Balian poured himself some wine to steady his nerves.
“Meanwhile,” Barry continued, “the King had summoned Guy and Sibylla to Jerusalem to face the Church Convent and hear the verdict, but they refused to come. Just flat-out refused to come! I presume Heraclius warned them of what was afoot—but still, can you imagine the effrontery? That’s why Baldwin has summoned the feudal host to accompany him to Ascalon.”
“Does Elizabeth know what you had planned?”
“No, I didn’t tell her about it. She knew I was spending a lot of time at the palace, and she asked me what was going on, but I gave her only vague answers. Said it was affairs of state having to do with the Count and Countess of Jaffa.”
Balian nodded, glad that his sister-in-law had been spared learning that her husband was prepared to perjure himself to discard her. Sometimes it was better not to know the whole truth.
“I know what you’re thinking, Balian, but that’s the difference between us: I’m willing to do what it takes to get ahead, and you let your scruples get in the way. That’s why I have twice come within a hair’s breadth of being King of Jerusalem, and you’ve got a ten-knight barony because I gave it to you and are dependent on your wife for your wealth.”
“That’s true,” Balian agreed simply, unwilling to fight with Barry. He was not unhappy with what he had—and if it made his brother feel better to think he was superior, then he would let him.
Ascalon, May 1184
The entire feudal host was drawn up around the walls of Ascalon. For Balian it was a poignant moment, as he remembered how he had once held the city against Salah ad-Din. Indeed, the Christian army was now using some of the same ditches and earthworks that the Saracens had dug seven years ago. The city then had been crammed with refugees who had fled before the advancing Saracens. They had been preparing for a siege with a deep sense of foreboding, because half the barons and fighting men of the Kingdom were campaigning in the north. Then suddenly the young King had ridden to the rescue with his knights, and the city had gone wild with jubilation.
Now that same city had closed its gates and refused to admit their anointed King, their savior of just seven years ago. The gates not only remained closed when the royal herald rode up with the banner of Jerusalem held aloft, they had stayed shut when King Baldwin had his litter carried to the door and he had pounded with his fist, guided by Sir Daniel and encased in chain mail, on the door. The King’s men had held their breath, watching for the slightest sign of yielding, but the city might as well have been dead. Nothing stirred. The King had raised his fist a second time and shouted through his mask, “This is Baldwin of Jerusalem, and I demand entry to my city of Ascalon.” But the gates had not cracked or creaked.
Of course, the orders to close the city to the King came from the Count of Jaffa, whose banner fluttered defiantly from the battlements, but Balian couldn’t help but wonder if Roger Shoreham would have followed Jaffa’s orders. Shoreham was an honest man with his own sense of right and wrong. Shoreham, Balian thought, would have yielded to the King he respected rather than follow the orders of a man like Jaffa. But Shoreham no longer commanded the garrison; the new commander was, according to Sir Daniel, the very man who had had him flogged for being a few minutes late to work as an apprentice.
The question was: what to do now? The barons of Outremer had followed their King to Ascalon, as outraged as he by the defiance of his parvenu brother-in-law, but not one of them—including Ibelin—was prepared to assault the city that defied him. They could not afford this dangerous disunity when their enemies were so strong. They certainly could not afford to shed a single Christian life or weaken the defenses of one of the Kingdom’s most exposed and critical cities.
“The King will see you now,” Sir Daniel gently told his former lord, coming out of the King’s tent and holding the flap open.
Balian cast a last look at the city that had been his home, his first royal honor, and his bridal bower, and then ducked through the flap into the King’s tent.
