Almost a hundred years ago, Jerusalem had fallen to the Christians in just six weeks. The Christians had had no siege engines and had been too few to enclose the city. By contrast, if Salah ad-Din managed to penetrate deep enough into the Kingdom to deploy his vast army against this city, he would be able to surround it many times. Furthermore, he would have catapults, mangonels, and trebuchets. The walls would break like eggshells under the force of those terrifying machines. The Saracens would pour triumphantly inside, slaughtering the entire population and desecrating the very tomb from which Christ had risen from the dead to bring salvation to the world.
That would happen if Guy de Lusignan became Regent for the young King Baldwin V—let alone if Baldwin V should die before he reached maturity and Guy were crowned King as Sibylla’s consort. Guy de Lusignan did not have the instincts of a hunter, did not understand the art of war, and could not command men. If he were allowed to rule the Kingdom of Jerusalem, it would be lost.
The dying King understood that, and so did the bishops. Tyre had made it very clear: if Barisan de Ramla had plighted his troth with Sibylla of Jerusalem, then her marriage to Guy de Lusignan could be declared null and void. All he had to do was produce as a witness the priest who had officiated at their betrothal ceremony.
But of course, there hadn’t been one. Ramla was quite certain that the good Archbishop of Tyre knew that perfectly well. The worthy churchman and his colleagues were, however, prepared to recognize a lie as long as Ramla was willing to tell it.
It would not be difficult, Ramla reasoned, to find a destitute or venal priest willing to swear upon the True Cross itself that he had officiated at the betrothal of Barisan Baron of Ramla and Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem—for a price. The price probably wouldn’t even be too high—the next free bishopric, perhaps, or a wealthy abbey. Nothing Ramla would not be able to pay from future revenues and patronage as King of Jerusalem.
No, the problem wasn’t finding a priest corrupt enough to perjure himself: it was the thought of taking the false vow. Not only would he be bearing false witness, he would be denying his marriage to Elizabeth and discarding his little son. Little Godfrey was such a fine boy! He was already taking his first steps—fearless and eager, like a warrior trapped in a child’s body. Ramla loved Godfrey more than anything else in the whole world. How could he discard the boy? Declare him illegitimate?
King Amalric had set the precedent of discarding his wife while insisting that the legitimacy of his children be recognized, but Tyre had already indicated that Ramla’s position was too precarious to give him room to negotiate. Barry had to choose between Jerusalem and his son.
Darkness was spreading through the valleys that fell away from the walls of the city to the south and east, while the city itself was increasingly lit by torches and lanterns. The stars were becoming visible as the blue of the sky deepened, and over Bethlehem the evening star hung like a reminder of Christ’s birth. “Will you forgive me, Lord, if I swear upon Your cross that I was canonically promised to Sibylla?”
Ramla waited a moment, but angels did not appear in the sky to answer him. Nor did a bolt of lightning indicate divine displeasure. So Ramla sighed and ducked into the stairwell to descend the spiral stairs of the gatehouse. He moved slowly in the darkness, feeling his footing more than seeing his way, until he emerged behind the gate, where his squire Stephan was patiently waiting with their horses. With a nod, Ramla indicated the squire should mount, and he took up his reins and swung himself up into the saddle. In silence they started up David Street, but as they came to the junction with Patriarch Street, Ramla suddenly changed his mind, turned left into the street, and drew up before the entrance to the Hospital.
Unlike the Templars, who were fiercely hostile to the outside world and guarded their headquarters against visitors like a fortress within a fortress, the Hospital was open to the public. Torches flanked the open door, and lay brothers manned a table under the arch to help direct the sick to one of the dozen different wards. Beyond the doorway, the courtyard was bustling even at this time of night; lay brothers brought meals from the huge kitchens to the east to the wards along the south wall, while other brothers watered mules and donkeys at one of the dozen cisterns, and a third group was laying out the dead who were to be buried the next day. Above the clatter of hooves on paving stones and voices from the wards, the sound of hundreds of male voices joined in plainsong wafted from the massive church of St. John along the north wall.
