Humphrey was too weak to survive a journey to his stronghold at Toron; instead, he was taken in stages to the Templar castle at Jacob’s Ford. Baldwin summoned his own physicians, and as word spread that the constable was dying, the lords of Outremer rushed to Jacob’s Ford to say their farewells. Denys was the first to arrive. He was accompanied by his wife, for although she cared nothing about Humphrey de Toron, Agnes very much wanted to see her son. Roger de Moulins, the grand master of the Knights Hospitaller, was the next to arrive, followed by Balian d’Ibelin and his brother. Count Raymond had been holding his Easter court in Tripoli; upon learning of his friend’s fatal wound, he took a galley south to Tyre and then hastened inland to Chastellet. But the one that Humphrey most wanted to see—his thirteen-year-old grandson and namesake—was far to the south, at his stepfather and mother’s remote desert stronghold at Kerak, and it remained to be seen whether he could outrace Death.
Baldwin spent every waking hour at Humphrey’s bedside, much to his mother’s dismay. Despite her animosity toward the constable, she was not indifferent to his pain, telling Joscelin that she was not so heartless. But it was Baldwin’s pain that she could not bear. She was convinced that her son was punishing himself by bearing witness to the dying man’s suffering. She dared not say that to him, though. She could only watch and worry. As the days dragged by and Baldwin looked more and more like a lost soul, she began to pray for Humphrey’s death. Although she did not know it, those who loved Humphrey were also praying for an end to his earthly ordeal. He’d been shriven of his sins but there was little his doctors could do to ease his pain; only death could do that.
* * *
Upon his arrival at Chastellet, the Templar grand master demanded to be taken at once to the constable’s bedchamber. Humphrey had fallen into a fitful doze and even Odo de St. Amand was not going to awaken a dying man, declaring he’d return later. No sooner had the door closed behind him than Humphrey’s lashes flickered. “Is he gone?” he whispered. His mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile. “Damned if I’ll waste my last hours listening to his blathering. . . .”
Baldwin moved his chair closer to the bed. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
That was a plea, not a question, and Humphrey rallied against the pain savaging his body, for there was one more service to be done for Baldwin. “Yes . . . stop blaming yourself, lad.”
Baldwin looked away. “But it is my fault,” he said at last. “You are dying because you were protecting me. . . .”
“Yes . . . and I thank God for it.” Humphrey’s voice was stronger now than it had been in days. “I am an old man, Baldwin, too old to fear dying. There can be no more honorable death than this . . . giving my life for my king. . . .”
“A crippled king, a weakling . . .” Baldwin had not meant to reveal his bitterness so nakedly, seeing it as self-pity. But Humphrey of all men deserved the truth. “I am not worthy of your sacrifice.”
Humphrey did not reply at once, struggling to keep the pain at bay for a few moments longer. Then he reached across the bed and grasped Baldwin’s hand in his. “Listen to me, lad. I have never respected any man as much as I respect you. You’d have been a great king if not for that accursed disease. . . .” His grip tightened. “I cannot even imagine how it is for you. There must be so many days when you yearn only for peace. . . .” His voice faltered, then steadied again. “But you must hang on a while longer, Baldwin, for we need you. You and you alone are holding the kingdom together. It is in danger of being torn asunder, with the de Courtenays and their supporters on one side of a crumbling wall and Count Raymond and his allies on the other. Only you can keep all that hatred and jealousy from breaking free and . . . and engulfing us all. . . .”
Baldwin entwined his fingers around the dying man’s hand. When he could trust his voice again, he said softly, “I will do my best, I promise you. . . .”
Humphrey had expended the last of his energy and he could only nod. So much more he wanted to tell Baldwin. Do not rely upon your mother, lad. Jesu, how that woman can hate. . . . Do not totally trust Raymond, either, for he has ambitions of his own. . . . So does Baudouin d’Ibelin. For all that I like the man, do not let him marry Sybilla. We need another foreign prince for her. . . . And watch out for Eraclius; he’d put a scorpion to shame. . . . Look after my grandson. He’s a good boy, but too soft for this harsh, demanding land of ours. . . . Closing his eyes, he felt tears trickling through his lashes. He hoped that Baldwin thought he was weeping for himself, for his grandson, and not for Outremer.
