* * *
Balian felt as if he were trapped in Purgatory, unable to do anything but endure. He’d been pacing back and forth for so long that he half expected to have worn a rut in the carpet. Work was out of the question, for he could think only of Maria, struggling to bring their child into the world. Several times he’d climbed the stairs to the birthing chamber. He was denied admittance, of course, but Dame Alicia, Maria’s new French-speaking lady-in-waiting, would come out, assure him that all was going as it ought, and then disappear back inside. Once he heard Maria give a choked-off cry and the sound echoed in his ears for the next few hours. In desperation, he finally fled to the stables.
August was always the hottest month in Outremer and today the very air seemed to smolder, so intense was the heat. The sun was blinding, the sky bleached a bone white, and when he bit his lip, he tasted the salt of his own sweat. The birthing chamber must be like a furnace. It had been over fifteen hours since Maria’s pains had begun, hours that seemed like years. He’d heard stories of women whose labor had lasted for days. “In sorrow shalt thou bring forth children.” Never had that familiar scriptural verse sounded so ominous.
Knowing that Demon would sense his agitation and be infected by it, he chose to groom Smoke, his grey palfrey. By the time he was done, the horse’s coat shone like silver, but there still had been no word from the birthing chamber. He moved on next to the stall of Khamsin, his cherished Arabian. His heart still leaped at the sight of the stallion, who looked like a living flame and could outrace the wind. With Demon, he always had to be on the alert; Khamsin greeted him as affectionately as a big dog, nuzzling him and then mouthing the scrip at his belt. Shaking several sugar lumps into the palm of his hand, he offered them to Khamsin, who was soon looking for more.
“That is enough for now, you greedy beast,” he chided, reaching for a curry comb.
He whirled whenever he heard anyone entering the stables, for he’d made sure all knew where he was. Each time it was only a groom, though. But he did not detect the soft footsteps of the little girl and jumped at the sudden sound of Isabella’s voice. “Why are you taking care of your horse yourself, Pateras?”
He had to smile, remembering how he and Maria had fretted about the proper way for his stepdaughter to address him. “Papa” was the name she had used for her father, and they did not think it appropriate that she call him that, too, even though she no longer remembered Amalric. While Balian had been fine with her making use of his given name, Maria had felt that was not respectful. Isabella had resolved the problem on her own, starting to call him “Pateras,” the Greek word for father.
I am grooming Khamsin to keep from going mad whilst I wait for word from the birthing chamber. As he could not very well admit that to Maria’s daughter, he said instead, “Does Dame Emma know you are here, lass?”
“I hope not.” Looking around, she overturned a bucket and perched on it. “We need to talk, Pateras,” she said, sounding so serious that Balian could not help smiling again. “I know you cannot be with Mama, for men are not allowed in the birthing chamber. But why cannot I be there?”
“You are too young, kitten.”
“I am six and a half! Why is that not old enough?”
“That is something you’ll have to take up with your mother after she has the baby,” he hedged. “It will not be much longer, Bella. Soon you’ll have a little brother or sister.”
“I already have a brother and sister,” she pointed out, and he studied her more closely, wondering if jealousy was stirring. He was reassured when she continued. “I do not get to see Baldwin and Sybilla much. I will be able to see the new baby whenever I want?”
“Indeed you will,” he assured her. “Your mother and I are relying upon you to help with the baby, to be a loving big sister.” She seemed to like that, and he continued grooming Khamsin, keeping an eye on her, though, in case he’d misread her. After a few moments, she asked him again about the stallion’s name, and he reminded her that khamsin was a hot, dry wind that swept up the coast from Egypt.
“I like khamsin,” she said approvingly. “But I still wish you had let me name him.”
He grinned at that, for she’d proven to be very creative about such matters. Probably because Baldwin had named his dog Cairo, she’d begun naming her pets after places, too. Her puppy was called Jordan, her tame lark was Bethany, and she’d decided upon Jericho for her new pony. “I dared not, Bella,” he teased. “I feared you might name him Constantinople.”
“I’d not have done that. It is too hard to say. Pateras . . . can I name the baby?”
“We’ve already chosen our names, kitten—John for a son, Helvis for a daughter.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Helvis? I do not like that.”
“It is not as pretty as your name,” he conceded. “But they are family names. John is the name of your mother’s father and Helvis is the name of my mother, may God assoil them both.”
She considered that for a moment. “But your mama is with God now, so she would not know if you picked another name.”
He laughed, telling her she’d have made a good lawyer. They were so caught up in their conversation that neither had heard Dame Emma’s quiet approach. “I thought I’d find you here, Isabella,” she said. She did not sound annoyed, though, and when she stepped into the circle of light cast by a hanging lantern, Balian saw her joyful smile.
* * *
Maria’s women knew that Balian and Isabella would want to see her as soon as they learned she’d given birth, so before they dispatched Emma with the good news, they did what they could to make their lady and the bedchamber as presentable as possible, helping her to wash, brushing out her tangled hair, hiding the bloodied towels, and giving the afterbirth to the midwife to be buried later, lest it attract demons. The odor of blood still lingered, but they hoped Maria’s husband and daughter would be too excited to notice, and that proved to be true.
