The Land Beyond the Sea

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Bella, we may face some difficult days ahead. One of Reynald’s scouts rode in a while ago with bad news. Saladin is on his way to Kerak with a large army.”

  Even in the wavering light cast by the oil lamp, he could see that she’d lost color; her eyes were so wide and dark that he could think only of a fawn, trapped and helpless as Death moved in. Crossing swiftly to the table, he took her hand in his and swore that she need not fear. Kerak was well prepared for a siege, and this time Reynald would not be so reckless, would not try to hold the town, too. They’d have their mangonels set up before Saladin arrived. And as soon as Baldwin learned that the castle was under siege again, he’d come to their rescue just as he’d done last November.

  For once, Humphrey and Emma were on the same side and she hastened to echo his comforting words. Isabella thought that between them, they made a siege sound like a way to liven up the summer, a petty annoyance at worst. She did not know how much truth there was in their assurances. But in this game of grown-ups, she was learning how to play her part, so she smiled and nodded and pretended to believe there was no reason to be afraid.

  CHAPTER 39

  August 1184

  Al-Fawwār, Syria

  Al-Sanī‘a b. al-Nahhāl’s clerk, Ibrāhīm, heard the insult quite clearly and knew it was meant for him; kafir was Arabic for unbeliever and he was the only Christian in al-‘Ādil’s camp. He supposed it could be meant for al-Sanī‘a, too, since many Muslims regarded his conversion to Islam with a jaundiced eye. But al-Sanī‘a paid no heed, continuing on toward their lord’s tent. Ibrāhīm wished he could be as nonchalant, for his post was a well-paying one and he did not want to lose it.

  Ibrāhīm was wrong in thinking that al-Sanī‘a had not heard the slur. He’d also taken notice of his new clerk’s unease and as they approached al-‘Ādil’s tent, he said, “I am sure you’ve heard the proverb, Ibrāhīm: ‘Let the dogs bark; the caravan continues on.’ You need not fret over behind-your-back grumbling. As long as I stand high in my lord’s favor, nothing else matters.”

  Ibrāhīm hoped he was right. “May I ask you something, lord? Why were so many scouts sent out to watch the roads? Does our lord fear an attack by the Franks?”

  “The Franks are too busy gathering an army to relieve the siege at al-Karak to send out raiding parties. No, my lord’s concern is closer to home. He wants his family with him in Aleppo, yet it was too dangerous for them to take the caravan road to Damascus because of that devil, Arnat. But he saw a chance to bring them safely from Egypt whilst Arnat was defending al-Karak. When the sultan ordered Taqī al-Dīn to join him at the siege, he agreed to bring al-‘Ādil’s household with him. The sultan is sending them on to our camp as soon as they get to al-Karak and our scouts are out watching for them.”

  Ibrāhīm uttered a heartfelt, “God willing, they have a safe journey.”

  Al-Sanī‘a smiled. He did not doubt that the God of the Muslims and the God of the Christians was one and the same. He knew better than to share that conviction with any others, and he contented himself by echoing Ibrāhīm’s “God willing” with a devout “Insha’Allah.”

  * * *

  Al-‘Ādil strode forward as the caravan came into view. By now he could see the domed, curtained litters of his wives and concubines; their handmaidens rode behind them on gold-plated saddles, well veiled against intrusive eyes and surrounded by soldiers, for women always rode in the middle of a caravan for safety’s sake. His children were too young to ride horses or camels, and they were already tumbling out of their litters. Not waiting for help and unfazed by their falls as they jumped to the ground, they scrambled up and ran toward al-‘Ādil.

  “Papa!” His eldest, seven-year-old Muḥammad, outran his younger brothers, Mūsā and ‘Īsā, and was the first to be caught up in his father’s embrace. They clustered around him, such handsome, healthy little boys that he felt a rush of gratitude; how greatly Allah had blessed him.

  His women were still waiting in their litters, wanting him to be the one to help them onto the ground, and he entrusted his sons to al-Sanī‘a’s watchful eye, for they could get into mischief in a heartbeat. His chancellor adroitly held their attention now by promising to show them a rare white camel they’d gotten from the Badaiyyin.