CHAPTER 22
June 1179
Tiberias, Outremer
June was the month when wheat and barley were harvested. When Baldwin learned that Saladin had sent raiding parties to ravage the lands around Sidon, he hastily summoned the lords of the kingdom to assemble at Tiberias. After Balian bade farewell to Maria, Isabella, and his young daughter, he and his knights headed north. The mood was somber, for although their aim was to catch the raiders, the men knew that a confrontation with the sultan was likely; their scouts had reported that Saladin was encamped with a large army not far from Bāniās.
It was sunset as they rode into the town of Tiberias; it had fewer than five thousand residents, but because so many of Jesus’s miracles had been performed in and around the great lake known as the Sea of Galilee, it was a popular site for pilgrims, many of whom crowded the streets, casting curious glances at the knights as they passed. Ahead lay the citadel controlled by the Count of Tripoli since his marriage to the Lady Eschiva, Princess of Galilee. Most castles in Outremer were protected by deep, dry fosses; the one at Tiberias was sheltered on the east by the lake, and on the north, west, and south by a broad, water-filled moat. The drawbridge was already down and after identifying himself, Balian led his men into the outer bailey.
Dismounting from Smoke, he handed the reins to his squire Rolf; Khamsin was being led by his other squire. While destriers were normally ridden only into battle, an Arabian like Khamsin was as smooth gaited as any palfrey. But Balian preferred to save the stallion’s energy for what lay ahead. Hearing his name shouted, he turned to see his brother coming toward him.
“I was afraid you were not going to get here in time, lad.” Seeing Balian’s puzzlement, Baudouin explained that they were marching on the morrow, and this baffled Balian all the more.
“Surely there are others still on the way? How could Reynald de Chatillon have gotten to Tiberias ere I did? Kerak is much farther to the south than Nablus.”
“By the time Reynald gets here, we’ll be long gone—which he’ll not take well. Even Baldwin’s stepfather is going to be left out of the action, for Denys has not yet arrived, either.”
That made no sense to Balian. “Why would Baldwin insist upon departing ere all the lords answer his summons?” The answer came to him then. Not Baldwin. The grand master of the Templars. “This is Odo de St. Amand’s doing.”
Baudouin confirmed his suspicions with a sigh. “That one would not be willing to wait for his own execution. But I think there is more to this than his natural impatience. Because he gets to command his Templars as if they were serfs, he assumes that all men should be so quick to heed his orders. And we both know that Reynald listens to no voice except his own.”
“And Baldwin agreed to this?”
“Well, the Count of Tripoli supported Odo’s argument, claiming that the longer we delay, the more of our harvests will be lost to Saladin’s raiders.” Baudouin liked the count well enough. That did not keep him, though, from pointing out that Raymond would not want to share a command with Reynald de Chatillon any more than Odo de St. Amand would.
Balian frowned, for it was becoming harder and harder to convince himself that these petty rivalries posed no threat to the stability of their kingdom. He still did not understand why Baldwin had consented to this. While Baldwin had always been respectful of the greater battle lore of the older men, he�
��d never been shy to voice his own opinions. “Why did Baldwin agree?” he asked again.
“Damned if I know, Balian. The lad has not been himself, not since Humphrey’s death. I think he still blames himself for that.”
Balian nodded. It was, he thought, as if Baldwin’s confidence in his own judgment had ebbed away with Humphrey’s lifeblood. The Templar grand master was not easy to rein in; he’d even dared to defy Baldwin’s autocratic father. But Baldwin was the king, not a Templar knight sworn to obey Odo. Baldwin needed to learn to trust his own instincts again. The trouble was that Balian had no idea how to make that happen. If only William were not still in Rome!
