Baudouin had not accompanied the army, for his wife was about to give birth, and his hopes of a male heir had outweighed the opportunity for booty in the Bekaa Valley raid. Balian joked about his brother’s absence now, revealing that Baudouin had promised to name a son after the sainted martyr Thomas of Canterbury. “From what I’ve heard of the slain archbishop, his besetting sin was pride, so mayhap the bribe will work and Baudouin will finally get a lad.”
When Balian’s squire approached with tin cups for his lord and his king, pouring from a large goatskin, he kept so far from Baldwin that he splashed half of the wine into the dirt. Balian frowned. Yet reprimanding Rolf for his blunder would discomfit Baldwin all the more.
Baldwin was learning to overlook such mishaps and ignored the fact that some of the spilled wine had splattered onto his boots. He was about to steer the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go when they were joined by Balian’s friend, the Templar knight Jakelin de Mailly. Baldwin hesitated, then decided to include Jakelin in the conversation.
“I would ask you both a question about war. I understand that raids are done to deplete the enemy’s resources, to weaken his resolve, to demonstrate to his people that he cannot protect them, and to reward the men who take part in these raids. But I found little satisfaction in harrying peasants and terrifying women and children. Am I foolish for feeling this way?”
Balian and Jakelin exchanged glances. Their first instinct was to respond with humor. The boy’s question could not be shrugged off so easily, though. Such unsparing honesty deserved honesty in return.
Balian shook his head slowly. “Not foolish at all, my liege. We are taught that a knight’s duty is to safeguard the weak and defenseless. That is the ideal, but the reality is that the weak and defenseless are always the first to die in war, whether we will it or not. Yet I doubt that many men, be they Franks or Saracens, take true pleasure in killing those who cannot fight back. And those who do are likely to pay for that pleasure in the hottest pits of Hell.”
Baldwin was relieved that they did not seem to think he was being credulous or childish, that they’d taken his question seriously. “Does it get easier?”
“Yes,” Jakelin admitted, “it does. Everything gets easier with practice, sire, even killing. We do what must be done, for God and for our kingdom. But it is on the battlefield that we prove our prowess, fighting men who also value honor and courage.”
“Infidels, too?” Baldwin asked, and both men told him emphatically that this was so, that respect was given to those who’d earned it, even if they worshipped the wrong god. When Balian said that such respect was mutual, that all men of honor were willing to acknowledge bravery and valor, Baldwin found that comforting, for his belief in courage was stronger even than his faith. How else could he endure this most accursed of afflictions?
They could see that they’d told him what he needed to hear, and for the most part, it was true. War was more complicated than that, of course, as were the emotions it aroused. It was brutal and messy and exciting and awful. To men of their class, it was also a vocation, not a choice but something they’d been born to do.
Trying to lighten the mood, Balian said with a smile, “But even those who seek glory in battle can still be scared pissless if they have time to think about it beforehand. I’ve had moments when I felt as if my bowels had turned to water and I daresay our gallant Templar here has, too, whether he’ll admit it or not.”
Jakelin insisted that Templar knights never knew fear and feigned indignation when Balian hooted at that. While Baldwin smiled at their banter, his blue eyes were distant, gazing into an inner vista only he could see. “I do not think I’ll be afraid,” he said at last. Jakelin privately dismissed this as the natural bravado of youth. But Balian felt a sudden chill, realizing that he believed the lad. Why would Baldwin fear a quick death on the battlefield? Who would not prefer that to the long, agonizing death that a leper faced?
“My lord king!” One of Baldwin’s household knights was hurrying toward them. “I was sent to find you by the constable. A scout has returned with news you must hear.”
Baldwin got hastily to his feet, as did Balian and Jakelin. The latter knew his rank as a knight did not entitle him to a place in a council of war. He followed anyway, hoping that his appearance with the young king would gain him entry.
Humphrey de Toron was the actual commander of the expedition; Baldwin’s authority was more titular than real. He had too much common sense, though, to feel slighted by that. Ducking into the constable’s tent, he found Joscelin, Raymond, Denys, and the grand master of the Templars were already there. With Balian and Jakelin on his heels, he looked searchingly from face to face. “What has happened?”
