Most of Balian’s men also had families in Nablus, and some still clung to hope that the archbishop had been wrong, that their town had been spared. That hope lasted until they approached the orchards and olive groves that surrounded Nablus, saw trees stripped of fruit, others charred and blackened. This was nothing new to the men riding with Balian, for their chevauchées and the Saracen razzias were similar both in their aims and tactics, meant to inflict as much suffering as possible upon their enemies. But when it was their own homes that had been plundered and torched, their own kinfolk victimized, war took on a terrible immediacy. With a growing sense of dread, they braced themselves for their first view of Nablus.
* * *
“Christ on the cross!” The words were ripped from Baudouin’s throat by the sight that met their eyes: what looked to be the skeletal remains of Nablus. The fires had burned out by now, although the acrid smell of smoke still lingered and each gust of wind sent cinders and ashes swirling into the air. The new Hospitaller hospital had been partially burned, as was the Church of the Passion and Resurrection. Shop doors had been kicked in, the houses still standing were as bare as plucked chickens, shattered wine kegs littered the streets, stove in by axes, and, just as at Kerak, evidence of people’s overturned lives was everywhere.
When he saw the ruins of the palace that had been his family’s home, Balian bit his lip until it bled. While it had not been burned, it had been thoroughly ransacked, looted of all valuables, leaving only memories. He reined in Khamsin, staring down at a child’s toy, a small wooden cart. Had that been Johnny’s?
The citadel was situated west of the city, a relatively simple structure consisting of a tower keep and a walled-in bailey. It was the town’s only refuge; had it survived? Balian urged Khamsin along a haunted street, peopled only by ghosts. And then he saw the grey stone walls rising up in the distance. The castle still stood! Baudouin had caught up with him by now and together they galloped toward it.
As they approached, the gate swung open and a man emerged onto the road. They were close enough for recognition; it was Amand, the viscount of Nablus, Baudouin’s son-in-law. Sprinting toward them, he shouted, “They are alive and well!”
By the time they reached him, the viscount was red-faced and out of breath. “Your lady saved the town! She was uneasy after you left, worried that the garrison at Damascus might take advantage of the absence of our men to stage raids as they’ve done in the past. She asked me to post guards in the hills to keep watch. Whilst I saw no need for that myself, thank God I heeded her! We thought danger would come from the north, not the south, but our sentries spotted Saladin’s army ere they reached Nablus. Some towns were taken by surprise. We were not.”
“How many of the townspeople were able to take shelter in the castle?”
“Almost all of them. Queen Maria dispatched men throughout the town, warning them that the Saracens were on the way and telling them to get to the castle straightaway. There are always a few fools who will balk, not wanting to leave their houses, but we insisted—”
“What happened? Did they attack the castle?”
“That they did. They made several attempts, but we were able to fend them off. They had no siege engines, and once they saw we were going to fight to the end, they contented themselves with plundering the town. I am sorry; they stripped the palace bare. . . .”
Balian was no longer listening, gazing over the viscount’s shoulder at the castle. Amand jumped aside as Balian sent Khamsin racing for the woman coming through the gate. Flinging himself from the saddle, he gathered her into his arms and for a time, neither spoke; they just held each other. After a while, Maria said, somewhat breathlessly, “My heart, if you squeeze me any harder, you may break a rib.”
He reluctantly eased their embrace. “If you or our children had come to any harm, Marika, I was going back to Kerak and send Reynald de Chatillon to Hell everlasting.”
She gave a shaken laugh. “That sounds more like your brother than you.”
“Johnny and the girls? How bad was it for them?”
“Thankfully they are too young to fully understand what we were facing. In truth, I think they were more excited by the novelty of it all than fearful. Of course, they have not seen the palace ruins yet, or all the damage done to the town. We feared some of the Saracens might be watching, so we thought it safer to stay in the castle until you arrived. As I knew you would,” she said, with such utter confidence that he kissed her again. When they came up for air, Baudouin was standing beside them, his arm draped around his younger daughter’s shoulders.
