* * *
The Poulains had little time to consider the ramifications of the Greek coup. On May 11, Salāh al-Dīn again entrusted the government to al-‘Ādil and led a large army out of Egypt, ready to resume warfare against the Franks.
Baldwin hastily assembled his army at Kerak in Outrejourdain, hoping to prevent the sultan from advancing any farther into their kingdom. But their plan to confront Salāh al-Dīn at Kerak failed when he outflanked them, heading into the eastern hills. By June 22, he’d reached Damascus. He soon was on the march again, and by July 11, the Saracen army was encamped on the east bank of the Jordan River, threatening Tiberias. Although Raymond was very ill at the time, stricken with a tertian fever, he was able to send for help and Baldwin led a relief force north.
On July 15, the royal army had taken up position on the plain near the Hospitaller castle of Forbelet. There they discovered that they were greatly outnumbered by the sultan’s forces. The heat was even more of a danger than the Saracens; in William of Tyre’s history of their kingdom, A History of Deeds Done Beyond the Sea, the archbishop reported that “fully as many in both armies perished from sunstroke as by the sword.” Baldwin could no longer lead his army on horseback, but he insisted upon being present upon the battlefield and his men were inspired by his courage. It was a battle the Franks should have lost, for they faced a much larger army. They managed to break free after fierce fighting, and were able to withdraw to the castle at Forbelet.
The battle was inconclusive, but the Franks considered it a victory against overwhelming odds. The Archbishop of Tyre would proclaim proudly in his history of the kingdom: “We proved superior to our foes. Baudouin of Ramlah and Balian, his brother, showed magnificent prowess that day and fought with vigor and courage.” Many of Baldwin’s subjects saw the battle at Forbelet as proof that he still enjoyed God’s favor, for it was fought upon the eighth anniversary of his coronation.
Salāh al-Dīn was not discouraged by his failure to destroy the Frankish army at Forbelet, and in August he launched a two-pronged attack upon the kingdom. He ordered al-‘Ādil to lead a raid into the southern regions around Ascalon and Gaza and to send the Egyptian fleet of forty ships to assault Beirut. He then led a land assault upon that city.
Baldwin realized he could not defend both areas under attack. Since the loss of Beirut would be the greater blow, he hastened to Tyre, where he managed to gather a fleet of thirty-six ships, most owned by the Pisans who’d fled the slaughter in Constantinople. Dispatching this fleet to Beirut, he sent word to the beleaguered city that he was leading an army to lift the siege.
At Beirut, the citizens had put up such a spirited resistance that the Saracen army had been repulsed. Salāh al-Dīn had no siege machines with him, and when his men captured Baldwin’s courier and learned that the Franks were coming to the aid of Beirut, he ended the siege after only three days. Realizing that once again he’d underestimated the young leper king, he decided to postpone the day of reckoning with the Franks while he dealt with his Muslim enemies in Aleppo and Mosul. In September, he led his army into northern Syria.
The Franks attempted to force Salāh al-Dīn to abandon his siege of Mosul with military action in Outremer. In December, Baldwin and Raymond led raids into the lands around Damascus, burning the harvest. But Salāh al-Dīn considered the capture of Mosul to be of greater importance than any damage they’d inflicted and remained in Syria. Not even the grief of losing his nephew Farrukh-Shāh to a sudden illness interrupted his campaign. Baldwin reluctantly disbanded his army and accepted William’s invitation to celebrate Christmas at Tyre.
* * *
Sybilla could have traveled to Tyre, for her pregnancy was over. More than two months ago, she’d delivered a healthy daughter, and if Guy were disappointed that she’d not given birth to a son, none knew it; he bragged to anyone who’d listen that his little lass would be a beauty like her mother and Sybilla loved him all the more for that. She and Guy chose to remain at Ascalon and, since many saw it as their first Christmas court, it was well attended by lords and their ladies, eager to win the favor of the couple who would one day rule over them.