“Tell him,” Humphrey directed, and a man emerged from the shadows. He’d obviously done some hard riding, for his clothing and face were smeared with dust and sweat. Stepping forward, he knelt before Baldwin.
“Sire, Saladin’s brother Tūrān-Shāh has left Damascus with an army and is heading toward the Bekaa Valley.”
Baldwin looked from the weary scout to the others. “It is to be a battle, then,” he said, so calmly that the men regarded him with approval and Balian silently vowed to stay close to his young king in the coming confrontation with the sultan’s brother.
* * *
The sun was reaching its zenith. Soon the heat of the day would soak their gambesons with sweat and make them acutely aware of the weight of their hauberks. Baldwin had known he was not qualified yet to lead men, but he’d dreaded being left utterly out of the action, and so he’d been very pleased when Humphrey de Toron had given him command of the reserves. They’d taken up position on the wooded slope of the mountain called Jebel Liban by the Saracens, which offered a clear view of the valley below. To the north, Baldwin could see the peak of Mount Sannine and the rippling surface of the Litani River as it meandered toward the sea. He was blind to the beauty of the Bekaa Valley today, focused only upon the army lined up in battle formation, blocking the Damascus–Beirut road. They’d hastened south to intercept Tūrān-Shāh, arriving in time to catch the Saracens by surprise—or so they hoped.
There was a risk that Tūrān-Shāh had sent out scouts and was aware by now of the danger awaiting him. Good generals anticipated the actions of the enemy. Humphrey did not think Tūrān-Shāh was one of them. He was Saladin’s elder brother, entrusted with authority because of blood, not ability, the constable said dismissively. Unlike the sultan and another brother, al-‘Ādil, who was governing Egypt in his absence, Tūrān-Shāh was said to be impulsive, careless, and so jealous of his younger brothers that he was inclined to be reckless.
Their scout had reported that Tūrān-Shāh’s askar, the soldiers sworn personally to him, had been augmented by local levies and men from the Damascus garrison. That meant the Franks would be outnumbered, which made the timing all the more crucial. Baldwin was anxiously aware that their knights would probably have just one chance to make a charge. The Saracens were more lightly armed and were very vulnerable to such an assault by mail-clad knights on destriers. But if they moved too early or too late, they gave the enemy time to break formation and scatter before the onslaught. It was very difficult to regain lost momentum and if they did not strike a lethal blow with that first charge, they’d be the ones in peril.
Baldwin’s stallion snorted, as if sensing what was to come. “Asad will be very disappointed if he does not get to challenge other stallions,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a fleeting smile. “So will that evil-tempered beast of yours,” he added, for Balian’s destrier, Demon, was well named. “If we can only watch the battle, Balian, that will be poor repayment for your good deed. I know you joined the reserves because you believe I need looking after.”
“Not so, my liege,” Balian assured him mendaciously. “I know how important it is to hold men in reserve, for that can make the difference between victory and defe
at. And when Count Raymond offered to augment the reserves with some of his own knights, I had to speak up. Otherwise you might have had to endure Gerard de Ridefort’s blathering on and on. . . .”
As Balian had hoped, that earned him another smile from Baldwin, who found the Flemish knight irksome, too. But Baldwin had been right about his motivation. Balian was only eleven years older than the king, yet he felt as protective today as if he were sending his own son into his first battle. His eyes kept coming back to Baldwin’s shield, with increasing unease. Their long, kite-shaped shields were almost as essential as their lances and swords, protecting a knight’s vulnerable left side and able to be used as a weapon if need be.
Not for Baldwin, though, for he’d be wielding his sword in his left hand. He had tried putting the shield on his right side, even doubling the guige straps; it was just too heavy and cumbersome to manage with only one working arm. They’d finally resorted to a much smaller, round Saracen shield, but Balian feared it would offer little protection in close combat. Moreover, Baldwin could rely only upon his sword, for his handicap had proven too difficult when he’d attempted to master the lance. At fifteen, he was about the age of Balian’s own squire, and squires were not expected to take part in battles. Yet Baldwin would if given half a chance. Balian never doubted that for even a moment.
