“Papa, you knew Reynald de Chatillon ere his capture. Was he as wicked as men say?”
Baudouin had given no indication of hearing Balian’s query, but he responded to the sound of his daughter’s voice. “Wicked? I daresay there were many who thought so. The Patriarch of Antioch was one, for certes.”
Amaury was showing signs of interest, too. “As I heard it, Reynald accompanied the French king Louis and his queen to Outremer, staying on after they returned to France. He then seduced and wed Princess Constance of Antioch, to the consternation of the citizens of that city and the emperor of the Greeks, who was always eager to meddle in the affairs of Antioch.”
Baudouin seemed to be coming out of his dark reverie. “From what I heard of Constance, that lady was as strong-willed as any man, so I cannot see her taking Reynald into her bed unless she wanted him there. The marriage was not popular, though. Despite the claims of Reynald’s legion of enemies, he is not lowborn, being the younger son of a French nobleman. Yet few thought him a suitable husband for the Princess of Antioch.”
Esquiva was fascinated by the very thought of a woman daring to choose her own husband. “Did people try to end the marriage?”
“No, in part because Reynald and Constance were able to win over our king. Reynald even managed to placate the Greek emperor, who agreed to recognize the marriage if Reynald would rid him of an enemy, the lord of Armenian Cilicia. But when he did so, Manuel delayed in paying him the promised subsidy for his services.” Baudouin smiled then, without much humor. “Did I mention that Reynald has the Devil’s own temper? He did not take it well.”
“Was that when he tortured the Patriarch of Antioch, Papa?”
“I am not surprised you know about that, Esquiva, for it created quite a scandal. Reynald was determined to avenge himself upon Emperor Manuel and saw a way to do so whilst turning a goodly profit, too. His plan was to raid the wealthy island of Cyprus, which was ruled by the Greeks. He needed money for this scheme and rashly sought it from Antioch’s patriarch, who’d been one of the harshest critics of his marriage. The patriarch refused and was insulting in the bargain. He did not yet know the sort of man he was dealing with, you see.”
Amaury was as mesmerized by this tale as his young wife. “Did he really torture the patriarch?”
“Reynald had him seized, dragged to the city’s castle and up to the roof, where he was beaten and his wounds smeared with honey. It was a hot day and the old man was soon swarmed by hungry insects. He held out for a few hours before agreeing to give Reynald the funds he’d demanded. Reynald then sailed for Cyprus, where he and his men wreaked havoc, caring little that the Cypriots were Christians, too. According to all reports, they looted the island, raping and pillaging, not even sparing the nunneries or the nuns. Reynald returned to Antioch much the richer for his raid and heedless of the enemies he’d made or the bodies strewn in his wake.”
Amaury was familiar with stories of lawless behavior by those in positions of authority, some of them involving his own turbulent family in France. But even he was impressed by the bravado and scope of Reynald de Chatillon’s bold transgressions against both man and God. “He must have been pleasing to the eye if he won a princess for himself, and he surely did not lack for ballocks. He sounds rather dull witted, though, for any man with a grain of common sense would know the Greek emperor could never let such defiance go unpunished.”
Baudouin was shaking his head. “You are wrong about that. Reynald has more than his share of flaws, but he is not stupid. It was arrogance that led him astray, that and the thrill of flouting those in power. I got the sense that he was too prideful to consider the consequences of his actions or even to conceive of defeat, sure that he could fight or talk his way out of any predicament. I imagine that cockiness did not long survive a Saracen dungeon, though.”
That struck too close to home for Amaury; he’d spent time in a Saracen dungeon himself. He’d been fortunate enough to have been ransomed by King Amalric, but those were not memories he cared to dwell upon. His prison stint had been relatively brief; he could not begin to imagine how a man could endure fifteen years of captivity. Changing the subject slightly, he asked Baudouin how Reynald had managed to make peace with the Greek emperor.
