* * *
Hours later, Maria was still seething. The words, innocuous in themselves, had been infused with such venom that they’d left her speechless, and thank God Almighty for that; if not, she might have caused a scene that the court would be talking about for years to come. It was not even the malicious insinuation about Isabella’s paternity that had so enraged her, for that was too outrageous to be taken seriously. It was that Agnes saw Isabella—saw her daughter—as a legitimate target in this ugly vendetta of hers. She would come to regret it, to regret it dearly. Maria swore a silent, holy vow to make it so, but even that did not assuage her fury. She needed to give voice to her wrath, needed a sympathetic audience.
Amalric would not want to be dragged into what he’d see as a female feud; he preferred to deal with Agnes by ignoring her. And friendship was a luxury denied to those in power. Maria had been taught that the highborn dared not let down their guard. Servants could be bribed or threatened, handmaidens suborned, and spies were everywhere. But she was luckier than most queens, for she did have a friend, one whom she trusted implicitly.
It was language that had brought them together initially, for Master William was a linguist, fluent in four languages, one of which was Greek. Maria had been thankful to be able to converse with someone in her native tongue, and she’d been grateful, too, that William approved of her marriage, believing an alliance with the Greek empire to be in the best interests of his kingdom. He’d engaged a tutor to teach her French and began to instruct her in the intricacies of Outremer politics. Having grown up at the highly political royal court in Constantinople, Maria was fascinated by statecraft and power. When she’d tried to discuss such matters with Amalric, she’d been politely rebuffed, but William found her to be an apt pupil; as their friendship deepened, Maria no longer felt so utterly alone.
Such a relationship would have been frowned upon in Constantinople, where women led more segregated lives, with few opportunities to mingle with men not of their family. But William was a man of God, now the Archdeacon of Tyre, and that helped to dampen any hint of scandal. So, too, did Amalric’s approval. He admired William greatly, commissioning him to write histories of their kingdom and their Saracen foes. Two years ago, he’d even entrusted his son, Baldwin, into William’s keeping, making him responsible for the young prince’s education. He had no problems with his queen spending time with William, provided that they were chaperoned.
While William and Baldwin were often in the coastal city of Tyre, they were back for the king’s Easter court, with quarters here in the palace. So, when her inner turmoil did not abate, Maria knew what she must do. Summoning two of her ladies and her chief eunuch, Michael, she announced that she was going to visit Master William.
* * *
William’s lodgings showed how high he stood in the king’s favor. Space was at a premium at court, even in the new royal palace, yet William been given two rooms. The antechamber was comfortably furnished with a table, desk, and chairs, for it was here that he did his writing and met with guests. Double doors opened onto a small balcony, and a closed door led to his bedchamber, which she knew would be austere and simple. Unlike many churchmen, William had no taste for luxury; whatever money he had, he spent on books. He was holding one in his hand now as he opened the door, his face breaking into a smile at the sight of Maria.
Even in her agitation, she’d not entirely forgotten her manners. “Forgive me for bursting in like this, Master William, but I had such a need to talk with you. Agnes de Courtenay is surely the greatest bitch in all of Christendom! You’ll not believe what that woman dared to say about my daughter. She—”
She got no further, for it was only then that she saw the shadow cast by the man standing on the balcony. She clapped her hand to her mouth, dismayed that she’d uttered such intemperate words for a stranger to hear. But worse was to come. As he moved into the chamber, she gave a horrified gasp, for she knew him. Balian d’Ibelin, the youngest of the Ibelin brothers, Agnes de Courtenay’s former brother-in-law.
For a moment, they stared at each other. She shuddered at the thought of him repeating what he’d overheard. How Agnes would laugh to learn how hurtful her words had been. Dare she ask him to keep silent? But why would he? “I . . . I fear I have been indiscreet. . . .”
“My lady queen,” he said with flawless courtesy and reached for her hand, his lips barely grazing her clenched fingers. And then he smiled. “It is not indiscreet to speak the truth. I know Agnes well enough to assure you that if there are any in Outremer who do not think she is a bitch, they have not yet met her.”
