The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  * * *

  Beirut Castle was not one of the most comfortable of the royal residences and William was surprised by Baldwin’s presence there, for he had rarely visited Beirut in the past. This mystery was solved when the castellan explained to William that the king had gotten reports of Saracen ships set to attack Beirut and hastened to the city’s defense. But once the Saracen ship masters learned that the sultan had just concluded a truce with the kingdom, they’d sailed away.

  When he was told that the king had not yet emerged from his private quarters, William found that somewhat alarming, for it was almost noon. Putting his concerns aside, he saw to it that his Greek guests were properly accommodated. He’d just sent his clerks off to his own chamber when he heard a voice call out, “My lord archbishop!”

  Anselm was hurrying toward him, his face aglow; he was very grateful to the prelate who’d arranged for him to serve the young king and changed his life so dramatically. “How pleased the king will be when he learns you are here, my lord! He was just saying the other night that he hoped you’d soon be returning from Constantinople.”

  William grasped the other man’s elbow and steered him toward the closest door. “Let’s find a place where we can speak in private.” That was no easy quest in a crowded castle and they eventually had to slip into the chapel, where William immediately asked if Baldwin was ailing. “No, my lord. He remains abed this morn because he had a bad night.” Anselm grinned unexpectedly. “He drank enough wine to fill the moat and he’s paying the price for it today.”

  William’s initial relief ebbed away, for this had long been a secret fear of his. He’d known too many men who’d turned to wine or ale when their lives did not go the way they wanted, and who would have a better reason for blotting out reality than a youth facing the cruelest of all fates? Baldwin had always drunk sparingly in his presence. He’d not seen the young king in almost two years, though, and he well knew the inroads Baldwin’s leprosy could have made in that time.

  “Does . . . does he make a habit of this?”

  Anselm blinked in surprise. “Not at all. This was the first time I’ve ever seen him drunk.” A puzzled look crossed his face. “I think something happened when he went into town yesterday. He was whiter than chalk when he returned to the castle and retreated to his bedchamber. I gave him time to himself, but when I came back to assist him at bedtime, he told me to fetch wine. He was not used to drinking so much and he soon became dog sick, the poor lad.”

  “And you have no idea what caused this?”

  “No, my lord. He was not in the mood for talking. . . .” Anselm lowered his voice. “I’ve seen my share of drunkards and usually you just watch over them to make sure they do not harm themselves or others and put them to bed after they pass out. But my young lord got so sick that I feared he’d puke his guts out and then he just lay there like a log, ignoring me, even ignoring his pup and he thinks the world of that dog. I did not know what to do. . . .”

  Anselm hesitated, for he knew the archbishop would not like what he was about to say. “By God’s grace, the king’s mother had accompanied us to Beirut—”

  “There is nothing about that woman which can be associated with God’s grace,” William snapped, for his emotions were still roiling from Bohemond’s shocking revelation.

  Anselm shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable. “She was asleep when I sought her out, but she’d instructed her servants that I was never to be turned away, no matter the hour. Once I’d led her to the king’s bedchamber, she told me to sleep in the antechamber. I could hear them talking for a long time. . . .” Gnawing his lower lip, he said softly, “When she finally left, the king seemed more peaceful, my lord, I swear he did. And he soon fell asleep.”

  William was not impressed with this testimonial to Agnes’s maternal skills. What did it matter if she loved her son when her advice was so dangerous? There was nothing more to be said and they returned to the great hall, where Anselm hurried off to inform Baldwin of the archbishop’s arrival and William engaged in polite conversation with the castellan, disappointed to learn that neither d’Ibelin brother nor Denys de Grenier had accompanied the king. Nor was he cheered to be told that Joscelin de Courtenay was also in Beirut. He had no time to ponder this, for Anselm was soon back. The king wanted to see him straightaway.

