He thought of Khālid, dead at nineteen, of the thousands of soldiers who’d died needlessly, of the great opportunity lost, of al-Quds, site of the al-Aqsa mosque and the Dome of the Rock. As he looked at Yūsuf, though, that clenched core of rage began to ease and then to ebb away. There was nothing he could say that Yūsuf had not already said to himself. He loved his brother and knew he could forgive him in time. Allah would forgive him, too. But could Yūsuf forgive himself?
“Yūsuf.” Reaching out, he covered the sultan’s hand with his own. “You could have died in that battle or on the flight back to Egypt. Many did, yet you did not. Allah spared your life for a reason. Now you must grieve for the dead, seek the forgiveness of Allah, learn from your mistakes, and remember that you and you alone can unite us to drive the infidels from our lands.”
Salāh al-Dīn bowed his head again, his shoulders shaking. He no longer hid the tears trickling from the corners of his eyes. They sat together in silence for what could have been hours; al-‘Ādil felt as if time no longer had any meaning. But when he heard his brother whisper, “‘There is no strength nor power save in Allah,’” al-‘Ādil permitted himself a brief smile.
* * *
As the walls of Jerusalem came into view, Baldwin sighed with relief. It had been a tiring journey from Ascalon even though they’d set a moderate pace to make it easier for the wounded. As much as he hated to admit it, Baldwin knew he was becoming more vulnerable to fatigue, his energy flagging after even moderate physical exertion. Yet another way that his body was sabotaging him. He would not let his demons spoil their homecoming, though, and he shoved them back into the far recesses of his brain. They’d break out after darkness fell and he was alone; they always did. But not now, please, God, not now.
“Look, my liege!” One of his knights was pointing to the large crowd that had gathered outside David’s Gate. Baldwin had expected this, for whenever the True Cross had led men into battle, it was traditional for churchmen to escort it back into the city to its place of honor in the basilica of the Holy Sepulchre. But there were others besides clerics in this gathering, and although they were not yet within hearing range, it was obvious they were cheering loudly, waving banners and hats and scarves aloft in the chilly December sunlight. There were even a few trumpeters, blaring out the news of their arrival for the citizens waiting within the walls.
Baldwin smiled as he recognized faces in the crowd, yet he felt a prick of regret that even at such a time, his court was so divided. His mother; Joscelin’s wife, Agneta; her cousin, Stephanie de Milly; and Archbishop Eraclius of Caesarea led the contingent on one side of the road, William and Maria and the anti-Courtenay faction on the other. Reining in his palfrey, Baldwin dismounted carefully, for the growing numbness in his foot was beginning to affect his balance. He was surprised to see Sybilla, seated on a stool, for she was less than a month from her due date. She smiled as their eyes met, gesturing toward the swollen belly hidden under her mantle as if to explain why she could not rise to greet him. He took a step forward and then his mother was there, holding on to him so tightly that he felt his ribs might crack; it was, he realized, one of the only times that he’d seen her weep from joy.
All around him, there was pandemonium as men flung themselves from their horses to embrace loved ones. Wherever he looked, he saw jubilant men and their blissful women and children. A few feet away, Balian was kissing his wife, and Baldwin smiled, thinking that he’d never expected to see Maria so indifferent to public decorum. Baudouin had found his daughters and Reynald was striding toward Stephanie, who ran into his arms; her son, Humphrey, hung back, though, regarding his stepfather with wary brown eyes. Joscelin had gotten a kiss from his wife and was now claiming a hug from his sister as Denys waited patiently until Agnes would find time for him. While his mother was occupied, Baldwin crossed the road toward the Archbishop of Tyre.
William was so proud that words failed him and with an utter disregard for protocol, he embraced Baldwin as if he were a son. When they finally stepped back to smile at each other, a man mobbed by children and his weeping wife pointed toward Baldwin, shouting out that he’d be on his way to the Cairo slave markets if not for the king. Baldwin acknowledged the praise with another smile, then explained to William that when the battle began, the hundreds of Franks taken prisoner during the razzia had seized their chance to overpower their guards.
