When he reported to Baldwin after his inspection of the town walls, Balian found the young king was too troubled to sleep. One by one, the other men excused themselves until only Denys and Balian and Anselm remained in the king’s bedchamber, watching as Baldwin paced back and forth, asking questions about past sieges, asking if they thought Saladin would tunnel under the walls or try an outright assault; if he’d brought mangonels from Egypt or would need to build them; if he had enough supplies for a prolonged siege with so many men to feed. They had no answers for him, but voicing his concerns seemed to calm his nerves and so they smothered their yawns and let him talk.
It was very late before Balian retired to the bedchamber he was sharing with his brother. When he opened his eyes again, light was seeping into the chamber through the shutter slats and Piers was leaning over him, gently shaking his shoulder. “Wake up, my lord—please!”
Balian sat bolt upright in the bed. “Has the siege begun?”
The squire shook his head. “No, they are gone, my lord, they are all gone!”
* * *
Emerging onto the castle battlements, Balian saw that his brother, Baldwin, and Reynald de Chatillon were already there, staring down at the plain below. Instead of the sprawling siege camp they’d expected to see, there was only trampled grass and churned-up earth and emptiness. One of the largest armies to invade Outremer had vanished overnight.
Balian joined them at the embrasure. “They did not even leave scouts behind to keep watch over us?” he asked in astonishment.
Reynald spat out one of the Arabic oaths he’d learned during his long captivity in Aleppo. “Why should they? They think we pose no more threat than a convent of nuns!”
He sounded outraged, and Balian and Baudouin exchanged glances, grimly amused that Reynald was so offended by Saladin’s cavalier dismissal of their small army.
Baldwin looked exhausted, but he was angry, too. “It is never wise to hold an enemy too cheaply,” he said, and the d’Ibelin brothers realized that, like Reynald, he took the Saracens’ scorn as a personal insult. “Is it a razzia, then?” he asked after a heavy silence.
Razzia was the Arabic word for the widespread raiding called a chevauchée by the Franks. The aim was to cause as much suffering as possible, laying waste the land of the enemy, burning his crops in the field, running off his livestock, plundering his towns and villages, and proving to his terrified subjects that they could not rely upon him for protection, a liege lord’s first duty. Knowing how much pain a razzia would inflict upon his people, Baldwin was taken aback by Reynald’s response.
“Let’s hope so.” Seeing Baldwin’s surprise, Reynald said bluntly, “If it is not a razzia, then Saladin is marching on Jerusalem with twenty thousand men. Pick your poison, my liege.”
Baldwin flinched, his gaze moving past Reynald toward the wide road that disappeared into the low hills to the east, the road that led to Jerusalem. “God would not let that happen,” he said, but without much conviction. He’d once been sure the Almighty would never choose a leper to rule over the Holy Land.
* * *
The day dragged by. Quarrels broke out, for nerves were taut and tempers quick to kindle. Soldiers with nothing to do headed for the taverns, where townspeople were celebrating Ascalon’s reprieve. Since most of the army had families scattered throughout the rest of Outremer, they took offense at the festive atmosphere. Some of these fights spilled into the streets and Reynald had to send serjeants out to restore order. Ascalon was not a city under siege, but they were still trapped, and without an enemy to unite them, the miserable men were turning on one another.
A noon dinner in the castle great hall went virtually untouched. Balian soon climbed up to the battlements again. The sun had burned away the last of the morning sea mist, so it felt more like September than late November. As a kestrel circled overhead, Balian tracked its flight until it went into a dive and disappeared from view. His spirits were plummeting like that hawk. He was turning away from the parapet when his eye was caught by a smudge along the horizon—smoke.
* * *
By the time Baudouin clambered up onto the battlements, the blue sky to the north of Ascalon was stained with billowing dark clouds. He looked so stricken that Balian hurried to his side. He started to assure Baudouin that it might not be Ramlah on fire, but the words wouldn’t come. “You told them to flee if they saw the Saracens approaching,” he finally said. “They’d have been on the road to Jaffa ere Saladin’s men entered the town.”
