“Why would Gerard de Ridefort meddle like that? I know Raymond showed him favor upon his arrival in Outremer, yet de Ridefort has never struck me as a man who holds gratitude to be a virtue.”
“Ah, but Gerard looks upon Raymond as his patron now. He has been boasting all week that the count has promised him the next eligible heiress in Tripoli or Galilee.”
That was the customary means of rewarding a man for loyalty or good service; the d’Ibelin family’s own rise began with the marriage of Balian’s father to the heiress Helvis of Ramlah. Balian understood that daughters of privilege were raised to accept their fate as marital pawns. But he knew Gerard de Ridefort well enough to pity any wife of his. “Why was Baldwin not in the hall? He’s not ailing again?”
“No . . . he’s just not been sleeping well of late.” Even though he knew Balian was very sympathetic to the young king, Denys did not feel comfortable discussing his stepson’s health with others. Instead, he asked if Balian had heard anything from his brother or Saladin.
Balian shook his head. “But I did get an unexpected request from Baudouin’s daughter about his son. Since the lad’s mother is dead, Esquiva took him in after Baudouin was captured. Now she has asked if Maria and I can care for Thomasin until Baudouin is freed. Of course, we agreed. I was puzzled, though, and she reluctantly admitted that this was her husband’s doing.”
As their eyes met, Balian saw that Denys understood the significance of Esquiva’s plea. For some time, it had been rumored that Amaury de Lusignan was becoming quite friendly with Reynald de Chatillon and Joscelin de Courtenay. If he no longer wanted Thomasin in his household, that was his dramatic declaration of a shift in loyalties, letting it be known that he was throwing his lot in with the court faction. Balian felt sorry for his niece, caught between her husband and her father, and he knew Baudouin would be furious when he found out. From what he’d seen of Amaury de Lusignan, the other man was a pragmatist through and through. So for him to switch sides like this, he must have concluded that the de Courtenays would win the power struggle likely to erupt after Baldwin’s death.
* * *
On the following day, Baldwin held a feast in honor of his French guests. Christians from other countries were always surprised by the very comfortable lives led by the Poulains. Many embraced it enthusiastically, while others regarded these luxuries with suspicion. They looked askance at the exotic fruits, the savory dishes enhanced by Arabic spices, the carpeted floors. The silks, brocades, and fine cottons, worn only by the highborn throughout the rest of Christendom, were in Outremer worn even by lesser lords and their ladies. And the elaborate bathhouses were unlike any they’d encountered back in France or England, with sweating chambers, heated water, and servants or slaves on hand to provide scented soap or shaves. To some of these crusaders, there was a decadence about it all and they were quick to conclude that the Poulains were not worthy to live in the land of the Lord Christ’s birth.
Since the kingdom was dependent upon these foreign realms for money and men, it mattered that westerners returned to their own homelands with positive stories about their time in the Levant, especially when they were kin to kings. Baldwin was pleased, therefore, that the dinner—and the visit itself—seemed to be going well.
After the meal, they were entertained by minstrels as the trestle tables were cleared away for dancing. Balian was about to lead Maria out to join the circle when he happened to notice two men unobtrusively making their way toward the dais. One was a palace official. The second man was clad in Muslim garb, the folds of his kaffiyeh headdress deliberately draped to cover the lower half of his face, but it was his graceful gait that drew and held Balian’s eye. He seemed to glide across the floor of the hall, almost as if he’d leave no footprints, and a memory stirred, followed by unease. If this was indeed Baldwin’s legendary spymaster, Bernard, it was not likely that the news he was bringing was good.
Balian was no longer in the mood for dancing. He and Maria were soon joined by Denys, who thought he’d recognized Bernard, too, and they watched in tense silence as Baldwin hastened from the hall with the mysterious stranger at his side. When Baldwin returned, he limped up onto the dais and signaled for the music to stop.
