Maria had taken her hand, telling her that Bernard had come to share the news he’d brought to Sybilla and the patriarch earlier that day. “Sybilla will be summoning all of the highborn wives and widows to the palace to relay what she was told, but Bernard did not want us to have to wait.” She turned to give Bernard a look of such gratitude that Isabella felt intense relief, sure then that her mother had not been widowed at Haṭṭīn or in its chaotic aftermath.
Bernard then repeated for Isabella what he’d already told her mother. The Lord Balian, together with Joscelin de Courtenay and Denys of Sidon, had been able to fight their way free and make it to Acre. Balian and Denys then took ship for Tyre. Lady Isabella had probably heard that Acre had yielded to Saladin? As Lord of Acre, Joscelin had decided that a peaceful surrender would save thousands of lives and he entered into negotiations with Taqī al-Dīn. But after the citizens learned of this, some of them balked and rioting broke out in the town. When Saladin arrived, he told the burgesses they were free to leave if they put out the fires in the city. He even offered to let the merchants continue to live in Acre. They were too fearful or too bitter to accept the offer, though, and most of them headed for Tyre.
All of the prisoners had been taken to Damascus, where the highborn lords would eventually be able to ransom themselves and the less fortunate would be sold into slavery. The turcopoles were viewed as renegades by the Muslims and most of them were slain on the field rather than taken prisoner. The rumors of a mass execution of the Templar and Hospitaller knights were true. Sparing only their grand master, Gerard de Ridefort, Saladin had bought every knight for fifty dinars each from their captors, and then ordered them put to death. It had been brutally done; the sultan had turned the task over to the Sufis, Muslim holy men and scholars accustomed to wielding quill pens, not swords. Bernard saw no need to burden Isabella with that; instead, he told her that the doomed men could have saved themselves by converting to Islam, but the vast majority of them—two hundred and thirty or so—proudly refused, preferring to die as Christians. Brother Thierry was the acting grand master of the Templars until Gerard de Ridefort either regained his freedom or died in captivity, but the heart seemed to go out of the surviving Templars and Hospitallers after hearing of the massacre of their brethren in Damascus.
“What of the Count of Tripoli, Master Bernard? And his wife?”
“Count Raymond and his men got safely to Tyre. Fortunately for Lady Eschiva, Saladin’s reputation for gallantry proved true. After accepting the surrender of her castle, he allowed her, her household, and the garrison to depart, even giving her an escort to Tripoli.”
“Is the count still at Tyre with my stepfather and Denys? The city has not fallen?”
“No, it still holds out. But your stepfather’s whereabouts are unknown at present. Count Raymond soon left Tyre, sailing with his stepsons and the Prince of Antioch’s son for Tripoli. Lord Denys took command of Tyre and was negotiating with Taqī al-Dīn for a peaceful surrender. In mid-August, Lord Conrad of Montferrat arrived from Constantinople and he repudiated Denys’s planned surrender, urging defiance. The citizens sided with him and Denys left for his own lands. After Sidon fell to Saladin, Denys was able to reach his castle at Beaufort.”
Bernard paused to see if Isabella had questions; it had to be overwhelming to receive so much bad news all at once. For weeks, Jerusalem had been cocooned in silence, cut off from the rest of the kingdom by the Saracen soldiers roaming the countryside, exercising a soldier’s right to claim booty. The survivors of Haṭṭīn had been forced to flee north, the only escape route open to them, so the citizens of Jerusalem had heard no firsthand accounts of the battle. All they knew came from what they’d been told by refugees, many of whom were only repeating rumors.
Glancing toward Maria, Bernard thought she’d made the right decision to flee Nablus. She’d shown no surprise when he’d told her that Nazareth, Bethlehem, Sebaste, and Saforie were all in Saracen hands; she’d understood the inevitability of that. She’d already heard that the d’Ibelin castle and village of Mirabel were lost, for after their surrender to Saladin’s brother, al-‘Ādil had provided an escort so the people could reach safety in Jerusalem. From them, she’d also learned of the tragic fate of Jaffa. Its citizens had refused to yield and al-‘Ādil’s men had taken Jaffa by storm, killing most of the men and enslaving the women and children. Bernard was not sure if she’d shared this with Isabella, so he made no mention of Jaffa.
Nothing he’d so far said was shocking to Isabella. She’d realized that their towns were doomed after the destruction of their army at Haṭṭīn. It was still devastating to lose the last shreds of hope. Her homeland was bleeding to death from a thousand cuts and nothing could be done to save it. “Are there any cities holding out besides Tyre?” she asked, the catch in her voice belying the calmness of her question. “What of Beirut? Or Ascalon? What of my mother-in-law’s castles at Kerak and Montreal?”
