“Of course I do. None of this is your fault, Baldwin. You were misled by those who knew better, who took shameless advantage of your strong sense of duty, your faith in—”
“No! That is not how it happened. My cousins were plotting my overthrow, meaning to rule through Sybilla and d’Ibelin. Had we not been warned in time—”
“And how were you warned? How was this plot exposed?”
“My mother had a spy in Count Raymond’s household and he alerted us that Raymond and Bohemond were marching on Jerusalem with a large army. He told us . . .” Baldwin stopped speaking then, for the expression on William’s face was both sorrowful and skeptical.
“They were lying to you, lad. It was a cleverly laid trap, one that allowed the Archbishop of Caesarea and the de Courtenays to wed Sybilla to a man of their choosing whilst making sure that you’d never trust the Count of Tripoli again, that you’d heed no voices but theirs. But it may not be too late, Baldwin. Can you not annul Sybilla’s marriage to de Lusignan? Find a more worthy husband for her? Must we let that woman and Eraclius win?”
Baldwin lurched to his feet, blue eyes blazing. “‘That woman’ is my mother! You dare to accuse me of being their pawn? You are the one who sounds like a puppet, your strings being pulled by the Count of Tripoli!”
“Baldwin, that is not so! I am seeking only to help—”
“And I am sure Count Raymond is grateful for it. No—do not speak. You’ve said enough, my lord archbishop. More than enough.”
William’s every instinct was to argue until Baldwin understood the great mistake he’d made and the even greater mistake he was making now. His words died in his throat as he realized he was not looking at the youth he’d tutored and mentored and loved like a son. He was looking at an angry king.
* * *
On July 6, William returned to his archepiscopal city of Tyre. What followed was the most wretched summer of his life. After he’d reluctantly withdrawn from Baldwin’s bedchamber, he’d consoled himself with the belief that he could explain once Baldwin calmed down, that he could find a way to make the young king see that he’d spoken the truth. But he soon discovered that Baldwin’s anger had congealed into ice. He was given no opportunity to raise the subject of Sybilla’s marriage. Even though there were times when Baldwin was close enough to touch, the distance between them grew with each passing day. And once Agnes and Joscelin realized that he was no longer in Baldwin’s favor, they rejoiced openly, missing few opportunities for baiting him. When Baldwin left Beirut with the Greek envoys, William did not accompany them. Instead, he went home to Tyre, where he tried to lose himself in Church matters, tried to pretend that his heart was not broken.
* * *
William was grateful that his days were so busy, for constant activity kept him from dwelling upon his estrangement from Baldwin. Sooner or later, though, he would have to return to court, for he was still the chancellor . . . unless the de Courtenays convinced Baldwin he should be removed from that post. He trusted Baldwin’s sense of fair play, but he dared not underestimate the malice of his enemies—a prince of the Church who brazenly embraced sins of the flesh and a woman detestable to God.
And so his summer days dragged by. But in August, everything changed, for he had an unexpected visit from Balian d’Ibelin. He’d accompanied Baudouin to Acre, he explained, where his brother took ship for Constantinople, armed with a letter from Maria, urging her great-uncle to pay the vast ransom owed to Saladin. William was grateful beyond words that the younger d’Ibelin had been willing to continue on to Tyre, no easy journey in the heat of high summer. He desperately needed what Balian could provide—friendship and answers.
They had much catching up to do and at first confined themselves to personal news. Balian offered his condolences for the death of William’s brother at Marj Ayyun and William expressed his delight upon hearing that Maria had given birth to a son. Balian then thanked the archbishop for writing to Maria about the Greek emperor’s grave illness, leaving unspoken the concern in both men’s minds—that Manuel’s death could make Maria and Isabella more vulnerable to the machinations of the de Courtenays.
“Maria and I also want to thank you, William, for your diplomatic success in Constantinople. It matters greatly to her that there is peace between her land of birth and the land that became hers by marriage. Baldwin must be very proud of you.”
William paused in the act of reaching for a wine cup. “Did . . . did he say that?”
