Ibrahim nodded and turned to lead the way to the bed. He stepped up on the raised platform on which the bed stood and leaned through the curtains to whisper gently, “Your grace, Lord Balian has come.”
“Balian?” The voice was so weak and dry—almost dusty—that the sound of it wrenched Balian’s heart.
Ibrahim simply stood back with a smile and gestured Ibelin forward.
Ibelin stepped up onto the platform and leaned over the bed. It was overflowing with cushions and comforters, the latter ridiculous in the summer heat, and the King lay on top of all, wearing only a thin cotton nightshirt. Even so he was sweating visibly, and his hands and feet, naked of bandages, were discolored. The fingers of his right hand were starting to deform as the leprosy consumed them, and he had lost several of his toes, so his feet were stubby and misshapen. His face, while untouched by the disease, was deathly pale and almost skeletal. His lips were chapped and dry and his eyes were sunken in their sockets, but they sought out Balian’s face as if they wanted to consume it. “Balian!”
“Your grace—”
“Call me Baldwin, like you used to.”
“Baldwin. Queen Maria Zoë and I came as soon as we heard you were ill.”
The ghost of a smile wafted over the King’s face and his head lifted very slightly, as if he were trying to see beyond Balian. “Is Tante Marie here?”
“She is in the anteroom. They would not let us pass. I came up from the garden, but I left her there as a diversion.”
Baldwin’s head shifted on the pillow: a nod of understanding, acceptance. “Balian, I—I think I’m dying.”
Balian could see the fear in the young King’s eyes and heard it in his whisper, too. He tried to reassure his former pupil and protégé. “You have nothing to fear, Baldwin. Christ is waiting to receive you into his arms.”
“I—I—I’m not sure. Jerusalem—so many have—died—suffered—” Baldwin’s head began to roll from side to side, his breathing coming with obvious difficulty.
Balian tried to calm him. He reached out his hand and laid it on Baldwin’s sweat-soaked shoulder. “It’s all right, Baldwin. The barons of Jerusalem know their duty. We will not fail Jerusalem.”
“Sibylla—is not strong. Not like—Tante Marie.” For a fragile instant, Baldwin almost seemed to smile at the comparison. “Tante—a Queen.”
“Yes, she is every inch a queen,” Balian answered proudly; at times like these he still found it hard to grasp the generosity of God and this king in giving him such a high-born bride. He did not see that he deserved a dowager queen, but he was grateful that God had seen things differently.
“You will—recognize—Sibylla—” Was that an order or a question?
Either way, the answer was the same: “Yes, Baldwin.”
“Burgundy,” Baldwin gasped out, baffling Baldwin, who looked to Ibrahim. Was he asking for Burgundy wine?
Ibrahim was waiting, but not with wine. He had a cloth dipped in cool water and he wiped the sweat from the King’s face, then offered him chilled water from a silver chalice.
Baldwin had to lift his head to sip, and this seemed to exhaust him. He sank back into the pillows, but his hollow eyes sought out Balian. “Tell—Tante Marie—love her.”
“Yes.” Balian looked at Ibrahim and the older man nodded. It was time to go. “You are in our prayers, Baldwin.”
Already the lids had fallen over Baldwin’s eyes and his breathing was deep but labored.
Balian drew back and stepped down from the platform supporting the bed. He turned to Ibrahim with a sincere but subdued “thank you.” It was hard to see Baldwin like this, and Balian now felt certain this was the last time he would see Baldwin alive.
“I thank you, my lord,” Ibrahim answered with a deep bow. “If—if a slave may ask a favor?”
“Of course.”
“When—when it is over. Would you have a place in your household for an old man?”
“Of course!” Balian reached out a hand and laid it on the old man’s shoulder. “You have a home at Ibelin, Ibrahim.” He glanced toward the bed. “Whenever it is time.”
Ibrahim went down on his knees and bowed his head to the ground. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you.”
Balian reached down to help him back to his feet. “Come. None of that. We have been through too much together. But now I must go.”
