When traveling, Franks of Balian’s rank rarely stayed at inns, preferring to accept the hospitality of local lords. So his men were surprised when he instructed them to take lodgings at one of the inns, but he did not want Maria to think him presumptuous, arriving unannounced and then expecting her to feed and house his men for the night. Saying he’d join them after paying his respects to the queen, he agreed to let Rolf accompany him, and they rode down the dusty main street toward the palace.
Leaving his squire to watch their horses, Balian was escorted into the great hall. He could see that Maria had attempted to make the palace seem more like a home; woven hangings that had once hung in her Jerusalem chambers now adorned the whitewashed walls of the hall, and bright embroidered rugs provided splashes of color. A cupboard held her silver plate, and the elaborately carved coffers were obviously part of her past life, too. He admired her for her determination to put up a brave front, but he felt anger stirring that Agnes was set upon making things as difficult as possible for a young widow in a country not her own.
He rarely acted on impulse; nor was he one for second-guessing his choices. His decision to seek Maria out was undeniably an impulsive one, though, and now he began to regret it, suddenly not sure what reception to expect from her. While she’d always been gracious to him at the royal court, his sudden appearance at Nablus might not be as welcome. He’d begun to pace as he awaited her entrance, gradually becoming aware that he was being watched. Turning, he found himself under scrutiny by a small child.
He knew at once that this was Maria’s daughter, for she had her mother’s dark coloring and the gown she wore was of the finest cotton, her hair braided with ribbons of silk. She tilted her head so far back that she seemed in danger of losing her balance, saying, “You’re tall.”
Balian squatted down so they were closer to eye level. “Are you sure? It may be that you are just short.”
She gave that some serious thought before deciding, “No . . . you are tall.” When Balian grinned, she grinned back at him, and that was how Maria found them. He rose quickly to his feet, but what he’d meant to say was forgotten, for there was no mistaking the expression on her face, one of pleasure.
“Lord Balian, how glad I am to see you,” she exclaimed, and it was only then that he realized how much this woman’s good opinion had come to mean to him.
* * *
The day’s warmth had not yet begun to ebb away, and Maria invited Balian to join her in the courtyard, ordering wine and wafers and fruit for her guest. Once they’d been seated and served, she answered his polite query about the health of the Archbishop of Tyre with a sad shake of her head, saying his doctors had no hope for his recovery. Isabella held out her arms and Maria lifted the child onto her lap, unconcerned that the little girl’s shoes were getting dirt on her dress. Balian liked her for that, watching with a smile as she peeled an orange for her daughter.
Once Isabella was sucking contentedly upon an orange segment, Maria glanced over at Balian, her dark eyes speculative. “We’ve not had many visitors since moving to Nablus. I suppose there are few who want to risk offending the new queen bee. I remember, though, that you’ve never been in thrall to the Lady Agnes, have you?”
He was surprised by her candor, until he realized that no longer being the king’s wife had given her the liberty to speak her mind, probably for the first time in her life. “I am sorry that Agnes has been so spiteful,” he said with such sincerity that she smiled. “I never understood why she bears you such a grudge. Once, when I was young and foolish—about seventeen or so—she was raving and ranting to Hugh about the ‘Greek foreigner’ that Amalric had married, making it sound as if he’d taken a female demon into his bed. I finally spoke up, pointing out that you had naught to do with the end of her marriage, being all of nine years old and residing in far-off Constantinople when the High Court decided she could not be queen.”
Shaking his head at the memory, he said ruefully, “She did not speak to me again for fully two months after that.”
Maria sipped her wine to hide another smile. As tempting as it was to trade stories with Balian about Agnes’s bad behavior, she knew she could not match his light tone, for by now she’d learned to hate Amalric’s former wife with a loathing that had seeped into every corner of her soul, all the more intense because she feared Agnes, too, knowing that she saw Isabella as a threat to her own children. “So . . . ,” she said, “what brings you to Nablus, Lord Balian? I assume you are on your way to somewhere else. Visitors to Nablus always are.”
“True enough, my lady. I am returning to Ibelin from Belvoir.”
“The Hospitaller castle? Why were you there?” she asked curiously, for Belvoir was one of the most strategic strongholds in the kingdom, yet one of the most isolated, too.
“It was not my idea,” he admitted, explaining how Miles had conscripted him for caravan duty. “I have not been able to decide if this was a belated effort by Miles to curry favor with the Hospitallers, showing them that he was concerned for the safety of their supplies, or if he was simply amusing himself by moving my men and me hither and yon as if we were pieces on his chessboard. Whatever his reasons, I—” He stopped in midsentence then, for Maria was looking at him oddly.
“You do not know? You’ve not heard about Miles?”
“No . . . what happened? Is it too much to hope that he’s been removed from the regency?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. He was murdered last week in Acre.”
Balian set his cup down so abruptly that wine splashed onto the sleeve of his tunic. “God’s wrath! How did it happen? Was his killer caught?”
