‘I can’t find the words. But I have this strange feeling, even here, so far in the north. I fear that this year may be the last in which we retain such an easy grip on the Kingdom. Does that make sense to you?’
‘Some, but things are always stirring at court and on the frontiers. What makes this year so final?’
‘I don’t know. So much may happen, or so little. The king may die, and, when he does, you’ll see them scramble for the throne.’
‘But he has made provision for that. His nephew, the child Baldwin, will reign, with Raymond of Tripoli as Regent.’
‘If the child remains alive, yes. But suppose he were to die before our present king, what then?’
‘You and the other barons would be called upon to vote. The Lord of Tiberias—’
‘Oh, yes, Raymond is the man, and I would cast in his favour But all that is too simple. There will be massive opposition from the Courtenays and the Lusignans and my stepfather and God in His wisdom knows who else. And though I say we will hold our flaccid grip this year, I could be proved wrong tomorrow.’ He gazed at his friend, then rested his hands on Ernoul’s shoulders. ‘So stay for as long as you want. We may not sit together again for some time.’
‘We’ll stay,’ Ernoul nodded. ‘You would be hard put to drive us away. On another subject, my Lord Humphrey—’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re filthy.’
‘And so are you, scribbler. Come on, let’s steal the cooking water.’
* * *
Ernoul moved the massive pewter war-horse one space forward and one diagonally. He enjoyed escas and could hold his own with Balian and most of the knights who visited Nablus. But he had not played the Eastern variation – Shatranj – and was being hard pressed by Humphrey. In reply, the young Lord of Toron moved his Elephant two spaces diagonally, jumping the Charger. Ernoul smiled weakly at the women, and Idela said, ‘Save your Warder.’
‘Please,’ he snapped, ‘no advice.’ He studied the gold and silver board, then saved a five-inch-high scarlet Warder.
Idela started to protest, ‘Not that’ but Humphrey had lifted his silver Shah and carried it toward Ernoul’s second Warder.
With great tact Isabella pretended not to see Ernoul’s latest loss and moved to the far side of the solarium to fetch a fresh wine jar from the cooling bin. By the time she returned Ernoul had moved his own Minister – the Phrez – and lost a Baidaq, carved to resemble an Arab physician.
‘This is hopeless,’ he grumbled. ‘If this continues I shall lose everything.’
‘Have you lost bare Shah before?’ Humphrey asked. ‘I have.’ With a smile of pride he elaborated, ‘I lost bare Shah two weeks ago.’
‘He must have been a cunning opponent.’
‘He was a pretty one, I’ll grant you that. He was Isabella!’
‘I don’t know whether that makes me joyful or despondent. Wait, I have a plan.’
The plan did not work and in a dozen moves he lost another Baidaq – this one a butcher – the Warder he had previously saved, and his last Minister. Humphrey let him take a Charger, then trapped his Shah between two Elephants and a Baidaq philosopher.
‘Check and mate!’
‘Well, at least it isn’t bare Shah. I have a few pieces left.’
‘It would have been,’ Humphrey trumpeted, ‘but I chose to be merciful.’
‘Then also be more gracious,’ Isabella said. ‘There were times when Ernoul made you think hard.’
‘I suppose so. But when I took your first Minister so early…’ They analysed the game, each correction countered with a wordy justification. Idela and Isabella looked at each other, then yawned conspicuously.
Humphrey said, ‘We must play again to-morrow. I have a Christian set. You will be more at home with it. And, if you like, we will ride in the morning. Now that you have Zerbino, Idela— ’
‘Thank you again.’
‘No, no.’ He finished his wine, read Isabella’s expression and bade his guests good night. Idela had told the princess that she and Ernoul had not yet shared love, so Isabella was anxious that they should reach the bed in their own time.
She said, ‘I am glad you are with us. As for the morrow, we’ll not ride too early, so take your rest.’ She smiled at them and went out. Humphrey followed, closing the door behind him.
