The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  William wondered if she truly believed that or if she was whistling past a graveyard; he did not know her well enough to judge. Agnes and Joscelin quickly made the appropriate responses, assuring her that Guillaume would recover, but they did not sound convincing. Baldwin roused himself to agree, although he never met his sister’s eyes.

  “There is something you all must know.” For a young woman who’d always paid such heed to her appearance, Sybilla looked somewhat disheveled; her veil was askew and there were water stains on her bodice, even a smudge on her cheek. Vanity had obviously lost much of its importance during these past weeks as her husband fought for his life.

  When she seemed to hesitate, Joscelin prodded gently. “What is it, sweetheart? You can tell us anything. Surely you know that?”

  Her lips curved slightly in what was not quite a smile. “My news is good, Uncle. Guillaume and I were going to wait to share it, but you need to know now. I am with child. I missed my flux in mid-April and again this month. I consulted a midwife last week and she says the baby should be born in December—”

  She got no further, for Joscelin let out a jubilant shout. Leaping to his feet, he embraced his niece so exuberantly that he actually lifted her off her feet. Agnes’s response was just as elated. “I am so happy to hear this, Sybilla!” Taking her daughter into her arms, she kissed the girl on the forehead like a benediction. Baldwin was more restrained, staying in his seat as he said God had blessed her.

  William alone was at a loss for words. He could only muster up a weak smile, too distressed to feign joy he did not feel. Sybilla’s pregnancy was indeed a blessing—for the de Courtenays. Not for their kingdom, though. Did Baldwin understand that? While Joscelin and Agnes continued to express their happiness, William looked toward the young king. As their eyes met, he had his answer. Baldwin understood all too well.

  Guillaume was dying; only a miracle could save him. Even if Sybilla gave birth to a healthy son, it would be many years before the lad would be old enough to rule in his own right. As soon as Guillaume drew his last breath, she would need a husband again. The search would begin for another Guillaume, but would such a man be willing to marry Sybilla now? If she had a son by Guillaume, he would take precedence over any son of theirs. How many highborn, ambitious men would find that acceptable? Where would they find a man whose Christian faith was stronger than his dreams of a dynasty?

  * * *

  May finally ended and June sidled in under cover of night. Baldwin’s sixteenth birthday came and went all but unnoticed. Time seemed to have frozen for those trapped at Ascalon, watching helplessly as Guillaume edged closer and closer to death. By now, all knew the ending was as inevitable as it was disastrous for their kingdom, yet they had to join in Sybilla’s pretense that there was still hope for her husband. Word soon spread that Sybilla was with child; William was sure it was Joscelin who’d spilled that secret. The de Courtenay allies welcomed the news gratefully, eager to see Sybilla rule once Baldwin could no longer do so. Others were not so pleased, seeing her pregnancy as William did, as another complication for a succession already in peril. As bad as things were, though, they were about to get much worse.

  Agnes and William had noticed Baldwin’s lack of appetite, for his health was an obsessive concern with them both. He’d shrugged off their questions and they reluctantly accepted his reassurances, knowing how deeply shaken he’d been by his brother-in-law’s fatal illness. But then he began to cough. Within a few days, he was running a fever, experiencing chills and shortness of breath, in such discomfort that he had to take to his bed.

  Their first fear was that he’d contracted Guillaume’s hectic fever. Abū Sulayman Dāwūd eased their minds, telling them he believed Baldwin’s illness was one called peripneumonia by doctors and lung fever by laymen. Revealing yet another danger faced by lepers, he said that although he could not explain why, those stricken with leprosy seemed to become more susceptible to other ailments, too. While any disease seemed preferable to the one ravaging Guillaume’s body, they soon realized that lung fever was just as capable of claiming Baldwin’s life, for his condition quickly worsened. By then, Guillaume had lapsed into a coma, and once people learned that the young king was very ill, too, panic swept the city.

