The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “You really need to try one of them,” Balian persisted. “In this part of the world, it would be very rude to refuse to eat after being invited to dine. I think you’d like this dish. It is called būrān, made with eggplant fried in sesame oil, with yogurt, garlic, and chicken.”

  Gerard balked again. “Yogurt? What is that?” When Balian said it was curdled milk, Gerard muttered something in Flemish that did not need a translation, for the look of disgust on his face said it all. “How do you know so much about their food?” he demanded. “Do you have a Saracen cook?”

  He’d meant it as sarcasm and was dumbfounded when Balian said that he did. That was not strictly true; the Ibelin cooks were Syrian Christians, but familiar with the Saracen style of cooking, which most Poulains preferred to the blander Frankish cuisine. “You have an infidel cook?” Gerard was staring at Balian in genuine horror. “Christ Almighty, man, do you not fear being poisoned?”

  “No, I do not. And lower your voice. Men are looking in your direction.” Balian said that to embarrass Gerard into better behavior, but as he glanced around, he saw to his dismay that it was true. He’d not worried about any of the Saracens overhearing Gerard’s rants, for very few of them understood French. Body language was universal, though, and Gerard’s belligerence had attracted the attention of two of the nearest Saracens.

  The younger one seemed faintly amused; his companion did not. Balian guessed the latter to be in his mid-thirties, wearing an elegant tunic called a kazaghand that was lined with mail and proclaimed his high rank. He was scowling, his dark eyes cutting from the Flemish knight’s flushed face to his plate, empty except for that ignored lone date, and there was a fierce intensity in his unwavering gaze that put Balian in mind of a hawk first sighting prey.

  “You think the Count of Tripoli will be pleased if you start a brawl in Saladin’s tent?”

  Balian’s urgent undertone finally got through to Gerard, and he lapsed into a sullen silence after that, although he still refused to take a single mouthful of this alien, enemy fare. Balian devoted himself then to the pleasures of the meal, and the rest of it passed without incident. But each time he looked toward the Saracen hawk, the man was staring at Gerard.

  After qatāyif, a sugared crepe baked with almonds, was served, basins of water and towels were provided again. As Saladin disappeared into the interior of his pavilion with Raymond and Humphrey, servants cleared away the remains of the meal. Gerard was already on his feet. “I need some air,” he declared, and began to shove his way toward the tent entrance. To Balian’s alarm, the hawk rose, too, and followed Gerard, shadowed by the younger Saracen.

  Balian trampled some toes, but he got there in time, all three men converging at the tent entrance. “Assalaamu ‘alaykum,” he said, rather breathlessly. The hawk merely stared at him, although his companion responded politely to Balian’s greeting with “And peace be upon you.”

  “My lord.” Balian paused, hoping his elementary Arabic would be up to the task. “My friend is a newcomer to the East and has not yet become accustomed to the heat. He has been suffering from belly pains for days and so he was unable to eat any of this delicious meal.”

  Now that they were face-to-face, Balian thought the Saracen lord looked even more like a hawk than he’d first thought. If he was placated by the apology, he gave no sign of it; his mouth was set so tightly that it was impossible to imagine it ever softening into a smile and his eyes caught the torchlight, a reddish flame reflected in their dark depths. It was then that the other man leaned over and murmured something in his ear, too softly for Balian to hear. The hawk was still for a moment and then spat some Arabic at Balian, glaring at both men before he spun around and stalked away.

  Balian was indifferent to the insult, caring only that he’d not gone in search of Gerard.

  The other man had remained at Balian’s side. “Did you follow what he said?”

  Balian was by no means fluent in Arabic and he needed it to be spoken slowly for full comprehension. He’d heard only one word clearly—khanzeer—and since he knew the pig was considered an unclean animal to Muslims, that was enough. “I think he called someone a swine,” he said lightly. “Naturally I assume he was not referring to me.”

