“Hmm,” Salah ad-Din answered ambiguously, looking into the goblet as if he were searching for something.
Al-Adil sensed that something was bothering him. “What is it?”
“I don’t like the fact that Queen Sibylla, Princess Isabella, and the Dowager Queen are all in Jerusalem. It complicates things. It would be an indignity to negotiate with women, but if their men choose martyrdom, then the women will—according to Frankish custom—actually be in command of the city.”
Al-Afdal declared exultantly, “So much the better; then we will take it faster!”
Salah ad-Din raised his eyebrows. “You think so?”
“How can women defend a city?” Al-Afdal answered rhetorically and a touch irritably. His father could annoy him with his obtuseness at times. “They don’t understand the first thing about warfare. They will be cowering in their quarters with their children.”
“Like Stephanie de Milly?” Salah ad-Din tossed back sourly.
“That’s not a woman, it’s a demon!” It was his brother rather than his son that remarked this in disgust.
Salah ad-Din didn’t bother answering. “I’ve half a mind to agree to Queen Sibylla’s pleas to be allowed to join her husband in captivity. That would take her out of Jerusalem and ensure that we controlled both the King and Queen of the Kingdom.”
“Yes, and enable more competent leaders to rise to the fore,” Al-Adil warned.
“No one appears to be listening to Sibylla anyway. Even the Christians show no respect for her. It is the Patriarch—and now Ibelin—who are in command in Jerusalem, and Montferrat in Tyre. Sibylla is of little value to them alive, but her death would be a great boon to them and most inconvenient for us. That would open the way for her sister, Isabella.”
“What risk is she? We hold her husband captive.”
“She is Ibelin’s stepdaughter.”
“Ah.” Al-Adil caught his brother’s drift. “You think Ibelin would be able to rally Christian support around Isabella and rule through her.”
“If Sibylla were out of the way, yes. So we need to protect Sibylla, don’t you think?”
“I see your point. And hope that Isabella dies in Jerusalem.”
Salah ad-Din nodded, but he didn’t look convinced.
“Now what?” his brother asked, exasperated.
“I was just wondering if her elimination wouldn’t simply invite a strong Christian leader from the West to claim the vacant throne. The English King, after all, is first cousin to both these women. If both died, he could clearly lay claim to the throne—and he is rich in vassals, conquests, and, most exceptionally for these monogamists, sons.”
“Why should they both die if we control and keep Sibylla alive?”
Salah ad-Din shrugged. “Allah determines the hour of our coming and our going. I think we would do well to ensure that both these troublesome women are not in Jerusalem when it falls to our troops, and I don’t want the Greek woman there, either. I don’t want trouble with the Greek Emperor over something so unimportant. I will send fifty men of my personal bodyguard to escort all three of these women and—in the Name of the Merciful Almighty—their children, who are all small and no risk to us, out of Jerusalem. Sibylla will be allowed to join her husband, and the others can go to Antioch or on to Constantinople, if we are lucky.”
“I’m not sure your army will understand such generosity,” Al-Adil warned in a peeved tone.
“No?” Salah ad-Din looked amused. “I think my generosity will read very well in the chronicles. The chivalrous Salah ad-Din!”
Al-Adil burst out laughing, and his brother joined him.
Jerusalem, August 5, 1187
Apparent chaos reigned in the Ibelin courtyard as servants finished securing saddlebags to all the horses, and the grooms struggled to tie panniers on young, skittish destriers and palfreys unused to this indignity. Meanwhile Nanny Anne settled Helvis, Philip, and Margaret into a horse litter and then climbed in behind them, while Father Angelus took John on his own saddle, despite the boy’s protests about being able to ride himself.
Maria Zoë had made the strategic decision that if they were to be allowed out of Jerusalem with the Sultan’s escort, then they were going to take every movable valuable with them—and after her own jewels and plate, that included the excellent horseflesh of her husband’s stud at Ibelin that Master Shoreham had brought with him to Jerusalem.