  * * *

  William had occasionally heard someone say his heart had been in his throat, but he’d never experienced that himself until he stood before Baldwin’s bedchamber door, dreading to see the damage that leprosy had done in the twenty months since their last meeting. He was deeply grateful to God to find that Baldwin was not yet showing any of the worst manifestations of his disease. He did look somehow different, although it took a moment for William to realize why—he’d lost most of his eyebrows and his eyelashes had thinned dramatically, making his eyes look oddly exposed and vulnerable. His voice was hoarser, too, than William remembered. He stumbled a bit as he came forward, revealing how unsteady his gait had become, and then they were embracing, clinging together like fellow shipwreck survivors or a father and son reunited against all the odds.

  “How gladdened I am to see you, William!” The smile at least was the same, brighter than the noonday sun. William expressed his joy, too, and followed Baldwin to a window seat. “I heard from the emperor. He said you’d convinced him to renew the treaty with Jerusalem. Well done, my lord archbishop, well done! I knew I was right to entrust this mission to you.”

  William could feel a flush of pleasure warming his cheeks, for Baldwin’s praise was worth more to him than all the gold in Montpelier. Not wanting to poison this moment with talk of the de Lusignans and Baldwin’s duplicitous kindred, he asked instead about the truce. He’d been troubled to learn of it from the castellan, for this was the first time in their kingdom’s history that the Franks and the Saracens had come to the bargaining table as equals; whenever peace had been made in the past, the Saracens had paid a price for it. But Baldwin explained they’d had no choice, for they were still recovering from their disastrous defeat last summer at Marj Ayyun. That battle had cost William dearly, too; his brother, Ralph, had been among the slain. In the months since learning of Ralph’s death, he’d often cursed the Templar grand master in language ill befitting a prince of the Church and he felt an unchristian satisfaction now when Baldwin told him that Odo de St. Amand had subsequently died in a Damascus dungeon. Forgiving his enemies was the only one of the Lord Christ’s teachings that William continued to struggle with.

  Remembering his duties as host, then, Baldwin asked William if he wanted food sent up from the kitchens. “You must be hungry since you missed dinner. Nothing for me, though, Anselm.” Baldwin’s smile was sheepish. “I drank more than was good for me last night.”

  William insisted he was not hungry, either, knowing the mere sight of food could unsettle a queasy stomach. At that moment, a servant knocked on the door, holding a hemp sack, saying it was for the king. Baldwin took the sack and opened it. He pulled out several swaths of cloth and held them up, appearing puzzled. It took them both a moment to realize they were looking at the Saracen headdress known as a kaffiyeh and the turban called an imamah muhannak. When they did, William caught a strange expression on Baldwin’s face, as if he did not know whether he wanted to laugh or to cry.

  Choosing the first option, Baldwin gave a chuckle, studied William for a moment, and then dispatched Anselm to walk Cairo. Once they were alone, he said, “My mother sent these. I know you and she have never gotten along, William, but I also know you are a fair man and you cannot deny that she has been my mainstay more times than I care to count. Last night for certes.”

  “What happened last night, Baldwin?”

  “Last night was one of the worst I’ve endured since learning I was a leper. But it began in the afternoon, when we were riding past the souk,” Baldwin said in a low voice, using the Arabic word for market. “It was then that
I saw him . . . a beggar, being berated and cursed by several shopkeepers. When I sent one of my knights to stop them from throwing stones at him, they insisted they were just trying to get him to leave, that he was scaring their customers away. He was wrapped in a long cloak despite the heat, its hood hiding his face, and I had not realized he was a leper. I told the knight to give him a few coins to leave the souk, not knowing what else to do. He did not reach out for the coins, though. I did not understand . . . not until I saw his hands. They were so crippled that they looked like claws, the fingers deformed and curving inward toward his palms.”

  Baldwin turned sideways in the seat so that William saw only his profile. “Yet the worst was still to come, when his hood fell back and I saw his face. . . .” He managed to keep his voice level, but he could not suppress a convulsive shudder. “It was covered in crusted nodules, William, his cheeks, his forehead, his chin, like . . . like huge warts. He was clearly blind in one eye, for it looked as if it were filled with blood and the . . . color was all clouded over.”