Maria’s eyes widened and then she surprised them both by laughing. Balian had never heard her laugh before; whenever he’d seen her in public at Amalric’s side, she’d been serious, even somber, with a gravity that seemed sad to him in one so young. He liked this Maria better, he decided, and with a gallant bow he ushered her toward a chair, as if he and not William were her host, asking if he could fetch her wine.
“No, I’ll not stay. I do not want to interrupt your visit with Master William.” When Balian claimed he’d just been about to leave, Maria shook her head, insisting he remain. William did not argue, for he sensed that she was still embarrassed. Maria was not comfortable with the unexpected, and what could be more unexpected than sympathy from Agnes’s brother-in-law?
Michael and her women did not speak French, so they looked puzzled when their mistress told them that she was leaving. She smiled at William and then at Balian. While she felt as if he had given her a gift, she was not about to unburden her heart to him. “Master William, I shall speak with you later. Lord Balian, I bid you a good morrow,” she added politely, retreating into the formality that served as her shield. And before the men could react, she had gone, leaving behind only the faintest hint of perfume and the memory of a moment in which she’d shown them a glimpse of the girl hidden away behind the turrets and towers of queenship.
William sat down again. “That was very chivalrous of you, lad, easing her discomfort the way you did. I know you have that unaccountable liking for Agnes, so—”
“What makes you say that, William?”
“Well, I’ve heard you defend her in the past, so I assumed . . . ?”
Balian was shaking his head. “The little queen is right. Agnes is a bitch. I understand, though, why she became such a bitch, so I suppose I judge her less harshly than others.” He grinned then, saying with mock regret, “Truly, it is a curse—seeing both sides of every issue. It has gotten me into trouble more times than I can count.”
“I daresay it has,” William agreed, with a grin of his own. “Even those who are ignorant of Scriptures seem to know that verse from Matthew: ‘He that is not with me is against me.’ I confess I am glad to hear that you are not fond of your former sister by marriage,” he said, for he was very protective of his young charge and considered Agnes de Courtenay to be a detrimental influence upon her son. But he seized this opportunity to indulge his curiosity. “Was your brother happy with Agnes?”
He was not surprised when Balian paused to consider the question, for as young as he was—in his twenty-second year—he was deliberate in all that he did, utterly unlike his elder brothers, Hugh of blessed memory and the impulsive, hot-tempered Baudouin. “I think he was, William, at least at first. Hugh was besotted with her. It well-nigh broke his heart when Amalric married her whilst he was languishing in that Saracen gaol. So, when she came to him after her divorce and offered herself, he was eager to take her as his wife. But it is no easy thing to live with a woman so filled with rage. I suspect it wore him down. . . .”
Not wanting to talk about his brother, whose untimely death still had the power to bring tears to his eyes, Balian nudged the conversation in another direction. “What’s this I hear about young Baldwin’s latest adventure? Is it true that he tried to ride the king’s roan destrier?”
“Sadly, it is. The lad is a fi
ne rider, but he’s too young to ride a fiery beast like Caesar. Yet that is exactly what he would have done had he not been caught by one of the grooms.”
“It is a wonder the lad was not trampled as soon as he ventured into that stall,” Balian said, for Caesar’s ill temper was known to all who’d ridden to war with King Amalric.
“Baldwin is too clever by half. He confessed he’d been sneaking into the stable with treats for the stallion. At least I got him to promise he’d not do it again, and he keeps his word. But I am sure he’ll think of another scheme just as daft.”
Balian knew William had not expected to become so fond of the boy. But watching them together now was almost like watching a father and son, for William gave Baldwin the affection and attention he did not get from Amalric, who was not one for displaying his emotions even with his only son and heir. For that matter, Balian realized, there was something paternal, too, in William’s friendship with the young queen. Looking over at the older man, he startled and pleased William by saying, “The day that Amalric chose you to tutor his son was a lucky day for Baldwin . . . and for the kingdom. With your guidance, he is sure to grow into a good king one day.” Balian was not often so serious and he could not resist teasing, “Assuming, of course, that you can keep the lad from breaking that spirited neck of his.”
