“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tripoli tried to cut him short. Tripoli had been Regent during the King’s minority, and furthermore was the wealthiest and most powerful nobleman in the Kingdom. Indeed, the County of Tripoli was only nominally subject to the King at all, and his position was somewhat analogous to Henry II and King Louis of France, with Tripoli in many ways more powerful than his liege. Nevertheless, he fell silent when the King held up his hand for silence and nodded to Oultrejourdain to continue.
“This Kingdom only exists today because our forefathers were prepared to fight for their faith no less vigorously than their Muslim enemies. We stand today in the Tower of David because they did not hesitate to strike, despite their few numbers. Our forefathers liberated Jerusalem by taking the offensive, not the defensive,” Oultrejourdain reminded the assembled barons.
“A hundred years ago it was possible to take one city at a time, because the authority of the caliphs had crumbled to impotence and Sunni fought Shia. Indeed, every Seljuk prince was fighting with his brothers, cousins, and neighbors—only too anxious to make peace with us if we would help him against his kin. Today, Salah ad-Din controls his territories with grim efficiency and rules through his brothers and nephews, who are slavishly loyal to him,” the elegant Tripoli countered condescendingly. There was no love lost between Tripoli and Oultrejourdain.
“Exactly! And Salah ad-Din has vowed to drive us into the sea! He has mobilized fanatics among his followers, who preach jihad in the mosques at Friday prayers. These are not men you can reason with, my lords; they are men who want to die for Islam because they believe it will bring them faster to heaven.”
“Fifteen years in a Saracen dungeon has understandably embittered you, my lord,” Tripoli sneered at Oultrejourdain, “and apparently they have also blinded you to the fact that our enemies are men like us: with ambitions but also fears, and above all an acute appreciation of their self-interest. They can most certainly be treated with. The history of this Kingdom is a history of treaties with various Muslim leaders.”
“Yes, that too—when it suits them. But why should they treat with us, if they think us weak? Have you forgotten that Jerusalem is the most sacred place in Christendom? Here Christ died for our sins and rose again from the dead to offer us a means to our salvation. And what is it to the Muslims? Did their Prophet live or die here? Did he even set foot here? No! He had a dream—or claimed to have a dream—of rising to heaven from here!” Oultrejourdain scoffed.
“Get to the point,” Tripoli snapped.
“The point, my lord,” Oultrejourdain sneered back at his peer, “is that despite its only secondary importance to them, the Saracens will not let us live here in peace, because they feel strong enough to push us out.” Reynald de Châtillon, former Prince of Antioch and now Lord of Oultrejourdain, took a step forward and stabbed his finger on the map at a point far south of the Kingdom of Jerusalem to underline his point. “Mecca!” he told his fellow barons, “Mecca is the holiest city of Islam. If we held Mecca, do you think they would care about Jerusalem?”
Oultrejourdain’s suggestion produced uproar. Not only Tripoli but most of the other barons erupted into protest. Tripoli called the parvenu Châtillon mad, while the Lords of Sidon and Beirut remonstrated that they didn’t have the means to defend themselves, much less attack and seize a city a thousand miles away.
Châtillon silenced them all with a sharp gesture of his hand and an incisive: “Of course we can’t take Mecca—at least not today or in the foreseeable future. But we can make the Muslim pilgrim routes unsafe—just as Muslims for so long threatened and harassed Christian pilgrims. Furthermore, in so doing, we can force Salah ad-Din to look to his rear. We can put him on the defensive and thereby end his dreams of destroying us. In short, we attack him where he is weak.”
“And in return, he will attack us where we are weak,” Tripoli scoffed.
“Then let us build up our defenses—and then strike him,” Oultrejourdain insisted. “Salah ad-Din is not invincible. King Baldwin sent him scampering back to Egypt like a stray dog with his tail between his legs at Montgisard!” Châtillon reminded them with a smile at the young King, who was listening avidly to the debate.
“Exactly what are you proposing, my lord?” the King asked eagerly, his eyes fixed keenly on Oultrejourdain, and his bearing buoyed up by the rough baron’s flattery.
