Chapter 2
Ibelin, June 1179
“THE KING HAS SUMMONED THE ARMY again?” Maria Zoë asked, unable to keep the anger from her voice. In eighteen months of marriage, Balian had spent less than a year with her. He had barely made it home in time for the birth of his son, and had returned almost at once to the camp at Jacob’s Ford. After the skirmish in which Humphrey de Toron was killed, he’d accompanied the funeral cortege to Toron, and he had returned barely three weeks ago.
“The Saracens are trying to destroy the harvest in the lordships of Beirut and Sidon. The drought has resulted in severe food shortages as it is,” Balian made excuses for his King. “We can’t afford to let the enemy ruin what’s left of the harvest. We have to face them.”
Maria Zoë came from a royal family and she understood the logic, but that did not reconcile her to her husband’s departure. “In Islam, a wife has the right to divorce a husband who abandons her for more than forty days at a stretch,” she noted sharply.
“And you’d make such a good Muslim wife—never talking back to your husband nor setting foot outside the harem!” Balian snapped.
“Feudal levies in every kingdom of the West are only required to serve for forty days as well,” Maria Zoë continued, ignoring his remark.
“Because they are only at war with their Christian neighbors, and all that is at stake is dynastic privilege. The King of Jerusalem has the right to keep his vassals in the field for a full year, because we are at risk of complete annihilation if we don’t face our enemies. What would you prefer? To have me defending you in Beirut or here in Ibelin, when it is already too late?”
Maria Zoë clamped her teeth together, because she had no response. She had seen the destruction wrought by Salah ad-Din’s last raid. She would not have wanted to be in her sister-in-law’s shoes when Saracen troops plundered the town below the castle while she, with an inadequate garrison, cowered in the keep with her little children—especially her girls.
Balian softened his tone in response to her silence. “Do you think I want to spend my days in the heat and dust and saddle rather than here with you?”
“No,” Maria Zoë admitted, although she was still angry. “No, but you be the one to break it to the girls. They have so looked forward to having you back, and they will not be happy to see you go again so soon.”
Maria Zoë had converted the southwest tower of the castle’s encircling wall, with its views across the dunes toward the sea, into the nursery. Here the children could play and shout on the rooftop (weather permitting) without getting underfoot of the garrison or household. Just below, there was a bedroom divided by a wooden partition into two chambers. The first was the nursery proper, with two cribs and pallets for the wet nurse and nanny for John and Helvis respectively, Maria Zoë and Balian’s two children. On the other side of the partition was the bedroom of the older girls: Isabella, Maria Zoë’s daughter by her first marriage to the late King of Jerusalem, Balian’s niece Eschiva, who had lived with them ever since her father had set aside her mother to free himself for a more lucrative marriage, and Beth, the Muslim convert and orphan that Maria Zoë had adopted after the raid on Ibelin in November 1177. On the first floor a day room/classroom was located, and here the girls were taught their letters, to sing, and to sew. Here there were also a miniature castle made by the carpenter and a large (and growing) collection of dolls. The ground floor retained its original function of carpenter shop.
Edwin Shoreham, the eldest son of the garrison’s senior sergeant Roger Shoreham, was methodically shaving wood off an object as Balian entered. Procrastinating, Balian stopped to ask the carpenter what he was working on. “Kneeling benches for the chapel, my lord,” young Shoreham answered readily. “My lady says it’s uncomfortable to kneel on the stone floor.”
Balian nodded. It was just like Maria Zoë to want comfort even when praying. “You’ve finished repairing everything damaged or destroyed in the raid?”
“All that I can do, my lord,” Edwin assured him. “I don’t have the equipment for the screws of the oil and wine presses, but everything else is pretty much finished: shutters, doors, window frames, shelves, and the like.”
Eighteen months after the raid in which Salah ad-Din’s troops had plundered Ibelin town, burning down a goodly portion of it in the process, Ibelin seemed back to normal—at least on the surface. Yet the shock sat deep with the people. The suspicion of treachery, the belief that someone had opened or intentionally failed to bar the southern gate to the town, poisoned the atmosphere. Hostility to the small Muslim community had caused several families to leave. Those Muslim families that remained kept more to themselves than ever before, and the Muslim women had started to wear black robes and veils that completely covered their faces, something they had not done before.
