The Kings of Vain Intent
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Disclaimer
Dedication
Principal Characters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Aftermath
Author’s Note
About the Author
Read More
Copyright
The Kings of Vain Intent
Graham Shelby
This book contains views and language on nationality, sexual politics, ethnicity, and society which are a product of the time in which the book is set. The publishers do not endorse or support these views. They have been retained in order to preserve the integrity of the text.
For Ann and DMF, DBN, TWR and the many others who continue to encourage
Principal Characters
The Crusaders in the East
BALIAN OF IBELIN Lord of Nablus
MARIA COMNENA Dowager Queen, Lady of Nablus
FOSTUS Constable of Nablus
ERNOUL Squire to Lord Balian
HUMPHREY Lord of Toron
ISABELLA Princess of Jerusalem, Lady of Toron, daughter of Maria, stepdaughter of Balian
GUY OF LUSIGNAN King of Jerusalem
AMALRIC OF LUSIGNAN Constable of the Kingdom, brother of King Guy
JOSCELIN OF COURTENAY Seneschal of the Kingdom
CONRAD Marquis of Montferrat
GERARD OF RIDEFORT Grand Master of the Temple
ERMENGARD DE DAPS Grand Master of the Hospital
The Crusaders from the West
RICHARD CŒUR-DE-LION King of England
ROBERT OF BRETEUIL Earl of Leicester
ELEANOR Dowager Queen, mother of Richard and Joanna
JOANNA Queen of Sicily
BERENGARIA Princess of Navarre
PHILIP AUGUSTUS King of France
HENRY Count of Troyes
HUGH Duke of Burgundy
WILLIAM DES BARRES French knight
ROBERT OF SABLON Later Grand Master of the Temple
FREDERICK BARBAROSSA Emperor of Germany
LEOPOLD Duke of Austria
TANCRED King of Sicily
ISAAC Emperor of Cyprus
The Saracens
SALADIN Sultan, Salah ed-Din Yusuf, al-Malik un-Nasir
SAPHADIN Brother of Saladin, Al-Malik al Adil Saif ed-Din Adu Bakr
AL-AFDAL Eldest son of Saladin, Ali, al-Malik al-Afdal
TAKEDIN Emir of Elamat, nephew of Saladin Al-Malik al Modajfer Taki ed-Din Omar
KARA-KUSH Governor of Acre
Chapter One
Palestine
1187
The grass continued to burn for several days. The inconstant July wind lifted the smoke from the plateau and rolled it, like black surf, against the peaks of rock known as the Horns of Hattin, or southward into the valleys of Galilee. On the second day after the battle, when the victorious Moslem army had led their Christian captives from the field, the scavengers came. They brought wagons which they left on the edge of the plateau, and deep sacks draped around their shoulders. Before they had ventured more than a few yards across the burnt grass they pressed wadded rags to their faces and tied them in place with scarves or lengths of cord. But this did not keep the smoke from their eyes, nor the stench of death from their nostrils.
They had heard certain things about the battle. It had been the gravest defeat ever suffered by a Christian army in Palestine. The King of Jerusalem had been taken. So, too, had the king’s elder brother, the Constable of the Kingdom. So, too, had the Seneschal of the Kingdom, and many lesser barons. In fact, they had heard that of the fifteen-thousand-strong Crusader force, less than three hundred had escaped death or capture.
The scavengers moved about the plateau, inspecting the butchered corpses for arms, jewellery, a serviceable pair of shoes. Within an hour they were cursing their ill-fortune. The Saracens had been thorough, and had left nothing. A broken sword was found here, a splintered crossbow there, but the searchers were not in the mood for mementoes. It seemed incredible that with three or four thousand corpses, the pickings were so slim.
On one part of the field they found the bodies of the Military Orders of Knights Templar and Knights Hospitaller. They found the bodies, but not the heads, and this bore out something else they had heard. The men of the Temple and the Hospital were professional soldiers, dedicated to the extinction of Christ’s enemies in the East. Clearly, the Saracens had thought them far too adept at warfare to be spared. The heads were probably now on show in Damascus.