“By a humiliating surrender. When Reynald heard of the approach of the Greek army, he hastened to Manuel’s camp in the garb of a penitent, bareheaded and barefoot, and prostrated himself before the emperor. A stupid man would have chosen pride over survival.”
“How was he captured by the Saracens?”
“Ah, that was simple greed mated to sheer recklessness. He’d staged a cattle raid into western Edessa, indifferent to the fact that he was stealing from fellow Christians. On his way back to Antioch, he was ambushed by the amir of Aleppo and taken there in chains. Nūr al-Dīn refused to ransom him, just as he had Joscelin, and both men would have rotted there till they breathed their last if Nūr al-Dīn had not died when he did.”
Baudouin’s gaze shifted toward the dais, lingering upon Joscelin de Courtenay. “Prison changes men,” he said pensively. “Count Raymond emerged with knowledge of Arabic and the Saracen customs, believing that Muslims and Christians can live side by side in harmony. Joscelin was not treated as well as the count, and he came home with darker memories. Have you noticed that even his laughter is different now? It sounds hollow. He said Reynald’s imprisonment was the worst of all, and I have no reason to doubt him.”
He got no further, for all heads were turning toward the door to the great hall. Reynald was no longer Prince of Antioch, for Constance had died during his imprisonment. Yet he was not without royal connections even if he was now landless, for his stepson, Bohemond, ruled in Antioch and his stepdaughter, Mary, had wed the Greek emperor. The amir of Aleppo had demanded the staggering sum of one hundred twenty thousand gold dinars as his ransom, and few thought Reynald would ever be able to raise a sum so vast.
There were loud gasps as he entered the hall, so great was the surprise of the spectators, for in light of his age—over fifty by now—and his long, harsh captivity, they were expecting to see a man broken both in body and spirit. He had lost his prison pallor, having been freed during the spring, and while he was lean, he did not look in the least like a man so long locked away from the world. His dark hair was streaked with silver, yet it was still as thick as in his youth, and only a jagged scar above his left eye and shackle scars on his wrists testified to the years spent in that Aleppo dungeon. So often they’d seen freed prisoners appearing frail and unsteady on their feet, as if they’d aged decades in confinement. But Reynald de Chatillon’s spine was straight, his shoulders squared, and as he surveyed the hall, his head was held high, his gaze raking the audience with an unspoken challenge, as if declaring to one and all that he was still a force to be reckoned with. He seemed remarkably fit, his step that of a much younger man, one who’d not lost his swagger. He halted until the hall had gone very quiet and then strode toward the dais to kneel before the king who’d been born in the same year of his capture.
Those watching felt free, then, to murmur among themselves, wondering how Reynald de Chatillon had endured such an ordeal without its ruining his health or dimming his wits. Baudouin thought that the secret of his survival must be his sheer obstinacy; he’d been too stubborn to die.
“No,” Balian said at once, for there’d been a brief moment when he’d looked into those flint-grey eyes. “Hatred. Hatred was his shield and, then, his lifeline.”
* * *
Baldwin was in good spirits, still reveling in the success of his strategic raids. They had driven Saladin to make a hasty truce with his foes in Aleppo and Mosul, thus avoiding Baldwin’s greatest fear, that the kingdom could be surrounded by hostile Saracens.
Baldwin was also encouraged that he’d had no new symptoms of leprosy, not since the appearance of maculas upon his back and shoulders in the spring, and Anselm had shared rea
ssuring stories of his leprous brethren who’d been able to serve for years after their ailment became known. Best of all, Guillaume of Montferrat had safely reached the Holy Land and was being escorted from Sidon by Baldwin’s stepfather, Denys, having sent word ahead that they’d be arriving in Acre on this, the first Saturday in October.