Baudouin said nothing. Over three thousand people lived in Ramlah and not all of them would have evacuated the town. Some would have been elderly or sick or just too stubborn to admit the danger until it was too late. They might have taken refuge in the castle, but it did not have enough men to fend off an assault for long. That was true for castles and towns all over Outremer, stripped of their garrisons by Baldwin’s urgent summons. Baudouin slammed his fist against the stone merlon, skinning his knuckles and leaving a smear of blood. It didn’t help. He began to curse then, long and loud; that didn’t help, either.
Judging by the changing pattern of the smoke, there was more than one fire. Mirabel? Ibelin? Balian knew that only fourteen of Outremer’s cities and towns had their own walls. The rest were like Ramlah and Nablus, protected by castles, often small ones. Balian thought of the villagers at Ibelin. Would they be able to reach the castle if a Saracen raiding party came swooping down upon them? Some of them were Muslims, but that might not save them, for men at war did not always take the time to identify the enemy. And what of Nablus? Would Saladin’s army get that far inland? What would happen to the town and the ninety villages that depended upon him now for protection? He looked at the smoke spreading across the horizon, blotting out the sun, and he felt it was also blotting out all hope for his besieged homeland.
* * *
Men soon began to arrive at Ascalon, some bloodied, all deeply shaken, reporting encounters with Saracens as they made their way to the coast in response to the arrière-ban. They spoke of deaths and captures and narrow escapes, with those taken prisoner dragged along with the army, to be sold in the slave markets of Cairo. And they confirmed that the Shephelah plain was swarming with raiding parties, already laden with plunder and livestock.
Baldwin insisted upon hearing all of these stories for himself, even though each new account seemed to deplete more of his energy. By the evening meal, he looked absolutely greensick, not even making a pretense of eating. Few of the others did, either. They did drink, though, and that night Baudouin got very drunk. Nor was he the only one. Balian was greatly tempted, but he stayed sober to keep an eye on his brother and had another bad night, sleeping in snatches, jarred awake by nightmares he mercifully could not remember.
Dawn arrived with brutal inevitability and the castle was filled with men who looked like walking death, nursing bad hangovers. The only benefit from their drunken debauchery was that most of them felt too awful to squabble with one another. The great hall was unnaturally quiet as few were breaking their fast with bread, cheese, or thick slices of roasted lamb. Balian steered his groggy brother toward a table, but Baudouin veered away when the scent of meat roiled his stomach and instead collapsed on a bench near the open hearth.
When Balian thrust a cup into his hand, he drank in gulps. “If you had any mercy,” he muttered, “you’d add hemlock to the beer to put me out of my misery.”
“If I were going to poison anyone, it would be him.” Balian looked across the hall, his gaze coming to rest on Joscelin de Courtenay.
Baudouin glanced up, then nodded approvingly. “Do not tempt me, Little Brother. I’d like nothing better than to rid the world of a de Courtenay ere I die.”
Balian was no longer listening, his attention drawn to the table where Baldwin had been slouching, looking utterly desolate. He was on his feet now, though, rising so quickly that his chair teetered and crashed into the flo
or rushes. One of his household knights was at his side, gesturing toward another man standing nearby. Baldwin beckoned to him, then turned toward Reynald, seated at the same table. He rose swiftly, too, and as soon as the third man reached them, they headed toward the door.
Their path took them by Balian. Taking a few steps forward, he halted, watching as they strode past him. The man with them was a stranger. He was dressed like a Saracen, but many of the local Christians did so. Was he one of Baldwin’s spies? A scout? Balian was sure only that the news he was bringing was not good.