“Beirut surrendered to Saladin in the first week of August, my lady. Ascalon has not fallen yet, but it will, for Saladin is marching south to join forces with al-‘Ādil and lay siege to it. As for Lady Stephanie’s strongholds, the garrisons of Kerak and Montreal remain defiant.”
After waiting again for questions that did not come, Bernard rose to go and Maria rose, too. “Thank you, Master Bernard. We are in your debt and I hope that one day we will be able to repay it. What of you? What will you do now?”
“I’ve decided that Antioch has a healthier climate than Outremer,” he said wryly, “at least for a man with a bounty upon his head.”
Maria wished him Godspeed, but she did not doubt that he’d reach safety in Antioch. Chasing after the elusive spymaster would be like trying to catch hold of the morning mist.
Once he’d departed, she returned to the settle and sat down again, putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Isabella leaned into the embrace. “Mother . . . if Pateras is no longer in Tyre, where do you think he has gone? Could he be in Tripoli by now? Or even Antioch?”
Maria shook her head. “No. Balian will be trying to get to Jerusalem, to us.” Ere Saladin arrives to lay siege to the city. She did not say the words aloud, but they seemed to echo in the air between them. They both knew that for Jerusalem, time was running out.
* * *
Refugees from Beirut had been straggling into Tyre since their city had surrendered to Saladin on August 6. One of the last was Othon, the Bishop of Beirut. Unlike his fellow fugitives, he had influential friends in Tyre, and was soon comfortably installed at the archbishop’s palace.
Seeing that his guest’s wine cup was empty, Joscius signaled to a servant for a refill. His own cup was still full, for Othon had kept him busy answering questions. The bishop had been relieved to learn that the Haṭṭīn casualties were not as horrific as rumor had it. Joscius believed that as many as three thousand men were able to escape the carnage on the field, although only two hundred of them were knights, those who’d ridden off with Count Raymond or had been with Balian d’Ibelin when his rearguard had fought their way free. Very few knights had been slain, protected by their armor and the Saracen desire for ransoms, but thousands of men had died in the course of those two terrible days, infantrymen and turcopoles and arbalesters. Even more had gotten through the battle only to face enslavement afterward.
Othon was encouraged by what he found in Tyre. The well-fortified seaport was crowded with the soldiers and knights who’d escaped Haṭṭīn, and now that power was in the hands of a bold battle commander, Conrad of Montferrat, Tyre would not be easily taken. But Joscius reluctantly confirmed Othon’s greatest fear—that the Holy City would soon fall to the infidels. Jerusalem was well-nigh defenseless, overwhelmed with panicked refugees and protected only by a young woman and a prince of the Church, neither of whom knew how to wage war.
Joscius shared then what he’d learned from Haṭṭīn survivors and Franks seeking safety in Tyre.
Saladin had so far shown surprising generosity in offering terms to the towns that surrendered, allowing citizens to depart with their possessions and sometimes even providing an escort, for the roads had never been so dangerous; the countryside was swarming with Saracen soldiers and bandits and Bedouins, all eager to take advantage of the chaos and lawlessness. The few towns that had refused to yield had suffered the usual fate of a city or castle taken by storm—no mercy. And with the king and grand master of the Templars held prisoner, the grand master of the Hospitallers dead at Cresson Springs, and the queen and patriarch trapped in Jerusalem, there were none to exercise authority, to rally their people, and offer resistance to the sultan’s army.
“So this Conrad of Montferrat has taken power because there was no one else.” While Joscius seemed impressed by Conrad, all Othon knew of the man was that he was the son of the Marquis of Montferrat, the brother of Sybilla’s first husband. “Were there no others to take command here? What of Balian d’Ibelin? When Beirut learned of Haṭṭīn, we heard that Balian saved the lives of many of the rearguard by breaking through the Saracen lines. Is he not in Tyre?”
“He arrived from Acre soon after the battle, but he did not stay long. His wife had promised him that she’d flee if Nablus seemed in danger and after he heard that the Nablus garrison had surrendered, he set out for Jerusalem, where she would have gone. But on his first attempt, he ran into some of Taqī al-Dīn’s men, barely escaping with his life. His second try was no luckier. On his third effort, he was wounded in an encounter with outlaws and retreated to Tyre whilst he recovered. He admitted that he’d have been captured or killed for certes if not for the speed of that magnificent Arabian of his, and I did my best to convince him that he’d do Maria no good by making her a widow.”