William resisted the urge to give the young king another hug. “Jerusalem was terrified. When rumors spread that the Saracens were on the way, many people took refuge in the Tower of David, sure that the city would soon fall to Saladin. Panic was spreading like the plague. And then your messenger arrived with word of your victory. The citizens rushed out into the streets again, this time to give thanks in all the city churches. Many have begun to call it the Miracle at Montgisard.”
Baldwin laughed. “That is as good a way as any to explain it, William. Some of the men claimed that they saw St. George fighting with us. I cannot say I saw him myself,” he said wryly, “but then I was rather busy at the time.”
“Your father would have been so very proud of you, lad,” William said, and saw that he could not have said anything to give Baldwin greater pleasure.
“Well, he’d have been very happy with the spoils,” Baldwin joked, for Amalric’s avarice had been an open secret throughout the kingdom. “It was four days until all our soldiers returned to Ascalon, so heavily laden with plunder that they resembled a caravan. We gained tents, weapons, armor, clothing, drums, wagons of food. Thousands of horses and camels. And so many prisoners that I still do not know the total.”
His smile vanished. “It was a great victory, William, but we paid a great price for it. Over eleven hundred dead—one of every four men lost his life on St. Catherine’s Day. And seven hundred fifty wounded, so gravely that we put them in carts and brought them back with us.”
William hated war for many reasons, despite recognizing it as a necessary evil. Above all, he hated the human cost, the lives sacrificed, the widows and orphans left to suffer. Their casualties were indeed horribly high, but it could have been worse, so much worse. He’d truly feared that the kingdom might be lost. “There is no better hospital in all of Outremer than the one run by the Hospitallers. The wounded will be well cared for there.”
They were interrupted then by the Bishop of Bethlehem. “I understand the patriarch is awaiting us at the Holy Sepulchre,” he said, once he and William had exchanged triumphal greetings. “Are you ready to enter the city, my liege?”
Baldwin nodded and when the bishop turned to stir the others into action, he looked again at William. “After we return the True Cross to its rightful place, William, I plan to accompany the wounded to the hospital of St. John. Will you come with me?”
“I would be honored, my lord king.”
Anselm materialized out of nowhere to assist Baldwin back into the saddle. William had not come on horseback and he reluctantly accepted one at Baldwin’s urging, eyeing the beast with faint suspicion, for the only horse he truly trusted was a dead one. It took a while to separate the men from their families, and as he glanced around, William saw that they’d be entering the city without either of the d’Ibelin brothers. Balian was still embracing his wife and had swung Isabella up into his arms, too. Baudouin had left his daughters and son and was gallantly devoting all his attention to Sybilla; she didn’t seem to mind, although Agnes looked outraged. Once Reynald, Denys, and most of the other lords and knights were mounted, their soldiers surged forward, eager to reunite with their own families awaiting them in the city.
Jerusalem’s main entrance was through David’s Gate, and as the men rode across the dry moat and entered the barbican that opened onto David Street, it was like emerging from a tunnel into a sea of sound. People were packed into the open space where the grain market was held. They thronged both sides of the street, hung out of windows, and waved from the flat rooftops. Banners wer
e draped from houses, fountains flowed with wine, shrieking children and barking dogs darted through the crowds, delighted to escape adult supervision. The noise level was painful, for every church bell was pealing wildly. But one sound rose above all the others, until it seemed as if the entire city was echoing with the name of their king.
Baldwin turned in the saddle, shooting a glance toward Reynald that was almost apologetic. “The cheers ought to be yours,” he insisted, struggling to make himself heard over the continuing clamor. “You had the command.”
Reynald shrugged. “You might as well get the credit, my lord king. Had we failed, you’d have taken all the blame.”
“Yes, but then we’d have been dead.” Baldwin grinned and gestured for Reynald to ride beside him.
William was puzzled that Reynald seemed willing to share the glory, for he’d not have thought the other man capable of compassion or magnanimity or even pity. But then he caught the look on Reynald’s face as he glanced toward Baldwin and he understood. It was not empathy, the awareness that Baldwin needed this moment more than any of them. It was much simpler than that—respect for what men valued most highly in their world. William blinked rapidly, for his vision was beginning to blur. Courage—none could deny the lad that, especially Saladin. Not now, not after Montgisard.