They were not kept in suspense for long. Within the hour, Reynald returned to the hall. Stepping up onto the dais, he raised his voice in a demand for silence. The following lords were wanted by the king, he said tersely. As their names were called, men rose hastily to their feet. A few tried to question Reynald, but he ignored them. Spinning on his heel, he stalked toward the door, leaving the others to scramble to catch up with him. The d’Ibelin brothers followed at a more measured pace, Baudouin convinced that if he moved too fast, his head was likely to detach from his shoulders and Balian in no hurry to hear whatever Baldwin had to tell them.
* * *
Baldwin was slumped in a chair, his hand shielding his eyes. He got to his feet as they entered the solar, looking so distraught that they braced themselves for the worst. Wasting no time, he pointed to the stranger. “This is Bernard. I daresay most of you have heard of him.”
Murmurs swept the solar, for Bernard was a legend in Outremer. That was not his real name, merely the one he used on his missions. He’d served Baldwin’s father and now served the young king, beginning as a low-level spy and rising to command a ring that encompassed the entire kingdom. He was thought to be a Syrian Christian but could easily pass as a Muslim and often did. He was said to be fluent in Arabic, Kurdish, Syriac, French, and Greek, as well as several local dialects, and was utterly fearless, despite having a large Saracen bounty upon his head. At least that was what the Franks believed, trading improbable stories of his exploits in taverns and around campfires, no one really knowing the truth.
For such a celebrated figure, Bernard seemed quite ordinary. He was of medium height and slim build, a man to pass unnoticed on the street. Judging by his lithe body movements, Balian thought he was surprisingly young, in his late twenties or early thirties. But he could not be sure of that, for Bernard was wearing the Saracen turban called an imamah muhannak, which had a wide strip of dangling cloth its wearer could wrap around his mouth and nose in bad weather. Bernard was using it now to mask the lower half of his face; only his eyes were visible, so dark they were almost black, eyes that missed little and revealed even less.
“I have naught to tell you but bad news, my lords.” He was so soft-spoken that they had to strain to catch his words. “Saladin has set his men loose to plunder and loot. Ramlah was burned. So were the closest towns and villages, Ibelin and Mirabel. When they attacked Lydda, the people fled to the fortified church, but the town itself was sacked. Any Franks unlucky enough to encounter them have been slain or taken as slaves if they are women or young and healthy. The countryside is shrouded in smoke, for they’ve been firing houses and barns and churches. The streets of Ramlah and Lydda are littered with the bodies of pigs and dogs, and they are stealing all the horses, cattle, and sheep they find. Never have I seen such destruction.”
Bernard was not telling them anything they’d not already suspected. It was still devastating to have their worst fears confirmed. There were a few muted exclamations, some cursing, and someone in the back of the solar exclaimed, “How can people survive the winter if they’ve lost everything? They’ll starve!”
“That is the least of our worries at the moment,” Reynald said, so bitterly that the men fell silent again.
Bernard glanced over at Baldwin, who nodded for him to continue. “Saladin is in no hurry about it, but there seems little doubt of his intent. Whilst he may not have had it in mind when he left Egypt, once he discovered how weak we were, he realized what an opportunity he had. He is leading his army east—toward Jerusalem.”
They stared at him, appalled. The loss of Jerusalem would mean the loss of their kingdom, too, the only world they’d ever known. And they would be blamed throughout Christendom for letting the Holy City fall to the infidels.
For some of them, the fear was more immediate. Balian felt as if his lungs were suddenly being squeezed in an icy grip and he had to struggle to breathe. Nor was he the only one with loved ones in danger; many men had left their families in Jerusalem, thinking they’d be safest there. Baldwin’s mother and pregnant sister. Baudouin’s two daughters, Esquiva and Etiennette, and his young son, Thomasin. Reynald’s wife and stepson. William of Tyre. The elderly patriarch. Thirty thousand men, women, and children at the mercy of an infidel army.
Hugues of Galilee’s first reaction was relief that his mother and younger brothers were at Tiberias, not Jerusalem. He at once felt guilty for that. Glancing toward Baldwin, he thought how dreadful it must be to preside over the death of their kingdom. He was seated closest to Baldwin’s stepfather and he leaned over, asking Denys softly what Baldwin would do. Denys shook his head, for what could he do?