The King had removed his royal robes, crown, and mask. He was dressed only in a loose linen kaftan, and two monks were busy at the back of the tent emptying the tub in which he had bathed. In the wake of Ibrahim’s dismissal Baldwin had undertaken a reorganization of his personal staff, and he had readily found several monks who were not only willing but anxious to serve him. Unlike Sir Daniel, they were not men who had themselves suffered from leprosy, but rather penitents who sought salvation through service to the afflicted. The ease with which King Baldwin had found no less than five monks made Ibelin wonder if King Amalric had seriously tried to find Christian servants for his son, or if he had selected Muslim slaves for some reason of his own. It no longer mattered, Balian supposed, but he was gladdened to see Baldwin surrounded by devout Christians, particularly as the King drew daily closer to his grave.
Exposed as the King now was, Balian could see that he had no toes left on either of his feet and that his fingers were completely deformed. The lower part of his chin and face was covered with growths that distorted his face and the nose had started to rot away, while all his hair had fallen out and he was now bald.
“I can see the pity in your eyes, Balian,” Baldwin greeted him. “Would you prefer I wear the mask?”
“No, your grace. You need to breathe freely and feel the fresh air. I will adjust to the sight of you—though it breaks my heart.”
“Yes,” Baldwin nodded, “I knew you would care more for my comfort than your own. The fresh air is indeed welcome after a day in this heat behind the mask. Please, sit beside me.”
Balian took the vacant chair beside his king.
“Do you remember when I came to your relief seven years ago?” Baldwin asked wistfully.
“I do, your grace; that’s exactly what I was thinking about while waiting outside.”
“The whole city was bracing for a siege, and yet they flung the gates open at the sight of my banners, and they cheered and cheered.”
“You were a beautiful sight, your grace, and you rode like a centaur.”
“That was Misty,” the King replied, recalling his destrier of seven years before. “You chose him for me and taught me to ride.”
“Yes.”
They were silent for a moment, remembering.
“Tante Marie was gracious to me at Kerak, but do you think she has really forgiven me?”
“You, yes—your mother and sister, no.”
“My mother did not have an easy life,” Baldwin tried to explain. “She was deeply hurt when my father set her aside and took a new wife.”
“She made her own hell, your grace,” Balian countered, “first by treating my brother like dirt because he was not a king, and then by seeking revenge on everyone who she thought had ever slighted her. She alienated half your court.”
“I know that now,” Baldwin admitted with a sigh. “But she is still my mother, and she loves me. Much of what she did, she did for love of me and to protect me.”
Balian wasn’t so sure. He thought Agnes de Courtenay was only interested in protecting her own position at court, but he did not want to offend Baldwin, so he held his tongue.
“I know you disagree, Balian, but she is dying now. I expect to hear word that she has crossed the spiritual Jordan any day now. Her intentions, motives, and soul will be weighed and judged by one more qualified than either of us. I hope you will have the charity to pray for her soul, Balian, but that is between you and your conscience. As for me, I will pay the canons of the Holy Sepulcher to say Masses for her in perpetuity.” He paused, and Balian supposed he would have crossed himself if he had been able to move his hands.
Then taking a deep breath, the King continued. “My sister . . . My sister, on the other hand, has never loved me and does not love me now. She loves first and foremost herself, and then Guy de Lusignan.” With each sentence Baldwin’s bitterness was more pronounced and his voice grew louder, laden with hatred. “She does not even care for her little son, bec
ause she hated William de Montferrat and sees her innocent child as an extension of him. If she has a son by Guy de Lusignan, she will try to find a way to make him my heir.”
“But little Baldwin is already crowned.”
“Do you think that interests my sister? As his mother, she has access to him, and if she has a son by Guy, she will kill my namesake. So far, God in his great wisdom, has given her a girl instead, and she has no ready replacement. Still, she will try to rule through my namesake. You and the High Court must expect that and prevent it.”
Baldwin’s bitterness was all the greater because he had loved Sibylla so much, Balian supposed. Now he had turned on her completely, seeing evil intent even where it might not be. Since Balian could not fathom what went on in Sibylla’s head, however, he was not inclined to defend her either. He answered simply, “Yes, your grace.”