“He was attacked by two men as he returned to his house on Cyprus Street. It happened so quickly that he had no chance to defend himself. They stabbed him repeatedly, left him dying in a pool of his own blood. It occurred as dusk was falling and the few witnesses that could be found said only that the killers wore Saracen clothing, including the kaffiyeh headdress with the cloth pulled up to hide their faces.”
“Were they Assassins?” Balian asked, for that renegade Shia sect had struck down men of power before; murder was their political weapon of choice. Their victims were usually their fellow Muslims, who considered them heretics, but the Count of Tripoli’s father had been slain by Assassins when Raymond was only twelve.
“No one thinks the Assassins did it, for they want people to know of their killings and always claim credit for them. It is believed that these killers used the Saracen garb as a disguise, for one witness said he heard them speaking in French.”
Balian leaned back in his seat, trying to take in the magnitude of her news. “Usually when a man is slain, it is asked who’d want to kill him. With Miles, the better question is who would not. He had more enemies than Rome has priests. There have been no arrests, then?”
He’d wondered how she’d heard so quickly, and had his answer when she said, “William wrote that suspicion has fallen upon the de Brisebarre brothers, Walter and Guidon. But there is no evidence to connect them to the crime, and they cannot be charged without proof.”
Balian doubted that Acre’s viscount would greatly exert himself to find that proof. Miles’s death was welcome to so many that few would be motivated to hunt for his killers. He could see how the de Brisebarres would be the obvious suspects, but he wondered if others had been involved, too. He remembered a Latin phrase William once taught him—Cui bono? To whose benefit? Here the question might better be who would not benefit. One who certainly did was Raymond of Tripoli, for he was now likely to be named as regent. Yet Balian could not envision him engaging in a sordid murder plot like this. It would seem wildly out of character, to say the least. Curious if others shared his view of the count, he said, “Miles’s death ought to clear the road for Count Raymond to become regent. None suspect him of having a hand in this, do they?”
Maria looked startled. “Good Lord, no! From
what Amalric told me about the count, he values his honor above all else. William believes he has a strong sense of duty and is convinced he is the one best able to protect Amalric’s son. It is not as if Raymond needs the regency, either. Not only does he rule Tripoli, he is going to wed the greatest heiress in all Outremer.”
“You are marrying Count Raymond, madame?”
Her eyes widened and then she smiled. “That is a deft compliment, Lord Balian, one I did not even see coming. But, no, I am not the woman Raymond wants to wed. His bride-to-be is far richer than me—the Lady Eschiva, the Princess of Galilee.”
Balian gave a low, approving whistle. “That is a good match for them both. She is quite a marital prize and he is a wise choice for her, too, as she’ll need a husband strong enough to protect her and her sons’ inheritance.” The marriage would probably stir up some jealousy, though, among the lords of Outremer. It was a sad truth, one he’d long ago recognized, that too many of the highborn Poulains begrudged the good fortune of their fellow barons.
Isabella asked suddenly for a sip of her mother’s wine, but Maria was able to satisfy her with another orange section. Watching them, Balian found himself marveling that it had only been three months since Maria was widowed, since Baldwin became king, since the world as they knew it had been turned upside down. “I’ve wondered sometimes,” he said, “if we are blessed or cursed in not knowing what lies ahead. If I were given the choice, I think I’d want to know.”
“So would I,” Maria said with a sigh, and he realized that she was speaking of her own future, not just the fate of their kingdom.
* * *
The High Court convened at Jerusalem in late October to consider Count Raymond’s claim to the regency. Even though he was supported by Humphrey de Toron, the d’Ibelin brothers, Denys de Grenier, and most of the bishops, not all the men were keen to hand over the reins of government to a stranger, and the debate dragged on for two days. Then what so many had been dreading came to pass. Word reached the Holy City that Salāh al-Dīn had been welcomed into Damascus on October 28. The boy amir had been dwelling in Aleppo and Salāh al-Dīn declared that he was acting to protect the youngster’s interests from evil advisers. But all knew what his occupation of Damascus really meant and the members of Outremer’s High Court belatedly united against this new threat and recognized the Count of Tripoli as regent for their young king.
* * *
William was impressed by Count Raymond’s conduct since being named as regent, for he did what Miles had refused to do—he consulted with the other lords, making no arbitrary decisions on his own. It was true he did not have an easy way with others, and William regretted that, knowing humor would have helped the count to establish a good relationship with Baldwin. But he saw no indication that there was any tension between the regent and the boy king, and he was content with that.
The summons from Raymond had come on a December evening not long after the city’s church bells had pealed for Compline. The Poulain lords were unlike their counterparts in England and France, who lived out in the countryside in their fortified castles and manors. In Outremer, the noble class was utterly urban, and all who could afford it had residences in Jerusalem and Acre or Tyre, visiting their rural holdings only when necessary. While Raymond’s new wife had a town house near Zion’s Gate, he put in such long hours that he’d requested a chamber in the palace for working and it was there that William found him. He’d been poring over documents with his scribe, but he dismissed the man and invited William to take a seat at the table.
“I am trying to become better acquainted with those whom the king trusts,” he said, with one of his rare smiles. “I understand that you are writing two histories, Master William, one of Outremer and one of the Muslim princes. If you would not take it amiss, I would be most interested in reading some of your work.”