  Although the Saracen’s face was not easy to read, Balian thought he could detect the inkling of a smile at that. He was curious about the other man, who’d obviously been minding the hawk as he’d been minding Gerard de Ridefort. The thought of the Fleming roaming the Saracen camp unsupervised was a disturbing one and he beckoned to one of his knights, delegating that duty to him. “Come find me if he seems likely to get himself killed. But if you think he’ll only be beaten to a bloody pulp, there’s no need to hurry.” The knight grinned and headed out as Balian turned back to the Saracen.

  “I am Balian, Lord of Ibelin. Thank you.”

  The other man did not pretend to misunderstand. “The sultan would not have been pleased had his nephew started a brawl with one of the Franks,” he said. Balian was amused that his words almost exactly echoed his own warning to Gerard, but then he blinked in belated comprehension.

  “The hawk is the sultan’s nephew?”

  “‘Hawk’?” the man echoed, and this time the smile in his voice was unmistakable. “That suits him well. He is indeed the sultan’s kinsman. You may have heard of him—Taqī al-Dīn?”

  Balian’s eyes widened as he realized how close they’d come to disaster, for a confrontation between two hotheads like Gerard de Ridefort and Taqī al-Dīn was sure to have ended in bloodshed. Saladin’s nephew had a reputation for being utterly fearless on the battlefield and just as aggressive off it, while his hatred of the Franks was as well-known as his reputation for violence.

  “Who has not heard of Taqī al-Dīn?” he said, for Arabic lent itself easily to such rhetorical flourishes. He casually looked around then, wanting to make sure that the sultan’s fiery nephew had not slipped out in search of that dolt de Ridefort. He was relieved to see Taqī al-Dīn talking with two men who wore the yellow-gold colors of Saladin’s elite bodyguard. But he was surprised, too, that so many of the Saracens were glancing in his direction.

  “We seem to be attracting more than our share of attention,” he said, not sure what to make of it.

  “They are probably curious about you, for few of the Franks bother to learn Arabic.”

  “True enough,” Balian conceded, although he was unable to keep from riposting, “yet even fewer of the Saracens bother to learn French.”

  He saw that he’d judged his man correctly by the gleam in those dark eyes. “That is also true. Do you know why?”

  That was another challenge Balian could not resist. “I can hazard a guess. They do not think it is worth their while. They are sure the Franks are like unwanted houseguests, troublesome but temporary.”

  The Saracen grinned. “Come,” he said. “Let’s continue this conversation sitting down.” Finding two vacant cushions, he signaled to a servant and they were provided at once with ornate cups that were cold to the touch. Even before he tasted it, Balian recognized the drink, for it was sprinkled with pine nuts, one of the ingredients of a jallab, which was made with date syrup, rosewater, and snow brought down from the mountains by carts covered in straw. Knowing he was showing off a bit, he said, “Ah, a jallab. Nothing better on a hot day like this.”

  The other man grinned again. “As troublesome houseguests go, at least you are very well-mannered.”

  Balian thought that applied to this Saracen Good Samaritan, too, for he was speaking slowly and distinctly so that his Arabic was easier to understand. He noticed that they were still drawing occasional glances, and then it all came together for him and he could only marvel that it had taken him so long. He was not the object of interest; it was his companion. It would take a brave man to risk antagonizing Taqī al-Dīn. It would also take a highborn one, for status mattered as much in the Saracen worl
d as it did in his own. Deciding that the best way to satisfy his curiosity was by a direct frontal assault, he said candidly, “Not too many men would have challenged an acclaimed warrior like Taqī al-Dīn as you did, all the more so since he is the sultan’s nephew. Is he likely to hold a grudge against you?”

  He got a nonchalant shrug and then the answer he wanted, if not one he was expecting. “Not for long. He’s my nephew, too.”

  Balian could hardly believe his good luck; how better to learn more about the enigmatic Salāh al-Dīn than from a close kinsman? “I am honored,” he said, wishing he could remember some of the more flowery Arabic expressions used for such occasions. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Al-Malik al-‘Ādil Saif al-Dīn Abū Bakr Ahmad bin Ayyūb.”