Balian thought that an odd question. “Maria and I have not been at court since Easter, so, no, I did not hear him say it. Surely he told you of his pleasure when you met him at Beirut?”
“Yes, he did. But I am not sure if he still feels that way, for we had a serious quarrel whilst we were in Beirut and I have not heard from him since that quarrel.” Balian was too discreet to probe as Baudouin would have done. William did not doubt, though, that he had a sympathetic ear and so, haltingly at first, he began to relate what had happened on that terrible night in Baldwin’s bedchamber. He felt a great sense of relief when he was done, for there was solace in sharing his pain. That lasted only until he looked up and saw Balian’s face.
“Ah, William . . . Baldwin was speaking the truth. Prince Bohemond and Count Raymond did indeed lead an army to Jerusalem with the intent of marrying Sybilla to Baudouin and then crowning them after Baldwin abdicated.”
William reeled back in his seat. “That cannot be! Raymond would never do that! Why would you believe the de Courtenay lies, Balian? I do not understand.”
“I can only tell you what I was told, William, by one who was there when Agnes’s spy related what he’d learned of their plans. He believed the spy’s story and I believed him when he came to us afterward, for he is a man I call my friend. So do you—Denys de Grenier.”
William was stunned. “I do not think Denys would lie,” he conceded. “But he could still be wrong, Balian. Bohemond told me that he and Raymond did intend to discuss the matter of Sybilla’s marriage with Baldwin and the High Court. He never denied that. He did deny very forcefully that either he or Raymond had even considered forcing Baldwin to abdicate.”
“Then why did they come to Jerusalem with an army, William?” Balian paused, saw that William had no answer to that. “I cannot tell you for a certainty that they meant to depose Baldwin after marrying Sybilla to Baudouin. But Baldwin believes it and that is not an unreasonable belief under the circumstances. Denys did insist that this was not a conspiracy by the de Courtenays. He swore that Agnes’s fear was very real, that she was more concerned about protecting Baldwin’s kingship than about choosing a husband for Sybilla. In fact, it was Sybilla who first mentioned Guy’s name.”
William leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. “What have I done? Baldwin tried to tell me, but I would not listen. I was so sure that Raymond was being maligned, that this was a de Courtenay plot. . . .”
“Well, we rarely go wrong believing the worst of the de Courtenays,” Balian said dryly. “Unfortunately, Baldwin now harbors suspicions of Baudouin and those suspicions may have spilled over onto Maria and me, too. We tried to talk to him after Denys told us why Baldwin had wed his sister to Guy de Lusignan. He heard us out as we swore we’d had no part in any plot against him. It was impossible to say whether he believed us or not and he was rather cool to us during the remainder of the Easter court.”
William raised despairing eyes to Balian’s. “Do you think Baldwin will forgive me?”
“Of course he will. He loves you, William. But he also loves his mother.”
“I know,” William admitted, “I know. . . .” He slumped in his seat, excoriating himself for blundering so badly in Beirut. After a time, he said wearily, “Even if this marriage was not the result of de Courtenay conniving, we are still stuck with a highly questionable king-in-waiting. You’ve met him, Balian. What is your opinion of the man?”
�
�In truth, I do not know him well enough to have formed an opinion yet. What you told me about the ambush of the English queen does not inspire much confidence. But as you said Baldwin pointed out, he was young then. We can only hope that he has matured in the intervening years.”
“What of the other Poulains? What do they think of him?”
“I doubt that many were overjoyed by the selection of another foreigner. Whilst he is wellborn, he does not have the royal connections that the Duke of Burgundy has, and there is some resentment that Baldwin did not consult with the High Court beforehand. I suspect that they’d have welcomed a marriage between Sybilla and Baudouin with greater enthusiasm. But I think most men are willing to give Guy the benefit of the doubt, at least for now.”
Balian smiled, then, without any humor whatsoever. “Not my brother, though. No matter what Guy de Lusignan says or does, he will never win Baudouin over.”