The packing had been going on all night, with considerable dissension about what could or could not be left behind, while Father Angelus kept warning them that the Saracens might rob them of everything they had as soon as the women and children were in their power. In the end the girls had been allowed their dolls, Philip his blanket, and John his toy knights. Isabella, after much persuasion, was convinced to leave behind her wedding dress and Humphrey of Toron’s second suit of armor. The former she had wanted out of sentimentality, and the latter because she was certain Humphrey would need it when he was freed. Maria Zoë countered by pointing out she would need dresses she could wear, not things she had grown out of, and that freed prisoners were given back their armor.
Adding to the general chaos were the dogs of the household, who were in a frenzy of excitement at so much activity, and the many household members who would not be going, who stood around with envious looks at the lucky few selected to accompany the Dowager Queen. Except for Nanny Anne and Eskindar, none of the servants were going. Eloise had taken the place of Isabella’s maid and Eschiva had taken Rahel’s place as Maria Zoë’s waiting woman. In addition to Maria Zoë’s own children, they were taking Eschiva’s three children and Eloise’s two little boys. The latter five were to travel in a second litter with Eloise. Eschiva had elected to ride one of the brood mares, who was pregnant and quite calm, and Isabella too was mounted.
A crowd gathered in the street, too, for the news had spread like wildfire that the Sultan had sent fifty Mamlukes to escort the Dowager Queen to Christian territory. Curiously, as far as Ibelin could detect, there was not a trace of jealousy among the people. Rather, the news of the Sultan’s generosity seemed to fill them with increased awe and respect for their new commander. He’d broken his word to the Sultan, and still the Sultan sent an escort for his wife and children! The Sultan must value him highly.
On the other hand, the news that Queen Sibylla was to go with the Dowager Queen so she could join her husband in captivity triggered a small riot of outrage. Ibelin had been forced to go and speak with the angry crowd. They had sullenly dispersed, but Sibylla’s departure from the royal palace to join the Ibelin convoy this morning had been punctuated with catcalls, insults, and rude suggestions of what she should tell (or do to) her husband when she met him again.
At last Maria Zoë and Balian emerged from the upper gallery and started down the broad steps into the courtyard. Maria Zoë was dressed in voluminous layers of white cotton, from her shift to the veils that completely covered her head and face and fell all the way to her hips. They were held in place by a simple golden band around her forehead that suggested a crown. Gold threads were woven into the cotton, a couple inchs apart, and the edges of the full, flowing sleeves of her gown were trimmed in purple embroidery, while her doeskin gloves had the crosses of Jerusalem stitched in gold on the back—just like the gloves she had once given King Baldwin. No Muslim could accuse her of immodesty, but her claim to royalty and royal privilege was just as patent.
Balian was dressed in one of his best tunics, and he had changed his own tattered and poorly repaired armor for his late brother Hugh’s coat of mail. It was still a little too big for him, but nevertheless in better condition than his own. The oldest palfrey in their stable, Treasure, nearing twenty and graying at the muzzle, had been selected to remain behind, and he was brought forward so Balian could mount and lead the little convoy to the rendezvous just beyond St. Stephen’s Gate.
He swung himself up and signaled for the doors out of the courtyard to be opened. Balian and Maria Zoë rode side by sid
e out into the street with Eschiva and Isabella directly behind them, followed by the two horse litters, four packhorses, and finally Father Angelus and Eskindar making up the rear. Queen Sibylla’s party fell in behind them.
Balian and Maria Zoë rode in silence in the brittle morning sunshine. They had said their farewells the night before, and now there was nothing more to say. Except that Maria Zoë was finding it harder and harder to go. She had been amazed and relieved when the Sultan’s messenger first arrived. It was the gift of certain life and freedom for her children, for Eschiva, and for Eloise as well. But Isabella, Eschiva, and Eloise had husbands safe outside of Jerusalem. Only Maria Zoë was being torn apart from hers.
Once during the night she had broached the topic. The children would be safe with Eschiva. Maybe she—Balian had cut her off sharply. He would not hear of it or discuss it.
Now he reached out and took her gloved hand in his naked one and raised it to his lips. “I could have died at Hattin, Zoë, ignominiously. Instead, I have the privilege of defending Jerusalem. Be sure my sons remember that: that I chose to defend Jerusalem, even though it was already lost.”