They brushed irritably at the smoke and stench, padded about, glancing this way and that, then broke into a run, chasing the gleam of metal, or the sparkle of decoration. More times than not the metal was twisted, the decoration a mere circle of claws that had once held a jewel. Damn those black Moslem pigs! What right had they to steal from the bodies of Christian dead?
Eventually, with nothing to encourage them, the scavengers spat and coughed their way from the plateau. The smoke wreathed over the smouldering charnel-house and continued to break against the twin grey peaks…
* * *
The Moslem force that had destroyed the Crusaders at Hattin had been led by the Sultan, Salah ed-Din Yusuf, surnamed al-Malik un-Nasir, the Victorious King. He was known more simply to the soldiers of the West as Saladin.
His victory beneath the Horns of Hattin had been complete; the Crusaders had emptied their castles of men, bringing them all on to the battlefield, so his reward proved to be both immediate and far-reaching.
During July, the Sultan and his Emirs swept through the Christian Kingdom, capturing the inland fortresses of Tiberias, Nablus and Toron, the villages of Nazareth and Sebastia, the coastal strongholds of Caesarea, Haifa and Acre. In August, Beirut fell, along with a dozen other castles and citadels. On 4th September, Ascalon was taken, giving the Saracens control of the entire coast, as far north as Tyre.
Less than a month later, Saladin and his Mamlukes rode through the Gate of the Column of St Stephen to accept the surrender of Jerusalem. This was the city most precious to Moslems, Christians and Jews, the city that contained the Dome of the Rock, from where the prophet Mohammed had leapt to Heaven; the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, said to contain fragments of the True Cross on which Christ had died; the Jewish Temple and the Wailing Wall. The date was 2nd October, but more important, it was Friday, 27th Rajab, 583 A.H., the anniversary of Mohammed’s flight to Jerusalem in the company of the Angel Gabriel. The Sultan’s timing was faultless and, honouring the date, he showed extraordinary generosity toward the defeated inhabitants. Because he admired and respected the man who had organized the defence of the city – Balian of Ibelin, Lord of Nablus – he allowed the Crusader to ransom more than forty thousand of the civilian population. As though this were not enough, he then freed one thousand, without exacting payment, and granted his brother Saphadin a further thousand, who were also set free. Balian of Ibelin undertook to lead the refugees from the city.
By the end of the year, the Defenders of Christ in the East had lost all but a few scattered fortresses and the coastal strongholds of Tripoli and Tyre. This was the nadir of the Frankish era in
Palestine. The army had been utterly destroyed on the plateau of Hattin. One hundred years of toil and gradual success had been brought to nothing. The great castles were lost, and the thriving ports, and the Holy City of Jerusalem.
Yet, with the death knell of Christian domination ringing across the lakes of sulphur and the deserts of crystal, echoing among the dry hills of Samaria and the shallow valleys of Galilee, with this sound so clearly in their ears, the remnant Crusaders still found the strength to turn on one another – as they had always done.
Chapter Two
Tyre
August 1188
The sun was uncomfortably hot. It had been bad enough inside the city, a damp, walled-in heat that made a man sweat even if he wore a thin, linen shift. In a felt or leather gambeson it was worse, while in a link-mail hauberk – a none-too-supple suit of welded iron rings – it was intolerable. One could feel the linen undershirt cling and wrinkle and, where it had ridden up the arms, there was the slimy dampness of leather, or the pinch and chafe of the metal links. It was city heat, and there was not much to be said for it.
But even this was a mere irritation compared with the unshaded heat of the coast. Once clear of the houses and the narrow streets and the city walls a man was prey to the direct glare of the sun, a giant, unblinking hawk that hovered, waiting for the traveller to gasp and fall.
