She studied William’s profile, finding it on the tip of her tongue to ask him if he’d tell her if there was reason to worry about Baldwin’s injury. She bit the words back, realizing how unfair that would be. Another silence fell between them, this one not as comfortable.
The quiet of the gardens was suddenly shattered by the intrusion of boisterous male voices. The Lord of Ramlah, Baudouin d’Ibelin, was striding along the pathway, bantering with a newcomer to Outremer, Amaury de Lusignan. Baudouin’s wife, Richilde, trailed behind them, while his younger brother, Balian, ambled along in the rear.
Maria did not know what to make of the older d’Ibelin brother. Baudouin could be rather overwhelming; her private name for him was Sirokos, the Greek term for a powerful, gusting wind that originated in the African desert and swept all before it. He was loud, exuberant, and utterly lacking in subtlety, qualities that were not admired at the Greek court. But his swagger was well-earned, for he was renowned for his battlefield prowess, and she came to see that, while he might be brash and alarmingly blunt, he was not malicious, nor was he mean-spirited.
Catching sight of the queen and the archdeacon, Baudouin veered in their direction. “William, you sly dog! Leave it to you to lay claim to the prettiest woman at the court!”
Maria knew by now that his heavy-handed flirting was harmless; she still wondered how his wife felt about it. William did not appreciate Baudouin’s humor, either, for there was no way to respond to it without sounding like a fool. Yet as much as he disapproved of Baudouin’s behavior at times, he found it impossible to dislike the other man, and he rose to greet the new arrivals with a smile.
Maria and William had already met Amaury de Lusignan, a member of a noble French family that was notorious for their feuding with the English king, Henry FitzEmpress, who was also their liege lord because of his marriage to Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine. Amaury had a reputation as a good soldier and so they hoped he would extend his stay in Outremer. Too many who took the cross were eager to return home once they’d visited the holy sites in Jerusalem. The kingdom was always seriously short of manpower, dangerously outnumbered by their Saracen enemies.
Richilde greeted them listlessly. Maria did not take it personally, for she had never seen the older woman animated. She’d been wed to Baudouin for nigh on twenty years, had given him two daughters but no sons, and rumor had it that their marriage was not a happy one. Maria, who’d now failed twice to produce a son for Amalric, felt some sympathy for Richilde, for Baudouin was outspoken in his disappointment at not having a male heir.
She smiled at Balian as he kissed her hand, for she’d not forgotten his kindness on the day that she’d burst into William’s chambers and blurted out her hatred of Agnes de Courtenay. The d’Ibelins had earlier expressed their condolences and Amaury de Lusignan was likely ignorant of her loss, so she hoped she’d be spared having to discuss her daughter’s death yet again.
Her hopes were justified, for Baudouin was interested only in talking about the troubles that had befallen the English king. Word had recently reached Outremer that Henry’s sons had risen up in rebellion against him. That was not so shocking; royal fathers and unruly sons had been known since the days of King David and Absalom. What people found so incredible was that Eleanor was said to have joined in their rebellion, for no one could think of a case in which a queen had turned upon her husband. The rebellion was of great interest to all at Amalric’s court; the English king was his nephew and he’d recently promised to take the cross, pledging desperately needed funds for the defense of the Holy Land.
After they exhausted the subject of the royal rebellion, they began discussing the other topic that was never far from their minds: the danger posed by their Saracen neighbors. The man who ruled Syria and Egypt, Nūr al-Dīn, was said to be ailing, and the men began to speculate about his successor should his illness prove fatal. As usual, Baudouin was dominating the conversation and William, noticing that Balian had drawn away from the others, moved to join him, saying, “They are wasting their time worrying about Nūr al-Dīn’s son. He’s just a lad and he’ll not hold power for long if his father dies whilst he’s still a minor.”
Balian knew the man that William most feared was one who served Nūr al-Dīn, the current vizier of Egypt, Salāh al-Dīn, known to the Franks as Saladin. “You think Saladin will be the force to the reckoned with once Nūr al-Dīn dies?”
“I am sure of it.” William was about to elaborate upon why he thought Saladin to be such a threat when he saw that Balian was no longer listening, gazing over his shoulder with the expression of one watching an approaching storm.
“Trouble,” he said softly and succinctly, and William turned to see Agnes de Courtenay entering the gardens. Looking back at his brother, Balian confided, “Baudouin and Agnes are like flint and tinder whenever they get together. He truly loathes the woman, blaming her for abandoning Hugh to wed Amalric. She swore to Hugh that she’d been given no say in the matter, and Hugh must have believed her, for he married her. But Baudouin still insists she’d seen the Count of Jaffa as a greater prize than the Lord of Ramlah. And she detests Baudouin in equal measure, for he spoke out forcefully against allowing her to become queen.”
Agnes was alone, unusual in itself, and she was close enough now for them to see the hot color burning in her cheeks and the taut set of her mouth; clearly her private talk with Amalric had not gone well. William did not care if she and Baudouin raged at each other like ravening wolves, but he was not going to let her take out her frustration upon Maria and he tensed as she glanced their way, then swerved toward them.