  Balian sat up straight in astonishment, for the best-known of Saladin’s siblings was al-‘Ādil, the younger brother who’d so capably put down a rebellion against the sultan in Egypt that he’d been entrusted to govern there in Saladin’s absence. He suspected that he was being gently mocked, for the Saracens knew the Franks were baffled by their naming practices, and most would have been lost as soon as al-‘Ādil reeled off that string of names.

  But William had studied Arabic nomenclature in order to write his Saracen history for King Amalric, and Balian blessed the archbishop now for having shared some of that knowledge with him. He knew that there were five elements in a Muslim name: the ism or given name; the kunya bestowed after the birth of a son; the nasab, which identified a man’s father; the laqab, which was a title of honor; and the nisba, which he thought was similar to a surname. William had told him that Salāh al-Dīn was the sultan’s laqab, meaning “righteousness of the faith,” and his ism was Yūsuf, the biblical Joseph. While he’d forgotten a lot of William’s lesson, he did remember that the ism was not used outside the family, so it would have been an insult had he called al-‘Ādil by his ism, Ahmad. Knowing he was about to surprise the other man and relishing the opportunity, he smiled, saying blandly, “Please correct me if I am in error, but I believe I would address you by your laqab, Saif al-Dīn?”

  Al-‘Ādil cocked an eyebrow and when their eyes met, they both laughed, in that moment discovering that humor could briefly surmount the formidable barriers of religion and language and culture.

  * * *

  Now that they were no longer verbally jousting with each other, they found that conversation flowed easily. Al-‘Ādil was willing to answer a few questions about his elder brother, and if his answers did not offer insight into the workings of the sultan’s mind, Balian still found them interesting. The Franks used the terms “Saracens” and “Turks” to refer to all Muslims, but Saladin’s family were Kurds, a tribe that was often viewed with suspicion by the caliphates of Egypt and Baghdad, and Balian thought that made his rapid rise all the more impressive. Saladin had been born in the Islamic calendar year 532 AH, and after al-‘Ādil said he was thirty-seven years of age, Balian was able to figure out that would have been God’s year 1138. Balian learned that the sultan did indeed excel at mall, that he liked poetry and hawking, that al-‘Ādil was, at thirty, seven years his junior, and would soon be back in Egypt, so his meeting this July day with Balian was pure happenstance.

  They found that they shared some common interests—a love of horses and hunting and music—and were soon getting along so well that al-‘Ādil invited Balian to go hunting upon his next journey from Egypt, adding dryly, “Assuming that we’re not back to killing one another by then.” In times of peace, such hunts were not unusual occurrences, and Balian hoped it would come to pass, for he’d been fascinated once al-‘Ādil revealed he hunted with trained cheetahs. He was telling the Saracen lord about Baldwin’s cherished Arabian, Asad, when Saladin and his guests emerged from the inner tent.

  All three men appeared to be pleased, so Balian concluded they’d come to mutually agreeable terms. While Raymond was his usual impassive self, Humphrey and Saladin were joking, so obviously comfortable together that Balian remembered something William once said—that Humphrey had met Saladin during one of Amalric’s Egyptian campaigns, adding disapprovingly that they’d become quite friendly. At the time, Balian had been skeptical, given the power that both men wielded. As he watched them now, he decided they genuinely seemed to like each other. Was it friendship, though? Could the sultan of Egypt and the constable of the Kingdom of Jerusalem ever truly be friends? Casting a curious glance toward al-‘Ādil, he wondered if friendship was possible between them, either. He wanted to believe it was so, yet he doubted it.

  * * *

  Denys de Grenier had joined his wife in Jerusalem for her son’s Christmas court. They’d celebrated their reunion in bed, but afterward, Agnes could not sleep. As her husband snored peacefully beside her, she tossed and turned, listening to a cold rain beating down upon the flat roof of the palace before she finally pulled back the woven hangings enclosing the bed. Snatching up her mantle as a robe, she walked over to the window, where she watched drops of water streaking the cloudy pane. She’d heard that glass was a rare commodity in the rest of Christendom, that even the wealthy often had their windows blocked with oiled linen. She could not envision life in those distant lands, places that were only names to her, places where lepers were shunned and banished to lazar houses, cut off from contact with their family, friends, and neighbors.