The great hall of the palace was crowded with nobles and churchmen eager for their first glimpse of the man so likely to be their next king. There was an air of edgy expectation, for all knew how much depended upon Sybilla’s husband-to-be, none more so than Baldwin. He liked what he’d heard of Guillaume, a man with all the prerequisites of leadership—high birth, battlefield experience, and a reputation for courage. He was said to be openhanded and outgoing, too; Baldwin thought he’d find it easier to win over the lords of Outremer, some of whom had been put off by Count Raymond’s aloof demeanor.
It was in midafternoon that Baldwin had his first hint that there could be trouble ahead. Sybilla was the center of attention, which would normally have pleased her greatly. Today, though, she seemed preoccupied, short-tempered with her ladies and making little effort to engage others in conversation. Baldwin watched her with growing unease. Surely she was not going to balk at the eleventh hour? He admittedly did not know his sister all that well, privately considering her to be capricious and impulsive, without a true understanding of what would be required of her as queen. Had she decided that she did not want to wed Guillaume after all? The very thought caused Baldwin’s pulse to speed up. He’d spoken the truth when he’d told his vassals he believed it was God’s will that he rule their kingdom, despite being accursed as a leper. Yet he knew the day must come when his body would betray him, when he’d have no choice but to appoint a regent or to abdicate. In the past few months, he’d taken considerable comfort in knowing that there would be a competent man to rule in his stead once he could no longer do so.
He was not sure what to do, having always left Sybilla’s whims and fancies to his mother. But Agnes had accompanied Denys to Sidon in order to give Guillaume a royal welcome. And Baldwin had no desire to have a conversation with Sybilla that would be awkward at best. Yet if she were indeed having second thoughts about the marriage, he needed to know. Rising from the dais, he crossed the hall and said quietly, “Sister? We must talk.”
Sybilla was so startled by his sudden appearance at her side that her hand jerked, spilling a few drops of wine. Thinking that she was drinking more wine than she ought, he suggested they go to the gardens and when he headed toward the stairwell, she followed slowly.
Neither spoke as they mounted the stairs to the roof. Much to his vexation, he had some difficulty in sliding back the bolt barring the door; as dexterous as he’d become in using his left hand, he was right-handed by nature and occasionally fumbled with ordinary tasks. At first, others would immediately offer their assistance, but they soon learned that Baldwin was fiercely independent. When he was finally able to open the door, he gave Sybilla credit for not rushing to help. As he glanced back at her, though, he noticed how much space separated them and realized she’d never have ventured close enough to risk physical contact. This was, he thought, the only time they’d been alone since she’d been told of his diagnosis.
The day was very warm, more like high summer than the beginning of autumn. The gardens were ablaze with crimson and purple flowers, the olive and palm trees swaying in the breeze wafting off the ocean. Baldwin liked to come up here by himself sometimes, gazing out at the waves rolling shoreward, just as they’d done since the dawn of time. Today, though, the gardens were not a refuge. Turning abruptly to face his sister, he said, “Are you loath to marry Guillaume, Sybilla?”
“No.” She glanced at him quickly, and then away. “Why would you ask that?”
He was not sure he believed her denial. “Because your nerves are very much on the raw. Something is troubling you. If not the coming marriage, what, then?”
Color rose in her cheeks. She shrugged, saying nothing, but soon saw that he was not budging until she answered him. “If you must know,” she said reluctantly, “I am nervous about meeting Guillaume.”
Baldwin blinked in surprise, for that had never occurred to him. “Why?”
She shook her head impatiently. “How could I not be nervous? I am delivering my life and my destiny and the fate of our kingdom into the hands of a stranger. A wife surrenders so much in marriage, finds herself subject to her husband’s will in all matters. What if Guillaume is one of those men who see women only as broodmares? Or what if I am not to his liking, if he is disappointed when he meets me?”
Baldwin could not imagine Guillaume being disappointed in Sybilla, not when she brought him a crown as her dowry. Knowing that was not what she’d want to hear, he paused to gather his thoughts. “Why would he not be pleased with you? You are very pretty, after all. Surely you know that?”
“So I have been told. But if Guillaume does not agree . . .”