“Tomorrow I will declare Ascalon forfeit to the Crown, and then we will strike camp and advance to Jaffa. I will reclaim that for the Crown as well, whether it yields to me or not, and thereby strip Guy de Lusignan of all his titles and fiefs. I will then call the High Court to Acre to discuss the succession.”
“I don’t understand. Your nephew is already crowned.”
“But he’s weak, Balian, very weak, and Sibylla will have control of him. As I just explained, I don’t trust her not to do him harm. Jerusalem needs a new king, a strong king.”
“What are you thinking of, your grace?” Balian asked warily.
“England.”
“England?”
“My grandfather, Fulk d’Anjou, was selected from among the nobles of France to rule Jerusalem when Baldwin II had no male heir. So why shouldn’t my cousin, the King of England, who shares the same grandfather as I, send us one of his sons? He has too many, and they make him no end of trouble. Why shouldn’t he send us just one of his sons? I have been told they are all fierce fighting men.”
Balian had never thought of such a radical solution. Although when he thought about it, it was not so radical after all. All the early Kings of Jerusalem had been men from the West, and while some newcomers proved completely incapable of adapting (like Guy de Lusignan), others, like his elder brother Aimery, soon acclimatized and became valuable fighting men and leaders.
“The idea came to me after meeting a most extraordinary English knight,” Baldwin confessed. “His name is William Marshal, and he is very close to the English King. He has convinced me to send an embassy to him asking for aid. He says King Henry vowed more than ten years ago to come to the aid of Jerusalem and has been setting money aside for that very purpose—only he is beset with rebellions by his sons that keep him at home. To be sure, he is half a century old, so it is his sons who offer greater promise. Young lions all. I have decided to send the Masters of the Temple and the Hospital—and the Patriarch,” Baldwin added with a smile, for though his face was deformed it was still movable. “What do you say, Balian?” In that question was a trace of the youth Balian had once known and mentored, a young man anxious for his approval.
“It is a good scheme, your grace,” Balian assured him. “Out of courtesy, you might send the same ambassadors to the King of France as well.”
“I will send them to the Pope, the Holy Roman Emperor, Louis of France, and Henry of England. With luck, they will vie with one another for the honor!” Baldwin was clearly excited and inspired by his idea. “I will sent the keys to the Tower of David, the keys to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and a banner of Jerusalem with the envoys to make it clear what we are offering. Whichever king takes the keys and the banner and comes to us will be received as our next King. I’ll make the High Court swear to recognize whoever comes.”
Balian saw a thousand problems. Disputes between the Western kings, Western noblemen without any understanding of conditions in the East, and a divided High Court, not to mention Sibylla and Guy’s opposition and the fact that Baldwin V was already crowned—but he didn’t have the heart to discourage Baldwin. So he nodded and said, “It’s worth a try, your grace. Certainly, worth a try.”
Chapter 12
Nablus, September 1184
MARIA ZOË WAS NOT PLEASED WITH the steward of the citadel at Nablus. It appeared that for some time now, the aging clerk had meticulously kept the books without physically inspecting the stores of the citadel. In consequence, the fact that the sugar had been infested with beetles; that something had died in one of the storerooms, causing an infernal stink; and that leaking water had rusted a dozen axes and some hauberks in the armory had gone unnoticed until she undertook an inspection herself. It was, of course, her own fault for not inspecting sooner, she told herself, but that did not make things better.
Salah ad-Din had taken advantage of the fact that the High Court of Jerusalem was meeting in Acre to attack Kerak a second time—and this time he’d brought rocks to fill the fosse that separated the castle from the town. King Baldwin had no choice but to lead the army south to the relief of Kerak, and so Balian was again in the field. Maria Zoë had first put Ibelin on a war footing under Master Shoreham’s command, and then come north to Nablus to make sure everything was in good order here as well—only to find it was not.