  Agnes left the window and began to pace. These dark thoughts assailed her only at night. During the daylight hours, she could keep them at bay. She was a fool to let them lay claim to her imagination like this, for they were mere shadows, lacking substance or reality. Her son did not have leprosy. She refused to believe that God would let that happen.

  Seeking other concerns to occupy her restless brain, she concentrated upon Sybilla. The girl seemed happy enough with the proposed marriage. Especially after she’d been told Guillaume of Montferrat was said to be a handsome man. Agnes recognized that she was being cynical, but she did not have great confidence in her daughter’s judgment. She’d been able to forge a bond with Baldwin as soon as Amalric died, although they could never make up for all that lost time together, and she fervently hoped that Amalric’s stay in Purgatory would exceed a thousand years for keeping her from her son. Yet Sybilla continued to elude her. It was not uncommon to pass an entire day in the girl’s company and come away feeling as if she’d spent those hours with a flighty stranger, one who flitted from one subject to another like a bee in search of nectar. Agnes reminded herself that the girl was young, just sixteen, that it was only natural for her to be a butterfly after being secluded for so long in the cocoon of the Bethany convent. But she knew she’d not been so naïve at Sybilla’s age, already a widow, already learning that life was neither easy nor fair.

  Her ladies were sleeping on pallets not far from the hearth; on the nights that Denys came to her bed to claim his marital rights, he left his squires back in his own bedchamber. Agnes considered awakening one of the women to play a game of chess or merels, anything to occupy the hours until sleep finally came.

  Denys was still snoring. Passing strange that she’d found the greatest contentment in her fourth marriage. She could not recall much about her first husband, dead for more than twenty-five years. All her memories of Amalric were poisoned. Whilst she supposed they must have had some happy times, she could not remember any. Hugh, too, was fading away. She could only call to mind now his plaintive brown eyes, always wanting more than she could give.

  Denys, bless him, asked nothing from her. He seemed to enjoy sharing her bed when they were together, yet she doubted that he missed her much when they were apart. He’d not complained that she spent so much time at Baldwin’s court, as other husbands would have done. She occasionally wondered if he was as satisfied with their marriage as she was, more from curiosity than genuine caring. She saw their marriage as a bargain and felt that she’d held up her end. It was true she’d not given him a child. He’d known she was thirty-five at the
time of their wedding and not as likely to conceive again as a younger woman would, so she felt she’d not cheated him. And he’d been nigh on forty then, with no bastards or by-blows of his own, so he could be as much to blame as she for the barrenness of their marriage; she’d never believed that it was always the woman’s fault.

  She’d talked to Sybilla about marriage, trying to make the girl see that the best ones were like hers and Denys’s, a partnership in which both knew what was expected of them. She suspected, though, that Sybilla wanted the passion, the romance of those foolish minstrel songs. Well, she’d learn. Agnes doubted that passion survived most women’s first experience of the birthing chamber.

  Crossing to a table, she poured half a cup of wine, thinking that might help her to sleep. When the knock sounded suddenly, she was so startled that she almost spilled it, wine splashing onto her hand. Drawing the mantle tightly about her, she moved toward the door. “Who is it?”

  The name given was familiar to her, one of Baldwin’s servants, and she fumbled with the latch, so hastily that she caught her fingers as she slid back the bar. She never even felt that pinch of pain, in that moment aware only of the sudden pounding of her heart and the odd expression on the man’s face—bewilderment mixed with fear.

  * * *

  Yves, Baldwin’s squire, was awaiting Agnes in the young king’s antechamber. He quickly cast his eyes down, blushing at the sight of her long blond hair, covered haphazardly by a hastily pinned veil, for a woman’s hair was normally not seen in public, revealed only to her husband in the privacy of their bedchamber. “Forgive me for disturbing you, my lady,” he mumbled. “I did not know what else to do.”

  “You summoned me, then? Not Baldwin?” He nodded, still keeping his eyes on his shoes, and she struggled with the urge to start shaking answers out of him. “Tell me what happened,” she said as calmly as she could manage.