It was advisable to cover the head with a linen hood, or to adopt a form of Moslem turban. It was also advisable for a Crusader to wear his helmet; beyond sight of Tyre or Tripoli, nowhere was safe from attack. The Saracen cavalry, mounted archers called Ramieh, would sweep from the valley mouths, gripping their light Arab horses with their knees while they used their hands to fit ostrich-feathered arrows into short, cane bows. So it was advisable to ride fully armed, with the kite-shaped shield slung from the saddle pommel.
To Hell with what was advisable. It was too hot to abide by the rules.
The rider threw back the linen hood, lifted the helmet from his,head, attached the ‘acorn’ to a hook on his belt, then removed a second hood, the headpiece of his metal hauberk.
Imprisonment had changed Guy of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem. His yellow hair had thinned, and his once handsome features had become pinched and sallow. A year in the Saracen fortress at Lattakieh had taken its toll of him; not that he had been maltreated, for he had not. Indeed, Saladin had commanded the prison governor to accord Guy the courtesies of his rank – an enemy king, albeit a reluctant one. The true strain of incarceration had come from more intimate sources. For twelve months he had been closeted with the three people he despised most in all the world: his elder brother Amalric, Constable of the Kingdom; the Seneschal, Joscelin of Courtenay, and his own wife, Queen Sibylla of Jerusalem.
He readjusted the white hood and glanced furtively to his left. Yes, there was Amalric, always close at hand. He looked across at the lean, perpetually angry face and at the dark eyes that always hungered for something that was out of stock, or out of season. Guy glanced ahead again and heard his brother say, ‘Yes? What fascinates you?’
‘Nothing,’ he mumbled. ‘What would, out here?’ He addressed the question as much to himself as to Amalric and glanced round at the barren landscape. Behind him, half concealed by the dust that rose from the hooves of forty horses, lay the city of Tripoli. To the east were the hills of Jebel Libnan and the distant summit of Qurnet es Sauda. To the west was the featureless shoreline and the Great Sea, across which, someday, help would come from Europe. But for the moment the view was half obscured by the lumpish body and fleshy, overlarge face of Seneschal Joscelin of Courtenay. Again Guy turned away, moving his head back so that the edges of his hood would blinker him. My God, he thought, how much farther must I go, pinned between these two? He had gone all his life with Amalric, and the last nine years with Joscelin. Together, as Constable and Seneschal, they had told him what to think, what to say, what to do, then taken the credit for success upon themselves, and poured upon King Guy the blame for failure.
There had been many failures, the worst of which had been the defeat at Hattin, and nine years under their thumb had left its imprint upon him. He had never wanted to be king – he would say that before God on the Day of Judgement; at least He would listen – but Amalric had brought him out from France, thrust him before the silly, rabbit-brained Princess Sibylla, and arranged that, when she became Queen of Jerusalem, she swiftly passed the crown to her handsome young husband. It had all been carefully arranged, enabling Amalric to have the power, and Joscelin to embezzle money from the Royal Treasury.
Guy sighed, and worked himself farther into his hood. Well, at least he was free of Sibylla for a few days. Perhaps the Saracens would attack Tripoli, and in the ensuing fight she would be transfixed by a stray arrow, or brained – can the brainless be brained? – by a stone from one of their catapults. It was a cheering thought.
‘Are you deaf?’ Amalric snapped.
‘What? Did you say something, brother?’
‘Twice, while you were playing the pilgrim inside your hood. I asked if you had taken the vow.’
‘Vow? Which vow?’
‘Hell, sweet King, you’re not so religious that you can be confused by number. To my knowledge you haven’t taken many vows. I mean the one we made to the Saracen pigs at Lattakieh.’
‘Before they would release us?’
‘Oh, you come along so well. Yes, before they would release us. Did you take it?’
‘I did. Like you and Joscelin.’
Amalric brought his horse closer, and Guy turned to see Joscelin move in from the other side, grinning at the game.
Guy thought, as ever, they’re bored, so they’ll torment me awhile.