“I’m proposing that we launch a fleet of war galleys in the Red Sea and sink every pilgrim vessel we can lay our hands upon. We can raid the coastal towns for good measure, pillaging and burning at whim—since the cities have no walls and there are no Arab fighting ships in the Red Sea.”
“The moment we do that, all of Islam will unite against us! They will bury their internal differences and fight with greater fanaticism than ever before.” This time it was Reginald de Sidon, rather than Tripoli, who protested the loudest.
“First of all, they already are united against us—except for Aleppo and Mosul. Second, they conquered our Holy Land by the sword and demolished the most sacred shrine in Christendom—the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Why shouldn’t they taste a little of their own medicine?” Châtillon countered, adding: “The only thing the Turks respect is force!”
“I agree with you in theory,” replied the distinguished but aging Constable of Jerusalem, Humphrey de Toron, “but we don’t have the manpower for such an enterprise.”
“And while you’re getting slaughtered in the Red Sea by the Egyptians, the army of Damascus will sweep across the Jordan and pillage and burn its way to the sea,” Tripoli added.
“The key to preventing that is here!” declared the burly and bearded Templar Grand Master Odo de St. Amand, stepping up to the table and stabbing a thick finger at the map. He pinpointed a place on the Upper Jordan between the Sea of Galilee and Lake Huleh. “This is Jacob’s Ford,” the Master intoned, “and it is the gateway to Galilee—only a day’s ride from Damascus.”
“Your castle of Safed is only ten miles southwest,” the Hospitaller Master pointed out.
“Exactly! Ten miles too deep into our own territory. By the time the Saracens wash up against foothills below Safed, they have laid waste to some of the most fertile land in the Kingdom. If we could stop them here—on the Jordan—we could protect the entire valley.”
“Before we start building anything new, we ought to look to the state of the defenses we already have. The walls of Jerusalem are no longer in the best condition,” Humphrey de Toron pointed out. “And Castelneuf is also in poor repair. I have seen cracks as wide as my fist in some of the towers, and the entire drawbridge is rotting, along with the chain works for it and the portcullis.”
The King started and asked, “Why did I not hear of this before?” But he did not wait for or expect an answer; he was not interested in who was to blame for hiding the state of his defenses, too conscious that it was his own weakness that had prevented him from seeing things for himself. Instead he continued in haste, “Those things must be repaired at once! I do not trust Salah ad-Din and I do not trust this truce. The Sultan is arming, and as soon as he has put down the rebellion in Baalbek, he will try to avenge his humiliation at Montgisard.”
“Then let’s support the revolt in Baalbek,” Tripoli suggested, adding with a sneer in Oultrejourdain’s direction, “It costs us much less to stir up internal troubles than to launch fleets five hundred miles across the desert!”
Before Châtillon could reply, King Baldwin interceded, “One action does not preclude the other, my lords.” To Tripoli he added the question: “You are in contact with the rebels?” His raised eyebrows suggested he expected this was the case.
“I have lines of communication,” Tripoli conceded.
“Then use them!” the young King ordered firmly, turning next to the aging Constable. “My lord, I am ashamed I did not know of weaknesses in our defenses. I trust that you will make an assessment of the cost of repairs and present the bill to me no later than the Feast of St. Helena. We will r
aise new taxes if necessary, but we must secure our existing defenses before undertaking anything new. Make no mistake, I am determined to keep the Holy Land safe for Christian settlers and Christian pilgrims. In face of the threat Salah ad-Din poses, we cannot afford to simply wait for him to attack.” The King turned pointedly to the Templar Master. “A castle at Jacob’s Ford makes sense to me. I wonder that we did not build it long ago.”
“There were attempts in the past, your grace,” Sidon admitted, “but the position is exposed and, as mentioned, it is only a day from Damascus. The Saracens can rapidly deploy troops that slaughter the workmen.”
“Then the workmen must be protected by the army,” the King concluded with the simplicity of youth. “How long will it take to build?” he asked, looking to the two Grand Masters of the militant orders; they had the most recent experience in castle building.