Waves of cheering were breaking over them, a deafening roar unlike anything that William had ever heard before. He temporarily forgot his discomfort on horseback, forgot his fatigue, his fears for the future. For now, this was enough—watching as Baldwin was enveloped in cheers and euphoria, enveloped in the love and gratitude of his subjects, not caring that he was a leper, caring only that he’d saved their kingdom from the infidels.
Baldwin at once announced plans to build a Benedictine priory on the site of the battle, to be dedicated to St. Catherine of Alexandria.
* * *
Salāh al-Dīn reached al-Qāhira in mid-December and began the laborious process of rebuilding his shattered army and restoring their faith in his leadership.
CHAPTER 20
December 1177
Jerusalem, Outremer
Humphrey de Toron paused in the doorway of the great hall across from David’s Tower. This was his first public appearance since he’d nearly died, stricken with the same ailment that had claimed his wife, and he looked like a man who still had a long convalescence ahead of him, pale, hollow-eyed, and gaunt. But his brusque, blunt-spoken demeanor had not been affected by his illness, and while he politely acknowledged the expressions of sympathy for the loss of his wife, he made it clear that he did not want to discuss either her death or his health. His prickly defensiveness eased only when Denys approached, for they were old friends. “I want you to tell me about the battle,” he said with a smile, “and do not leave anything out. First, I must let the king know that I am here. Where is he?”
Denys caught the undertones of alarm, for they all were quick to read sinister significance into any of Baldwin’s absences. “He is well, or as well as can be expected. He and Joscelin were called back to the palace. The Lady Sybilla’s birth pangs began this morning.”
“God keep her safe.” Humphrey made the sign of the cross and dutifully echoed Denys’s hopes that Sybilla would have a son. But he wondered if it truly mattered. Even if she was able to provide a male heir, he could not rule until he attained his legal majority. And although it grieved him greatly to admit it, Humphrey knew that Baldwin would be dead long before his sister’s son reached his fifteenth birthday.
* * *
Baldwin and Joscelin soon returned with news that was warmly welcomed by the men and women gathered for the Christmas court: Sybilla had given birth to a son. But it was hours before they were allowed to see her and the baby. Following Agnes into the bedchamber, they found Sybilla sitting up in bed, cradling her infant in her arms. She looked surprisingly rested for a woman who’d so recently endured the travails of childbirth, and very pretty, her blond hair brushed to a golden luster, her smile triumphant. “Come and see my boy.”
Joscelin hastened over to embrace her. Baldwin hung back, knowing how uneasy she must be to have him in close proximity to her vulnerable newborn and not blaming her at all. The infant was swaddled in a soft blanket and all Baldwin could see was a swatch of fair hair. Joscelin had earlier confided to Baldwin that all babies resembled prunes; his heiress wife, Agneta, had already given him a daughter. Yet he was insisting now that the prune was the very image of Guillaume, sure to be as handsome as his father.
“Uncle . . . I would like you to act as godfather to my son.”
Joscelin declared that he would be honored and leaned over to kiss the new mother’s cheek. She returned his smile, then gave Baldwin a sidelong glance that seemed abashed, even apologetic. When she started to speak, he quickly stopped her.
“I think Joscelin will be a fine godfather to the little lad.” As the king and the baby’s closest male relative, he should have been the natural choice to act as godfather, just as his own uncle had done for him. But he’d known Sybilla would never ask him; the godfather would have to hold the infant at the font during the baptismal ceremony.
Sybilla looked relieved that he understood. The baby began to cry suddenly and she gave a startled laugh. After trying unsuccessfully to soothe him, she handed him to the wet nurse, who carried him across the chamber and discreetly turned her back so he could suckle.
When Agnes suggested that Sybilla needed to rest, Joscelin and Baldwin hastily agreed, for neither one felt very comfortable in this ultimate female sanctum. Kissing his niece again, Joscelin bade her a good night, adding, “I assume you will name the babe after Guillaume?”