Maria Zoë nodded, afraid that if she opened her mouth only a sob would come out. That was another advantage of the gauze veils shielding her face from the sun and the eyes of others: they kept her red and puffy eyes hidden.
“Be sure that they remember one thing more,” Balian asked of his wife.
She turned to him and waited expectantly.
“Be sure they always remember that the tomb in the Holy Sepulcher is empty. It is empty because He rose from the dead. He is not here, in Jerusalem. He is wherever two or more of you are gathered in His name.”
They had reached St. Stephen’s Gate, and Balian drew up. He would not risk going outside, where—now that he was a valuable prisoner—the Sultan’s guard might be tempted (if they didn’t have orders) to seize him.
“Go with God, my love, and in the knowledge that He is with you.”
“But also with you!” Maria Zoë choked out.
Chapter 21
Jerusalem, August 6, 1187
MATHEWOS COULD HAVE GONE WITH THE Dowager Queen. She had asked him to. But knowing that Salah ad-Din had allowed only one groom and one priest and that all who remained in Jerusalem would die, he had requested her to take his son Dawit with his wife and infant son instead. Beth, however, refused to place herself in the company of fifty Mamlukes. She was certain they would recognize her as an apostate and brutally stone her to death. She said she preferred to die beside her husband fighting in Jerusalem than to allow herself to be slaughtered by people who despised her. So Mathewos had asked the Lady of Ibelin to take his youngest son, Eskindar, instead.
Eskindar had been furious. He wanted to prove he was a great warrior. He wanted to show his older brother Dawit that he would have been a great knight, if only he’d been given the chance. Eskindar had shouted and protested vehemently, but in the end he had done what his father ordered him to do, because he was a good boy and obeyed God’s commandment to honor his father.
Mathewos looked around at the little family that was left with him, and tears of pride filled his eyes. Dawit was a splendid young man, as tall and strong as any knight, but a gentle and loving husband and father. Even now, he sat beside Beth as she rocked the cradle with their son and he held her other hand entwined in his own. Mathewos’ eyes shifted from her lovely face, framed by a clean white wimple, to his little grandson, sleeping contentedly in the cradle, and he was sad to think they would both soon be dead, yet proud to have had such a dutiful and respectful daughter-in-law.
His eyes shifted to his own daughter, Tsion, who had greatly disappointed and hurt him by her disobedience. He still could not grasp that she would willingly give her body to a man not her husband, and he still felt shamed by her willfulness. But he could not stop loving her, and after she married her Gabriel, she had continued to look after her old father as well as—if not better—than before. Even now, she felt his gaze and smiled over her shoulder at him as she warmed a hippocras over the little tack-room brazier to help him sleep.
He frowned, because he did not want her to think she had been wholly forgiven or that he was going soft. What she had done was wrong, and God was punishing her; she had been barren ever since she lost the baby conceived in sin.
Then again, he thought sadly as she brought him the mulled wine and smiled pleadingly, she was perhaps the lucky one, since she would not have to live with the thought that her baby would be murdered by Saracen soldiers. Mathewos knew the Saracens might spare children old enough to work as slaves, but infants and toddlers were considered noisy and troublesome and would be quickly slaughtered. Mathewos sighed deeply and glanced again at his little grandson, Menelik. He had been named for the Ethiopian king who had, like this little Menelik, been conceived in the City of David, the offspring of the Queen of Ethiopia (more commonly called the Queen of Sheba) and King Solomon himself. Mathewos had had great hopes for his little grandson, but God had decreed otherwise.
Beyond the door opening into the stables, something bumped followed by a chorus of nickers, alerting them that someone was coming, even before the door to the tack room was pushed open so hard it cracked against the nearest empty saddle rack. In the door stood Tsion’s impulsive and self-confident husband, Gabriel, the sight of whom always brought a scowl to Mathewos’ face.