At the sight of Ramla and his squire, one of the lay brothers rang a bell. At once another brother emerged to take the horses, and a second, on hearing Ramla’s request for an audience with the Master, led the way to the Master’s quarters beyond the church of St. Mary Major. There were no less than four churches enclosed within the complex; two were reserved for the sick, one for the sisters, and the other for the brothers of the Hospital.
The Master of the Hospital lived in rooms on the first floor above the chapter house of the Order. A large double-light window encased with exquisite dog-tooth carving looked out from the audience chamber over the Street of Palms to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Ramla stepped up into the window and gazed out at the holiest church in Christendom.
St. Helena had located the tomb of Christ and the True Cross on this spot seven hundred years ago. The Emperor Constantine had built a church to mark the spot, but the Persians had razed it to the ground. Rebuilt by the Greeks after they recaptured the city, the church had been completely destroyed a second time by the Muslims two hundred years ago. After restoring Jerusalem to Christian rule, the Latin rulers had worked on the site for half a century to build a church worthy of Christ. They had incorporated much of the Greek foundations, but greatly extended the church complex to include a choir and ambulatory east of the Greek rotunda. The church now encompassed the rock of Calvary as well as the tomb of Christ, and between these two sacred sites were the tombs of the Kings of Jerusalem. Successive Kings and Patriarchs had engaged the best masons and craftsmen money could buy, many from Constantinople itself, so that the quality of the workmanship elicited amazement from the many pilgrims. On July 15, 1149, the fiftieth anniversary of the liberation of Jerusalem from Muslim control, the new church had been ceremoniously reconsecrated.
Ramla had been only two years old and not included in the festivities, but both his parents, his mother big from carrying Balian under her heart, and his elder brother Hugh had taken part in the solemn Mass. Hugh had always claimed that Balian’s presence at that Mass as an innocent unborn child had given him a special place in Christ’s heart—an idea that had greatly annoyed Barry when growing up. But even if true, Barry thought now, it was nothing to being anointed king in such a place.
To be crowned king in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher would be utterly enrapturing.
To do so based on a lie would be damnation itself.
“My lord?”
Ramla had not heard Roger des Moulins enter; he spun about, startled. He then hastened to step down from the window and cross to the Master of the Hospital. “Forgive this unexpected intrusion, my lord.”
“You are always welcome, my lord.” The Master of the Hospital indicated a small round table flanked by high-backed chairs where they could sit.
Roger des Moulins had come out to the Holy Land nine years earlier, initially as Grand Hospitaller, but he had been elected Grand Master two years later. Although of noble birth, he was not by nature a violent man, and he had advanced within the Hospital because of his administrative abilities and financial acumen rather than his military prowess. It was no secret that his principal task had been to restore the material fortunes of the Hospital after the disastrous leadership of his predecessor, Gilbert d’Assailly. The latter had borrowed huge sums of money and mortgaged important Hospitaller properties to hire mercenaries for the last invasion of Egypt. The invasion had been a disaster and the Hospital was left in a precarious financial situation, resulting in the resignation of Gilbert d’Assailly. Mouli
ns had managed to raise the money owed by appealing to wealthy lords in the West, many of whom turned over their property to the Hospital in return for the salvation of their souls. He had increased the recruitment of knights as well, although he generally left the command of these to his marshal. Perhaps most important for the future of the Kingdom, he had amicably settled a series of disputes with the Templars. In short, Ramla and Moulins were of profoundly different temperaments. The monk was cautious, restrained, and open to compromise; the baron impulsive, passionate, and obstinate.
“How may I be of service to you, my lord?” Moulins asked, with a gentle smile under alert, almost suspicious eyes.
“I wish your advice on a moral issue.”
Moulins’ eyebrows twitched, but so slightly that Ramla did not notice.
“If, to save a great many lives and indeed things more valuable than life itself, a man were to tell a small lie, would you give him absolution?”