“That depends, of course, on the design and how many workmen are conscripted to build it,” the Hospitaller Master demurred.
“Once the harvest is in, your grace, you could conscript every working man from Galilee and Bethsan. If we opt for a roughly quadratic design that makes use of the natural contours of the land,” Odo de St. Amand had evidently already surveyed the site and given this matter considerable thought, “with towers at the corners and flanking the main gate, we could get the main fortress built in a six-month. The outer works—a larger perimeter wall with towers at suitable intervals—could take maybe another year. But the inner fortress with a strong garrison would be in a position to protect the workers on the perimeter wall.”
“And the Templars are prepared to provide the manpower to defend this border outpost, Master?” the King pressed him with raised eyebrows.
“We are, your grace. Build me this castle, and I’ll guarantee a garrison of five hundred men, including eighty knights.”
There were some raised eyebrows at that: such a huge force sounded like bravado.
“What do you plan to do?” the Hospitaller challenged his rival. “Denude every other castle you have?”
“Hardly!” Odo de St. Amand scoffed. “Our commanderies in France, England, Provence, and Sicily are overflowing with recruits. If we send the word out now, before the end of the sailing season, recruits will flood the Holy Land come spring.” No one wanted to dispute this assertion, because the Templars were riding a tidal wave of popularity in the West at the moment; there seemed no end to the number of fighting men there who longed to don the white mantles of the Temple and join their fight to defend the Holy Land.
“Then let it be done,” King Baldwin intoned. “We will call up the workmen to build this castle once the harvest is in, and I will summon the feudal host to defend it. By next spring, when your recruits arrive, Master de St. Amand, a castle will be ready to receive them.”
Jacob’s Ford, April 1179
There had been far too little rain through the winter, and the drought that had started the previous year was intensifying. Just beyond the reach of irrigation from the Jordan, the land was parched and spread out like a gray-brown carpet devoid of life. The wind stirred up tiny cyclones that spiraled to the heavens, and the horizon was hazy with lingering dust from every passing caravan and every gust that blew the loose earth sideways.
The weather was exceptionally hot as well, the sun remorseless as it burned down on the laborers. Most worked wearing only a loincloth, and dirt clung to their sweating bodies.
The Baron of Ibelin, returning to the army camp protecting the construction site after almost a month’s absence, was amazed by how much progress had been made in his absence. Where before there had been a low lump of masonry hardly distinguishable from the bluffs around it, walls and towers were now clearly taking shape. Four big round towers guarded the corners of an irregular rectangle, and two additional towers flanked what was obviously the main gate. It looked as if all that was needed for the exterior framework was the crenelation. So the Templar Master had been right, Balian admitted mentally: they would have the main castle finished in just six months. And hopefully, his thoughts continued, the Templar recruits to man the castle had also started to arrive; the sailing season had opened and the first ships crammed with pilgrims had started to clog the harbors of the Kingdom. With luck the promised Templar knights and sergeants would soon be here to defend the castle, and the army could go home. . . .
Ibelin dismounted stiffly from his weary palfrey Rufus. The big red horse, like the workmen, was coated in dust that stuck to his matted, sweat-damp hair. He snorted and shook his head against the flies, sniffing about for water. Ibelin flung the reins over his head, and his Ethiopian squire, Dawit, who had jumped down at the same time, took them from him at once. “I’ll water them, my lord,” he offered.
Meanwhile Daniel, his other squire, was unlashing their saddlebags and flinging them over his shoulders. Both youths had come a long way since Balian had taken them into his service at Ascalon two years ago. Now they were a good, well-trained team with complementary strengths: Dawit was a centaur whom the horses trusted instinctively, while Daniel had grown exceptionally broad and muscular for a youth of just seventeen. Dawit could fight mounted as well as any Turcoman, while Daniel, if he could stand on his own two feet, was a superb swordsman unlike the more delicate Ethiopian.