As they entered the great hall, Balian headed toward the dais where Baldwin was seated with Joscelin, the Templar grand master, Count Raymond, and Eschiva’s son Hugues. Balian wondered if it was too late to argue against the decision to depart on the morrow, his gaze locking upon the big-boned man in the white mantle. Odo de St. Amand was gesturing emphatically, dominating the conversation as if he were the one holding court.
Baldwin seemed somehow diminished next to the imperious, overbearing Templar. Balian thought Baldwin looked very tired, dark shadows hovering under his eyes like bruises, his useless right arm cradled in a black sling instead of the defiant, dramatic red one he’d worn in the past. He’d celebrated his eighteenth birthday earlier in the week and Balian doubted that it had been a happy one. The young king smiled, though, at the sight of Balian, and he returned the smile as he strode forward, wishing that Humphrey were not such a faithful ghost.
* * *
The Franks knew that Saladin would have scouts watching the low road that led to the head of the Huleh River basin, so they chose instead to swing west through the mountains. On June 9, they reached the hill overlooking the plain known as Marj Ayyun and camped for the night. As the darkness faded and the sky began to take on the glowing hues of a summer sunrise, a spectacular panorama unfolded below them. In the distance, they could see the snow-crowned peak of Mount Hermon, to their left the blue sheen of the Mediterranean Sea. The Litani River flowed down the center of the valley before making a sharp turn to the west. Perched on a cliff high above the river, Beaufort Castle looked impregnable. To the south, they could see the smoke of the sultan’s campfires, and to the west, more smoke, which set them to cursing, for they knew it marked the path of the Saracen raiders.
They reined in on the crest of the hill as they gazed down upon the plain. As Balian moved closer to the king, Baldwin’s eyes lingered upon Khamsin with a naked hunger. Asad was still recovering from founder and he’d been forced to admit Comet could not be trusted in battle. As much as he yearned to prove that he could handle the high-strung stallion, he could not put the lives of his men at risk again. He was astride a dark grey destrier called Charcoal, well trained and sturdy but lacking the speed and intelligence of his Arabians, and he could not help wondering if he’d ever ride one of those splendid stallions again. Balian was joking about Demon, his infamously bad-tempered destrier, saying he’d put the horse at stud if he were not afraid his foals would have cloven hooves, when Odo de St. Amand called out to the king.
“The whoresons have no idea that we’re here. So, what are we waiting for?”
* * *
Their descent of the slope was so rapid that the infantrymen soon fell behind. The knights had to wait for them to catch up, and while they were waiting, they sent out scouts in search of Saracen raiding parties. The scouts soon returned with good news: raiders heavily laden with booty, stolen livestock, and their own baggage were in the process of fording the Litani River, unaware of the presence of the Franks.
The Saracens had no warning; some had already crossed to the east bank, while others were still in midriver. The sudden appearance of their enemy threw them into utter confusion, which then turned into panic and they were quickly vanquished by a knightly charge. Well before noon, the Franks could claim an easy victory.
* * *
The sultan had decided to move his army north to the Bekaa Valley. He’d dispatched men under the command of his nephew Farrukh-Shāh for one final raid around Sidon, and was returning to camp when one of his archers came galloping up on a lathered horse. Salāh al-Dīn listened in disbelief as the man called out that he’d run into several frightened herdsmen who claimed an infidel army had just defeated a Saracen force by the Litani River.
“That is not possible.” His scouts would have warned him had the Franks been on the march. Yet when the herdsmen were brought before him and swore in the name of the Prophet that they spoke the truth, he had to believe them. His scouts had been watching the road to the east, not the western mountain passes, while the Metullah Hills lay between his camp and the plain of Marj Ayyun. Just as their night march had caught Farrukh-Shāh by surprise back in April, the Franks had slipped through his net again. He was furious with himself for this lapse but wasted no time on self-recriminations, grateful that he’d been given this warning.