  * * *

  William and Agnes had been keeping vigil by Baldwin’s bed, enemies temporarily forced into an alliance of expediency, their fear for him greater than their hostility toward each other. On this afternoon in mid-June, William was alone, for Guillaume had died during the night and Agnes was trying to comfort her grieving daughter. Rising, he leaned over the bed and put his hand on Baldwin’s forehead. If they could not lower the lad’s fever, he’d surely die. How could this be God’s will? Guillaume and Baldwin, too?

  William slumped back in his seat. When he glanced up again, he saw that Baldwin had awakened and was watching him. He hastened to fetch a cup of watered-down wine and slid his arm around Baldwin’s shoulders, lifting him up so he could drink, and then settling the boy back against the pillows.

  “I did not dream it. . . . Guillaume is dead?” Baldwin’s voice was slurred, weakened by his continuing cough and the sharp pain that accompanied his breathing now. He’d been unable to eat, for that brought on bouts of vomiting, but at least he’d so far been able to keep liquids down. When William nodded, he closed his eyes, his hand moving in what William thought was an attempt to make the sign of the cross.

  “Baldwin. . . . I must leave you for a time. Guillaume is to be buried in the Church of St. John in Jerusalem, and Sybilla has asked me to preside over the services for him.” William found a thin smile. “She said Guillaume would want that, for he’d taken a liking to me. I will return straightaway after the funeral, that I promise.”

  Baldwin’s lashes lifted and for a moment, his vulnerability showed so plainly that William’s throat closed up. Then he lowered his gaze, saying softly, “My mother . . .”

  “She is staying here with you, lad. Joscelin and Denys will escort Sybilla and Guillaume’s body to Jerusalem.” William reached out and covered one of Baldwin’s hands with his own, thinking how few dared to touch the boy and grudgingly giving Agnes credit, both for her fierce maternal devotion to her son and for her courage.

  Baldwin had fallen asleep again by the time Agnes returned. As William had done, she leaned over to put her hand on the boy’s forehead, gauging his fever. “You can go,” she said curtly, as if the archbishop were a servant to be dismissed at her whims. William was too weary to protest and did as she bade, leaving her alone with her son.

  William had intended to go to his own chamber, but instead he found himself moving in the direction of the castle chapel. Approaching the altar, he sank to his knees, no easy feat for his stiffening muscles and aching bones.

  It was hard, so hard, being torn between his love for the young king and his love for their homeland. For Baldwin, death would be a mercy, sparing him all the suffering and misery that lay ahead. But his death would be catastrophic for the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Even before he was buried with the honors he deserved, the struggle to choose his heir would already have begun—either his sister, Sybilla, or his cousin Raymond. It would seem to be an easy choice—an eighteen-year-old girl, widowed and pregnant, or a man well versed in the ways of war and statecraft. It was not, though. The de Courtenays would fight tooth and nail to gain the crown for Sybilla, and they would not lack for allies. Some would be opportunists like Archbishop Eraclius. Others would be men unwilling or unable to accept Raymond’s belief in peaceful coexistence with the Saracens, men like Reynald de Chatillon. William feared that disaster would befall them all if Sybilla were chosen as queen. He also feared that if Raymond were chosen, a civil war was possible, even likely.

  By now William’s face was wet with tears. Lowering his head, he did what Baldwin would have expected of him. He prayed for the survival of their kingdom, for Baldwin’s recovery.

  CHAPTE
R 13

  August 1177

  Ascalon, Outremer

  William sighed with relief as the walls of Ascalon came into view. He did not enjoy being on horseback for hours on end, and this was the fourth trip he’d made to Jerusalem since the young king had been stricken with lung fever. God had shown mercy to their kingdom and Baldwin was recovering from his illness, albeit very slowly. Since he was not physically strong enough yet to travel, William, as his chancellor, had been acting on his behalf in the Holy City.

  He always became nervous as he passed through the barbican guarding the Jerusalem Gate, fearing that Baldwin’s health might have regressed in his absence. But the townspeople were going about their affairs as usual, and the fear receded. At the castle, he waited to be assisted from the saddle, having no false pride about his riding abilities. He frowned, then, at the sight of the two men approaching. He was not pleased to see Reynald de Chatillon back at Ascalon again. Nor was he pleased that he seemed so friendly with Amaury de Lusignan, and he wondered if Baudouin d’Ibelin knew his son-in-law was on such amicable terms with Reynald.