Balian and Maria decided to spend Christmas at Tyre, an easy choice in light of their friendship with William and their respect for Baldwin. So did Baudouin and his wife, for he’d sooner have passed the holiday in Hell than with Guy de Lusignan. Upon their arrival at Tyre, Balian took particular note of those present, evidence of the deep divisions rending the court. He found it significant that Agnes and Denys were at Tyre, as was the new Lord of Caesarea, Denys’s cousin, Gautier de Grenier, who’d inherited the family fief upon the recent death of his brother, Guyon. But Joscelin was at Ascalon with Sybilla and Guy. Patriarch Eraclius, an astute politician, came to Tyre first to show respect for the current king, then hastened down to Ascalon, where he could insinuate himself into the good graces of the king-to-be. Count Raymond and Eschiva had gone to Antioch to offer solace to his cousin, for Bohemond had received tragic news about his sister Mary; she’d been strangled in her cell, Andronicus forcing her young son to sign his own mother’s death warrant. The grand masters of the Hospitallers and Templars were at Tyre, as were many of the prelates and clerics. Reynald de Chatillon, always one to blaze his own trail, was welcoming Christmas at Kerak. His stepson, Humphrey, was at Tyre, though, escaping from Reynald’s shadow to show his loyalty to Baldwin; Balian suspected that his wish to see Isabella was a factor, too, in his presence at Tyre.
Baldwin had already retired for the evening. He’d limited his attendance at the Christmas festivities, and Balian realized that he might not hold any more Christmas or Easter courts, restricting his public appearances to those that he could not avoid. But the revelries continued without him, Balian thought sadly, gazing around the hall at the great lords and ladies celebrating the birth of the Christ Child.
Isabella had been allowed to stay up past her normal bedtime, having reminded her parents that she was almost eleven, surely old enough for the Christmas festivities. Balian had kept a paternal eye upon her until he saw that Humphrey was no less protective of her. They were laughing now and, as he watched, he could not suppress a sigh, for he genuinely liked Humphrey. But he agreed with Maria; in a world so dangerous, a girl of royal birth needed a man strong enough to defend her, to keep others from exploiting her for their own benefit.
He finally spotted Maria across the hall, engaged in conversation with Joscius, the Bishop of Acre, and one of the Pisan merchants who’d managed to escape the massacre of his countrymen in Constantinople. They looked so serious that he was sure they were discussing the Empress Mary’s gruesome fate. Her murder and the plight of the little French princess had intensified Maria’s concern for her eldest daughter, making her even more reluctant to see Isabella wed to Humphrey de Toron.
Balian had begun to weave his way in his wife’s direction when he was intercepted by William. The archbishop had been in high spirits all week, delighted to have this chance to play host to the king, to show his enemies that his friendship with Baldwin remained intact. “I think I could use some air,” he said. “Come along with me.”
Balian knew that meant he had something to share that he did not want overheard. It was a mild evening and neither man bothered to retrieve his mantle. Stepping out into the moonlit courtyard, they strolled toward a marble bench. William was the first to break the silence. “Did Humphrey de Toron say anything to you or Maria about Reynald’s absence?”
“No . . . why?”
“He confided to Baldwin that he thinks Reynald is up to no good again, that he has some sort of scheme in mind, for he has been very secretive of late, spending most of his time at his castle at Montreal and refusing to let Humphrey accompany him. Baldwin is understandably concerned after Reynald’s raid last year into the Hijāz and his seizure of that Saracen caravan.”
“It would probably be wise to keep an eye on Reynald,” Balian agreed. “His re
ckless nature is one of the reasons Maria and I do not want to see Isabella married into that family.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that, too, Balian. As you requested, I discussed the plight troth with Baldwin. I went over all of your misgivings and Baldwin politely heard me out. But he said he has no intention of changing his mind, that he is still set upon the marriage.”
Balian had not really expected a more favorable response; it still stung, though. He said nothing and William resumed, trying to make him see Baldwin’s point of view. “Whilst he did not say this in so many words, Balian, I am convinced he believes he will not live much longer. He fears what will happen to the kingdom after he dies, and he fears, too, for Isabella—that unscrupulous men could use her as a pawn in a struggle over the crown. He truly believes that nothing would be more disastrous for Outremer than a civil war, so he wants to see Isabella safely wed ere he dies, both for her own sake and for the sake of the country. You and Maria can discuss this again with him, but I very much doubt that anything will change.”