  “Ah, lad . . .” William’s voice choked up. To his surprise, Baldwin found that the other man’s obvious anguish was somehow bracing, helping him to cling to his own self-control. In an odd role reversal, he reached over and laid a comforting hand on William’s arm.

  “You need not say anything, William. But I knew I was looking at myself a few years from now, mayhap sooner, and I . . . I felt as if I were drowning in despair.” Baldwin forced a wan smile at that, saying, “I hope that does not sound too overwrought.” Standing abruptly, he said, “I think I might need some wine after all.” Limping to the table, he poured with a hand not as steady as his voice. “I am ashamed to admit that I did not think of that poor wretch till later, after we’d returned to the castle. I sent out several of my knights then, with orders to convey him to a lazar house. They said they could not find him. . . .”

  Baldwin took a sip of the wine and made a face, setting it down on the table. “It tastes like goat piss. Will I ever like wine again, William?” With another of those small smiles that unraveled the archbishop’s composure. “Not that I need any, for I probably have more wine than blood in my veins today. What I did was foolish and you need not worry that I’ll do it again. But . . . but it was not even the thought of looking like that poor, accursed soul that I found so unbearable. It was that I am the king, unable to hide myself away from other eyes. Yet how could I go out in public once I am that deformed? How could my subjects look upon me and not be sickened, as I was sickened when I looked upon that leper in the souk?”

  It all came together for William then. “The kaffiyeh,” he said, holding up one of the headdresses.

  Baldwin nodded. “I confided that fear to my mother after Anselm brought her to my chamber. She usually tries to assure me that I will not suffer the deformities and horrors that other lepers do, as if I am somehow immune to the worst of that accursed affliction. Last night she did not do this. She said if it came to that, I could wear a kaffiyeh the way my spymaster Bernard does. This may sound crazed, William, but that actually gave me some comfort. At least I need not fear frightening small children.”

  William found Baldwin’s game attempts at humor even more excruciating than tears would have been. All he could think to do was to promise Baldwin that he’d find that crippled beggar and see that he was taken to a leper hospital, where at least he’d not go hungry.

  * * *

  Baldwin had never used his illness as an excuse to shirk his royal duties. Nor did he let a hangover keep him from welcoming the Greek envoys, having supper with them that evening, and doing his best to play the role of host. He’d given the archbishop the place of honor on his right, but his mother was seated to his left and kept intruding into the conversation with the envoys, much to William’s barely suppressed fury. This wicked woman had lied to her son and cruelly maligned the Count of Tripoli so she could marry her daughter to a de Courtenay puppet, a man not fit to rule, and now she dared to play the role of queen? He did not know what angered him more: that she cared so little for the future of their kingdom or that she was so shamelessly willing to use Baldwin’s illness to her own advantage.

  None of the Greek envoys spoke French and they’d brought along a translator, but Baldwin preferred to rely upon William and he spent much of the meal facilitating the exchange of pleasantries between the king, his mother, and their Greek guests. Joscelin, seated farther along the dais, occasionally joined in, too. William was hard put to hide his dismay when he learned that Baldwin would be sending Joscelin to Constantinople to finalize the new treaty.

  His worst moments came when one of the Greeks asked about the king’s marital plans for his sister now that she’d not be marrying that French duke. Baldwin hesitated and then asked William to tell them that the Lady Sybilla had been wed to another French lord, Guy de Lusignan, in April. The Greeks looked pleased, for now that they were allies again, their emperor would want to see the succession settled in the Frankish kingdom, and they politely proposed a toast to the newlyweds. William raised his cup as the others did, but he could not drink to a marriage that he believed was a calamity for his homeland. When he set the cup down, untasted, he saw that Baldwin and his mother were both watching him, Baldwin’s expression inscrutable and Agnes’s face bright with triumph.

