbing. “We’ve been through all this before,” he snapped, as he shoved his helmet up and off his head by the nosepiece and then yanked open the leather strap of his coif to push it off as well. He turned away from Maria Zoë and approached the fire, his numb fingers having trouble untying the cord at the neck of his cloak, but he finally managed and flung it off his shoulders. The chain mail underneath glistened wet, and Maria Zoë could see his hands were red with cold. The anger had gone out of his face, replaced by a tense expression that made him look older than his twenty-eight years.

  “We must go to the King,” he told her in a flat voice full of foreboding. “We must beg him to let us marry and then try to weather the storm that will follow. That is all I can think to do,” he admitted, looking very glum.

  Maria Zoë moved up beside him and slipped her arms around his slender waist. “I love you, Balian,” she declared.

  He turned and looked down into her golden eyes, and his expression softened. He bent and kissed her gently on the forehead, and then opened his left arm to enclose her in it before adding grimly, “I will not let you kill my child, nor let my child be born a bastard. If the King will not grant permission for us to marry, we must ride at once for Antioch and see if your sister can persuade Prince Bohemond to give us refuge. If he will not have us, then we must make for the Greek Empire and seek sanctuary with your great-uncle.” It was clear that he dreaded this—dreaded being an outlaw and an exile.

  Maria Zoë made no effort to persuade him that he might be happy in either Antioch or Constantinople, although she could imagine him being rewarded with titles and lands and living on a sunny estate in her great-uncle’s empire. . . . Instead she laid her head on his chest and begged, “Please, Balian, try to love me—at least a little.”

  The plea worked. Balian remembered himself, took her into his arms properly, and kissed her warmly on the lips. “You know I love you, Zoë!” he assured her, looking her deep in the eyes. Then he kissed her again—a consuming, demanding, almost bruising kiss. “I love you too much for the good of our souls!” he gasped between kisses. “You know that!” he insisted, and they sank down onto the rugs before the fire to give testimony to that love—and to blot out the fears and the anger and uncertainty that threatened them.

  Chapter 12

  Jerusalem, December 1177

  “JERUSALEM HAS AN HEIR!” SIBYLLA SCREAMED at her brother so loudly that her voice could clearly be heard in the anteroom. “I’ve given Jerusalem a male heir; isn’t that enough? Isn’t it enough that I was chained to one rutting monster before I was hardly out of the nunnery? Do you have to sell me to the next before I’ve even recovered from twisting my guts out to give Jerusalem a god-damned heir?”

  Balian and Maria Zoë exchanged an alarmed look; William de Montferrat might have been overbearing and self-important, but he was hardly a monster. Furthermore, Sibylla might have given birth to a son, but it was almost certain his uncle would not live long enough for the boy to grow to manhood—assuming the infant survived childhood at all. Thus, while Jerusalem might have an infant male heir, the Kingdom was still in desperate need of a grown man to wear (or at least wield the power of) the crown until such time as Sibylla’s infant son was ready to defend his own Kingdom. Sibylla had to marry someone soon. The question was only a matter of whom: a western Prince selected by Flanders and his patrons, or someone closer at hand. . . .

  Meanwhile, although the King’s answer had been too soft to be heard by those awaiting an audience in the antechamber, it provoked a new shriek of outrage from his sister. “I don’t want to marry anyone! I don’t care whom you pick! If you really cared about me as much as you claim you do, you’d let me choose my own husband!”

  Again the King’s answer was inaudible, but Sibylla’s response was clear. “What does the Pope know about what’s good for me—Sibylla? I’ve done my duty for Jerusalem!” Again Balian and Zoë exchanged a look, while Sibylla continued screaming: “I’m telling you, I won’t marry him! And if you bring him here and try to force me, I won’t let him in my bed for all the gold in Constantinople!”

  The doors to the King’s inner chamber crashed open so violently that they banged loudly against the walls. Princess Sibylla stormed through the antechamber, her face red from agitation, her lips pressed firmly together in a grimace of determination, and her eyes narrowed with rage. She looked neither left nor right, and appeared not to notice the two people waiting for an audience with her brother.

  Behind her, King Baldwin’s old body servant hastened to close the doors to the inner chamber, and caught up with Princess Sibylla just as she reached the far exit. “My lady! My lady!” he called to her in a pleading tone. “You must understand—”

  Sibylla spun around on the slave and slapped him viciously across the mouth. “How dare you tell me what I must or must not do?”

  “How dare you behave like an alewife?” Queen Maria Zoë Comnena countered, sweeping across the room to confront her stepdaughter.

  “Don’t you try to tell me what to do, either!” Sibylla countered. “I’m the Princess of Jerusalem—”

  “But you won’t be Queen unless you learn how to behave like one.”

  “I will be Queen when Baldwin dies, whether you like it or not—”

  “You stupid girl, this has nothing to do with what I like! The High Court of Jerusalem elects the next King, and there is more than one baron who is only looking for the excuse to declare you illegitimate! Acting and screaming like a lowborn slut will not earn you sympathy or respect!”