“No.” Sybilla raised her head and for the first time met her brother’s eyes. “I want to call him Baldwin.”
Baldwin was touched by her gesture, although he wondered if their mother had suggested it, for Agnes was smiling approvingly. He decided then that he was being unfair to Sybilla; this might be her way of making amends for not naming him as the baby’s godfather. He smiled and said the right things, said what was expected of him. But he could not suppress a prickle of foreboding, for Baldwin had not proved to be a lucky name for males in their family. His uncle had died at just thirty-three, and he knew that was an age he would never reach himself.
* * *
Balian felt foolish, but he did not object when Maria insisted upon tying a blindfold over his eyes. He gladly indulged his wife’s every whim these days, so attentive that his brother and male friends teased him mercilessly, reminding him that Maria was not the first woman ever to get with child. Baudouin and Jakelin were laughing at him now as he stumbled and he warned them not to let him walk into a wall. It was not even his birthday yet, he protested mildly. Maria merely laughed, confessing that she could not wait another day to give him his gift.
Maria led him through the doorway of the great hall, where he paused, feeling the sun on his face. Easter was less than a week away, but the weather remained chilly. Just then a small hand slipped into his and his stepdaughter announced that she would be his guide. Trying to slow his pace to match hers, he followed her across the courtyard. By now they’d attracted a crowd: their household servants and knights, Baudouin’s men, and a few of the Templars who’d accompanied Jakelin to Nablus. They seemed expectant, too, and Balian tried to imagine what surprise could have them all so intrigued.
“Stop,” Isabella said abruptly, and he made her giggle by saying, “Yes, my lady.” When he asked if he could remove the blindfold, Maria told him to lower his head so she could unfasten it. He detected a whiff of sandalwood, her favorite perfume, and smiled at the touch of her fingers on his face, for they lingered in a brief caress, so discreetly that he alone noticed.
The sudden blaze of sunlight caused him to blink. He then caught his breath, for a groom was standing before him with one of the most splendid stallions he’d ever seen. A chestnut like Baldwin’s Asad,
this one had a distinctive flaxen mane and tail. He tossed his head, untroubled by the crowd of spectators, and regarded Balian calmly, displaying the equable temperament that made the Arabian so prized among horsemen in their world.
“How did you know, Marika?”
She laughed again. “I am not a soothsayer, Balian. That night in my garden, you confided that you’d barter your soul for an Arabian like Baldwin’s, and I remembered.” When she said that Baudouin had assisted her in finding the right stallion, he chimed in, declaring that he’d been happy to help as long as he did not have to pay for the horse himself.
“He cost your lady a bloody fortune, Little Brother, so for God’s sake, do not let Demon kill him!”
Those familiar with Demon’s diabolical temperament grinned. But Balian was no longer paying heed to their banter, intent upon letting the stallion become accustomed to his voice and scent and touch. After deciding he could safely mount, he spun around to give his wife an exuberant, grateful kiss, and then swung up into the saddle. Knowing he’d want to take his new horse out for a run straightaway, Baudouin and Jakelin had their own horses saddled and ready. They hastened to mount, assuring Maria that they’d keep him out of trouble.
The audience dispersed now that the drama was over, leaving Maria and Isabella to watch as the men rode through the palace gateway and out onto the dusty street that was Nablus’s main thoroughfare. It had not been an easy pregnancy so far. Maria was suffering from the usual morning queasiness, swollen ankles, backaches, and fatigue. She’d begun to worry, too, that her womb had not yet quickened, for with her two earlier pregnancies, that had happened by now. But standing there in the April sun, she suddenly felt a familiar flutter. When it came again, she sighed with relief, marveling at the perfect timing. It was almost as if the baby wanted to take part in Balian’s birthday celebration, too. That was a whimsical thought, not the sort of notion that would ever have occurred to her during her years as Amalric’s wife. Marriage to Balian had unfettered her imagination, she decided, and pleased Isabella by laughing out loud.
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