  After the meal was over, Baldwin excused himself, asking his mother to entertain their guests. William soon offered his own excuses and withdrew to his chamber. He’d not yet made ready for bed when he received an unexpected message: the king wished to see him.

  * * *

  Their meeting got off to an awkward start, for William was loath to discuss Sybilla’s marriage. Baldwin was not looking forward to that discussion, either, sorry he would have to shatter William’s illusions about the Count of Tripoli, so at first they made meaningless small talk about the evening and their Greek guests. Listening to their desultory conversation, Anselm concluded that the young king wanted privacy and concocted an errand to run.

  His departure spurred Baldwin into action. “I regret that you had to learn of Sybilla’s marriage the way you did, William. It must have been a shock to you.”

  William’s shoulders twitched in a noncommittal shrug. “I’d already heard about it.”

  “I know you are not pleased with it.” Baldwin smiled slightly. “Your face has always given you away. I understand your disappointment, for I’d hoped, too, that we could make a marital alliance with one of the great houses. But once I tell you how it came to be, I am sure you’ll approve.”

  It may have been his fatigue. Or his fear for the future. Or the memory of Agnes de Courtenay’s smug smile. But William found he could not do this. With so much at stake, he owed Baldwin the truth, unpalatable as it might be. “Accept it, I must. But I will never approve of it, for Guy de Lusignan is undeserving of the great honor you have conferred upon him. He is not worthy to be king.”

  Baldwin’s eyes widened. “That is a harsh judgment upon a man you’ve never even met.”

  “It is true that I’ve yet to meet him. I know about him, though, far more than you do, I fear.” Now that he’d crossed the Rubicon, William had no choice but to forge ahead. If Baldwin could not undo what had been done, at least he could be forewarned. “Do you remember one of the English lords who accompanied the Count of Flanders to Outremer—William de Mandeville, the Earl of Essex?”

  Another man might have seen William’s question as a non sequitur, an odd digression. Baldwin merely nodded. “I do. Go on.”

  “I was taken aback by the deliberate rudeness that the earl showed to Amaury de Lusignan and finally confronted him about it. De Mandeville was quite willing to tell me why he held the de Lusignans in such contempt. It is no secret that they have always been troublesome vassals, too ambitious and unscrupulous to be trusted. King Henry kept a close eye on them, reining them in when need be. But that all changed with the attack upon his queen.”
<
br />   “What? Are you serious?”

  William nodded grimly. “The English king had seized Lusignan Castle as punishment for yet another rebellion. Queen Eleanor was riding from Poitiers to Lusignan, under the protection of the Earl of Salisbury, when they were ambushed by the de Lusignans. I suppose they thought they could hold her hostage until the castle was returned to them. She was able to escape, though, thanks to the heroics of her men. Amongst the dead was Salisbury, slain by a lance in the back ere he could put on his hauberk.”

  “Good God Almighty! Was this Amaury’s doing?”

  “No, the raid was led by his elder brother, Joffrey, and his younger brother. The man who is now wed to your sister—Guy de Lusignan.”

  Baldwin was quiet for some moments. “When did this happen?”

  “Twelve years ago, in April of God’s year 1168.”

  “I will not deny that I find this very troubling, William. But Guy must have been quite young at the time, not more than eighteen or so. Not that his age excuses him . . . yet the greater blame must rest with his brother.”

  William shrugged again, letting the gesture speak for itself. Baldwin pushed his chair back, then remembered his cane was out of reach. “I see now why you are so distressed by this marriage. In truth, we knew we’d be taking a gamble with Guy. I had no choice, though. Had Sybilla not married Guy, she’d have been forced to wed Baudouin d’Ibelin and I would have been deposed. I will not pretend to understand why the Almighty would have a leper king rule over the Holy Land, but I am king by His will and I must believe that He has reasons for all that He does. Surely you see that, William?”