  Al-‘Ādil’s wives greeted him with proper decorum, but they both communicated with their eyes how much he’d been missed. One of his little daughters toddled toward him, holding out her arms, and he lifted her up, feeling a pang of regret that his children had grown so much in the nine months he’d been away.

  ‘Īsā had escaped al-Sanī‘a’s eagle eye and darted to al-‘Ādil’s side. Handing his daughter to Halīma, he reached down to ruffle ‘Īsā’s cap of dark hair, and then he turned, for his soldiers had begun to laugh, pointing and joking, elbowing one another to get closer. Al-‘Ādil could not see the object of their interest and he glanced, puzzled, toward his wives for enlightenment.

  “I imagine it is Zirafah attracting so much attention,” Āliya said and stifled a laugh at the startled look on her husband’s face.

  “You brought Zirafah with you?” Al-‘Ādil shook his head, astonished that Taqī al-Dīn had agreed to let them take his children’s tame giraffe on that long journey from Egypt.

  “We could not leave her, Papa!” ‘Īsā was only four, but he already had a mind of his own. He’d been smitten with Zirafah from his first look at her spindly legs and long, sweeping eyelashes, and al-‘Ādil could well imagine how he’d pleaded and cried to make sure Zirafah accompanied them to their new home in Aleppo. ‘Īsā caught his hand and he let the little boy pull him toward the circle of soldiers surrounding the young giraffe. She was a remarkably placid creature, ignoring the crowd of men in favor of the acacia leaves her handler was feeding her.

  “My lord?” Āliya had followed and stood beside al-‘Ādil, watching as their son insisted that he be the one to feed his giraffe. Switching to Kurdish for privacy, Āliya asked softly, “You are not vexed with us for bringing the beast, Ahmad?”

  “No, I am not vexed,” he assured her, “though ‘Umar will likely never let me live this down. I could not have resisted the boys’ pleading, either.” He had another reason for not objecting to the giraffe’s presence, but it was not one he could share with Āliya. As he watched his men jesting and gawking at Zirafah, he was glad that they were enjoying this moment of levity, for he knew that some of them would die at al-Karak.

  * * *

  Salāh al-Dīn warmly welcomed his brother and then escorted him into the town to show him the progress they’d so far made. Al-‘Ādil was impressed, for the sultan’s nine mangonels were operating day and night, inflicting considerable damage upon al-Karak’s walls and northern towers. He ventured close enough to the fosse to peer down into its depths and gave an appreciative whistle, for their men had filled in much more than he’d expected. “It will not be long until we can make a frontal attack, Yūsuf.”

  “Especially now that you’ve brought more siege engines with you,” his brother agreed. “Once we set them up, the Franks will not dare to show themselves on the battlements and we can target their remaining mangonels. We’ve already destroyed the ones on their roofs, as you can see,” he said, pointing toward the castle’s damaged north tower.

  The sultan’s chancellor, ‘Imād al-Dīn, had joined them and at that, he gave a triumphant laugh. “The infidel Arnat’s day of judgment is finally upon him!”

  Al-‘Ādil was not yet ready to claim victory, for he never underestimated their enemy. “Where is the army of the Franks?” he asked, and his brother shrugged.

  “So far our scouts have no word of their whereabouts.” While ‘Imād al-Dīn continued to lavish praise upon the sultan for this great triumph, the brothers paid him no heed, for they knew the leper king would come to al-Karak’s rescue. The only question was whether the castle would fall before he got there.

  * * *
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  In early September, Salāh al-Dīn finally heard from his scouts. The army of the Franks was on the move, but instead of riding along the west bank of the Salt Sea as they had done the year before, they’d crossed the Jordan and were marching south through territory held by the Saracens, endangering Salāh al-Dīn’s lines of communication with Damascus. The sultan then raised the siege and headed north to confront the enemy. When they reached the ruins of the ancient city of Hisbān, they halted to wait for the Franks, blocking the road to al-Karak.

  The Franks soon arrived and camped at Ain Awāleh, just six miles from Hisbān. They’d chosen the site well, for the rough terrain offered protection against attack. Salāh al-Dīn waited, hoping to lure them out to do battle, but they remained where they were, and after a few days of frustration, he ordered his army to withdraw.