  “Which is exactly what you want, isn’t it? For your little brat Isabella to be made Queen instead of me!” Sibylla screamed back. Then she burst into tears and wailed, “Why does everyone hate me?” and ran from the room.

  During this altercation, Balian had gone to Ibrahim. The old slave had been knocked backwards by Sibylla’s blow, or his efforts to avoid it, and he sat on the floor holding his face in his hands. “Ibrahim! Are you hurt?”

  “Hurt?” The old slave looked up at Balian with tears in his eyes. “I cannot tell you the pain I am in, my lord.” His lips were quivering with emotion. “The leprosy is spreading again, and it has become ulcerous! My lord’s feet are covered with running sores, and his own sister does not care! Does not even want to hear about it!”

  Balian turned to stare at the closed door separating him from Baldwin, and then he reached down and help
ed Ibrahim to his feet. “I will go to him—”

  “No, my lord! He ordered me to keep everyone away! I tried to stop Lady Sibylla, but—”

  “I will go to him, Ibrahim, and he will not blame you. Zoë! Come help Ibrahim wash the blood from his lips and nose.”

  Maria Zoë was already taking the old slave by his elbow and leading him to one of the waiting benches, while Balian gently opened the door to the inner chamber and slipped inside.

  The chamber was completely dark. Not a single candle burned here, and the only light came from a double-light window facing west, out of the city to the luminescent sky where the sun had just set. Balian stood inside the door adjusting to the dark, searching with his eyes and ears for the room’s occupant. After almost a minute he realized that there was no one in sight, but the curtains to the bed were closed. Taking a deep breath, Balian moved silently to the bed and slowly drew back the curtain.

  Baldwin was lying on his side, his back to Balian. His shoulder was shaking convulsively. Balian knelt with one knee on the edge of the bed and laid his hand on Baldwin’s shoulder.

  “Why?” Baldwin croaked, out of a throat cramped from suppressing his sobs. “Why does God hate me, Ibrahim?”

  “He does not hate you, Baldwin.”

  “Balian! Where did you come from?” Baldwin reared up and turned around in a single gesture. He stared at his friend with wide eyes and a face streaked with tears.

  “We’ve been waiting in the anteroom for hours, but were told you were not ready to receive us. Ibrahim tried to stop me, so don’t blame him.”

  “Of course not! If I’d known you—Oh, Balian, have you heard? The leprosy. We thought it had stopped spreading, but it’s—” Baldwin broke down again and started sobbing.

  Balian sat down on the bed and pulled the teenaged boy into his arms. “Ibrahim told me.”

  “Why?” Baldwin cried into his breast. “Why? Why? Why? What have I done to deserve this? Why does God want to punish me? For what?”

  “It is not punishment, Baldwin. Like Christ, you are suffering for our sins—the sins of your subjects.”

  “That’s not fair, Balian! Other kings don’t suffer for the sins of their subjects. Why me?”

  “I don’t know, Baldwin. I can only tell you that He has chosen you. And while you may suffer in this life, He will take you into His arms like a long-lost son in the next. You will go straight to Heaven, Baldwin, while the rest of us languish in our graves, in Purgatory or in Hell. He has laid upon you the suffering He reserves only for those He loves most: His Son, His saints, and His martyrs.”

  Baldwin drew back enough to look Balian in the face. At length he asked, “Do you really believe that?”

  “I have to, your grace—or I would lose faith in God Himself.”

  Baldwin drew a ragged breath and then slowly straightened up, pulling out of Balian’s embrace. “I don’t want you to be infected,” he whispered, the tears streaming down his face. Balian grabbed the bed sheets and found a corner with which to wipe the tears from his King’s face. Then he held him firmly by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. “It will be as God wills, Baldwin—but it seems He does not think me worthy of your suffering.”

  “Or He wants to reward you in a different way,” Baldwin suggested with a weak attempt at a smile. “Why are you here?”

  “To ask—to ask a favor,” Balian confessed.

  “A favor?” Baldwin asked, frowning. “You, too?”

  Balian could hear the disappointment, even anger, in the King’s voice and feared the worst, but it was too late to turn back now. “I wish to take a wife, your grace.”

  “A wife?” Baldwin was swallowing down his tears, trying to concentrate on Balian’s problems rather than his own. “Of course. Why not? Why do you need my permission?”

  Balian took a deep breath. “Because I wish to marry the Dowager Queen, Maria Zoë Comnena.” When he said it out loud, the audacity of his request frightened him, and he held his breath.

  Baldwin did not answer right away, and his expression was so pensive that Balian began to fear that despite his affection, Baldwin would not see his way clear to approve a marriage that would surely rankle the High Court. The prospect of exile yawned like a chasm in front of him, and Balian felt his heart and stomach sinking into an abyss.

  Baldwin began speaking in a soft, almost inaudible voice. “Today my mother came to me to nag me about increasing the lands and revenues of the Canons of the Holy Sepulchre. Then my uncle came to press me about more income for himself, and my sister—well, no doubt you heard what my sister wanted. They all want something from me, and not one of them asked me how I felt or why I looked upset or—anything. I thought family was supposed to care about one another.”