Balian rose and began to pace. He’d not tell Maria till the morrow, he decided, for she would take it hard, still having some hope that Baldwin might reconsider. At least he could give her one more peaceful night. William attempted to assuage his disappointment by reminding him that Humphrey was a good lad, decent and honorable and God-fearing, but he soon saw that his consolation was falling flat. When he rose, too, they started back toward the great hall.
They’d almost reached the door when William stopped suddenly. “I almost forgot! Earlier tonight, I was speaking with the Templar grand master. A man of refined tastes and subtleties, a great improvement over that lout Odo de St. Amand,” he said, making Balian smile when he felt obligated to add “May God assoil him” even though he thought Odo would be trapped in Purgatory for centuries to come. “But he told me the most astonishing story, Balian. Do you remember when Gerard de Ridefort was stricken with a high fever this summer?”
Balian nodded; he’d been glad of the other man’s illness, for it had kept him from joining the army during their July campaign or taking part in the battle of Forbelet. “I was sorry he recovered, if you want the brutal truth, William. Why?”
“It seems de Ridefort was greatly shaken by that near-mortal illness. When he regained his health, he decided that the Almighty must have spared him for a reason, wanting him to mend his ways, to repent his past sins, and lead a more godly life.”
“How long do you think that will last?” Balian asked skeptically. “Assuming he has not already shattered that resolution a hundredfold in a certain Acre bawdy house.”
“He seems to be sincere, at least for now. The grand master said he has taken holy vows as a Templar.”
Balian stared at him. “God in Heaven,” he said at last, and then, “Poor Jakelin!”
CHAPTER 33
April 1183
Acre, Outremer
Baldwin had hoarded his dwindling energy in order to attend a general assembly that February and then to preside over a High Court session at Acre in mid-March. But his devotion to duty had forced him to spend the following fortnight in bed. Although he was up and dressed on this mild April morning, Anselm had to coax him to the table where fruit and bread were waiting. He’d stopped eating in public after losing most of his sight and even with Anselm, he remained self-conscious, so the squire usually made himself scarce after the food had been served. Yet today he hovered by the table, for he had a surprise for the king.
“I’ve smeared honey on the bread, sire. It is on the left side of your plate, the dates and figs and almonds to your right. I have already poured a cup of grape juice for you.”
The corner of Baldwin’s mouth turned down. He hated to have Anselm hold a cup to his lips so he could drink, but his hand was no longer able to grasp it securely. Anselm did not raise the cup, though, instead placing something long and thin between his fingers. “What is this?”
“A hollow reed, my lord. If we put it in the cup, you can suck up the juice through it whilst leaving the cup on the table. I know that sounds odd, but it really does work.”
Baldwin was skeptical. But when he tried it, he smiled. “I’ll be damned if you’re not right, Anselm! Wherever did you learn of this trick?”
“I remembered a story I heard when I was still with the leper knights. One of the men claimed he’d had to hide from Saracens in a patch of river reeds, cutting a reed and breathing through it whilst he sank below the water so he’d not be seen. I’d not want to rely on one for air, but a reed can be used for drinking. If you like it, we could ask a silversmith to make one so you can keep using it.”
Anselm was obviously trying to sound matter-of-fact, even nonchalant, but Baldwin could sense his excitement. He was, of necessity, learning to read voices as he’d once read faces. “Thank you. I truly do not know what I’d do without you, Anselm.”
Anselm flushed with embarrassment and pride. “It was nothing,” he muttered, “just a notion of mine.” A knock suddenly sounded and he hurried toward the door, smiling over his shoulder as he saw Baldwin lower his head to use the reed. When he turned back toward his young lord, though, his smile had vanished. “It is him, sire . . . your spy.”
Baldwin fumbled for a napkin to wipe his mouth, suddenly cold despite the spring sun pouring in through the unshuttered windows. Saladin had remained in northern Syria throughout the winter. Having failed to capture Mosul, he was now targeting Aleppo again and Baldwin lived with daily fear that this time he would succeed. But among his master spy’s many talents was an apparent ability to read minds, or so it often seemed to Baldwin. As soon as Bernard saw his king’s face, he said quickly, “I have no word of Aleppo, my lord.”