Ernoul picked up his trapped Shah and turned it round, studying it from this angle and that. Idela watched him, then pushed the cork stopper into the wine jar and ranged the four mugs side by side on the table. The silence lengthened and grew louder. Ernoul replaced the Shah, tugged at his ear, examined his iron belt buckle. Idela took the wine jar back to the bin, then stood near the door, yawning. In a strangled voice she said, ‘It has been an eventful day.’
‘Yes, hasn’t it? You seem tired.’
‘No, not so tired. A little chilly.’
‘Shall I fetch a mantle?’
‘Oh, I’ll be warm enough. In bed.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘you should be. They’ve put on some fine covers.’
She asked, ‘Aren’t you at all cold?’
‘I don’t feel the – Well, now that you say it, it does grow cool.’ He sat for a moment, then stretched his arms and opened his mouth wide. She almost laughed, his pretence was so poor.
‘You see,’ she abetted, ‘the day does take its toll.’
‘So it does. I’m more weary than I thought. If there is nothing you wish to do—’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Then we may as well—’
‘Yes.’ She put a hand on the door latch and made sure she could not work it. Ernoul sprang up and raised it for her. ‘It’s stiff,’ he explained. ‘They are probably all newly fitted.’
Idela nodded and moved into the corridor. Fortunately, most of the torches had been extinguished, so she said, ‘I don’t trust the dark,’ and put her hand in his. In this way, moving slowly, close together, they reached the bedchamber.
They undressed on opposite sides of the bed, their backs to each other. Moonlight striped the room and a dog barked far below in the bailey. They felt their way under the covers and lay still, not touching.
They were silent for so long that Idela feared she would fall asleep. Ernoul did fall asleep, but came awake instantly. Shocked and ashamed, he turned on his side and murmured, ‘I have to tell you something.’
‘I know.’
‘There have not been so many women in my life—’
‘It doesn’t matter, I don’t want—’
‘Not many at all—’
‘I’m glad.’
‘In truth, none.’
‘I know. Here. Yes. Here.’ She moved against him. ‘Ssh. Yes. Ah, dear Ernoul. Ernoul. Ernoul.’
‘I’m glad, too.’
‘Ssh.’
‘I am.’
‘Yes. I will be your woman. Sweet, be gen—’
He hurt her and she tried to move away. He held her and hurt her for an instant more, and then the pain diminished and they shared love, caught and carried by the waves that grew stronger and more intense until their ears dinned and they were buried alive, moaning low, each with the other.
* * *
They all knew that there would never be another period like it in their lives. They would never be so happy, nor so free. They seized their opportunity, knowing it to be unique, and stitched the days and nights together into an unbroken tapestry of love and fulfilment. As God had made Constable Fostus to ride with Lord Balian, so He had made these four to enjoy each other. Nothing was too complex for them, nor too simple. They shrieked and ran through the mornings, rode the hills flat, and talked early or late of every subject that touched their lips. The men fought twice in earnest, wrestling to the ground, and the women fell out once and complained like spoilt children to their husbands. Each quarrel was ended on the day it started, leaving no trace of bitterness or undigested spite. Isabella and Idela loved the other’s husband almost as much as their own. Almost, but not
quite. It was that that made it perfect.
They knew there would never be another period like it. They did not need another. The memory of this would last them beyond heaven.
Chapter Twelve
Palestine
March 1185, September 1186
The Leper King began to die. It could be said that the inexorable march toward death had started with the first blemishes of his dreadful disease, but during the last few months of 1184 the speed of deterioration had increased. He was completely blind and had lost most of his fingers and toes. An embroidered blanket was pulled up to his chin, though there was no way of disguising his visage. He was twenty-four years old and caused revulsion in almost all who approached and laid eyes on him.
His six-year-old nephew, taken from Sibylla when Guy of Lusignan had been deposed from the Regency, had been crowned Baldwin V in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The child had been carried into the church by Balian of Ibelin, and had later sat with his nurses whilst the loyal barons swore fealty to him. He cried in church and in the palace, an unhappy little boy who choked on solid foods and grew thin on soups.