  * * *

  Taqī al-Dīn was almost sputtering, so great was his outrage. The other men in Salāh al-Dīn’s command tent—al-‘Ādil, ‘Īsā al-Hakkari, al-Fādil, and ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Isfahānī—were glaring at him. The sultan himself remained composed, showing no emotion as his nephew ranted.

  “We’ve let ourselves be outwitted by an accursed leper, an infidel! He waited until you summoned Ahmad with your reserves so he need not fear being attacked from the rear, and then he got you to abandon the siege merely by getting between our army and Damascus. We ought to have stayed at al-Karak and continued the siege. We could have forced the Franks into combat with us there. Instead, we did what he wanted, let him win without a blow being struck!”

  ‘Īsā and ‘Imād al-Dīn did not think Taqī al-Dīn was entirely wrong, but they offered no support, for he’d angered them by speaking so disrespectfully to the sultan. Al-‘Ādil thought his brother’s decision to retreat was proof that he’d seen his attack on al-Karak as a razzia, a raid rather than the start of jihad against the Franks, and since he was not in favor of all-out war, he was not about to challenge Yūsuf on this. He did think their hotheaded nephew needed to be put in his place, and he waited now to see how Yūsuf would do it.

  “Are you done, ‘Umar?” The sultan’s voice was clipped and cool, underlaid with authority rather than anger. “It is true that the Franks have broken the siege at al-Karak without shedding a drop of blood. I always understood, though, that time was not on our side at al-Karak and we had to take the castle ere the Frankish army arrived. I hoped to force a battle at Ain Awāleh, but they were too wary to take the bait.”

  Taqī al-Dīn looked even more outraged, if that were possible. Before he could speak, his uncle raised his hand for silence. “We have lost a chance to fight them. I admit that. But all is not lost. With their army on the march to al-Karak, that leaves much of their kingdom undefended, including the rich lands of Samaria and Galilee.”

  * * *

  The army of the Franks camped outside the town of Kerak while they waited for the bridge to be rebuilt. Once that was finally done, Baldwin moved into the castle. Joscelin and Denys did, too; so did Balian, since staying in the citadel would give him more time with Isabella. But Count Raymond and Baudouin declined the hospitality of a man they despised and remained in the camp. Baudouin did agree to shelter some of their horses in the vaulted stone stables against the north wall, and it was there that Balian found him.

  “What is wrong with Merlin?” he asked, for Baudouin was examining the stallion’s hoof.

  “A stone bruise; it does not look too bad, though.” Baudouin beckoned to his hovering squire, telling him to fetch a bucket of warm water from the castle kitchen so they could soak Merlin’s foot. “I do not know about you, Little Brother, but I think these annual rescue trips to Kerak are getting tiresome. Are we supposed to pull Reynald’s bleeding chestnuts from Saladin’s fire every damned year?”

  “I hope not. I am sure Baldwin feels the same, but he needs Reynald to guard our southern borders.”

  Baudouin acknowledged that with a shrug. Merlin had begun to whicker, and Baudouin moved to the stallion’s head. “By now you’ve had some time with Bella. How is she faring. . . . truly?”

  “She insists she is well, but she’d not tell me even if she was utterly wretched, not wanting us to share her misery.”

  “You’re sure the little lass is only twelve? She sounds more mature than the pair of us and you’re thirty-four and I’m nigh on forty-five.”

  Balian smiled bleakly. “I think she’s probably taking it better than Maria, who is as bitter as she is heartbroken.”

  “If Amaury de Lusignan had ever tried to forbid me to see my daughter, I’d have showed up at his gate and dared him to deny me entry.”

  “Esquiva is a woman grown, Baudouin. Bella is a ‘little lass,’ as you said. We discussed doing that, but we were afraid they would make it worse for Bella after we’d gone.”

  “You’re right,” Baudouin conceded. “But what is wrong with that de Toron cub? Why does Humphrey not speak up for Bella? Is he mute as well as spineless?”

  “I tried to instill some spirit in the lad,” Balian admitted, “to no avail. He’s as skittish as a dog that’s been kicked so often he expects nothing else.”