CHAPTER 28
September 1180
Jerusalem, Outremer
Asad had begun to nuzzle his master’s tunic and Baldwin pushed him away with a laugh. “Sorry, boy, nothing for you to eat.” Taking the comb from Anselm, he began to untangle the stallion’s mane and Asad reluctantly abandoned his search for treats.
Anselm watched for a while, thinking that the only time the young king seemed at peace was when he was in the stables. What would the lad do when he could no longer ride at all? “Do you think Asad can ever be ridden again, my lord?”
“Not likely. But he is no longer in pain.” For a moment, Baldwin had a vision of the stallion racing the wind. Though the memory hurt, he still found a smile for Anselm. “He will not miss his old life, for he has his own harim now and several of his mares are in foal.” Asad nudged him again and this time he won; Baldwin sent Anselm off to the kitchens to get sugar.
A stable cat sauntered over. This one seemed to have formed a bond with Asad, for Baldwin often found her sleeping in the stallion’s stall. She stretched and then leaped onto the top of the stall door. When Asad snorted, Baldwin leaned for a moment against the Arabian’s withers, inhaling the familiar, comforting smells of the stable. “Was I right, boy?” he murmured. “Are the mares enough for you now?” Yet how could a crippled hawk not yearn for the skies?
His balance had become so unsteady that he could no longer groom Asad properly. He still enjoyed brushing the stallion and thought the Arabian enjoyed the contact, too. He’d forgotten to ask Anselm for a soft cloth to clean Asad’s eyes and nostrils. Seeing some piled on a nearby bench, he opened the stall door; this annoyed the cat, who jumped off with a hiss. He’d only taken a few steps before he stumbled and, unable to catch himself, he went down hard.
For some moments, he lay still, the breath knocked out of him. When he touched his forehead, his fingers came away bloodied and he realized he’d cut himself on the edge of a bucket. Rolling over, he managed to sit up. In the past few years, he’d taken falls beyond counting. It was only recently, though, that he’d found he needed help in getting to his feet. Wiping the blood from his eyes, he saw two grooms standing not far away, staring at him. When neither one moved, he felt a sudden rage, sparing neither himself nor these frightened grooms nor the God who’d brought him to this. He wanted to lash out, to punish them for their fear and for witnessing his humiliation, sprawled in the dirt like a turtle turned on its back. But he held on to the shreds of his self-control. Ordering them to fetch Anselm, he slumped down again and listened to their fleeing footsteps.
His head was still bleeding and his cheek was throbbing. It was the injury to his pride that he found hardest to bear, though. He was God’s anointed, a crowned king who’d bloodied his sword at fifteen and then won a miraculous victory at Montgisard. Yet now he was lying here as helpless as a mewling babe. How could he accept this? How could any man? Why would the Almighty demand so much of him?
“My lord!” Baldwin had been so caught up in his own misery that he’d not heard these new footsteps. He tried to sit up again and then arms were encircling him, struggling to help him rise. It was not easy, for his rescuer was slightly built and was panting by the time Baldwin was able to lurch to his feet. “Over here,” he gasped. “Lean on me, sire.”
It was a young voice and vaguely familiar. Baldwin did as bidden, let himself be steered toward the bench. He sank down upon it gratefully, for his legs felt like jelly. Only then was he able to identify his Good Samaritan—the late constable’s grandson, Humphrey de Toron. As always, he was struck by the boy’s uncommon beauty and by his vulnerability, both of which made him seem younger than his fourteen years. His wide-set dark eyes, fringed by improbably long lashes, were regarding Baldwin anxiously. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and quickly returned with a water bucket.
Picking up one of the cloths, Humphrey dipped it in the water, then averted his gaze as Baldwin scrubbed the blood and dirt from his face, sensing that the king’s greatest need was for privacy. Reaching for another cloth, he offered it shyly. “You are still bleeding, my lord. . . .”
Baldwin applied pressure to the cut as Humphrey hurried over to retrieve his cane, then paused before the overturned bucket. “This is what must have caused your fall, sire! The grooms ought to be reprimanded for carelessly leaving it out like this.”