But Maria Zoë had also received reports of insolence and threats on the part of some of the younger Muslim youth directed at Christians. The Armenian priest complained that several times someone had shouted at him from the darkness: “Salah ad-Din will return!” and Father Vitus said he’d found a shard scratched with a similar threat on the steps of St. George’s. The atmosphere was charged with a latent hostility between Christians and Muslims that Balian could not remember from his childhood. Nor was there anything he could do to defuse it, because it was fed by Salah ad-Din’s successes.
Not everything had changed for the worse, however. The Armenian, Latin, and Syrian Christian communities had come closer together in the aftermath of the raid. The Armenian church had been the most badly damaged in the raid, and the other churches had taken up collections to help rebuild it. Balian had noted that the rebuilding of the weavers’ quarter had likewise been a joint effort, with everyone pitching in regardless of their particular form of Christianity. Meanwhile Sergeant Shoreham was forging a militia from the entire male Christian population, and the common drills and common duty seemed to be reinforcing a sense of common identity across the Christian communities. Balian felt comfortable leaving Maria Zoë and his children in the care of Sergeant Shoreham and his militia while he took the knights and squires of Ibelin north again.
Leaving the carpenter’s shop behind, he mounted the stairs carved in the thickness of the walls up to the first-floor chamber. The high-pitched chatter of children met him long before he reached the landing. The stout walls kept the tower relatively cool compared to the heat outside, and the open windows allowed for cross-ventilation.
As he entered he saw Beth, the Muslim girl who had been gangraped by the Nubians during the raid and then rejected by her family for being “unclean,” sitting demurely beside the cradle with his infant son, singing and gently rocking it with her foot. She still wore her hair covered in the Muslim fashion, but at least her face was visible.
His niece Eschiva at fourteen also had strong maternal instincts and was growing up rapidly; she had small breasts and a slender waist. Although she had her mother’s brown hair, she had been lucky to inherit her father’s fuller face and height. She was not a beauty but she was pretty, with unblemished skin and large, doe-like eyes.
Just the night before, Balian and Maria Zoë had been speculating about how much longer her husband, Aimery de Lusignan, was going to let her wait. Maria Zoë had speculated that he was looking for a way to set her aside, and asked Balian if he had a new mistress he was loath to part with. Balian pleaded ignorance of Lusignan’s liaisons and motives, but pointed out that Lusignan had been appointed Toron’s successor as Constable of Jerusalem. Under the circumstances he had a lot to think about other than his child bride.
As Balian entered, Eschiva had his daughter Helvis by the hand and was encouraging her to take a step. Helvis, sucking her thumb, appeared more interested in Isabella, who was playing with her dolls. Eschiva caught sight of Balian and broke into a smile. “Uncle Balian!” she exclaimed. “Have you come to take us for a ride?”
Balian had promised the older girls that he would take them for a ride, but the summons from t
he King had distracted him. “Later,” he promised, going on to his heels to face Helvis. She frowned at him over her thumb, still not sure what to make of him, but Isabella at once left her dolls in disarray and rushed to take his hand. “Uncle Balian,” she started, turning his signet ring, with the cross of Ibelin engraved on the shield-shaped onyx, and leaning against his arm coquettishly. “Aren’t I old enough for a puppy now?”
“How old are you?” Balian asked, as if he didn’t know.
“I’m six years, eleven months, and two days,” she told him solemnly.
“Then you’ll have to wait at least another seven months minus two days,” Balian decided arbitrarily to delay the discussion. “No girl can have a puppy before she is seven and a half.”
“Can boys have them sooner?” Isabella wanted to know.
“No, they have to wait until they are eight,” Balian declared spontaneously, to Isabella’s evident satisfaction.
Meanwhile, Eschiva had been thinking. “If you aren’t here to take us riding, why are you here? Did the messenger bring news from my husband?”
So she had seen the rider in the King’s livery.