“I would be honored, my lord count.”
“Excellent.” Raymond glanced around the chamber, saw that he had no wine to offer his guest, and shrugged. “I have spoken with Baldwin’s physician about the state of his health and I was encouraged by what I heard. Whilst I have never been one for secrets, preferring to speak out plainly about what is on my mind, I think it was a wise decision to keep any talk of leprosy from the lad. Regrettably, there will always be fools who gossip and delight in spreading rumors. But as long as the members of the High Court keep faith and keep quiet about what they’ve heard, these rumors will do no harm, for they’ll be based only on speculation, curiosity, and conjecture. Nor is any of this sort of loose tavern talk likely to reach Baldwin’s ears.”
“I agree, my lord,” William said, reassured that Raymond seemed to be genuinely concerned about the lad himself, seeing the thirteen-year-old boy in the king.
“Now . . . on to why I’ve asked you here tonight. As you know, the post of chancellor has been vacant since the death of the Bishop of Bethlehem. I want you to serve as the next chancellor of the realm.”
William stared at him. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure!” After the bishop’s death, he had briefly entertained the hope that he might be considered for the chancellorship, a post that always went to a cleric. But he’d soon realized that neither Agnes nor Miles would ever let that happen. Even after Miles’s murder, he’d not expected to be chosen, knowing how much Agnes disliked him. Striving now for a more dignified response, William declared that he would serve the king and kingdom to the best of his abilities, all the while wondering how the count had managed to circumvent Agnes’s objections.
Almost as if reading his mind, Raymond said, “You have eloquent friends on the High Court, Master William. The d’Ibelin brothers and Denys de Grenier all spoke out on your behalf. And, of course, you had an even more persuasive advocate in our king. Baldwin made it quite clear to me that he wanted you and only you as his chancellor.”
William found himself momentarily at a loss for words. “Nothing means more to me than the young king’s trust and I will do all in my power to prove worthy of it.”
* * *
Despite the hour, William headed for Baldwin’s private chambers, knowing the boy had always been one for delaying his bedtime as long as possible. As he expected, he found Baldwin still up. He was not as pleased to find Agnes in the bedchamber, too, playing chess with her son, but he greeted her with all the civility he could muster.
“I want to thank you for your faith in me,” he told Baldwin. “I promise you will never regret it.”
Baldwin had been quick to abandon the chess game, for he was losing. “I know you will sweep all the cobwebs out of the chancellery,” he said with a smile. “I imagine, though, that now you’ll be too busy to continue our lessons.”
“That was the first thought to cross my mind,” William assured him gravely. “Your lessons will indeed have to end—in June of God’s year 1176, once you come of age.”
Baldwin struggled to keep a straight face and failed. “It is very disappointing to discover you are not susceptible to bribes, William,” he said, and as their eyes met, they both burst out laughing. Agnes did not share their amusement, for the archdeacon’s easy intimacy with her son never failed to irritate her. She did feign a smile when Baldwin looked in her direction and she offered William her congratulations, though she did not even attempt to sound as if she meant it.
“Shall we finish the game tomorrow, Mother?” Baldwin turned back to his new chancellor, suddenly remembering he had something to show William. “Come take a look at this. I’ll be shaving soon, for I’ve begun growing whiskers!”
William dutifully peered at the boy’s chin, but in vain. Seeing that Baldwin was let down by his response, he explained that his eyesight was no longer as sharp as he aged.
“But they are there,” Baldwin insisted. “Look again!” His blond hair was shoulder length, as that was the fashion for the men of Outremer, and he tossed his head now so William could see better. As he did, Will
iam froze.
“What . . . what is that on your throat?”
“Just a bruise. Come over to the light so you can see the whiskers.”
William could not take his eyes from the boy’s neck, now covered again by his hair. “Let me see that bruise, lad.”
Baldwin scowled. “It is nothing, William. If you must know, I was thrown when practicing at the quintain yesterday. My lance did not hit the target dead-on and the sandbag swung around and unhorsed me.” He hated to admit it, for learning to handle a lance with his left hand was proving to be more of a challenge than swordplay. He was determined to master the skill, though, and was vexed with William for making so much of a minor spill.
He did not know that behind him, his mother had come to her feet so quickly that her chair rocked. Her face whitening, she clapped a hand to her mouth as William pleaded, “Humor me, Baldwin. Let me see that bruise.” The first time she’d heard the archdeacon call her son by his given name, she’d bristled, reminding William that Baldwin was his king, only to have Baldwin say he’d asked William to ignore his title in private. Now she never even heard his words, for there was nothing in her world but sudden, surging fear.
Baldwin rolled his eyes. “I also bruised my shoulder in the fall. Shall I strip for you?” But he grudgingly swept his hair back, revealing his throat.
William stared at the bruise, shaped like a crescent, as purple as a plum, not yet starting to yellow. His throat had gone too dry for speech, and he had to struggle to say hoarsely, “That is quite a spectacular contusion, Baldwin. In a day or so, it will hold all the colors of a rainbow.”
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 10