Ibrahim nodded and started for the door to unlock and hold it for the Baron of Ibelin. He turned the key and stepped back to let Ibelin into the darkness of the stairwell. Just as Balian crossed the threshold, a rasping voice cried out from the bed; whether the King was calling to Ibelin or was simply speaking in delirium was not clear. But the words were clear. “Jerusalem!” he cried out. “Must defend Jerusalem!”
“Your son commands your presence, madame,” the doctor murmured in a low voice, bending close to speak directly into the ear of the King’s mother, Agnes de Courtenay.
The Queen Mother had dozed off during her night-long vigil and started when the doctor’s voice dragged her from her sleep. She struggled to right herself and looked hard into the doctor’s weary face. He was a highly respected physician, trained at universities in both West and East, and quite elderly now. His younger assistants hovered in the background, dressed in the black robes and caps of their profession. “Is he . . . ?”
“He is lucid, madame, and asked to see you and the Marquise de Montferrat.” The doctor nodded in the direction of Princess Sibylla, who was in the chair beside her mother, also struggling to wake up.
“Will he live?” Princess Sibylla asked anxiously. The dark circles under her eyes and the splotches of pimples on her face were testimony to her vigil at her brother’s bedside.
“The fever appears to be receding,” the doctor answered carefully, “and I think the worst is over for the moment. However, he is much weakened, and we cannot know yet what impact this will have on the leprosy.”
“Dear God!” Agnes crossed herself, regretting her past—all her vanities, infidelities, and intrigues. Maybe if she hadn’t been such a selfish and greedy woman, her son might not have been so afflicted. . . .
As long as she had been banned from court, Agnes had given little thought to the son her husband had taken away from her and raised as his own. She had not even been terribly interested in him after his father’s death; he had appeared no more than Tripoli’s puppet then. But after Baldwin came of age, welcomed her to his court, and gave her a place of honor, Agnes started to care about her offspring. Slowly she had overcome her aversion and fear of his disease—and now, after two years, she faced the astonishing fact that she had come to love him. She had had three husbands and twice that many lovers, but none of them meant as much to her anymore as the little finger of her son’s hand.
“Come, Sibylla,” Agnes urged her daughter as she pulled herself to her feet.
Sibylla was eighteen and already a widow. Her husband William Marquis de Montferrat had died of malaria before they had been married a year, and the son of their union had been born after his father’s death. While Agnes had been sexually attractive in her youth and the object of male desire, Sibylla’s charms were considerably more common. She was buxom and blond, but her features lacked elegance and her lips were too wide, her eyes too closely set. She looked particularly poorly at the moment with unkempt hair and naked of rouge, and she rose with trepidation.
It wasn’t just her profound fear of leprosy or the shadow of death that made Sibylla reluctant to face her brother. It was also a sense of guilt. In the last two days, when it looked as if her brother might die, she had remembered all the times she had thrown temper tantrums, screamed and cried, or simply ignored his wishes or rejected his requests. He had always forgiven her, but Sibylla found it very hard to forgive herself.
The sight of his body servant, the Muslim slave Ibrahim, bending over Baldwin and wiping sweat from his face, only added to her discomfort. Ibrahim had been the witness to a stupid scene, shortly after her son’s birth, wh
en she had screamed at her brother that she would never marry again—arguing that she had done her duty to Jerusalem by giving birth to Montferrat’s posthumous son. Now she knew that her brother’s illness had taken a turn for the worse shortly before she had confronted him. Ibrahim had tried to tell her that, but she had struck him and ordered him to be silent. The sight of him now—and the accusing look he sent her with his dark eyes—only made her more agitated.
Agnes de Courtenay stepped on to the sideboard of the bed, and she reached out for her son’s hand. He was not wearing gloves while in bed, but his hands and arms had been bandaged past the elbows.
Baldwin turned his head to look at her when she took his hand between both of hers. “Mama,” he whispered.
“Sibylla’s here, too. The doctor said you wanted to see us.”
Baldwin nodded and tried to sit up straighter. Ibrahim at once set down the silver bowl with the linen cloths he used to wipe away King Baldwin’s sweat and gripped his master under his left arm to help him sit up. He pounded and folded the cushions behind the King’s back until they gave the invalid better support, and then re-wet the linen facecloth in water to wipe away the sweat streaming down his master’s face.