“Amand said the other towns were not as lucky as Nablus. Zar‘īn and ‘Ain Jālūt were burned well-nigh to the ground. They took Jenin, too. At Sebaste, Bishop Ralph got them to spare the town by releasing eighty Saracen prisoners, and then—”
“Papa.” Etiennette squeezed Baudouin’s arm. “I do not think they hear you.”
He took a closer look at his brother and sister-in-law, saw the way they were gazing into each other’s eyes, and grinned. “I think you’re right, lass.”
* * *
Balian arrived in Acre on a rainy afternoon in late November. He and his men stopped first at a public bathhouse to soak away what felt like pounds of mud, and then rode on to Baudouin’s town house. Balian was accompanied by an English knight named William Marshal and soon afterward, they were being admitted to the quarters in the palace that were always set aside for the Archbishop of Tyre on his visits to Acre. William was very pleased to see Balian and insisted that they join him for the evening meal. After they settled down in the solar with wine, a servant showed the Englishman the way to the privy chamber and Balian took advantage of his brief absence to share his background with William.
“Will arrived in the Holy Land this summer. We met after he joined the Kerak relief force. He is making a pilgrimage on behalf of his late lord, the English king’s eldest son, the one they called the young king. He’d taken the cross on a whim, never followed through on it, and when he realized he was dying, he entreated Will to go in his stead.”
“Such loyalty is commendable,” William said approvingly. “If only it were as contagious as the plague, for it is in short supply in Outremer these days.”
“Will would very much like to pay his respects to the king and I told him that if any man can arrange that, it will be you.”
“Ah, Balian . . . I am sorry. Baldwin is ill again and I doubt that he is up to seeing strangers. He had very troubling news last week about that treacherous spawn of Satan, de Lusignan. Have you heard what Guy did?”
When Balian shook his head, William set his wine cup down with a thud. “That man is no better than a bandit. He ventured out from Ascalon and launched a raid upon a Bedouin camp near Dārūm. They are under the protection of the Crown and thought themselves safe, so they were caught off guard. Guy and his men stole all of their camels and horses, burned their tents, and carried off some of their women and children as slaves.”
Balian was listening incredulously, for the Bedouins were invaluable allies, often assisting the Franks against the Saracens even though they, too, followed the faith of Islam. “How could Guy be so stupid? We cannot afford to turn the Bedouins into enemies!”
Neither man had heard Will Marshal’s quiet reentry into the solar and they jumped at the sound of his voice. “This is what the de Lusignans have always done in Poitou. They claim to be lords, but more often than not, they act like brigands, as lawless as they are greedy.”
“I have no doubt of that,” William said grimly. “But in Outremer, the stakes are much higher. De Lusignan’s shameful raid can undermine the Crown and keep other Muslims from making alliances with us. Our king was outraged by Guy’s attack on the Bedouins. It was a foul, cowardly act and it will not be easy to mend the damage done.”
Balian leaned forward, gesturing toward the Englishman. “I think the king will want to talk
with Will, for he knows firsthand what the de Lusignans are capable of doing. Remember what you told me about the de Lusignans attacking the English queen and almost taking her captive? Well, Will was one of her men on that ill-fated day. They were led by his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury, and he and Will and a few others held the de Lusignans off until the queen could escape. Will was wounded and taken prisoner and—”
“And they murdered my uncle, the earl.” The Englishman’s voice was without emotion, a judge delivering a verdict. “Guy and his brother Joffrey later claimed they’d not meant to harm him, that it had been an accident. They lied. A man is not stabbed in the back by accident.”
William studied the other man and then smiled at Balian. “You are right. The king will want to talk with him.”
They continued their conversation over supper. Will Marshal insisted that Guy de Lusignan was totally unfit to rule and must never be allowed to claim the throne. With Balian and William, he was preaching to the converted and they listened intently to his stories of de Lusignan family misdeeds in Poitou. There were enough to take them through the meal. It was then that William shared more unwelcome news. When he’d asked after Maria, Balian explained that she’d not accompanied him because she was with child. The archbishop expressed his delight upon hearing that, but then he told Balian that he’d heard Sybilla was pregnant again, too.