“I have just gotten troubling news from a very trustworthy source. Saladin is planning to attack the Templar castle at Jacob’s Ford. He has gathered a large army and he has sworn that he will raze it to the ground. I plan to muster as many men as I can and come to the aid of the Templars. We will gather at Count Raymond’s castle at Tiberias, and from there we will march to Jacob’s Ford.” Baldwin raised a hand then, silencing the murmurs sweeping the hall as he looked for the French king’s kindred. “My lords, will you ride with us?”
Guy de Lusignan was the first to respond, giving a loud and emphatic “Yes,” although, as a younger son lacking lands either in Poitou or Outremer, he had only a few knights under his command. But the other French lords all joined in, too, pledging their men and their honor to defeat this infidel foe, and Baldwin permitted himself a small sigh of relief; after Marj Ayyun, they needed every able-bodied man they could get.
Maria said nothing, although she could not keep from tightening her hand on Balian’s arm. This would be his third battle in less than five months. By chance, her gaze came to rest on Agnes de Courtenay. Agnes had never learned to hide her emotions, and her fear and despair were there for all to see as she looked at her son. Maria’s hatred of the other woman was like a river flowing toward the sea, too deep and too swift to permit even a ripple of pity to break the surface. She did feel an odd, impersonal sense of kinship, though—with Agnes, with the other wives and mothers and daughters, with all the women down through the ages who’d been left behind as their husbands, sons, and fathers rode off to war.
* * *
The Franks had derived no benefit from Bernard’s advance warning, for they’d encountered unexpected delays in mustering their army, and by the time they reached Count Raymond’s stronghold at Tiberias, Saladin was already at Jacob’s Ford. Fortunately, the beleaguered stronghold was well prepared for an extended siege; it had provisions enough to last a year or more and such a vast cistern that they’d not run out of water. So the Franks had no fear that it could not hold out until their arrival. Their greatest worry at the moment was a logistical one; they’d forgotten the True Cross and now had to decide how long they could wait for it to arrive from Jerusalem.
There was no consensus among the men gathered in the castle solar on this last Thursday in August. Joscelin and the French noblemen were adamant that they did not want to go into battle without the True Cross. Raymond, although not overly pious himself, was also willing to wait, for he thought its presence would encourage their men. Baldwin and Reynald were in favor of marching on the morrow, whether the cross had arrived or not. Denys and Balian eventually sided with Baldwin; while they did not doubt the power of holy relics, they did doubt that its presence alone could determine victory or defeat. It was finally agreed that they would continue to wait, but only for one more day.
They were in accord on the next issue, though—that the failure to bring the cross was due to the death that past spring of the constable Humphrey de Toron. After agreeing that the post must be filled upon their return to Jerusalem, they relaxed with the snow-cooled wine sent up by the Lady Eschiva. Baldwin was not looking well: his color was off, his eyes were bloodshot, his voice hoarse. He still made an effort to keep the conversation going, asking Balian and Raymond if there had been any word about the ransoms of Baudouin and the count’s stepson.
Balian became the focus of all eyes when he revealed that he’d gotten a letter from his brother. “He says the ransom demand is so outrageous that he told Saladin he might as well ask for the sun, moon, and stars. He would not even tell me the sum, saying the bargaining had just begun.”
Raymond took center stage next, telling them of the efforts he and Eschiva were making to raise Hu
gues’s ransom. Balian rose to refill his wine cup, then wandered to the window to gaze out at the Sea of Galilee, now an inky blue as the last of the day waned. Joining him, Denys helped himself to wine, too, before saying quietly, “How is Baudouin holding up?”
“You know my brother. He’d make light of it if he woke up in Hell, joking that at least he’d save money on firewood. He said little about how he is being treated, only that it could be worse, that he could be cellmates with Odo de St. Amand.”
They shared a smile that held more sadness than humor. The view from the window was so tranquil that it was almost possible to forget two armies were camped under this star-spangled twilight sky, soon to meet in a battle that would leave grieving widows and orphans no matter who won. Balian found it hard to turn away, wanting a few moments more of that deceptive peace. But as he glanced from the lake to the shadow-cloaked hills, he drew a quick breath.