William laughed and began to tell Balian about some of Baldwin’s other escapades, never imagining that he would later look back upon that moment with such bittersweet regret, recognizing it for what it was—the last afternoon of utter innocence for him, for his young charge, and for the kingdom Baldwin was destined one day to rule.
* * *
Later that evening, William entered Baldwin’s bedchamber to make sure he was settled in. That was not one of his duties, but Baldwin had a friend staying the night and William wanted to be sure that they got to bed at a reasonable hour; Baldwin was too good at charming servants into bending the rules for him.
As he expected, they were doing anything but sleeping. Feathers floating on the air gave evidence of a recent pillow fight. Baldwin’s wolfhound was helping himself to the remains of their bedtime snack. The boys’ bath had apparently turned into a splashing contest, for towels had been spread around the tub to soak up the overflow. The boys themselves were sprawled on the bed as they took turns carving a thick tallow candle. William got only a glimpse of their handiwork, for they hid it under the sheets as soon as they realized they were no longer alone. It looked to him as if they’d been trying to whittle a woman’s torso from the soft wax, and his initial disapproval gave way at once to resignation. Baldwin would be eleven in June, so it was only to be expected that he’d have begun to show curiosity about the female body.
“We were going to bed,” Hubert insisted, for he was very much in awe of their tutor.
Baldwin was made of sterner stuff. “Eventually,” he said with a grin that William found hard to resist. He did, though, saying calmly that eventually was now. Baldwin raised no protests, seeing no point in fighting a war he was sure to lose. Under William’s watchful eye, the boys stripped off their shirts and braies and slid under the sheets of Baldwin’s huge bed. William reached out to stop the wolfhound from joining them but forgot the dog when he noticed Baldwin’s bruises.
“What happened to your arm? Did you fall?” The boys exchanged glances and Baldwin nodded, but when William moved closer, he saw that the bruises were spaced at intervals, as if deliberately done. Giving Baldwin what they privately called “the look,” he waited for the truth.
“We were playing dare,” Baldwin admitted, and Hubert nervously explained that dare was a challenge game in which boys pinched one another, the winner being the one who held out the longest without showing signs of pain.
“We were playing it yesterday with Arnulf, Gerald, and Adam,” Hubert continued, naming three of the boys who attended classes with them. “Baldwin won. He always wins, and that vexes them no end. They think he somehow cheats!”
Both boys laughed, but William was looking at a deep scratch on Baldwin’s wrist. When Hubert got up to use the privy chamber, he called the scratch to Baldwin’s attention. “The other boys did this, too?” Frowning when Baldwin nodded. “That was foolish, lad. Pinching is one thing, but a scratch like this could easily become infected. I thought you knew better than that.”
Baldwin could have made light of a lecture, but not the disappointment in William’s voice. “I will not play the game anymore,” he promised. “I did not know Arnulf had scratched me like that, for I did not feel it.” Glancing around to make sure Hubert was still in the privy chamber, he lowered his voice. “I do not feel pain in my hand or arm. That is how I always win. Do not tell Hubert, though.”
“You feel no pain? How long has that been true, Baldwin?” The boy shrugged, saying it was not long. William said nothing more, but he could not take his eyes from those mottled bruises, a memory long forgotten beginning to fight its way to the surface, one that sent a chill rippling up his spine.
* * *
William was seated on a bench in the courtyard, staring up at the window of Baldwin’s palace bedchamber. Despite the lateness of the hour, he’d gone at once to Amalric, who ordered a medical examination on the morrow for his son. He’d reacted to William’s news with his usual sangfroid, but William knew he was concerned. William was waiting now for the results, squinting as the sun rose higher in the sky while doing his best to allay his own anxiety, reminding himself that he’d been trained in the liberal arts, theology, and the law, not medicine.