Sibylla held the ends of her veils over her mouth and nose in horror. The room stank horribly—a mixture of bedpans, sweat, and medicine. But even worse than the smell was the sight of her brother: his blond hair hung in limp, greasy strands around his flushed face, and he had a rash of pimples on his neck below his right ear and isolated pimples on his forehead and beside his nose. He had always been such a beautiful boy. . . .
“We need to discuss the succession,” Baldwin rasped, shattering her thoughts.
“Not now,” his mother protested. “The doctor said the worst is over.”
“Only temporarily,” Baldwin countered. “I could fall ill again at any time. We need to discuss the succession now.” His gaze shifted to his sister. “Sibylla, the year of mourning is over. It is time to find you a new husband.”
Sibylla nodded earnestly, remembering her cruel words in this very room six months ago. “Of course, Baldwin,” she assured him.
“I promised you I would not make you marry against your wishes,” Baldwin continued. Sibylla felt tears welling up in her eyes and closing her throat—because he had indeed promised this, although she didn’t deserve it. “You know, too,” her brother continued in his rasping voice, “that the Kingdom is in great peril, surrounded as we are by the forces of a man who has—against all the odds—managed to put down every rebellion against him and now controls Egypt and most of Syria. You know how weak we are.”
Sibylla nodded as the tears slipped out of her eyes and started down her face.
“Will you, for the sake of Jerusalem, take the Duke of Burgundy as your husband?” Baldwin asked her, his eyes fixed on her face.
Sibylla nodded. “Yes, Baldwin, I will,” she announced firmly.
“Even though it makes you cry?” Baldwin asked, his voice gentle and his expression sad at the sight of his sister’s misery.
Sibylla shook her head. “I’m not crying for myself, or because of the marriage. I’m crying to see you so miserable!” She half choked on a sob at this admission, and Agnes removed one hand from her son’s to put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders.
“By all reports, he is a good and comely man,” Baldwin assured her.
Sibylla nodded, wiping her tears with the ends of her veils. “He wrote me a lovely letter. Very courtly and fine.” She was not lying. The Duke of Burgundy, unlike the Count of Flanders, had made a point of writing to the bride that came with the Kingdom, and he had done it very well. He had been polite and respectful, but hinted too at hope for “true affection” and “conjugal contentment.” Sibylla was truly not opposed to this alliance. The Dukes of Burgundy, after all, were very rich and powerful; this was no insult, as Flanders’ obscure candidate had been.
“You are certain?” Baldwin pressed his sister.
She nodded firmly. “Yes. I am certain.”
“Then we must send for the Chancellor so that an embassy to Burgundy can be commissioned and provided with the necessary documents—”
“This can wait until you are a little stronger,” Agnes tried to protest again, but Baldwin shook his head firmly.
“I may never get stronger,” he countered, and gestured for Ibrahim to send a page for the Chancellor. “From now on,” he continued to his mother and sister, “we will add Sibylla’s names on charters, and she must be seen at my side during state occasions. Even before Burgundy arrives to take up the role of consort, people must get used to recognizing Sibylla as the rightful heir to Jerusalem.”
Agnes tightened her hold on her son’s hand as she realized the significance of what he was doing, but Baldwin couldn’t feel her grip. “My dear boy,” she murmured, “my dear boy.”
Jerusalem, August 1178
“When was the last time you were at court?” Reynald de Châtillon, Lord of Oultrejourdain, barked at his household knight Henri d’Ibelin. Châtillon was no longer young, and certainly no longer the handsome man who had seduced the Princess of Antioch into a marriage. Fifteen years in a Saracen dungeon had left their mark, and since his release Oultrejourdain had adopted the custom of shaving his head completely, rather than be reminded of the lice that had once crawled in his unkempt mane.
“A long time ago,” Henri admitted vaguely, breathless with trying to keep up with his lord as he pounded up the steps of the Tower of David two at a time.