“Yes, Eschiva, he did.” Balian straightened, leaving Helvis’ eye level for Eschiva’s. As Constable, Lusignan called up the feudal levies in the King’s name. “I came to tell you the King has summoned the army again. I will have to leave Ibelin tomorrow morning for Beirut.”
“But you only just got here!” Eschiva protested, the disappointment in her voice flattering Balian.
Isabella at once joined in. “Yes! You only just got here, and you have not done half the things you promised yet!”
“What is so urgent that you must go already?” Eschiva wanted to know, a frown of worry darkening her brow, and he could sense the fear behind it. She had been here during the raid, her chamber had been lit by the lurid flames of the burning town, she’d heard the captured girls screaming for help and mercy, and she had befriended Beth.
He glanced at the latter and saw the fear in her eyes, too, before she dropped her head modestly. He answered honestly nevertheless: “The Saracens are trying to prevent us from bringing in the harvest in Beirut and Sidon.”
“But why do you have to defend Beirut?” Isabella put the question bluntly. “Did Beirut come to defend us when the Saracens attacked Ibelin?”
Balian looked at her bemused as he answered, “Well, he would have, if there had been time. Even if I leave tomorrow, I will come too late for some towns and villages in his lands. But we must respond. The harvest in Beirut and Sidon feeds half the Kingdom.”
Isabella frowned and asked in a peeved voice, “Will it never end?”
“What?”
“The war!” Isabella answered, stamping her foot for emphasis.
“In the Name of God, I wish it would,” Balian answered sincerely, glancing out of the southern window to the pomegranate orchards that spread south from the town. This was such a beautiful piece of earth, he thought, and it had been fought over since the Old Testament. It was a land of blood as well as milk and honey.
Syrian Border along the River Litani, June 1179
“Keep up the pressure! Don’t let them get away!” Ramla screamed at his brother above the clamor of the battlefield. He was making circular motions with his sword over his head. The sword was already red with blood, and the trapper of his stallion was soiled with it.
Ibelin, however, pulled up his stallion. “We don’t want to get drawn across the Litani!” Balian warned his brother, pointing to the river only a couple of hundred yards ahead of them. “Salah ad-Din’s main forces are somewhere nearby!”
“The Templars are dealing with them!” Ramla countered. “Forward! Kill them as they try to cross!”
There was some logic to what Ramla wanted to do. Since the river at this time of year reached only to the bellies of the larger European horses, the Franks could ride into it with ease. The smaller Saracen horses, on the other hand, were struggling—plunging and jumping as they tried to find their way to the far shore.
Ibelin looked for the King’s standard and saw it well to the rear, surrounded by royal household knights. He decided his brother was right. They should kill as many of the enemy as they could here, at the ford. He put his heels to Centurion, and the grey destrier sprang eagerly after Ramla.
Ibelin and his knights splashed into the brown waters of the river, which were already turning red. The water was refreshingly cool on his chain-mail-encased legs. Centurion undoubtedly felt refreshed, too, Ibelin thought as he dropped the double reins on the stallion’s neck and slung his shield onto his back. With the enemy well routed, which meant they were hardly fighting, his shield had become superfluous. Instead, he clasped both hands on the hilt of his sword to increase the force of each blow.
Swinging the sword methodically, first left and then right, he was killing men from behind as they tried to reach the far bank of the river. The river was the border between the Kingdom of Jerusalem and Syria, but at the moment there was nothing on the far side to save the fleeing Saracens. It was an illusionary refuge.
Still, Ibelin couldn’t shake a sense of unease. The King had been far too eager to engage this raiding party led by Salah ad-Din’s nephew Farrukh-Shah, even though Lusignan and Tripoli both warned him it was not the main Saracen force. The King, however, was anxious to wipe out the humiliation of his last encounter with Farrukh-Shah, and had not been prepared to listen to words of caution.