“Mama!” Isabella catapulted into the chamber, with Balian and Emma right on her heels.
She almost flung herself onto the bed, Dame Alicia stopping her just in time. “I am so happy it is over!” she blurted out, revealing how worried she’d been. “Where is my sister?”
Maria was exhausted; while the birth had gone as expected, it had dragged on for a night and half a day. She was still able to summon up a smile, first for Isabella and then for her husband, nodding toward the wet nurse, who stepped forward and handed the baby to Balian.
Holding his daughter for the first time, he felt so much tenderness that he found it difficult to speak. Isabella had no such problem. Rising on tiptoe to see, she exclaimed, “She has black hair like me! Oh . . . and blue eyes!” Emma explained that her eye color was likely to darken in time, but Isabella was not listening. “Can I hold her, too, Pateras? I promise I will not drop her.”
None of the adults thought that was a good idea, and Emma interceded smoothly, suggesting that Isabella rock the baby in her cradle. Balian was surprised how reluctant he was to relinquish that small blanket-wrapped bundle. As soon as he placed Helvis in the cradle, he hastened back to the bed. Pulling a chair close, he took Maria’s hand in his. “She is beautiful, just like her mother.”
Maria studied his face, searching for clues to his real feelings. Looking across the chamber to make sure Isabella was not in hearing distance, she said softly, “You are not disappointed that it was a girl, not a boy?”
“Well, we’ll just have to keep trying until we get it right,” he joked, before realizing that she was serious. “No, I am not disappointed, Marika. I am thankful.”
She so wanted to believe him, but her memories of her last birthing were too vivid for her to take him at his word. “This is my third daughter, Balian. What if I cannot give you a son?”
“That is in God’s hands, my love.” Reaching out, he ran his fingers along her cheek, troubled not by her fears but by
her pallor, the dark shadows lurking under her swollen, bloodshot eyes, the small cut at the corner of her mouth where she’d bitten her lip to keep back her cries; he knew she was not a screamer. “Why are you so distraught about this? Have I not often told you that I cared only for your safety and that of the baby?”
“When Isabella was born, Amalric was gracious that I’d not given him a son. He seemed very taken with her, and assured me the next child would be a boy. But I birthed another girl and he could not hide his disappointment. He made it obvious that he thought I’d failed in my duty as his queen and wife, saying that he hoped I’d have better luck next time. Melisende was so tiny, so frail. . . .” Maria’s eyes filled with tears. “Mayhap he saw what I could not, that she was not long for this world. . . .”
Balian had been surprised on his wedding night to discover he could be jealous of a dead man, resentful that Amalric had been so indifferent to the needs of his young bride. Now, though, he did not feel that flare of protective anger. “By the time Melisende was born, Amalric knew of Baldwin’s symptoms. Even if he still denied the specter of leprosy, he had to be worried that Baldwin might never regain the use of his right arm. I think it was his fear for the future that caused him to blame you, Marika. That was easier than blaming God.”
“That occurred to me later, after he was dead and we learned what Baldwin’s doctors suspected. But even when a kingdom is not at stake, men want sons. I would not want you ever to feel cheated. . . .”
“Cheated? Marika, I thank God for each and every day that we have together, especially after Montgisard. When we parted, I truly thought I was riding out to die. I am so grateful that neither of us knew yet that you were with child. It would have been so much harder if I’d thought you’d have to face that ordeal on your own. To be given a reprieve from certain death and then to see my daughter born, to be able to hold her. . . . Well, that still seems downright miraculous to me, my love.”
Maria expelled a breath, soft as a sigh, for she believed him. He saw Helvis as a blessing and even if Maria could never give him a son, he would not regret their marriage. “I think you are my miracle,” she whispered, and he leaned over to kiss the corner of her mouth.
Glancing across the chamber, he saw that Isabella was still engrossed in rocking her baby sister. “She does not fancy the name Helvis very much. Mayhap we ought to call the little lass after the woman to whom we owe our happiness. Think how pleased Agnes de Courtenay would be to have a d’Ibelin as her namesake.” As he hoped, that earned him a laugh from his wife. Soon after, she fell asleep, and he settled down to wait until she awoke, confident that her dreams would not be haunted by Amalric’s dour, disappointed ghost.
* * *
The ship’s master was not a happy man, for it was already October, late in the sailing season. Nor was he pleased to have so many clerics as passengers. He could not spit without hitting a bishop, he thought sourly, sure that they’d be demanding and judgmental, pampered princes of the Church who’d expect to be waited upon hand and foot and, likely as not, blame him and his crew for bad weather and the usual hardships of sea travel.
He did not know it, but he was not the only one who was loath to make this voyage. William of Tyre stood in the stern as the ship’s anchors were raised. They had a long and arduous journey ahead of them, with Rome their final destination, summoned by Pope Alexander to attend the Third Lateran Council. It would not begin until March, but they had to leave now, for the winter months were too dangerous for ships to venture far from port.