Gabriel had returned with the Lord of Ibelin when they thought they were coming for a single night to bring the Lady of Ibelin and her children out of Jerusalem. Because Ernoul had not yet recovered from the severe wounds he had taken at Hattin, Gabriel had not had much choice in the matter, but he had come willingly, thinking he would be able to rescue Tsion as well. When Balian decided to remain in Jerusalem, he had sent Gabriel with his written message to Salah ad-Din so that the squire at least could honestly say he had kept his word. The escort commander, however, had been so furious with the treachery of the Lord of Ibelin that he’d held a sword to Gabriel’s throat and threatened his life. Only the warnings of cooler heads (suggesting the Sultan might not appreciate a mere slave killing a man enjoying his safe-conduct) had prevented Gabriel’s summary execution. After that experience, Gabriel had no intention of traveling in the company of the Saracens; as soon as he’d handed over Ibelin’s message, he’d dashed back to Jerusalem.
Now he burst into the tack room with unnecessary force, calling out to his father-in-law: “Mathewos! My lord wants you to attend on him at once!”
Despite Gabriel’s evident excitement, Mathewos remained calm. In his opinion, his son-in-law was far too excitable. Instead he asked phlegmatically, “Now? At this time of night?”
“Yes. He’s sent for both you and my own dad. You’re to go to him in the chapel at once.”
“The chapel?” Now Mathewos frowned. “What is this about?” he asked, getting to his feet and setting aside his mug of mulled wine.
“I don’t know,” Gabriel admitted. “He’s spent the whole day with the Patriarch and the council. He only just got back, ate standing up, and then asked me to fetch you and my dad.”
Mathewos nodded and gestured for Dawit to stay sitting, while Tsion urged her husband to sit down and spend some time with her at last. Mathewos hated to hear her beg for her husband’s attention. It was undignified and it made him dislike his son-in-law more; he was too young and restless to be married. He had only been interested in sex with Tsion, and he would never have married her if the Baron of Ibelin had not forced him. As was to be expected, Gabriel begged off, saying he had to go find Sir Constantine.
Mathewos made his way up to the Ibelin family chapel, a very small room on the first floor overlooking the Street of Jehoshaphat. That the Ibelins felt the need for their own private chapel, in a city bursting with churches built on the most sacred sites of Christendom, was not something Mathewos entirely understood—except that the churches of Jerusalem were almost always flooded with pilgrims.
As he approached t
he little chapel, he saw Father Michael hastening in the same direction wearing his vestments; apparently there was to be a Mass. The Baron of Ibelin was in the chapel already, but he was not kneeling in prayer. In fact, he was fully armored and armed except for his helmet. His face, which had been earnest, lightened at the sight of Mathewos—but before he could explain what was going on, Roger Shoreham arrived, looking decidedly worried. “You sent for me, my lord?”
Ibelin responded by asking almost jovially, “I hope you don’t mind confessing to your own son? He was the priest closest at hand.”
Shoreham looked at Michael, and Michael looked back, equally surprised. Then Shoreham asked warily, “Why should I need to confess now?”
“It is customary, that’s all. It is, of course, also customary to spend the night in prayer and bathe at dawn before confession—but frankly, I would rather you got a good night’s sleep. You see, tomorrow at Prime there is to be a muster of all men in the city who think themselves capable of bearing arms. The parish priests are even now going door to door and making a head count of men, women, and children, both residents and refugees, while spreading the word about the muster. The men are to muster wearing whatever armor and bearing what arms they have. Once I have a better idea of just how many fighting men there are in the city and their age, health, and equipment, I will start organizing them into units. Each unit will be assigned a sector of the city for which they will be responsible—both for keeping order and, when the time comes, for defending the adjacent wall segment.”
Shoreham nodded agreement. It was what he expected and what was necessary.
“My problem at the moment,” Ibelin continued, “is a lack of experienced men capable of commanding and organizing those units. Sir Constantine,” he indicated the Greek knight who had joined them silently, “will, of course, take command of the Greek and Armenian contingents, which we estimate to be about three thousand strong. Roger, I want you to take command of the Franks, which will be the strongest contingent on account of the refugees. Right now we guess it could be as many as five thousand men.”
Defender of Jerusalem Page 57