  Once they’d exchanged greetings, William smiled politely and offered Reynald his best wishes, for Baldwin had named him as regent during his illness. Reynald acknowledged his congratulations just as politely. But William caught the gleam of mockery in those unsettling grey eyes, for the new regent was well aware that he had no friend in the Archbishop of Tyre.

  * * *

  Baldwin was finding his long convalescence to be very frustrating. He’d grudgingly agreed to his doctor’s insistence upon bed rest, but he was fully dressed and, in a small gesture of defiance, was even wearing riding boots. He was lounging on the bed as he dictated a letter to his scribe, whom he dismissed as soon as Anselm admitted William into the chamber.

  “Anselm was about to go down to the kitchen to order my meal. Will you share it with me, William?” William said he would do so right gladly. Anselm’s manners were not polished and he did not think to fetch the archbishop a cup of wine or to set a chair closer to the bed as most squires would have done. But William did not care that Anselm was lacking in some of the social graces; what mattered was that he seemed at ease in Baldwin’s presence, apparently indifferent to the contagious disease that caused others so much fear.

  After moving a chair beside the bed, William poured wine for them both while giving Baldwin what he hoped was an inconspicuous appraisal. The lad was pale, but that was actually good, for high color was a sign of the fever that had brought Baldwin so close to death. “I have letters for you,” he said, gesturing toward his leather saddlebags, “and much to tell you. May I ask a question first?”

  Baldwin looked wary and William understood why: questions about his health were not welcome. “You can ask me anything. I cannot promise to answer you, though, until I hear it.”

  “Fair enough. I have been wondering why you chose Reynald de Chatillon as regent and not Humphrey de Toron.”

  “Ah, I’ve been expecting that one.” Baldwin took a sip of wine. “We all agree how important this attack on Saladin’s power base in Egypt will be. You know that I have the greatest respect for Humphrey de Toron, both as a man and a battle commander. But I decided Reynald de Chatillon was a better choice to lead our upcoming campaign.”

  Baldwin looked away briefly then, and William ached on the boy’s behalf, knowing how bitterly disappointed he was that he’d not be able to take part in that campaign. The Greek fleet was expected at Acre any day now, and he’d need weeks, possibly even months, to fully regain his strength. Baldwin would not want sympathy, so William offered none, saying instead, “I do not deny Reynald is utterly fearless on the battlefield. So is the constable, though. Do you think Humphrey is too old? I know he is nigh on sixty. . . .”

  Baldwin shook his head. “Humphrey is a fine soldier and if age has slowed him down, he’s hiding it well. But he has been very friendly with Saladin in the past, always willing to agree to truces, as the sultan well knows. Reynald, on the other hand, would barter his hopes of salvation for the chance to meet Saladin on the battlefield. So which man do you think is more likely to cause Saladin the greater concern? Who would make him lose the most sleep at night?”

  William smiled at the boy, proud that Baldwin was showing such a talent for strategic thinking; clearly those childhood chess lessons had been worth the effort. While he was pleased that Baldwin had such practical reasons for his decision, it did have one drawback. “Your rationale for choosing Reynald over Humphrey would obviously apply to the Count of Tripoli, too,” he conceded. “Even more so. But passing over Raymond in favor of Reynald carries a risk. Whilst Humphrey might not like it, he’d not take it as a personal insult. As Raymond is your cousin, he may well be offended at not being named regent again.”