Baldwin had accompanied them to Acre to see them off, along with many of the highborn lords of the realm, for he was moving his court north to Jacob’s Ford during the construction of a castle at that site. William was vaguely uneasy about the plan to build a stronghold at Jacob’s Ford, in part because it had originated with the Templar grand master, a man whose judgment William did not trust. It was true that Jacob’s Ford had strategic significance, as it was the only crossing of the Jordan River for miles. But he feared that Saladin would do all he could to keep a fortress from being erected there, for it would be dangerously close to Damascus.
He was soon joined at the gunwale by Joscius, the young Bishop of Acre. Unlike William, Joscius was eagerly anticipating their visit to Rome, for it would be the first time that he’d traveled beyond Outremer’s borders. He had also been entrusted with an urgent diplomatic mission upon the completion of the Lateran Council; he was then to continue to France, where he would seek to negotiate a marriage between the Lady Sybilla and the Duke of Burgundy.
William hoped that Joscius would succeed in that mission, for they desperately needed a king in waiting; Baldwin’s health was deteriorating faster than they’d expected. In light of their unpleasant experience with the Count of Flanders and the deep divisions rending the kingdom, William was surprised that the High Court had been able to settle upon a candidate so easily.
It would have been difficult, of course, to raise serious objections to Hugh of Burgundy, for he seemed to be an ideal choice. He was thirty, experienced in warfare, having ruled Burgundy for the past ten years, and of noble birth, the nephew of the Queen of France. Baldwin had argued persuasively on his behalf, and Hugh appeared to be that rarity, a man acceptable both to the de Courtenays and to the rival faction led by the Count of Tripoli. Sybilla was agreeable to the match, too, an important consideration since she was no man’s puppet. Only Baudouin d’Ibelin had protested, pointing out that Hugh of Burgundy already had a wife. But all knew that Baudouin had harbored hopes of wedding Sybilla himself and when assurances were offered that Hugh had put that wife aside and was thus free to wed again, it was quickly agreed upon that Sybilla and the crown would be offered to the Duke of Burgundy.
Joscius was thinking of that marital alliance, too. “If I may speak frankly, William, I’ve noticed that you do not seem to share my excitement about our journey. I would hope that you do not feel slighted that I was the one chosen to arrange the Lady Sybilla’s marriage.”
William blinked in surprise. “No, not at all. The king has entrusted me with a mission, too, after the Lateran Council ends. He wants me to travel home by way of Constantinople so that I may try to mend our alliance with the Greek empire. That was one of the many casualties of Count Philip’s sojourn in the Holy Land, but we hope to convince the emperor that the failure of the Egyptian campaign was not our doing.”
“I am pleased to hear you say that,” Joscius confided, then glanced around to make sure no others were within earshot. “I get the sense that Archbishop Eraclius does feel slighted, for he has been treating me with conspicuous coolness ever since my mission was made known.”
“Eraclius is a fool,” William said bluntly. “If one of God’s own angels appeared to assure us that the Holy Land’s future was secure, Eraclius’s nose would be out of joint unless he’d gotten a private visit from the angel beforehand.”
Joscius laughed so loudly that heads turned in their direction, including the one belonging to the target of William’s scathing assessment. Joscius smiled blandly in Eraclius’s direction before turning back to William. “I take it then that your lack of enthusiasm for our trip is due to the company we’ll be keeping for the next few months. I cannot say I am looking forward to having the peacock as our shipmate, either.”
William was amused that others had taken up the disparaging name he’d given the prideful Archbishop of Caesarea. Joscius’s conclusion, while logical, was not accurate, though. Eraclius’s presence would be an annoyance, no more than that. What troubled William was far more painful and tragic.
Baldwin had come to the dock to see them off. He was astride a white palfrey, and William could not tear his gaze away from him. On horseback, Baldwin looked like any other youth of seventeen, handsome and healthy. His clothing hid the spreading lesions on his back and chest, and as long as he was mounted, none could tell that his balance problems were getting worse as he continued to
lose feeling in his feet. At a distance, William could pretend that Baldwin was holding his own against the insidious disease that had already stolen away his youth. But William knew that was not so. The leprosy was advancing with alarming speed. For some lepers, it was a slow-burning fire that could smolder for years. With Baldwin, it would soon become a conflagration.
Baldwin gave a final farewell wave as their ship headed out toward the open sea. William continued to watch as Acre receded into the distance. Between the papal conclave, his embassy to Constantinople, and the inevitable delays involved in traveling such great distances, he would be gone from the kingdom for a long time, possibly as long as two years. What would he find when he returned?
CHAPTER 21
April 1179
Syrian Frontier
Although the Templars had christened their new stronghold Chastellet, most Franks called it the castle at Jacob’s Ford, which had long been an important crossing of the Jordan River. Jakelin de Mailly preferred the Arabic name, Bait al-Ahzān, which translated as House of Sorrows, for there was something about the fortress that stirred in him an instinctive unease. The site seemed isolated, even desolate, to his eye. Many of the other Templars boasted that it would be invincible once construction was completed. Jakelin was not so sure, for he understood what a grave threat it posed to Saladin. Not only was this the only river crossing for miles, the stronghold would be just a day’s march from Damascus.
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