“The King has been deathly ill and they say the leprosy is spreading again, but don’t underestimate him,” Oultrejourdain warned. “He’s got more balls than Tripoli, Antioch, and the pack of them put together.”
Henri wasn’t entirely sure who belonged to “the pack,” but he guessed pretty much everyone who wasn’t one of Oultrejourdain’s own men. Which meant both his surviving elder brothers, of course. Henri had been raised by his mother and stepfather after his father’s death, while his brothers had remained at Ibelin. His relationship to them was, in consequence, far from close. The eldest, Hugh, had never been more than a name, and he was dead. The second, Barisan “Barry” of Ramla and Mirabel, was the object of intense resentment, because he had kept the entire paternal and maternal inheritance for himself on Hugh’s death. Balian was the only one that Henri had any affection for, and that was tepid at best. Balian seemed to be Barry’s lap dog most of the time—an impression reinforced by the fact that Barry had been persuaded (under considerable pressure from the King, it was said) to give Balian the smallest and poorest of his three baronies, that of Ibelin, after his spectacular marriage to the Dowager Queen. That marriage was now a barrier between them; Henri bitterly envied his brother such a wealthy, well-connected, and beautiful bride.
Oultrejourdain had reached the landing and paused only long enough to cursorily brush some dust off his surcoat and kick mud off the soles of his boots. Then he strode into the vaulted chamber of the ancient tower with Henri in his wake.
Henri scanned the crowd for anyone he knew and noted that except for the Bishop of Bethlehem, the clergy was conspicuously absent. On the other hand, damn near the entire High Court was assembled here, including both his brothers. Barry, as always, cut a fine figure, in chain mail trimmed with bronze and a surcoat bearing the arms of Ramla quartered with those of Mirabel, both edged in gold thread. He wore his blond hair longer than was fashionable, almost to his shoulders, and he had a mustache that drooped to the bottom of his chin. He was hale and hearty—and he avoided Henri’s eye.
Balian was smaller and darker, a shadow of his more flamboyant elder brother, but Henri could sense the change in him now that he was a baron in his own right and had access to the revenues of wealthy Nablus through his royal wife. Balian might dress more modestly, but he was a force to be reckoned with. And he did not avoid Henri’s eyes.
As their eyes met across the room, they exchanged nods. No more than that. No pretense of joy or af
fection, just an acknowledgement of the other’s presence—and the blood tie that neither of them could alter. Blood is thicker than water, Henri told himself, content to think that whatever happened, he could count on Balian honoring that fact, even if arrogant Barry did not!
Oultrejourdain had reached the throne, and he dropped heavily on his right knee to bow his head to his sovereign. “Your grace!” his voice boomed out as it always did. “You sent for me.”
As he straightened from his own bow, Henri had a chance to study the King. Baldwin wasn’t a pretty boy anymore. He was seventeen, Henri calculated, and he was suffering from acne that badly disfigured his face. Henri sympathized because, unlike his more fortunate elder brothers, he’d suffered from the same condition during puberty. The King, furthermore, looked slighter and less healthy than he had two years ago, apparently the result of his recent illness—or because he was growing faster than he could put on muscle, since he could not partake in the usual sports of hunting or jousting.
“My lord of Oultrejourdain, we wanted your advice along with that of our other tenants-in-chief,” the King answered. “Come!” The King rose and led Oultrejourdain across the room to a table set up before the glazed window overlooking the street. On this table was spread a large and detailed map showing the crusader states and their immediate neighbors of Armenia, Syria, and Egypt. The cities were marked by little icons depicting walls, castles by pictures of crenelated towers, ports by miniature ships, and so on.
As the King led Oultrejourdain to the map, the other men in the room converged on it as well. Henri stood in the second row, but he still had a good view. “My lords,” the King addressed them all, “unto our hands has been given the sacred task of defending the Holy Land.”
A murmur of “Amen” went through the crowd, and several of the men crossed themselves.
“I want your advice on how we can best accomplish that task in face of the ever-growing strength of our enemy.”
Almost before he had finished speaking, Oultrejourdain spoke up. “The best defense is a good offense, your grace.”
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