“I did not trip over it, Humphrey,” Baldwin said wearily. “I fall easily, for I can no longer feel the soles of my feet when they touch the ground. That is why lepers so often stagger around like drunkards.” He was not sure why he felt the need to explain this to the boy, nor why he then confided that he could not brace himself when he went down because of his dead arm. He did not reveal, though, that he was losing strength in his left arm, too, for that was a secret he’d shared with no one, not even his doctors.
Humphrey looked stricken and Baldwin realized that the youngster had not fully understood just how difficult daily life was for a leper, even one with servants on hand. Humphrey surprised him then with honesty of his own. “Where do you find the courage, my liege?”
Baldwin shrugged off the compliment, for he did not think courage was all that commendable if there was no other choice. “I could well ask the same of you, for few men would have dared to come to my assistance as you did. That took considerable courage.”
Humphrey’s expression was so dubious that Baldwin wondered if he feared he was being mocked. The boy’s response was almost inaudible. “I’d not say that in front of my mother and stepfather, sire, for they’d likely laugh themselves sick.”
Baldwin remembered Reynald de Chatillon’s contemptuous quip. “Men would not follow that milksop out of a burning building.” He shifted on the bench, not trusting his legs. “I could tell you the opinions of others do not matter, Humphrey. We both know that is not true, though. Unless a man is a hermit or a saint, they matter. But this is a bedrock truth—that it is your own opinion of yourself that matters the most. And after today, you need not doubt your courage. You proved it by rushing to my aid, by being willing to lay hands upon a leper.”
Humphrey’s sudden smile was sunlit. It was also brief. “But I was afraid,” he confessed. “I just did not give in to it. . . .”
“Courage is not a lack of fear, lad. It is overcoming fear.” It seemed odd to call Humphrey “lad,” for there were only five years between them. Yet Baldwin felt a lifetime older than this unhappy youth and the pain from an old wound began to stir. Never had Humphrey needed his grandfather more than now, trembling on the cusp of manhood. The wound inflicted by the constable’s death was still unhealed, both for his only male heir and for the king he’d died trying to protect.
“My lord! Are you hurt?” Coming to a halt, Anselm gave a gusty sigh at the sight of his king seated on the bench. “I ought to take a strap to those lackwits for scaring me pissless!” Hastening forward, he subjected Baldwin to a critical scrutiny. “What happened, my lord?”
“I took a fall, Anselm. Fortunately for me, Humphrey was
here to help.” And when Baldwin glanced over at the boy, he saw that those casual words of praise meant more to Humphrey than a hoard of golden bezants.
* * *
After changing his clothes, Baldwin sat at his desk. He did more and more of his work in the privacy of his bedchamber now, away from prying eyes. He began with the packet of letters brought that noon by an imperial messenger from Constantinople. He tensed as he broke Joscelin’s seal, fearing that he’d be told the emperor was dead, for their alliance might well die with him. Scanning the letter, he was so relieved that he shared the good news with Anselm.
“My uncle says that they are making progress in the negotiations.” Joscelin would never give William credit for laying the groundwork so well, but Baldwin’s innate sense of fairness compelled him to admit that Joscelin’s task had been made much easier by the archbishop’s skilled diplomacy during his long stay in Constantinople. Setting Joscelin’s letter aside, he was surprised to find one from Baudouin d’Ibelin, reporting joyfully that the emperor had agreed to pay his ransom and thanking Baldwin again for all he’d done to secure Baudouin’s release.
When he shared this news with Anselm, the squire did not comment. Baldwin knew why—Anselm was not sure how the king felt about Baudouin d’Ibelin now. Baldwin was not sure himself. He did not see how Baudouin could have been an active participant in the coup, for he’d not regained his freedom until Holy Week. Both d’Ibelin brothers had sworn to him that Baudouin would never have agreed to usurp his throne, and Baldwin wanted to believe them. Yet a nagging doubt remained, for he knew how easy it was for men to convince themselves that what they wanted was also for the greater good. If the plot had succeeded and Baudouin had wed Sybilla, would he truly have objected when Bohemond and Raymond then insisted that the next step must be the king’s abdication?
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