Raymond of Tripoli, now Regent in place of Guy, drew up a list of prudent conditions under which he was prepared to govern the Kingdom for the Child King. If Baldwin IV suffered further pain from being present at a discussion in which he was already regarded as dead, he did not show it. The age and condition of his nephew presented certain unique problems, and the leper accepted that Raymond would have been a fool to ignore them.
The Lord of Tiberias stipulated that he would continue as Regent for ten years, provided that Joscelin of Courtenay retained responsibility for the child’s physical well-being. The king saw this as an attempt by Raymond to rekindle Joscelin’s failing loyalty to the crown, but Raymond had included that particular condition in order that the child would not die too directly under his own guardianship. The last thing the Lord of Tiberias wanted was to be accused of regicide.
However, it was likely that the enfeebled Baldwin V would die before Raymond’s ten year Regency was concluded. When this happened, all claims to the throne were to be presented to the King of France, the King of England, the Pope and the Emperor of Germany. These four would arbitrate between, most probably, Guy of Lusignan’s wife, Princess Sibylla, and Humphrey of Toron’s wife, Princess Isabella. Both were the daughters of Amalric I and, because Agnes of Courtenay had been Amalric’s first wife, whereas Maria Comnena had been his second, Sibylla had the marginally better claim. But they were women, and it had not yet come to that.
The young leper had readily accepted Raymond’s conditions, and his position as Regent had been made official. This left the dying king free to settle one last outstanding score – he would deal with his vassal brother-in-law, still ensconced in Ascalon.
But Guy of Lusignan was not so easily evicted. He had turned the town into a fortress and, short of sending a punitive expedition against him, there was little that Baldwin could do. Such an expedition would be tantamount to a declaration of civil war, and might bring about the subsequent ruin of the Kingdom. So the leper raged behind his grotesque mask, while Guy held fast, daring him to attack.
* * *
Three well-known figures were missing from the streets of Jerusalem.
Some months earlier, the Patriarch Heraclius and the Grand Masters of the Temple and the Hospital had left Palestine for Europe, intent on gaining an audience with the rulers of the Christian West. The Grand Master of the Temple, Arnold of Toroga, had fallen ill en route and died at Verona in Italy, but Heraclius and Roger of Les Moulins had continued their journey; almost, as the Patriarch put it, ‘A pilgrimage in reverse.’ He had prepared three speeches, one for Frederick Barbarossa, Emperor of Germany, one for the chilly King Philip of France, one for the quick-tempered Plantagenet, Henry II of England. In these speeches Heraclius pleaded with the rulers to take up the True Cross and lead an invincible Christian army on a fresh Crusade. Along with the parchment rolls, his staff of clerics carried the Royal Standard of Jerusalem, the keys of the city and of the Holy Sepulchre and the Tower of David.
By March, 1185, he and Grand Master Roger had been received by Frederick in Mainz, by Philip in Paris, and by Henry at Reading and London. The Emperor and the Kings had listened to his pleas, made suitably pious comments about the relics he laid before them, then told him why they, personally, could not leave at this time for Palestine. With unprecedented courage Heraclius challenged their motives and railled at them as though they were merchants or men-at-arms.
On 18th March, Henry II convened his Great Council at Clerkenwell, a northern suburb of London and a little over a mile beyond the city wall. There, in the presence of the Patriarch, he put to the Council a blatantly slanted question.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘in your opinion do I go now to sustain Jerusalem, or, as I swore to you some time past, do I remain here and on no account cease to rule over the English Realm and to govern it in the eyes of Mother Church? Speak freely, and let our beloved Churchman know your mind.’
They deliberated at length, then said what they had been told to say.
‘It seems better to us, King, and more healthful to your soul, that you should remain to govern your realm and protect it from the onslaughts of the barbarians, than that you should leave us in favour of the East.’