  To his surprise, Baldwin merely shrugged. “I am sorry that you have never warmed to Raymond, lad, for he is a good soldier, a man of unquestioned integrity, one who would never put self-interest before the welfare of our kingdom, the way Reynald de Chatillon has done—”

  He’d not meant to bring up Reynald’s checkered past; the words seemed to flow into the conversation of their own accord. Realizing it was too late to backtrack, he was relieved that Baldwin did not appear angered by his criticism of Reynald, since it could be seen as doubting the young king’s judgment. “I understand why you chose Reynald to lead the Egyptian campaign,” he said quickly, “and I am not saying you are wrong. Who would not want Reynald fighting on our side? But I hope you will keep his lawless, rash history in mind, too. He may be a better battle commander than your cousin, yet he is neither as trustworthy nor as honorable.”

  “I agree with your opinion of Reynald’s past, William. Whilst he called himself a prince, he was little better than a bandit back then, selfish and vengeful. Fifteen years in a Saracen dungeon changed him, though. He is a man motivated now by a burning hatred of the Saracens, a man who’d not prey on his Christian brethren as he once did.” Baldwin paused before adding, “Or as my cousin Raymond did.”

  Seeing the shock on William’s face, he held up his hand before the archbishop could object. “Do you know why Raymond has been so hostile to Emperor Manuel, so adamantly opposed to an alliance with the Greeks?”

  “I assumed he did not believe such an alliance was in the best interests of our kingdom. Are you saying there is more to it?”

  “Quite a bit more. I am not surprised you did not know, for it occurred whilst you were still pursuing your studies in Paris and Bologna. I only recently learned about it myself—that Raymond’s sister was once plight trothed to the Greek emperor. Raymond was delighted, of course, with such an impressive marital alliance and he planned to send twelve galleys to escort her to Constantinople for the wedding. It never happened, for Manuel changed his mind at the eleventh hour and instead wed a princess of Antioch, Prince Bohemond’s sister. Raymond was outraged that his sister should be so shamed and she took it hard, dying not long afterward.”

  “Who could blame Raymond for being angry?” William interjected. “It was a great affront, after all.”

  “I agree that his anger was justified. How he expressed it was not. He sent those twelve galleys to take vengeance upon the Greeks. They attacked Cyprus and the emperor’s coastal towns, inflicting as much misery and destruction as Reynald did on his own Cypriot raid.”

  William did not want to believe Raymond was capable of Reynald’s cruelty. “Are you sure of this, Baldwin? It sounds as if it came from one of Count Raymond’s enemies.”

  “It did,” Baldwin acknowledged, so blandly that William was suddenly sure that the lad had another surprise in store for him. “However, this is one enemy whom you are likely to find quite credible, William. It was my stepmother who told me about it.”

  Baldwin smiled, then, before explaining. “During my Easter court, my mother and uncle had gone out of their way to be rude to Maria, and I was not pleased, for
if she complained of her ill treatment to Manuel, he’d not have been pleased, either. So I made a point of engaging her in conversation to show that she was welcome at my court. When Raymond’s name came up, she enlightened me about the source of his animosity toward the Greeks. She was only a child at the time, but she said Manuel was enraged that the count should have dared to attack the empire. I saw no reason to doubt her word.”

  Neither did William. As much as he wanted to reject the story, if it came from Maria, it was true. But because he was grateful for all the count had done for his career, he reminded Baldwin that Raymond could not have been more than twenty-one at the time and the young were often prone to lapses in judgment. His heart was not in his defense, though, for he was disillusioned that the Count of Tripoli was not as high-minded as he’d once thought, that he was just as susceptible as other men when the Devil whispered in his ear.

  Servants arrived then with the meal. Because Baldwin’s appetite was still lacking, the castle cooks had provided a variety of dishes to tempt him: an eel stew, a pottage of chicken and rice, roasted chickpeas, artichokes, and dates and oranges and quinces in syrup.

  They chose to serve themselves so they’d not have to weigh their words. Once they were alone, Baldwin ladled some of the pottage onto his plate, regarding it without enthusiasm. He forced himself to swallow a spoonful, feeling William’s anxious eyes upon him. “I am eating,” he insisted. “Tell me how Sybilla is doing.”

  “About as well as can be expected. She has decided to remain in Jerusalem, saying it would be a good omen for the baby to be born in the Holy City.”