In the early years of her widowhood Maria Zoë had been preoccupied with other matters, happy to reap the income Nablus offered without paying much attention to where it came from. Increasingly, however, she had taken an interest in the management of her estates. There was, after all, much she could do to increase her income, and with four children to provide for, she was keen to do exactly that. This matter of damaged stores, however, had less to do with loss of income and more to do with the preparedness of the castle in the event of siege. After being trapped in Kerak last autumn, she was determined to ensure that her own castles were prepared.
It did not help matters that the steward was a Latin priest who clearly disliked working with her and did not respect her. He kept repeating that his lord (by whom he meant not Balian but Philip of Nablus, who had surrendered the lordship of Nablus to the Crown more than twenty years ago) had never found cause for complaint. Maria Zoë was determined to dismiss him, but she could not do that without knowing whom to put in his place.
She dismissed him mentally after he withdrew with the books, and went to the window. From this tower room she had a good view of the city of Nablus. It had long since burst out of its old walls, which had fallen into complete ruin. Now the city sprawled white across a broad valley between two hills.
Nablus was ancient and the population reflected that fact, with a sizable community of Samaritans as well as Jews, a substantial Muslim population, and a bustling and prosperous Greek Orthodox quarter. But Nablus had prospered under the Latin kings as well. The Premonstratensians had built a major monastery here, while the Hospitallers maintained one of their largest hospitals on this important crossroads. Over the last eight decades, many pilgrims not only passed through on their way between Jerusalem and Nazareth, but had also chosen to settle here, forming a large and vibrant Latin community concentrated in the west of the city.
Regardless of their religion, the citizens of Nablus were largely traders and tradesmen and many had accumulated substantial wealth, a fact reflected in the tall stone houses that crowded the narrow streets and the many cobbled squares. Arcades enclosing the squares offered shade to the shops selling, at this time of year, fresh apples and pears, black and green olives, lemons, crushed spices, and sugar cane. Nablus was also a major center for glassmaking and a bottling center for scents and spices, as well as a soap manufacturing town. It wasn’t exactly Constantinople, but Maria Zoë found it livelier and less stifling than Jerusalem. Like Constantinople, it had layers of history and it was solidly Christian, but it was not so much of a mausoleum as Jerusalem was.
There was a knocking on the door, and Maria Zoë called “Come in!” as she turned and stepped down from the window niche onto the terracotta-tiled floor.
Her visitors were a dark man, with a dramatic streak of gray hair
and a beard equally divided between dark and light, and a nun in the habit of the Hospital of St. John. The first was Sir Constantine, the constable of Nablus, and the latter the Head Sister of the Hospital in Nablus, Sister Adela. Maria Zoë smiled at the sight of both of them.
Sir Constantine was of Greek descent, although he had been born and raised in Nablus and spoke Arabic better than Greek. He had been recommended to her by one of the Greek ambassadors who had visited her shortly after she took up residence here in 1176. “A reliable man,” the ambassador had assured her, and while she understood that meant Sir Constantine was in the pay of her great-uncle, it mattered little. Her great-uncle was dead, and Sir Constantine was here with her still.
As for Sister Adela, Maria Zoë had first made her acquaintance in Ascalon, where she had helped set up an orphanage that Maria Zoë supported financially. She had been delighted to learn that the competent woman had been transferred by her Order to Nablus, and they had had frequent contact with one another since. Maria Zoë valued this woman’s common sense and unsentimental commitment to helping the sick and destitute.
“Madame, a pleasure to see you, as always,” the constable exclaimed with a bow, a smile, and a glint in his eyes.
“Likewise, Sir Constantine.” She indicated the chair vacated by the indignant steward before exchanging kisses on both cheeks with Sister Adela.
When they were all seated, Maria Zoë asked, “So, what brings you here today—and together?” She looked from one to the other.
“We wanted to welcome you home to Nablus, madame. We see too little of you since your felicitous marriage to the good Baron of Ibelin,” Sir Constantine opened gallantly—and the women exchanged an amused glance, because this was so much a part of the Greek’s character.
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