Henry assented without demur, then made a business of extracting from the Council the promise of 50,000 marks with which King Baldwin might help finance his war against Islam.
Heraclius left the Council and their bow-legged monarch in no doubt as to his feelings on the subject.
‘Heed this, King,’ he stormed. ‘You will not save your soul or guard Christ’s property in such a manner. We came here to seek a leader, not wealth. Almost all the Christian world sends us money; the less their interest in our Holy Cause, the more money they send. But never do we get a prince whom we can follow, God knows, we need the man without money, not money without the man!’
So far, that was the last the Court at Jerusalem had heard of their Patriarch, though it was rumoured that he had vowed to stay in England until Henry either agreed to lead a Crusade, or did to him what he had done to the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket. Evidently, Heraclius was drawing more strength from the damp airs of Europe than from the dry winds of Palestine.
* * *
Balian of Ibelin was at home, dozing on the padded seat beneath his coloured library window when Maria Comnena knocked and entered and shook him gently awake. The library was Balian’s sanctum, and Maria could not remember a time when she had needed to interrupt him in this way. He frowned up at her and she raised a hand, forestalling him.
‘I would not disturb you,’ she said, ‘you know that. But the news warrants it. Prepare yourself, husband.’
‘Is it Isabella? Have you heard grave news from Toron? If she’s ill, we’ll go—’
‘It is not Isabella. It’s far wider in its implications. They say in the town that King Baldwin is dead. God has released him, it seems, and in my view none too soon.’
‘Dear Christ,’ Balian murmured, ‘now we’ll see some hungry eyes.’
Raymond of Tripoli had been with the young leper in extremis. After all the pain and anguish, his death was a gentle one. He had been heavily drugged by his physicians, yet whispered a few inconsequential phrases, all of which his secretary insisted on recording. He spoke of his sister Sibylla and his half-sister Isabella, of the trading ships that slid in and out of the harbour at Tyre, and of the friends he could count on the fingers of one hand, if he had any fingers left on which to mark them.
Then he hissed, ‘God protect you, Regent. God save you, so you may save us all. Ah, Fostus, you iron man. Raymond, I cannot see you. Are you still with me? I would have enjoyed a life at sea. Are you still there?’
Even the dour Regent was moved to tears. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I am ever with you, King.’
‘And Fostus? And Balian?’
‘Ye
s,’ Raymond lied. ‘They are with me. God will witness our presence.’
Baldwin lay quiet for a while, then said, ‘Hmm? What? Fostus, do you speak?’
Raymond pushed his chin against his chest and gave an imitation of the gruff Constable. ‘I’m at your side, Lord King.’
‘That’ll do quite well,’ Baldwin mouthed. ‘It’s poor mimicry, Raymond, but it eases me.’ Then he sighed and sank into a drugged sleep and, as the priests performed the rites of extreme unction, the physicians pronounced him dead. Raymond turned away, still on his knees, and crawled to a corner of the throne room. He buried his face in his hands and wept prayers for a Kingdom that had never deserved and had now lost its finest King.
Later, in a fit of tortured anger, he snatched the recorded words from the startled secretary and tore the parchment across and across…
* * *
Agnes of Courtenay was with her brother when she heard the news.
‘Set a double guard around the child,’ she ordered. ‘He’s the king now, and he’s your responsibility, Joscelin. Raymond will be here before long to collect him.’ She dismissed the messenger, then asked the Seneschal, ‘By the way, have you put my advice into practice in any measure?’
‘What advice, sister? You’ve issued more than one cautionary note in your time.’
She warned him, ‘Beware, fair Joscelin. Don’t dare to savage me. I have more years and experience than you, and my mind is quicker. You would arrange things much better if you were to listen more closely and swallow your sneers. In all my fifty years— ’
‘Fifty-two by any calendar.’
‘As you will – Gentleman. Whatever, in all that time I never saw two brothers scratch each other and draw back with anything but blood in their hands.’
‘Put it shorter, I pray you.’
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