Daniel led the way to Ibelin’s red-and-yellow striped tent, which housed the knights of Ibelin. The barony owed ten knights to the feudal levy, but several of the knights here were not, in fact, tenants of Ibelin. Several of the older tenants had the right to send sons or brothers as proxies, while Ibelin could now afford to engage five household knights at his own expense as well.
The baron’s arrival brought all fifteen knights from their various pursuits with a welcoming cheer; the boredom of this assignment made almost any distraction welcome.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense, lad!” Sir Bartholomew boomed out. He was easily the oldest man among them, already in his fifties, and it would have been normal for him to let a son fulfil his feudal duties at this stage in his life, but he had no sons. His heir was his grandson by his eldest daughter, a boy not yet six. More important, however, he had been a close friend and companion-in-arms of Balian’s older brother Hugh—and the closest thing to an uncle that Balian had ever known. As a result he was allowed certain liberties, including calling his lord “lad” at times like this. “Was it a son or another daughter?” Sir Bartholomew pressed his lord.
Balian broke into a wide smile. “A healthy boy, and his mother’s well.” Maria Zoë said it had been her easiest birth yet, and she was bursting with pride to have a son at last. “We’ve christened him John, after his maternal grandfather,” Balian answered the unspoken question.
“Something to celebrate!” Sir Walter, Balian’s former squire and now one of his household knights, suggested at once.
“You’d celebrate anything,” one of Balian’s aging tenants, Sir Arnulf, shot back, and they all laughed.
Soon his knights had opened a cask of wine, and the squires set about filling cups for their lords. Balian sank down on his traveling chest, and Daniel brought him a brimming goblet. “Shall I go fetch fresh bread?” he asked.
The camp defending the construction workers had been designed to last for months. It was effectively a tent city, with bakers and butchers, cook shops and taverns, smithies, armories, moneylenders, and every other amenity necessary to keep almost five thousand men healthy and content for an indefinite period.
Balian assented, adding, “Take enough coin to buy stew as well. I have no desire to move outside this tent until morning.” He had been in the saddle twelve hours this day, and he was ready to just relax.
“To John d’Ibelin!” Sir Galvin called out, raising his silver cup. Sir Galvin had taken service with Ibelin as a household knight just this past winter. He had killed a man in a drunken brawl in his native Scotland, and a pilgrimage to Jerusalem had been his penance. Having absolved his sins, however, he felt no inclination to return home and so had
offered his service to Ibelin. He was somewhat ponderous of brain, but powerful of build, his preferred weapons being the ax and the mace, and—except for when he had drunk too much—he was good-humored and kindly. Balian smiled and lifted his cup in response.
“And his sire!” Sir Arnulf reminded the company sternly.
“Hear! Hear!” the knights shouted and drank.
“And my lady,” Balian suggested, “the Dowager Queen of Jerusalem!”
“To the Queen!” his knights thundered back in good spirits, only too happy to toast the Lady of Ibelin. Their lord’s wife had not only done her duty by providing an heir to the barony, after all, she had also brought him a fortune with her dower portion of Nablus. The latter was something they all profited from, since it enabled Ibelin to pay good wages to his household knights and provide extra equipment and supplies for his tenants as well. Furthermore, Nablus greatly added to their lord’s prestige, since the barony of Nablus owed no less than eighty-five knights, half of whom Lord Balian had called up for service and were housed separately in three tents of their own.
The wine and the occasion were loosening tongues, and everyone seemed to be talking at once. Ibelin soon learned that the King, accompanied by the Constable and several other lords, had gone to seize Saracen cattle that were grazing on the already overly dry pastures of Galilee. They needed that grass for their own herds, and the army and workmen would welcome some fresh meat as well, Sir Walter explained. But soon the conversation turned to other things: the birth of other children, the name John, the drought, and the revolt at Baalbek.
Ibelin was contentedly nodding off to sleep when suddenly Dawit shook him furiously. “My lord! My lord! Lightning! Come quick!”
“We can use the rain,” Ibelin answered, frowning, but the Ethiopian shook his head, his eyes wide with alarm. “Lightning! The King’s stallion! He’s just galloped in, drenched in sweat and blood!”
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