  Balian felt like screaming in empathy—and like killing the Queen Mother, Edessa, and Princess Sibylla all together. Instead he answered, “Family should care, but maybe you have not been a family long enough to learn about that.”

  “If you marry my stepmother, then you become my stepfather, don’t you?” Baldwin asked next, his face brightening. “You would certainly be my sister Isabella’s stepfather, and that would make us kin.” The King sounded so cheered by this thought that it left Balian at a loss for words. All he managed was a choked, “Your grace . . .”

  “Is Tante Marie outside?” Baldwin asked. Balian was still too overcome to speak, so he nodded instead. “Don’t you think we should call her in?”

  “Yes,” Balian agreed. “She and Ibrahim are probably very anxious.”

  “Ibrahim is a good man, Balian, even if he is a Muslim.”

  “Ibrahim is a better man than nine-tenths of your subjects, your grace.”

  “I set him free, you know, but he told me he was too old to go home, and asked to stay on with me. Will you do me a favor—as my new kinsman?”

  “You know I will do whatever you ask of me.”

  “Then promise you will give Ibrahim a home when I die.”

  “I would be honored to give Ibrahim a home—if he lives longer than you.”

  “I think we can assume that,” Baldwin insisted steadily. “Will you call Tante Marie in now?”

  “Baldwin—” This was turning out to be so much harder than he had anticipated, albeit in a different way. “There is something else you need to know. . . .” Baldwin just looked at him expectantly. “The Queen is—carrying my child.”

  Baldwin smiled. “That’s wonderful news! Why do you look so sheepish? It is a good thing, and shows that God favors this union as much as I do. I only hope the Greek Emperor is as favorably disposed?” Baldwin lifted an eyebrow questioningly, and his tone suggested he did not think this would be so easy.

  “I’ve left that communication to Maria Zoë,” Balian confessed. Baldwin laughed, adding in astonishment as he finished: “There, you see? You have made me laugh again, Balian! For that I would give you as many brides as you like—a whole harem if you want!”

  “But I ask only one.”

  “Bring her in.”

  Balian went to the door and opened it. Maria Zoë and Ibrahim were sitting nervously side by side, and both sprang to their feet at the sight of Balian. One look was enough, however, for them to break into smiles, even before Baldwin called from behind him: “Come here, Tante Marie! I want to give you my blessing personally.”

  Marie Zoë at once advanced into the darkness of the inner chamber and went down on her knees before the King as he sat on the edge of his bed. She bowed her head before him and said formally, “Your grace, Sir Balian and I beg your permission to marry because we love one another. We promise, if you will grant us this—”

  “It’s all right, Tante Marie. I’m delighted that two people I love so dearly have fallen in love with each other. I can’t think of anything that would make me happier. But I understand you are in a bit of a hurry.” He winked at that, but gave her no time to comment before adding, “I think we should summon the Chancellor at once so he can perform the sacrament, don’t
you? I will stand as witness, so none can claim I oppose this union. After that, Ibrahim,” he turned to the Muslim servant, “we must celebrate!”

  “Your grace, if I may,” Maria Zoë begged, and Balian caught his breath at her audacity. They had asked enough of the King already, he thought. Baldwin seemed to think the same thing, for he waited for her to continue with a slight frown on his face. “If I may impose on your generosity again,” Maria Zoë continued, “the only celebration I want is to dine together with you here, just the three of us—and the good Archbishop, of course, if you like?”

  With relief, Balian read on the King’s face that she had found exactly the right thing to say. She had given him what he craved most: the intimacy of family.

  “Trapped!” the Lord of Ramla declared, as he stretched out his arm to block Princess Sibylla’s escape from a window niche.

  “My lord!” Sibylla exclaimed with feigned shock. “What can you want with me here?”

  Barry jerked his head toward the vaulting over the niche, drawing Sibylla’s attention to the sprig of mistletoe that had been secured there.

  “Ah! Now I know why so many couples have been seeking out this particular niche!” Sibylla declared with a disingenuous giggle. Ramla leaned closer, and the Princess closed her eyes and raised her lips. The moment he closed his own eyes, however, she bolted out beneath his arm with an even louder giggle, and dashed back to the crowd of people dancing in the hall.

  Ramla cursed under his breath and turned to watch her. Just as she joined one of the chains of dancers lacing their way around the hall, hopping and skipping to the music, she cast him a backward glance full of invitation. She wanted to be pursued, Barry thought to himself, but she was determined to give him a merry chase! Damn her!

  “You’re playing a dangerous game.” A deep voice spoke almost directly into his ear. Ramla spun about sharply, startled and angry to be caught like this. He found himself facing his son-in-law, the Marshal of Jerusalem. Aimery de Lusignan’s sharp blue eyes narrowed as he read Ramla’s all-too-open face. “Very dangerous,” he continued, pressing his advantage. “The King is extremely protective of his beloved sister. Do not make the mistake other men have made. His body may be disintegrating, but his will is hard as steel. He would not like to see a married man dallying with his sister. How is your lady wife, by the way, and mine?”