Baldwin felt out of his depth, but he did his best to see this from her viewpoint. “Is it that you are uncomfortable with so public a first meeting?” He supposed he could see why that might make her anxious. Because he’d never lacked for self-confidence, he’d assumed that she was equally self-assured. Apparently not. “I have an idea,” he said at last. “Stay here in the gardens. When Guillaume arrives, I will bring him up to you so you’ll have some privacy.”
Her eyes sparkled and at that moment, she looked very pretty, indeed. “Oh, yes, I’d like that!” Almost at once, though, her face clouded over. “People will gossip if we meet privately ere we are wed, Baldwin. It would not be seemly.”
Baldwin doubted that she truly cared about strictly observing the proprieties; from what he’d heard of her girlhood in the convent, she’d shown a rebellious streak on more than one occasion. She must be even more nervous than she’d admitted. “That is easily solved. I will send one of your ladies up to the roof to wait with you.”
Her smile was both radiant and relieved. “Thank you, Baldwin!” She reached out to him gratefully, her hand brushing his sleeve before she realized what she was doing and recoiled so violently that she stumbled, almost losing her balance.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Hot color flooded her face and when she willed herself to meet his gaze, he saw the shimmer of tears in the blue eyes so like his own. “I . . . I am sorry, Baldwin. . . .” Little more than a whisper. “It is just that . . . that I am so fearful of catching leprosy. . . .”
Baldwin felt no anger, just a weary sense of sadness and loss. “I know, Sister,” he said softly. “I know.”
* * *
Baldwin had spared no expense in giving his sister a splendid wedding. They had been wed in the courtyard of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre so that the throngs of spectators could witness the ceremony, then entered this most sacred of shrines for the marriage Mass. Afterward, there was feasting in the great hall of the palace, and now the trestle tables were being cleared away so the guests could dance.
Guillaume and Sybilla were the cynosure of all eyes, as bridal couples always were. They both seemed to be enjoying themselves, surrounded by the admiring and the curious and those eager to curry favor with a future king and queen. William thought they made a very attractive pair. Guillaume was as handsome as reported, tall and well built, with hair brighter than newly minted bezants and eyes as blue as the sapphire he’d given Sybilla for her bride’s gift. Sybilla looked lovely in rose-colored silk embroidered with silver thread, and she blushed becomingly every time her new husband smiled at her. To judge by the expressions on so many faces, the Poulains were eager to believe that their kingdom’s future was assured now that Guillaume had come to their rescue, for he looked and acted like a man born to wear a crown.
“Could it truly be as easy as this, William?”
He started, for he’d not heard Maria’s quiet approach and her softly spoken words echoed his own thought
s with eerie precision; he, too, was wondering if Guillaume would be the savior of Outremer or a mirage, one of those false visions conjured up by the scorching desert sun.
“We can hope,” he said, with a smile in which optimism warred with experience.
Maria looked fragile to him, the stark black of her mourning gown standing out against the vividly bright colors worn by the others in the hall. This was the first public appearance she’d made since getting word of her father’s death in September at Myriokephalon in Anatolia, where the emperor of the Greeks had suffered a devastating defeat by the Sultan of Rum. While Manuel had survived the battle, Maria’s father had not. Greek losses had been high; among the dead was Baldwin of Antioch, the son of Reynald de Chatillon and Princess Constance, dying in a heroic charge to break out of the trap sprung by the Seljuq Turks. William had no liking for Reynald, never having forgiven him for his torture of the Patriarch of Antioch or his ravaging of the island of Cyprus. He still felt a twinge of pity for the other man, deprived of the son who’d grown to manhood during his long years in that Aleppo dungeon. But his greatest sympathy was for Maria, having to grieve alone and far from her homeland.
“I wanted to thank you, William. for I am sure my invitation was your doing.” Maria glanced across the hall toward the dais, where Agnes was glaring openly in her direction. She responded with a defiant smile.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 18