The results so far had proven the King right. There was precious little left of Farrukh-Shah’s forces, most of whom lay littered on the field limp and soaked in their own blood or struggling in the reddening waters of the Litani. Furthermore, Lusignan and Tripoli appeared to have cut off Farrukh-Shah’s escape. The Sultan’s nephew was easily recognizable by his brightly caparisoned stallion, his uniformed bodyguard, and the purple-and-gold banner streaming out behind him. He had turned north to ride around the Christians blocking his escape across the river, but Tripoli and Lusignan were keeping pace so perfectly that he could not slip past them. Even as Ibelin watched, Tripoli and a handful of his knights closed with the Saracen leader and surrounded him. The horses came to a seething, circling halt and the emir’s banner sank down to disappear in the swirling dirt, trampled under by the horses of the men who had taken him captive.
Ibelin had reached the far bank of the river. His brother was already far ahead of him, still in hot pursuit of the fleeing remnants of Farrukh-Shah’s raiding party, but Balian’s instincts made him sit back and take up his reins to halt his stallion. As the horse came to a grateful halt and dropped his head to drink deeply, Balian looked around to assess the situation again.
His squires Daniel and Dawit immediately closed with him. “Aren’t we going to pursue?” Daniel asked, disbelieving, glancing over his shoulder at the Lord of Ramla and his knights, who were still slaughtering. Ibelin shook his head, as more and more of his knights rallied around him in ones and twos until the entire Ibelin and Nablus contingent of a hundred knights and their squires was collected in the river. The others, like their lord, removed their helmets to wipe sweat from their faces with their surcoats and let their horses drink the flowing but bloodstained water.
Some Saracen stragglers were still plunging into the river and splashing past them, but Ibelin and his knights let them go. Dawit nudged his horse next to Balian’s to offer his lord a wineskin filled with water. It was warm, but nevertheless refreshing. Balian drank deeply, but handed it back half full and nodded to Dawit to drink himself.
“It’s rare to see the Templars arrive late for a battle,” Sir Walter noted with a short laugh, pointing to a Templar galloping on to the field from their left. They all turned to watch with bemusement. The Templar pride at always being first in battle grated on their nerves to some degree. As they watched, more Templars appeared, also at a full gallop but not in any kind of formation. At almost the same instant, they collectively realized these Templars weren’t attacking: they were fl
eeing.
Ibelin automatically looked left to see what the Templars were fleeing from, and gasped: “Holy Cross and St. George!” A wide line of Saracen horse had crested the hill with all their banners fluttering. Salah ad-Din’s banner was the largest, in the middle of the host.
Ibelin jammed his helmet on his head, pulled his shield back onto his left arm, then grabbed up his reins as he put his spurs to his stallion. Around him his knights frantically did the same without being ordered. It didn’t take a genius to recognize the danger they were in: the Christian army was scattered all over the field. Ramla was across the river; Tripoli and Lusignan had been lured fully two miles to the north in their maneuver to cut off Farrukh-Shah’s escape. And even those knights still on the battlefield were, like Ibelin and his hundred knights, dispersed and partially spent.
Fortunately, Centurion had been refreshed by the drink and the soothing coolness of the running water on his legs and belly. He responded with alacrity. Once he was out of the river and onto the firmer ground of the plain, Balian stood in the stirrups and leaned forward, urging him onwards. Soon the stallion was going flat out, leaping over the bodies of man and horse in a mad dash to rejoin the King’s forces.
On his right, Lusignan and his knights were also racing back to rejoin the King, while Tripoli took charge of the valuable prisoner and with a handful of his knights rode west for the coast.
The sound of the approaching Saracen charge became an increasing rumble. The Saracens could see their foe spread out and vulnerable before them—and could see Ibelin and Lusignan rushing to regroup. They, too, spurred their mounts forwards. Neither army had mustered infantry for what on the Muslim side had been a raid, and on the Christian side a counter-raid. Nor did Salah ad-Din appear to have the usual contingents of mounted archers; they had apparently been deployed with Farrukh-Shah. The Saracen horse thundering down toward the scattered Frankish forces were heavy cavalry armed with lance and sword. They shouted battle cries, the wind fluttered the pennants on their lance tips, and the sunlight caught on their raised swords. Centurion laid his ears flat back on his head as he raced, determined to escape the onslaught from his left.
Defender of Jerusalem Page 5