He leaped to his feet when the doctor finally emerged, hastening to intercept him. Unlike many of his countrymen, he did not approve of consulting Saracen doctors, but he did have some confidence in Abū Sulayman Dāwūd, who was well educated and a Syrian Christian. He knew better than to ask, for the physician would deliver his report first to the king. He intended to be there for that, and after an exchange of greetings, he fell in step beside the other man. The doctor was uncommonly tall, his height accentuated by his bright yellow turban, and William, who was of moderate stature, had to hurry to match his longer strides. He was out of breath by the time they reached Amalric’s private quarters and his heart was racing, although he did not know if that was due to the physical exertion or his lingering unease.
Amalric was dictating to a scribe; even his critics acknowledged he was not one to shirk his royal responsibilities. He dismissed the scribe and the others in the chamber as soon as William and the doctor were announced. “Well? Did you find out what ails my son?”
“No, my lord king. It was impossible to make a diagnosis of the young prince. I can tell you only what might be afflicting him. To be certain, we must wait to see if he develops other symptoms.”
Amalric scowled. “Forget certainty, then. Tell me what you think is causing his numbness.”
“It is probably the result of an injury. Lord Baldwin insists he suffered no falls, yet even a minor mishap can cause nerve damage.” Knowing that Amalric’s medical knowledge was confined to the treatment of battle wounds, the doctor offered a brief explanation, one a layman could understand. “Nerves are hollow ducts that originate in the brain and control movement and sensation. So, if they are injured, the result can be a lack of feeling such as your son is experiencing.”
“Can this nerve injury be treated?”
“Yes, my king. Poultices often help. So does rubbing the afflicted limb with warm olive oil. And there are herbs, of course: wormwood, foxglove, and red nettle to name just a few—”
“But you cannot promise these remedies will work?”
“No, my liege,” the other man said calmly. “We are all in the Almighty’s hands. Your son is young, though, and otherwise healthy. He ought to respond well to these treatments.” Seeing that Amalric still looked unsatisfied, he said, “And we can rule out a far more serious malady than an injury, God be praised. When I was first told of the young lord’s
symptoms, I feared it might be a deadly ailment called diabetes, but that is diagnosed by frequent and excessive urination and your son assures me that he has no great need to pass water.”
Amalric glared at the physician, thinking that leeches always told men more than they wanted to know. Why even mention this diabetes disease if Baldwin did not have it? “Start treating him straightaway,” he ordered, and the doctor inclined his head. But despite being dismissed, he did not move.
“There is something you need to know, my liege. I am not saying it will happen, but because your son is the heir to the kingdom, you must be prepared for all eventualities. If the lad does not respond to treatment, it is possible that his condition could worsen . . . that in time he could lose the use of that hand and arm.”
“Christ Jesus!” Amalric stared at the doctor in horror. “A king must lead men into battle. How could Baldwin fight with a crippled arm?”
William was so relieved that the doctor had not spoken of what he most feared that he took the risk of paralysis in stride. “Baldwin is young enough to learn to wield a sword with his left hand. It might even give him an advantage, for men expect their foes to be right-handed.”
Amalric continued to pace and curse, and William was not sure his words had registered with the other man. But Amalric had a practical nature, utterly lacking in sentimentality, and he never wasted time or energy in denying a truth merely because he did not want to accept it. If there was a chance, however slight, that his son might be crippled, better to face it now. “How could Baldwin control a destrier if he were unable to grip the reins?”
William had the answer to that, too. Abū Sulayman Dāwūd was quicker, though. “My brother has served as your son’s horse master since he was old enough to get his feet into the stirrups. He tells me the boy is a natural-born rider, that he is utterly fearless on horseback. He could be taught to control a horse by the pressure of his knees. It is not so difficult to learn, either for men or stallions. Look at the Saracen archers if you need proof of that.”
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 3