The dark-eyed Constable nudged his brother and asked, ‘What did you say? What did you promise?’
‘Much the same as you, I imagine.’
‘What, precisely?’
‘Oh, for the sake of peace, Amalric! I said I would go home – I mean, go back to France. I said I would not plan or engage in any further act of war against the Moslems, nor encourage others, either here or elsewhere. I said – Tell me, why do you need to know? And Joscelin, for Christ’s sake, keep your distance! Why, brother? It won’t offend you if I break the vow, will it?’
‘No, no,’ Amalric told him, grinning unpleasantly, ‘not if you break it. But it would sorely distress me, brother King, if you were to keep it. Eh, Joscelin?’
Always happy to follow Amalric’s lead, for it lifted the onus of invention from him, the Seneschal nodded. ‘It would distress me, too.’
Guy shrugged with disgust. ‘Sometimes, my lords—’
‘Sometimes what?’ Amalric pressed. ‘Sometimes we need reassurance, is that it? Is that what you would say?’
Frightened of him – unable to remember a time when he had not been frightened of him – Guy just shook his head and finished the phrase in silence. Sometimes, my lords, you sicken me. You, Amalric, for leading in dissent. And you, Joscelin, for padding along behind. God knows you both sicken me, and one day I will let you know it.
So they went, the King of Jerusalem and his senior suzerains, along the barren coast road to Tyre, to claim the allegiance of the Crusader who had held that city for a year against the Saracens.
* * *
Balian of Ibelin poured himself a mug of wine, stared at it, then poured it back into the flask. It was too early in the day. He stretched his legs under the rough wood table, folded his arms across his chest, unfolded them and reached up towards the low, beamed ceiling. He was bored; bored and angry.
He was one of the most powerful warlords in the Kingdom – one still used the term, though there was no Kingdom left – and yet, because the Italian would allow no forays from the city, Balian remained a virtual prisoner inside the walls. It was a situation he had avoided all his life, though, to be fair, until now there had always been somewhere to go.
When he could stand the inactivity no longer he pushed himself from the table and left the
house. He was a tall, sandy-haired man, a year past forty now, as fit as he had ever been, save for the corrosive ague of boredom.
He had been born in Palestine and, until Hattin, he had ranked as one of the most successful of the native-born barons. After the terrible defeat beneath the twin peaks everything had changed, not only for Balian of Ibelin, but for every knight and nobleman in the Kingdom. With Guy and Amalric and Joscelin taken prisoner, and all but a handful of the Christian force killed or in captivity, it had been left to each survivor to do as he thought best. Balian, who with a few others had broken through the encompassing Saracen lines, had taken it upon himself to organize the defence of Jerusalem. It had been a hopeless task, for the Holy City had contained some sixty-five thousand civilian inhabitants, among whom were less than eight hundred males aged between fifteen and sixty. So Jerusalem had fallen, and Balian had led a vast refugee column northward to Tyre. It was here that he had met the Italian, the man who styled himself the Defender of Tyre, Marquis Conrad of Montferrat. That meeting had set the pattern for what was to follow…
They had reached the city in early November, almost a month after the Saracens had entered Jerusalem. There were twelve thousand in Balian’s column; others had moved farther north, to Tripoli, or as far as Antioch. But he had chosen Tyre and, accompanied by his squire and constable, he led the column to the strip of land that connected Tyre to the coast.
Gazing along the narrow corridor, known as Alexander’s Causeway, Balian said, ‘Tell the people to make camp here.’
His squire was a skinny young man named Ernoul. He was twenty-three years of age, a chronicler and a writer of love poems – he had found that if a poem was sufficiently imprecise in content it made its effect on any number of women – and had been in Balian’s service for more than six years. This, together with the fact that the Lord of Nablus allowed him a greater degree of latitude than was common, had, on occasion, brought Ernoul to the edge of ill-discipline. Now, not understanding why Balian should call a halt within a few hundred yards of the city, he said, ‘But they will want to go on, sire. Having come so far—’
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