“Look at the sky, Denys. Do you see that glow to the north?”
Denys did. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered as their eyes met in appalled understanding.
* * *
Baldwin had struggled to climb the stairs to the castle battlements and he was panting by the time he reached the embrasure. All around him, stunned men were looking toward the north, unable to believe what their own eyes were telling them. Clouds of billowing smoke were rising to blot out the stars and the sky was turning an eerie shade of orange along the horizon, as if dawn were coming hours before its time. Some of the watchers cursed, others wept. But all knew they were witnessing the death throes of the Templar castle at Jacob’s Ford.
* * *
Salāh al-Dīn’s first attempt to undermine the castle walls failed and he sent his sappers back to enlarge the tunnel, then to set fire to the struts holding it up. When part of the wall collapsed, the garrison built fires to block the breach, but the wind blew the flames back at them. The fighting that followed seemed like a foretaste of Hell. Salāh al-Dīn himself would later describe the doomed castle as “a ship in a flood of fire.” The Templar commander threw himself into one of those fiery pits rather than be taken alive, and of the fifteen hundred men of the garrison, only seven hundred survived to be made prisoners. Salāh al-Dīn freed one hundred Muslim prisoners who’d been forced to do hard labor and had the Frankish crossbowmen and those he considered to be apostates executed at once. Most of the captives were slain on the way to Damascus by some of the sultan’s unruly volunteer troops; those still alive were then sold as slaves. The castle itself was utterly destroyed, as the sultan had sworn to do, leaving nothing but rocks and rubble and charred wood.
* * *
On October 9 of that year, Odo de St. Amand died in a Damascus dungeon. Salāh al-Dīn exchanged his body for the release of one of his amirs. As the Templar grand master had been widely blamed by the Franks for their catastrophic defeat at Marj Ayyun, few mourned him.
CHAPTER 25
March 1180
City of Tripoli
On this sunlit Monday in early March, the Countess of Tripoli had ordered the cooks to roast a goose for dinner; in just two days, they would have to adhere to a meatless Lenten menu and she wanted her family to indulge themselves while they still could. Eschiva also hoped that a bountiful meal might tempt her eldest son’s indifferent appetite. She’d expected Hugues to return home in high spirits, savoring his freedom. Instead, he’d been surprisingly subdued, saying little about his time in Saracen captivity, shrugging off her solicitude and his brothers’ curious questions. She was puzzled enough to seek out her husband in the palace solar, asking him to dismiss his scribe so they might talk in private, always challenging in a household of hundreds.
Not all men would have been pleased by the interruption, but Raymond had always taken her concerns seriously and he listened attentively as she confided her worries about Hugues’s uncharacteristic reticence. When she was done, he moved from his chair to the settle and drew her down beside him. “It is only to be expected, Eschiva, that Hugues was affected by his captivity. Ere that happened, he’d felt invincible. The young always do, sure that evil might befall others, never them. Now he feels vulnerable and it is unsettling to him. Just give him time.”
Eschiva was grateful for his insight; even as the mother of four rambunctious boys, she’d never truly understood the workings of the male brain. “You assured me that he’d not be hurt by his captors. But he seems so withdrawn now, so unlike his old self . . .” She hesitated before confessing, “I started to wonder if you were wrong, if he had been maltreated. . . .”
“I doubt it, my dear. He would have been worth too much to risk harming him. Highborn prisoners are ill-treated only if they prove troublesome or if they balk at the ransom demanded. Hugues was one of the luckier ones, for Saladin knew we’d not haggle over the price set for his freedom.”
Eschiva smiled when he slid his arm around her shoulders; even after more than five years of marriage, she did not take their marital harmony for granted. Studying Raymond’s profile, she could not help thinking of his own years as a prisoner. He’d once said that he’d learned patience in confinement. He’d learned Arabic, too, and had emerged from captivity with a firm belief that peace was possible between the Franks and the Saracens. She was leaning over to kiss him on the cheek when a knock sounded at the door and Raymond’s steward entered, saying that the Prince of Antioch had just ridden in.