“I will be very sorry if that turns out to be true, William.” Seeing that Will Marshal seemed puzzled, Balian elaborated upon his answer. “If Sybilla would agree to leave Guy, I am sure the king could find a compliant bishop to declare her marriage invalid. But we need Sybilla’s cooperation for that to happen and so far, she has clung to Guy like a barnacle to a ship’s hull. If she is pregnant again, that will be one more reason for her to balk at leaving him.”
“She does not need a reason, Balian,” William said bitterly. “Sybilla is utterly besotted with the man, as she’s proven again and again. God may in time forgive her, but I never shall. She has put loyalty to her husband before loyalty to our kingdom.”
* * *
Agnes had been having a very bad week. She was extremely worried about Baldwin’s declining health. He insisted he was just tired, but his doctors were quite concerned by the discovery of foam in his urine, for that often signified a kidney ailment. She’d also just passed a stressful night with her grandson, summoned by the little boy’s nurses when he’d awakened shrieking in pain. His doctor had diagnosed an earache, mixing up an herbal concoction that eventually worked. Before it did, the child had wept until his pillow was sodden with his tears, crying for his mother. Agnes had comforted him as best she could, not knowing what to tell him.
He was a quiet, self-contained child most of the time and it was not easy to know what he was thinking. But in a crisis—when he was ill or could not sleep or had been grieving over the loss of his pet dog—he invariably called out for Sybilla, for the mother who’d abandoned him. He was not yet seven and Agnes could not bring herself to tell him the truth—that Sybilla had chosen Guy over her own flesh and blood.
Once young Baldwin had finally fallen asleep, Agnes had managed to get a few hours’ sleep herself. She’d been plagued with a throbbing headache since midmorning and felt more and more fatigued as the afternoon dragged on; she’d even endured a sudden and embarrassing attack of hiccups. This was, she now thought, the perfect ending to such a dismal day—trapped in a corner of the palace courtyard by Balian d’Ibelin, having to listen as he blamed her for his family’s woes.
When he finally paused for breath, she said sharply, “Balian, if you have any complaints about the way Isabella is being treated, take it up with Stephanie and Reynald, not with me!”
“Your fine hand is all over this, Agnes. Despite being commanded by the king, they are still refusing to allow Bella to come to Nablus, not even for Christmas. Maria has not seen her daughter in over a year.”
“And I should care about Maria’s misery because . . . ?”
“Because this is your fault. Stephanie is your pawn, either following your orders or doing what she thinks will please you. However much you dislike Maria, you ought to be the last woman on earth who’d want to see a mother separated from her child. Do you truly need reminding how Amalric cut you out of Baldwin and Sybilla’s lives?”
“I did not tell Stephanie to do this,” Agnes insisted. Raising her hand to her aching temples, she tried to massage away the pain. “I do not blame Stephanie, though. She says Maria and you have raised a brat and she is just trying to teach the girl some manners.”
When Agnes tried to maneuver around him, he held his ground. “I know Baldwin is ill again and I do not want to burden him with this. But I will if you do not call off your dogs.”
“Do not dare to bother Baldwin with this nonsense!” But she saw that he was not bluffing, that he would do exactly as he threatened. “Whilst I cannot promise that they will heed me,” she said at last, “I will talk to them about letting the girl visit her mother. In return, you must promise not to drag Baldwin into this. He . . . he is fighting off another infection.”
Much to her dismay, her voice cracked. She had trouble swallowing and no longer met his gaze, not willing to show any weakness, not to the man who was Maria Comnena’s husband and Baudouin d’Ibelin’s brother. He’d always been too perceptive, though, and seemed to sense her vulnerability. How else explain what he said then, quietly and without anger. “Let’s do what is right for our children, Agnes.”