“If he truly repented, of course.”
“But how can a man repent doing something that effects great good, not just for himself but for his fellows, his Kingdom, and his Church?”
“We all commit sins. It is the overall balance of good versus evil that matters—unless that sin is a mortal sin.”
“A lie—indeed, more an exaggeration than an outright lie.”
“But the motive matters,” Moulins warned. “Is it pride, greed, lust, envy, or wrath that motivates the lie?”
“No, of course not! Only fear. Fear of what will come if this lie is not made.”
“You are asking, then, if the end justifies the means?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“That depends on the end and the means, and whether there are alternatives,” Moulins answered, adding with a cynical smile, “I suspect, my lord, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
Ramla took a deep breath. “I—I am deeply distressed about the state of the Kingdom.”
“As are we all.”
“Guy de Lusignan—” When he said the name out loud, all Barry’s hatred of the man bubbled up in his voice. “Guy de Lusignan threatens to destroy us! It was bad enough that he debauched a Princess of Jerusalem and seduced his way into the County of Jaffa, but now much more is at stake. The King is dying, and his nephew is a fragile child! If Baldwin V should die, the Crown will fall to Sibylla, and she will give it to her lover!”
Moulins nodded. “I fear you are right, my lord, but what can we do to stop it?”
“If—if it could be proved that Guy is not Sibylla’s lawful husband . . .”
“If that could be proved, my lord, it would be a great blessing.” Moulins met Ramla’s eye as he spoke. “For all of us.”
Ramla nodded, and for a moment they sat in silence. Then Ramla got to his feet. “Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
“My pleasure, my lord.” The Hospitaller Master saw Ramla to the door of the chamber.
It was now completely dark, but the streets of Jerusalem were still crowded. It was the eve of Palm Sunday and pilgrims had poured into the city, filling the inns and hostels to overflowing. Wide-eyed pilgrims agog at the thought of being in the Holy City were accosted by cynical locals selling everything from meat pies to “relics.” Many shopkeepers had lanterns on their tables and called out their wares to passers-by, while innkeepers with vacant beds called out their prices. In the Street of Bad Cooking, men spilled out of the corner taverns with tankards in their hands to get a breath of fresh air, while pickpockets and whores moved surreptitiously through the crowds, plying their trade.
The crowds in the narrow streets forced Ramla to ride at a walk, and he thought back to his trip to Constantinople. There the main streets were wide enough for chariots, and noblemen cantered through them rather than being reduced to a crawl. Nor was the city vulnerable to attack, Barry thought enviously, for it was protected by water on two sides and an amazing wall on the third.
The thought of Constantinople also reminded Barry of why he had been there: to raise his ransom so he could marry Sibylla. She had sent him on his way with kisses and whispered promises after a night spent in his bed. They had made love twice that night, and Sibylla had gasped and groaned in ecstasy as he teased her to sexual climax. There had been no question when he rode away in the morning that she intended to marry him on his return! She had even expressed hope that she was carrying his child under her heart—“a Prince Barisan for Jerusalem,” she had cooed. Christ! Did it really matter that they had not said vows before a priest?
She had not said vows in the presence of a priest before she took Guy to her bed, either! The little highborn whore!
Ramla no longer felt an ounce of affection for Sibylla. He loathed her for betraying him, and if he were to carry through with this deception and she were forced to abandon her stupid little playboy and return to him, Ramla was determined to make her pay for humiliating him. He would treat her correctly in public, of course, but rape would be too kind a word for what he’d do to her in private.
They had reached the Ibelin residence, and Barry and his squire dismounted in the street to lead their horses through the gate into the courtyard. A lone torch burned at the stables entrance, and Stephan took both horses, while Ramla mounted the stairs to the first-floor gallery. He made his way toward his chamber, but then turned and went to the nursery instead to look in on his son. The nurse stirred sleepily and asked what was wrong. He hushed her, and went to stand over his son’s cradle.