* * *
Balian was not happy with the way their campaign was being waged. It had been foolhardy not to wait for Reynald de Chatillon and Denys de Grenier. Their foot soldiers had been exhausted trying to keep pace with the riders. And now they’d split their force in two, the knights off in pursuit of the fugitives from the battle while the infantrymen busied themselves plundering the captured baggage wagons and searching the bodies of the dead. Balian had been given command of the rearguard and by the time he’d made sure their prisoners were securely bound and their wounded tended to, the rest of the riders were long gone.
“My lord?” Sir Fulcher de Hebron, the captain of his knights, reined in beside Khamsin. “What now?”
“We catch up with the king.” Balian spared a glance over his shoulder as his men rode out. He’d ordered the infantrymen to post guards on higher ground so they’d not be taken unaware by another raiding party, but he did not have much confidence in their vigilance. Welcoming this chance to rest after that mad scramble down the mountain and delighted by the richness of their spoils, they were relaxing on the riverbank, squabbling good-naturedly about their shares of the plunder, pleased to take their ease until the knights returned. Balian uttered a few choice Arabic curses—somehow they sounded more impressive in that language—and rode on.
* * *
Farrukh-Shāh was horrified to learn that one of his raiding parties had been attacked and defeated by the Franks. As he listened to a survivor of that battle, he realized that he and his men were trapped on the wrong side of the Litani River. They had to ford the river to reach the sultan’s camp, yet how could they do that with an enemy army awaiting them on the opposite bank? He hastily sent scouts out to locate the Franks. When a scout reported that some of the Franks were camped by the river downstream, he led his men upstream to find a safe crossing.
* * *
Balian found the king and the knights at a small spring, watering their horses. His relief waned, though, as he drew closer, for Baldwin was accompanied only by his own household knights, those led by his uncle, and the men charged with guarding the most sacred of the kingdom’s relics, the Holy Cross. Where in bloody Hell have the rest of them gone? Balian managed to phrase that question more tactfully, but Baldwin flushed as he said that the Templar grand master and Count Raymond had continued their pursuit of the fleeing Saracens.
Baldwin’s presence here showed that he did not think it wise to advance so close to Saladin’s camp. But Balian knew why he’d not forbidden it. Odo de St. Amand would not have heeded such an order and Raymond was not likely to obey a command from the king, either, for he was a ruler in his own right, seeing Tripoli as an ally of the kingdom, not a vassal state. Exchanging curt nods with Joscelin, Balian guided Khamsin closer to Baldwin’s grey.
“This is not going well, is it?” Baldwin said in a low voice. “They all seem to think we’ve won this great victory and there is nothing more to fear.” His blue eyes met Balian�
�s dark ones, reflecting the same memory: an April day that began with a victory and ended with Humphrey de Toron mortally wounded by a Saracen spear.
Joscelin did not like his nephew turning to one of the d’Ibelins for advice and forced his stallion between their horses. “The king and I were discussing whether we should return to the infantry or follow the Templars and the other knights.”
Neither choice was a good one and they knew it. Baldwin reluctantly concluded that they ought to try to catch up with Odo and Count Raymond. Balian concurred, no less reluctantly, for what was not debatable was the danger in having their army divided like this. Signaling to his men to fall in behind him, Balian could not help muttering “The damn fools” under his breath.
Joscelin was close enough to hear. “One of those ‘damned fools’ is your brother.” Balian had already realized that; if Baudouin was not with the king, he must be riding with the Templars and Count Raymond. He said nothing, refusing to let Joscelin know his gibe had hit home, and they moved out, the silver and gold banner of Outremer unfurling in the summer breeze.
* * *
They’d covered only a few miles when two knights came into view, spurring their mounts mercilessly. They shouted at the sight of Baldwin’s banner but did not slacken their pace. “Go back!” one yelled. “Saladin’s army!” Pointing south toward the Metullah Hills as if words alone were not enough to convey the danger. By now Baldwin and his men could see that one of the knights was bleeding from a shoulder wound. They would have galloped right past if Baldwin and Balian had not urged their stallions out to bar the road.
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