His gaze resting now upon Baldwin’s chestnut stallion, Balian tried to imagine going into battle without the use of reins. No matter how often he reminded himself that Baldwin was a superb rider, the boy had never faced a challenge like this. As well trained as Asad was, he was sure to be affected by the blood and noise and sheer chaos swirling around a battlefield. What if he took fright and bolted? Or shied away from the carnage, unseating his young rider?
Balian’s morbid musings were interrupted by a sudden exclamation from Baldwin. “Look,” he said, gesturing off to his left. “See the dust? They’re coming.”
What followed was an experience unlike any that either Balian or Baldwin had encountered before. Balian had participated in charges, but he’d never witnessed one as an observer, and Baldwin’s combat lore was theoretical, not yet put to the test. They exchanged grins, delighted and relieved that Tūrān-Shāh was just as foolhardy as Humphrey had predicted. There was considerable confusion and alarm in the Saracen ranks when they saw the Franks waiting for them. Even then, there was still time to retreat. Pride prevailed over common sense and it soon became obvious that Tūrān-Shāh meant to give battle. The Saracens hastily attempted to get into battle formation, the air suddenly echoing with shouting and cursing and the throbbing drumbeat that was an integral part of Muslim warfare.
Humphrey and the Templar grand master gave them no time, striking hard and fast. As the men on the ridge watched, enthralled, their fellow knights smashed into the Saracen line, riding stirrup to stirrup, lances couched and their horses kicking up so much dust that they seemed to be trailing smoke. Balian felt a jolt of jubilation, sure that the day would be theirs.
Even though the Saracens were infidels, none of the Franks ever questioned their courage, and fierce fighting erupted in patches. Yet any army in disarray was at a mortal disadvantage, for once men realized that the battle was lost, the instinct for self-preservation took over. Soldiers were soon fleeing the field. A feigned retreat was a key strategy of Saracen fighting, and they’d often lured unwary pursuers into traps by such tactics. But not today. The Saracens had been scattered by the charge of the Franks and they lacked a commander strong enough to rally them. Now they sought only to save themselves.
Baldwin had been as fascinated as his men, for it was mesmerizing to see stories of combat suddenly brought to life before his eyes. But then he realized that some of the fugitives were seeking safety in the woods of Jebel Liban. “Cut them off!”
His men were eager to obey, welcoming this chance to enter the fray. Balian quickly spurred his destrier after Baldwin. He soon discovered that Asad was much faster than his own stallion and he was unable to keep pace. Nor could Baldwin’s household knights, and they watched in horror as the boy rode straight toward a horse archer, his long plaits and his weapon proclaiming him to be a Turk. He reacted at once, grasping the sword that dangled from his right wrist and swinging it with lethal aim toward Baldwin’s exposed right side. Asad swerved as gracefully as if he were a big cat, making a circle so tight that Baldwin was able to slash his sword down upon the other man’s outstretched arm. He cried out, blood spurted, and his stallion reared. Unable to stay in the saddle, he hit the ground with such force that he lay stunned.
Baldwin had already turned Asad toward the closest foe, but by then Balian and the other knights had caught up with him. While more blood was spilled, many of the demoralized Saracens chose surrender over dying and the fighting soon ended. They would later learn that Tūrān-Shāh had been one of those able to escape, leaving behind a field strewn with his dead and wounded. This battle that the Saracens would call Ain al-Jarr was not a victory that would change the balance of power in Outremer. Yet for the Franks, it was a sweet win, and none of them cherished their triumph more than their king.
Baldwin turned in the saddle as Balian reined in beside him. Too breathless to speak, he simply raised his sword to show the blood smeared on its blade.
“You did well, my liege,” Balian said, no less breathlessly, and Baldwin grinned.