Godfrey was such a perfect child, with such big hands for his age. Barry bent and stroked the back of his son’s curled fist. The skin was softer than silk. “Ah, Godfrey, you have nothing to fear,” he promised, thinking that a king’s bastard could be given titles and honors. Henry II of England had made one of his bastards an earl and another a bishop, after all.
Elizabeth . . . Well, she would just have to understand. This was for the greater good of the Kingdom. It was nothing personal. She would just have to retire to a convent and accept her fate as God’s will.
Ibelin, May 1184
“Balian, you can’t imagine it! The highest prelates of the realm, screaming at each other like two whores fighting over a coin! They actually came to blows! Heraclius threw himself at William of Tyre as if he intended to crush the air from his throat with his thumbs. William flailed with his fists to defend himself, and the Bishop of Bethlehem had to thrust himself between them. Then Heraclius started screaming, ‘I’ll excommunicate you!’ and Tyre scoffed back that he cared nothing for the threats of a debauched priest who lived in open sin with another man’s wife.
“But Heraclius actually carried out his threat in a huge public show at the Holy Sepulcher the very next day—he clanged the bells and doused the candles and pronounced William of Tyre excommunicate! In the middle of Easter Week!” Barry’s outrage expressed itself in the volume of his voice and the redness of his face.
“Barry, did I understand you correctly?” Balian answered cautiously, pressing chilled water on his overheated brother. Barry had just arrived at Ibelin with fifty knights and one hundred Turcopoles he was leading to Ascalon. Ibelin, too, had been summoned along with the rest of the feudal host, and the men from Nablus were expected shortly. Thus even as Barry spoke, the sound of men and horses pitching tents and setting up cooking pots poured through the open windows of the solar along with the humid summer air, hot from baking for hours in the sun. “You swore to William of Tyre that you and Sibylla had been legally betrothed?”
Barry flung the water down his throat, gratefully gulping the refreshing coolness, and then reached for the glazed pottery pitcher to refill his chalice as he answered, “It’s what they all wanted—except Heraclius, of course. They were too cowardly to just declare the marriage invalid; they needed an excuse. I provided it in the form of a priest who swore he’d been present at Sibylla and my betrothal. But no one had reckoned with Heraclius’ reaction. When Tyre declared smugly that now there was no question Sibylla’s marri
age was null and void—that Guy was an adulterer—he went stark raving mad. You’ve never seen anything like it!” Barry repeated himself, shaking his head and pouring himself a third helping of water.
“Barry, slow down,” Balian cautioned.
“You’re right,” Barry agreed, thinking his brother was referring to the ice-cold water and his overheated body, which was streaming sweat and smelled of horse and leather; he shoved the chalice aside.
But Balian was still trying to absorb the implications of what Barry had said. “If Sibylla’s marriage is invalid, then so is yours—and Godfrey is a bastard. You can’t really have sworn that?”
“It was a necessary evil. I didn’t do it lightly, and I would have made it up to Godfrey and Elizabeth after I was king, but Heraclius ruined everything. He threatened to excommunicate all the bishops. He said he’d have the priest tortured until he told the truth. None of us had any idea just how closely he clung to Guy de Lusignan—but it seems Agnes de Courtenay is seriously ill, and Heraclius can no longer count on her patronage. He’s completely dependent on Sibylla and Guy now.”
“He’s been anointed Patriarch; what more does he need?”
“How the hell should I know? I only know that when he reacted so violently, all the other bishops—except Tyre, of course—scuttled for the safety of the shadows. The next thing I knew, my priest had disappeared, too. I don’t know if he got cold feet, if Heraclius got his hands on him and has him in some dungeon on the rack, or if one of the other bishops spirited him away to ‘safety.’ All I know is that within twenty-four hours Tyre was excommunicated, the other bishops wouldn’t even meet with me, and my witness had disappeared, leaving King Baldwin completely in the lurch. He was the one who wanted this, after all!”
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