Seeing that Bernard had nothing more to say, Baldwin stepped forward, waiting until the solar quieted again. “I cannot and will not hide behind Ascalon’s walls whilst my people are being killed and terrorized, their homes set ablaze,” he said huskily. “Even if we cannot stop the Saracens from ravaging our lands, we have to try. You do see that?”
He was almost pleading, for he knew what he was asking of them. He did not blame them for being reluctant to ride out to certain death. But he’d shame them into it if need be, and raising his chin, he met their eyes unflinchingly. “I mean to depart Ascalon in search of Saladin. Who rides with me?”
“I will, my liege.” The Bishop of Bethlehem got to his feet. Denys was the next to rise, followed by Baudouin and Balian. Joscelin looked so conflicted that Baldwin felt a spark of sympathy, knowing his uncle was haunted by those twelve years as a Saracen prisoner. But he still stood up. Amaury de Lusignan also rose, as did Denys’s cousins. So did Hugues, torn between terror and pride. When his fifteen-year-old brother did, too, that brought more of the lords to their feet, for how could they let a youngster play a man’s part whilst they stood aside?
Baldwin held his breath then, waiting. He felt deep gratitude when the bishop moved to stand beside him, saying firmly, “God will ride with us, my lord king.”
Baldwin had hoped Bishop Albert’s words would turn the tide. That was done, though, not by the prelate but by the man leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, regarding the other lords with scornful eyes and a sardonic slash of a smile. “We are wasting time, my liege,” Reynald said impatiently. “They’ll come with us, for they have no choice. Any man who cowered behind Ascalon’s walls whilst his ailing young king rode out to confront Saladin would never live down the disgrace.” For a moment, his accusing stare targeted the Brisebarre brothers, both of whom flushed darkly and then slowly got to their feet.
Nor could any of the others hold out against Reynald’s contemptuous challenge. Baldwin knew what had occurred here in the solar was a form of emotional extortion, but he was too desperate to care. “I will send word to the Templar grand master at Gaza,” he said, “asking him to join us. Whilst I cannot order him, I am confident he will agree.”
“The Templars can never resist a losing cause,” Baudouin murmured in an aside to Balian, and those close enough to hear mustered up bleak smiles.
Reynald had overheard, too, and he laughed outright. “Dying as a martyr for Christ is not the worst way to go. But let’s not measure ourselves for haloes just yet. The men who’ve been straggling into Ascalon have all told the same story—that Saladin’s army has spread out over the Shephelah plain in search of plunder—and Bernard has confirmed those accounts. So, if we can find Saladin ere they
rejoin him . . .”
Balian felt reluctant admiration, thinking that was adroitly done, offering a hint of hope without actually claiming they could win, which none of them would have believed. He looked over at his brother, then, wondering if the d’Ibelin family’s spectacular rise would end on a November battlefield. Baudouin seemed to read his thoughts, for he punched Balian on the arm. “Do not look so woebegone, lad. Did you not hear Reynald? We’ll likely be facing only twelve thousand Saracens now, so there is naught to fret about.”
It was a game attempt at humor and Balian tried to match it. “I admit I was getting worried. Hoping for a miracle is not the best battle strategy I’ve ever heard. But you’re right, Baudouin. Knowing we’ll only be outnumbered three to one makes a world of difference.”
Would Maria understand why he’d chosen to ride with Baldwin? After a moment to consider, Balian decided that she would, for honor and duty were concepts very familiar to his new wife. If only he’d insisted that she and Isabella seek shelter in Acre or Tyre! Their walls were in far better shape than Jerusalem’s defenses. And if they’d taken refuge in a coastal city, they could have sailed for Constantinople if the kingdom fell to Saladin. He was trying to convince himself that even if they were captured by the Saracens, they’d be well treated, too valuable as hostages to be abused, when Denys’s voice broke into his unhappy musings.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 31