By now he was surrounded by his knights and at first, he took great pleasure in their acclaim and exultant approval. Once his own excitement crested, though, their enthusiasm began to puzzle him. It was not as if he’d won the battle on his own, after all. Yes, the reserve under his command had contributed to the win and he’d taken his first prisoner, who was now sitting up groggily, raising his right hand in the Saracen gesture of surrender. But he saw his performance as more competent than heroic, and he felt a sudden unease, fearing that they were lauding him so effusively merely because he was the king and had not shown fear or fallen off his horse or committed any novice mistakes.
That concern tarnished some of the plaudits and as soon as he could, he signaled for Balian to follow him away from the others. Leaning over to stroke Asad’s lathered neck, he said in a low voice, “Tell me the truth, Balian. Are they praising me so lavishly because they had such low expectations?”
Balian looked at the boy, not sure how to respond. He’d seen some daring exploits on the battlefield in the years since he was old enough to fight, as had the other knights. But he thought they’d never seen the sheer, raw courage that Baldwin had shown today, riding out to do battle with a crippled arm, lacking a lance or shield, whilst mounted on a stallion he could control only by the pressure of his knees.
Since he knew Baldwin would not thank him for stressing his handicap, he gave careful thought to his answer. “It is true they were not sure what to expect of you, my liege, not knowing you as well as I do. But this I can tell you for true: If courage were the coin of the realm, you’d be richer than Midas.”
Baldwin had never gotten a compliment he valued more. He’d occasionally heard Jakelin call Balian a “silver-tongued devil” and he did that now himself, sparing them both any awkward sentimentality. But for the first time since he’d learned he was a leper, some of the anger he’d been secretly harboring against the Almighty eased, just a little. For if his leprosy was God’s doing, so, too, was this victory.
* * *
When Salāh al-Dīn suddenly broke off his siege of the Assassin stronghold, Masyāf, many were surprised and puzzled, for the Assassins had twice attempted to murder the sultan. The second attempt just last May had come close to succeeding; he’d been slashed on the cheek and was saved from death only by the armor he’d worn under his tunic. He’d been so alarmed that he’d erected a stockade around his command tent and only those personally known to him were permitted access. All assumed he’d not rest until Masyāf was reduced to smoldering embers and rubble, and there was much speculation, therefore, about
his reasons for ending the siege so abruptly. It was rumored that the Assassins had threatened the lives of his family; others concluded that his return to Damascus was motivated by the raid into the Bekaa Valley and the defeat of his careless brother at Ain al-Jarr. While only the sultan knew for sure, the young King of Jerusalem was happily certain that he’d be taken more seriously now by his Saracen foes.
CHAPTER 11
August 1176
Jerusalem, Outremer
A distant, muted cheer told those in the great hall of David’s Tower that Reynald de Chatillon had entered the city. There were usually large turnouts for the return of liberated lords and knights. Most people had considerable sympathy for these men, even though a woman’s homecoming would be far less joyful, for it was assumed that she’d been defiled, true or not. In the case of this particular freed prisoner, it was curiosity, too, that had lured the citizens of Jerusalem out into the hot August sun, for his notoriety had survived his fifteen years as a prisoner in the dungeons of Aleppo.
Balian had no memories of Reynald; he’d been only eleven when that controversial lord had been captured. “Are the stories told about him true?” he asked, hoping to engage his brother in conversation, for the usually gregarious Baudouin had been silent since their arrival at David’s Tower. Not that Balian blamed him for his taciturnity; less than a fortnight ago, he’d suffered a great loss. Elizabeth had given him the son he’d long yearned for, but it had been a difficult birth and though the baby survived, she had not. While Baudouin had always been one for sharing his emotions with the world, his grieving had so far been very private, shutting out Balian and his seventeen-year-old daughter, Esquiva, who was now watching him with obvious anxiety.
Balian was fond of his niece and was pleased that she seemed to be content in her marriage to Amaury de Lusignan, despite the fifteen-year gap in their ages. It had been a good match for both sides, giving Amaury entrée into the Outremer nobility by a marital alliance with the powerful Lord of Ramlah, and securing for Esquiva a husband of good birth with a reputation for battlefield bravery. Esquiva had confided in Balian that she was with child, although she had not yet revealed this to her father, worrying that he’d fear for her so soon after Elizabeth’s death in the birthing chamber.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 17