  “You’re too softhearted, Balian. De Toron is . . . what? Eighteen? That’s old enough to have grown a pair.” Baudouin gave Merlin a final pat before moving from the stall. “We both know who is truly to blame. Stephanie has never needed an excuse to be nasty. But this is the hell bitch’s doing. Agnes loathes Maria fully as much as I detest that swine de Lusignan.”

  Balian was in full agreement with his brother. “Ever since Stephanie’s cousin married Joscelin de Courtenay, Stephanie has been doing all she could to ingratiate herself with Agnes and Joscelin. And after being rewarded with a royal marriage for her son, she’d likely walk barefoot on burning sand if she thought it would please Agnes.”

  “I assume you’ve had it out with Reynald and Stephanie by now?”

  “For all the good it did. I do not think Reynald truly cares whether Bella sees Maria or not; he is just humoring Stephanie because she asked it of him. And Stephanie is hoping to curry favor with Agnes. She even dared to warn Bella not to say a word to me or Baldwin!”

  “She does not know Bella very well, does she? So how did Baldwin react?”

  “Just as you’d expect. Baldwin has never had patience with pettiness, now less than ever. He heard me out, then summoned Stephanie and Reynald into his bedchamber and snarled, ‘For Christ’s sake, let Bella see her family!’ Stephanie was foolish enough to try to argue with him, which did not go well for her. At least Reynald knew enough to keep his mouth shut.”

  Baudouin laughed. “I wish I’d been there to watch that with you. Do you think his tongue-lashing will help?”

  Balian did not reply at once. “It might, but for how long?”

  Baudouin merely nodded, for what was there to say? Balian was really asking how long Baldwin would live. If the Almighty were merciful to Baldwin at last, that would not be long. But Baldwin was the glue holding the kingdom together. “We can only hope,” Baudouin said grimly, “that Baldwin outlives that treacherous weasel de Lusignan.”

  * * *

  “My lord, wake up!”

  Opening his eyes, Balian blinked up at his squire. “Ernoul, what in hellfire . . . ?”

  “The king has summoned you, my lord. You must go to him straightaway.”

  By the time he’d dressed, Balian was fully awake. Why would Baldwin want to see him in the middle of the night? He got no answers from Anselm, who escorted him silently up the stairs to the bedchamber set aside for the king’s use. Within, oil lamps were still burning. Baldwin was sitting in a high-backed chair; he’d obviously never been to bed. “Is he here?” he asked as soon as the door opened, then beckoned Balian to come forward and take a seat.

  “Balian, I am sorry to have you awakened like this, but it could not wait. An urgent message has arrived from the Archbishop of Nazare
th.” Baldwin paused, hating what he had to do. “We thought Saladin was returning to Damascus. We were wrong. Archbishop Lethard says that he has dispatched raiding parties who are ravaging Samaria, burning and pillaging.”

  Balian stared at him. “Christ Jesus . . .” His mouth had gone so dry that he could not force the words out, but Baldwin did not need to hear them.

  “Yes,” he said, “the archbishop says Nablus was one of the towns attacked and overrun.”

  * * *

  The week that followed was the longest of Balian’s life. Baldwin had promised that the army would follow as soon as possible, but between Balian and Baudouin’s men and the knights provided by Baldwin, they had a large enough force should they encounter Saracen raiding parties. They did not know what they would find and that was the fear that drove them on, hour after relentless hour from dawn till dark. The d’Ibelin brothers rode side by side, but without speaking, neither man sharing his fears. At night, they slept poorly, tormented by dreams in which Balian’s wife and children and Baudouin’s daughter Etiennette and her young son were trapped in flaming buildings, crushed under mangonel bombardments, or dragged off into captivity by jubilant Saracen soldiers.

  * * *

  It was all too easy to follow the trail of a marauding army. Villages were deserted, the inhabitants dead, hiding in the hills, or enslaved. Crops had been torched or stolen. No livestock grazed in the fields, just the carcasses of slain pigs and hogs. Worst of all was the eerie silence. No dogs barked; they had either fled or been killed. Even the birds were quiet, though they did see vultures soaring above their heads, looking to feast upon the carrion that soldiers invariably left in their wake.