She did not even look at Maria or Baudouin, though, heading directly for William. “I want to speak with you—privately,” she said abruptly, ignoring Balian’s wry “Good to see you, too, Agnes.”
“I cannot do that, madame, William said just as tersely, thinking he’d sooner wear a hair shirt for the rest of his born days than spend any time alone with Agnes de Courtenay.
“Yes,” she said, hissing the word through clenched teeth. “You can and you will, for if anyone knows what is wrong with my son, it is you!”
“If you have questions about the young prince’s health, my lady countess, you should ask them of the king.”
“I did!” Her voice rose, and others in the garden began to glance in her direction. “He lied to me, insisting Baldwin is fine. Fine? He cannot even use his right hand!”
William’s discomfort was giving way to anger. Mayhap she truly was concerned for the lad. Yet that did not give her the right to make a scene like this, to put her needs before Baldwin’s. When word of this got around, people would say that the boy’s own mother thought he was ailing, unfit to be king.
“I have nothing to say to you,” he said coldly.
She stared at him and then slapped him across the face.
William’s head jerked back and he tasted blood in his mouth, having bitten his lip. There were gasps from those watching, for by now they’d begun to draw a crowd. Before he could react, Maria was at his side, dark eyes blazing.
“How dare you strike Master William! He is devoted to your son, would give his life for Baldwin if need be.”
“He is Amalric’s puppet, willing to sell his soul for a king’s favor whilst my son suffers!”
“Baldwin injured his shoulder. You know that because my lord husband told you so. He told you, too, that Baldwin is getting better—”
“And are you going to assure me of that, too? As if you care about Baldwin’s welfare!”
“Of course I do!”
“You are such a hypocrite. You’d thank God fasting if my children died, for whilst they live, your brat will never become queen!”
Maria went ashen. Fighting back tears, she swung away from Agnes, began to walk blindly up the path as her attendants scrambled to catch up with her. William gave Agnes a look of utter outrage, then hastened after Maria.
Balian was shaking his head in disbelief, but it was Baudouin who drew all eyes, rising to his feet and slowly beginning to clap.
“Well done, sister-in-law. Most people know better than to mention rope in the house of a man who’d been hanged. But no one except you would think to speak of dead children to a woman who’d just buried her own child.”
Agnes drew a sharp breath. She was given no chance to retort, though, for it was then that Balian’s hand clamped down on her wrist. She tried to pull free, but his grip was too tight and she found herself being forced off the path, away from the others. He did not halt until he was sure they were out of hearing of their audience.
“No—do not say a word,” he warned. “For once you are going to listen. If you choose to make a fool of yourself, so be it. But your son is in the far end of the gardens. Do you truly want him to see you like this?”
“Baldwin . . . he’s here?”
“Down by the fish pond, playing quoits with his friends.”
She glanced in that direction, then back at Balian. “You cannot imagine what it’s like, knowing that something is wrong with my son, whilst Amalric keeps shutting me out, lying to me.”
“You have to stop lashing out like this, Agnes, if not for your own sake, for Baldwin’s. Even if the worst happens and he does lose the use of his hand, he can still do what a king must, still command men and lead them into battle. But if you keep carrying on like this, he’ll start to doubt that, to doubt himself.”
“You do not understand, Balian,” she said very low, and he was taken aback by what he saw in her eyes—real fear.
She straightened her shoulders then, raising her chin, and turned away. She’d only taken a few steps before she stopped. “I’d forgotten that the Greek’s daughter had died.” Not waiting for his response, she began to walk toward the far end of the gardens.
Balian watched her go, thinking that at least she was still capable of shame. But he could not keep from wondering why a shoulder injury had her so frightened.
* * *
When Balian returned to the great hall later that afternoon, he was relieved to see that all seemed tranquil after the morning’s turmoil. Amalric was seated upon the dais, with Maria at his side, welcoming new arrivals to the Christmas court. Trestle tables would soon be set up for the evening meal; for now, a harpist played for the guests and the men and their wives were showing off their finery, greeting friends, gossiping, and laughing. There was a swirl of brilliant colors and the rustle of silk, satin, sarcenet, and damask, for despite the kingdom’s precarious position, its people enjoyed greater comforts and luxuries than their Christian brethren in France and England. Balian was a Poulain, the term for those born in Outremer, originally one of disdain but proudly adopted by the Poulains as their own. Unlike Master William, who’d spent twenty years studying in Paris and Bologna, Balian had never left Outremer, nor had he any wish to do so. The Holy Land was not a pilgrimage destination for the Poulains. It was home.
As he moved closer to the dais, he noticed that Amalric would occasionally glance across the hall. Following his gaze, Balian soon saw what was attracting his attention. His daughter Sybilla was sitting in a window seat with her mother, the girl chattering away vivaciously, laughing frequently, while Agnes listened with a smile. Watching them, it occurred to Balian that if Amalric had wanted to limit his former wife’s influence upon their children, he’d gone about it the wrong way. By trying to keep Agnes at a distance, he’d only succeeded in making her a figure of glamour and mystery to Baldwin and Sybilla. The appeal of forbidden fruit, he thought, and then started when he heard his name said, close at hand. He spun around to find himself facing Agnes’s fourth and current husband, Renaud de Grenier, Lord of Sidon.