“Thank God.” Baldwin told Anselm to serve Bernard, too. The spy tucked into the meal with enough enthusiasm to reassure Baldwin that for once he was not bringing news to steal sleep and destroy appetites. “What have you come to tell me, Bernard? Can I hear it sober?”
He was only half joking, but Bernard chuckled. “In truth, my lord, I have a most remarkable tale to share with you. I discovered what Reynald de Chatillon was plotting and I must confess it was not something I’d ever have guessed. Say what you will of the man, he does not lack for either ballocks or imagination. Whilst his grand scheme failed, we may be sure it sent waves of fear and horror sweeping through all the lands where men worship Allah.”
“Knowing Reynald as I do, I doubt that anything he’d do would truly surprise me.”
Bernard soon proved him wrong and Baldwin listened in amazement as his spy related what Reynald de Chatillon had done that past December. He’d had five galleys built at his castle at Montreal and then disassembled, packed upon camels, and transported through the Sinai Desert to the Gulf of Aqaba. He’d led an attack upon the Saracen garrison at Eliat while the galleys were put together again. Two of them remained to blockade the garrison and the other three galleys sailed out into the Red Sea. There they wreaked havoc on Muslim shipping. Sixteen merchant vessels were seized and plundered and a pilgrim ship was captured. They’d ventured as far as the port of Rābigh, where some of the men went ashore. They were within a day’s journey of Islam’s holy city of Medina when they were finally caught.
“How did Reynald escape?”
“He did not join in the Red Sea expedition, returning to Kerak after leading the raid on Eliat. He was luckier than he deserves, for if he’d been captured, there would have been no ransom demand, only death. My sources tell me that the Saracens are utterly outraged, viewing his raid as sacrilege. They are convinced that his men were heading for Medina where they meant to steal the body of the Prophet, Mohammed.”
“Would Reynald be that crazed?” Baldwin thought about it and concluded he would. “For sheer bravado, it is hard to match this Red Sea raid, but aside from adding fuel to the jihad fire, what did it accomplish, Bernard? Even if Reynald had captured the fortress at Eli
at, the Franks could not have held it for long; we’ve not enough men to expand our influence into the Sinai. And the raid would have been profitable only if they’d gotten back to the kingdom with their booty and prisoners, which they did not.”
“Well, they might have, sire, if not for the quick action of Saladin’s brother. Reynald probably expected the Saracens to be slow in responding with Saladin still away in Syria. But as soon as al-‘Ādil got word of the attack on Eliat, he borrowed a page from Reynald’s own book, ordering galleys from Alexandria to be carried overland to the Red Sea. He put these ships under the command of the former admiral of the Egyptian fleet. They soon captured the Franks’ galleys and then tracked the men down as they fled inland. There was fierce fighting and many died, with one hundred seventy Franks surrendering to save their lives. Saladin refused to honor that promise and ordered them all put to death. Whilst al-‘Ādil was troubled by this, Saladin overruled him.”
“God pity them,” Baldwin said, wondering if Reynald would care that he’d sent hundreds of men to their deaths. “You constantly surprise me, Bernard, by how easily you uncover the secrets of other men. This time you’ve truly outdone yourself. How did you learn all this?”
Bernard’s smile held a touch of pardonable pride. “Al-‘Ādil wrote to Saladin in early March, telling him of the raid and the capture of Reynald’s men. I managed to get my hands on a copy of that letter. As for the quarrel between the brothers over the fate of the Franks who’d surrendered, that came from one of my Syrian spies.”
Baldwin was impressed; he’d not realized that Bernard had sources so highly placed in the Saracen camp. “Whatever I pay you, it is not enough,” he said and Bernard laughed, for a king’s praise was valued almost as much as his coins. Once he departed, Baldwin lapsed into a brooding silence, paying no heed when Anselm urged him to finish his breakfast. “I can no longer lead our army into battle,” he said at last. “We desperately need a man who can, a man like the late Humphrey de Toron, may God assoil him, one with both courage and common sense. Reynald de Chatillon is utterly without fear and in a fight to the death, I’d want him at my side. But his Red Sea raid proves why I could never entrust him with our kingdom.”
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 54