Raymond and Eschiva exchanged surprised looks. Bohemond and Raymond were first cousins and quite friendly; Raymond was even the godfather of Bohemond’s eldest son. Yet they were so different in temperament that they did not socialize frequently. Raymond rose, intending to go down to the hall to welcome Bohemond. But his cousin had not waited, following the steward into the solar.
After an exchange of greetings, Raymond ordered wine and wafers and invited the other man to be seated, sure that he was not just paying a friendly visit. Bohemond confirmed his suspicions by remaining on his feet and smiling dismissively at Eschiva, explaining that he needed to speak with her husband in private.
Eschiva would not normally have taken offense. But it vexed her to be banished from her solar like an errant child by Bohemond of all men. He treated his own wife so shabbily that he’d caused a minor scandal, for Theodora was highborn, great-niece to the Greek emperor and sister to Maria Comnena. Having been coerced into the marriage by the emperor, Bohemond was taking out his resentment upon Theodora, deliberately shaming her by flaunting his concubine in public as if she were his consort. Despite her annoyance, Eschiva did not want to make a scene, and she would have risen had Raymond not put his hand on her arm.
“My wife and I have no secrets, Cousin,” he said calmly, and although she did not show it, Eschiva greatly relished the bemused look on Bohemond’s face.
“As you wish,” he said with an unconvincing smile. Claiming a seat close to the settle, he leaned forward. “I have troubling news, Raymond. As you know, I have sources at the Greek court. As you also know, Manuel has been cultivating ties with the French now that his son is to wed the French king’s daughter. He has gotten word of serious unrest in that country after their king was stricken with apoplexy last autumn.”
Raymond had already heard that the French king was seriously incapacitated, paralyzed and barely able to speak. Before he could respond, Bohemond launched into a patronizing lecture on French politics, presumably for Eschiva’s benefit. It was their custom for a king’s heir to be crowned in his lifetime, he explained, and they went ahead with the coronation of Louis’s fourteen-year-old son, Philippe. But the lad had soon fallen under the malign influence of the Count of Flanders, who’d contrived to wed Philippe to his ten-year-old niece. This outraged Philippe’s mother and her brothers and France hovered on the verge of a civil war.
When Bohemond at last paused for breath, Raymond was able to get a word in, saying that they knew of the troubles besetting the French court. Bohemond shook his head slowly a
nd dramatically. “No, Cousin, I fear you do not know the worst of it. The Duke of Burgundy has decided that he cannot turn his duchy over to his son as he’d planned, concluding that it is too dangerous to entrust governing to an untried youth whilst France remains in such turmoil. He will not be coming to Outremer to wed Sybilla.”
Raymond and Eschiva stared at him. “How have we offended the Almighty that He should punish us like this?” Raymond’s query was not a rhetorical one; he was genuinely stunned by this turn of events. Eschiva was no less horrified. Not willing to abandon all hope, she asked if the duke might still come if peace was made between Philippe and his family.
Bohemond shook his head again. “From what I was told, I think not. This sudden strife has made the duke rethink his plans, for he does not want to put his son’s heritage at risk—” He stopped abruptly, for a servant had entered with wine and wafers. Ignoring the food, Bohemond drained his wine cup in several deep swallows. “So the husband hunt begins again, and how long will it take this time? It has been nigh on three years since Sybilla was widowed. Can we endure another three years with a cripple’s hand on the ship’s helm?”
Raymond frowned. “You sound as if you are blaming Baldwin for his declining health.”
“No, I am just stating the obvious. Our young cousin is far sicker now than he was at the time of Guillaume’s death. Dare we squander another two or three years trying to find a suitable husband for Sybilla? Who is to say that Baldwin will even be alive by then? If you think that France is in turmoil, imagine what will befall the Kingdom of Jerusalem should Baldwin die with only a convent-bred girl and a child as his heirs. We well know who’d be pulling Sybilla’s strings. And what of Saladin? You think he would not seize his chance to set the kingdom aflame and march on the Holy City?”
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