Balian greeted the other man warmly, but not as Renaud, for although that was his baptismal name, his friends and family all knew him as Denys. As an infant, he’d been near death with a high fever until his desperate mother had prayed to St. Denys, whose feast day it was. When he recovered, she’d begun calling him Denys and the name stuck.
Denys’s surprise marriage to Agnes had stirred up gossip and speculation, as well as some cruel jokes about the beauty and the beast, for Denys was as ill-favored as she was comely. Balian was not amused by these jests, finding the older man to be very likable and extremely intelligent, with a strong streak of irony and a droll sense of humor. He did think Denys and Agnes were an odd pairing but kept that to himself.
“I owe you a debt of gratitude for your intercession in the gardens this morning,” Denys said with a faint smile.
“If only horses could travel as fast as gossip,” Balian said, with a smile of his own, “I’d be able to ride to Acre and back in the course of a day. What did you hear?”
“That Agnes slapped the archdeacon of Tyre and mortally offended the queen. God forbid there was more?”
“No, that covers it. You owe me no thanks, though, Denys. When I see a fire, my instinct is to pour water on the flames.”
Denys was following Amalric’s example, keeping his gaze upon Agnes and Sybilla. “I am not defending her behavior,” he said quietly, “but she is very worried about Baldwin.”
“Why?”
Denys glanced around to make sure no others were within hearing. “Because Amalric is very worried. He has sent for Saracen physicians from Cairo to examine the lad, keeps Abū Sulayman Dāwūd close at hand, and he does not sleep well at nights, often rising to pace and brood.”
“How does Agnes know that?” Denys did not reply, regarding him with a cynical smile, and Balian wondered how he could have been so naïve. Hugh’s death had made Agnes a wealthy woman, entitled to one half of the revenues of the lordship of Ramlah, yet another reason why Baudouin resented her so much. She could afford to pay and pay well for information. “She has spies in Amalric’s own household, then?”
Denys nodded. “She’d probably have planted spies in the queen’s household, too, but Maria surrounds herself with attendants who speak only Greek.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I want you to understand why she is so distraught, so lacking in control. She has few friends at court, Balian. But whatever others say of her, Agnes loves her son dearly.”
There was a sudden stir in the crowd, and both men turned to watch as Baldwin entered the hall and made his way toward the dais. The boy was so handsome, so spirited, so vibrant, that Balian found it impossible to believe that he could be seriously ill. “I think Amalric could well be grieving for the lad’s injury, coming to terms with the realization that it is not going to heal, that he’ll be crippled.”
“I thought of that, too, but Agnes insists that a mother’s intuition tells her otherwise.” Denys sighed, and Balian thought that life with Agnes must be challenging at times. He realized that the other man wanted to enlist him in a conspiracy to protect Agnes from herself, and he hoped that Denys would not ask him outright. Feeling pity for Agnes did not make him like her any better.
Denys did not push it further, apparently satisfied that he’d planted a seed. “Even if Agnes’s fears prove to be valid, at least we need not fear for the future of the kingdom. Amalric is thirty-seven and his queen just nineteen, so there is no reason to doubt that she’ll give him sons. God willing, Amalric will reign for years to come. We shall desperately need a strong king like Amalric once Nūr al-Dīn dies.”
“You mean Saladin?”
Denys nodded grimly. “Yes,” he said, “Saladin.”
CHAPTER 3
July 1174
Jerusalem, Outremer
Is the king dying?”
Maria had her answer in the silence and averted eyes of the doctors. She wanted to argue with them, to deny that her husband was doomed; she could not. The truth was writ in Amalric’s face, in the occasional groans that escaped his blistered lips. His eyes were sunken, his skin dry and shriveled. Although he
was burning with fever, he could not perspire, and when he was able to urinate at all, it was a dark, cloudy yellow. Despite being sparing in what he ate and drank, he’d always been corpulent, but he’d lost so much weight in the past week that his double chin was utterly gone. When she’d put her fingers to his wrist, she could barely find a pulse. She felt as if she were gazing down at a stranger, and that only contributed to the unreality of the scene.
How could this be happening? The Christians of Outremer had been so hopeful when they’d gotten word of the May death of Nūr al-Dīn in Damascus, leaving as his heir an eleven-year-old boy. Amalric had moved at once to take advantage of his Saracen enemy’s demise, leading a force to recapture the city of Bāniās. After meeting stiff resistance, he’d agreed to lift the siege in return for a large sum of money offered by Nūr al-Dīn’s widow. But by the time Amalric reached Tiberias, he was ailing, suffering from the malady called dysentery or the bloody flux.
He had stubbornly rejected a litter, continuing on to Jerusalem by horseback, where doctors were immediately summoned. They’d managed to get his bowels under control; then he was stricken by a high fever. When he’d not responded to treatment, he demanded that he be given a purgative. While Abū Sulayman Dāwūd refused, saying he was too weak, the Frankish doctors agreed to administer it. The Syrian physician’s concern proved to be justified, and as Amalric’s strength ebbed away, so, too, did any hope that he’d survive.
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