She acquiesced by her silence, moved around him, took several steps, and stopped. She could not explain the impulse that overtook her, could only yield to it. “You have always been loyal to Baldwin,” she heard herself say, the words slightly slurred, as if she were listening to someone else’s voice, “and I thank you for that.” She walked away then, and did not look back.
* * *
Baldwin was too tired to continue, telling his scribe that they’d resume in the morning. He heard rustling as the man gathered up his ink, pen, and other supplies, then made a discreet departure. He’d been dictating letters to the Pope, the Holy Roman Emperor, and the kings of England and France, once again pleading for aid. The last he’d heard, their delegation had safely reached Sicily and were going to meet with the Holy Father. He did not have much hope that they’d succeed, any more than he expected his own pleas to touch the hearts of his fellow Christian kings. It was impossible to be both an optimist and a leper. He could not admit it, not even to his confessor, but he felt Outremer had been abandoned by the rest of Christendom. Far worse, there were times when he felt they’d been abandoned by God, too. How else explain the kings they’d been cursed with, a leper, an often sickly child, and a selfish lordling whose greatest military triumph had been an attack upon a camp of unsuspecting Bedouins and their families?
Almost as if sensing how dark his thoughts had become, Cairo padded across the chamber and nudged Baldwin’s hand with a cold nose. He’d noticed years ago that the dog never touched his right hand, the one without feeling; it was always the left, crippled but still capable of sensations. How did Cairo know?
“Cairo has had his nightly walk, sire. Are you ready for bed yet?” Like Cairo, Anselm had learned to read his lord’s moods. “Shall I prepare a potion to ease your sleep?”
“Yes, I fear I have need of that tonight,” Baldwin admitted, then raised his head, hearing a knock on the door. It was very late for visitors, but it was never too late to receive bad news, a lesson he’d learned early on in his kingship. He leaned back in his chair, listening to the murmur of voices, then the sound of Cairo’s thumping tail, which meant this was no stranger.
“My lord king . . .” Anselm’s voice sounded oddly muffled. “It is the Lord of Sidon.”
Baldwin’s tension eased, for his stepfather knew he kept late hours and occasionally stopped by to visit after others were long abed. “Come in, Denys. Shall I have Anselm fetch wine?”
> “No, I . . . no.” Denys’s voice sounded as scratchy as Anselm’s. “I do not know how to tell you this, Baldwin. Your mother . . . she is dead.”
Baldwin heard the words, but it took a moment for them to sink in, for him to understand. “How?” he whispered. “How?”
“She’d not been feeling well for a day or two, complaining of tiredness, a bad headache. After supper, she had a dizzy spell and I convinced her to go to bed early. We were in our bedchamber when . . . when she suddenly cried out and collapsed. We summoned the palace doctor straightaway and . . . and our chaplain. There was no time to send for you; it was over so fast. Ere the doctor even got there, she’d lost consciousness. She breathed her last an hour ago . . .”
Denys’s eyes were stinging and swallowing was suddenly painful. He let his words trail off into oblivion and waited for Baldwin to speak. There was only silence.
* * *
William followed Anselm up the stairs to Baldwin’s bedchamber. When they reached the door, he asked, low voiced, if Baldwin had been able to sleep at all; he felt no surprise when the other man shook his head. He was dreading what lay ahead, his emotions in turmoil ever since Denys’s dawn visit. He did not mourn Agnes; how could he? But he could not bear to think of Baldwin in such pain. After a long moment, he signaled for Anselm to open the door.
The chamber was still dark, for no lamps had been lit and the shutters remained closed. Reminding himself that Baldwin had no need for light, William waited by the door until he heard Baldwin tell him to enter. He was seated on the settle, Cairo lying at his feet, his face in shadow. William sat beside him, reaching out to take Baldwin’s maimed hand in his. Desperate to offer solace of some sort, he said, “Denys assured me that she’d been given the Sacrament of the Faithful by her chaplain.”
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 63