“That sounds like a very desperate man,” Othon said sympathetically. “I hope he is not still trying to reach Jerusalem?”
“He finally conceded that he’d never make it overland. He is now trying to find a ship that will take him to Ascalon so he can ask Saladin for a safe-conduct, allowing him to get his wife and children out of Jerusalem.”
“By the rood!” Othon shook his head, for surely this was not a venture that would end well. “I will pray for him,” he declared, and Joscius thanked him, thinking that Balian was likely to need all the prayers he could get.
* * *
Balian leaned against the gunwale of the tarida as it sliced through the waves. He’d noticed on the voyage that the westerly winds slackened as sunset neared, so he was not surprised to see the sailors hauling on the pulleys that controlled the halyard. Once the lateen sail was lowered, they pushed the oars through the oarlocks, settled on benches, and began to row.
The white banner with the red cross that flew from the mast, proud emblem of the city-state of Genoa, drooped as the wind continued to fall. A chance encounter with a Genoese sailor who’d fought at Haṭṭīn had led Balian to the San Giuan, a merchant ship on its way to Alexandria, for in the Levant, trade had never been a casualty of war. The master of the San Giuan had been quite willing to take Balian and his companions with them if he paid for their passage, which the generosity of Archbishop Joscius had enabled him to do.
Balian turned as Renier Rohard joined him at the gunwale. He’d not wanted any of his knights to accompany him on this high-risk mission, but Renier had insisted, for his wife and elderly mother had taken refuge in Jerusalem, too. And Ernoul had overcome Balian’s objections by arguing that he’d be better off with his lord than on his own in Tyre. He prevailed because Balian had left his other squire behind at Saforie; when the Saracens had taken it, they’d found it abandoned and Brian’s whereabouts were unknown.
“Do you think Ascalon still holds out?”
Balian shook his head, for it was now September 5, which meant Ascalon had been under siege for more than two weeks. Renier did not disagree. Their homeland was in its death throes and they could only watch helplessly as it happened.
“There it is!” Ernoul cried. Whether the city had been captured or not, they’d not have attempted to land there; the offshore currents made Ascalon’s harbor too dangerous to enter. They saw no signs of life on the seaward walls. But by then, they were close enough to catch sight of the banner flying from the castle—Saladin’s eagle. None spoke, all sharing the same thought. Had the townspeople surrendered, sparing themselves Jaffa’s fate?
Not long afterward, they were within sight of Tida, the ancient harbor that offered access to Gaza. A tarida’s flat bottom made it relatively easy to beach and after some skillful maneuvering by the Genoese oarsmen, the San Giuan was soon close enough to the shore for the passengers to disembark. As they splashed through the shallow water, the ship’s master called out “Good luck!” in accented French, and then the tarida was on its way again.
Tida was deserted, no surprise since there was a Saracen army close by. Balian had been to Gaza before, so he knew they had a walk of nigh on two miles. Taride were often used to transport horses, but he’d had to leave Khamsin in Joscius’s care, for the San Giuan’s hold was already filled with the cargo that its master expected to sell in Alexandria—silver, timber, and alum. Balian assumed the ship would winter in the Egyptian city since the sailing season ended in October, returning to Genoa in the spring with elegant silks and expensive spices. When the San Giuan next sailed for the Levant, would Outremer be only a memory?
The castle at Gaza had been given to the Templars by a king of Jerusalem and a town had grown up in its shadow. The sun was setting by the time the men gained admittance into the city. At once, they were surrounded by townspeople desperate to know what was occurring in the rest of the kingdom, so it took a while before they could approach the castle.
For Balian, it stirred up painful memories of his arrival at the abandoned citadel of Le Fève, for Gaza’s stronghold was like a ghost ship manned by a skeletal crew, a few serjeants too old or too ill to have ridden off to war with their grand master. He was warmly welcomed, and felt obligated to relive the horrors he and his men had experienced at Haṭṭīn, for his was the first eyewitness account of the battle that these elderly Templars had heard. He could not bring himself to tell them of the slaughter of their brethren in Damascus, but they obviously feared the worst, for they asked no questions about the fate of their brothers.
In the morning, the castle’s guardians offered them the horses in their stables, saying they’d soon be claimed by the Saracens. The beasts were rejects, left behind and forgotten like their Templar masters, but Balian and his companions gratefully accepted, for it was eight miles or so to Ascalon.
Within a few miles, they ran into Saracen soldiers. The men seemed in high spirits, celebrating their latest victory, and Balian’s flag of truce and his ability to speak Arabic were enough to secure him an escort to the Saracen camp. Upon their arrival at the sultan’s tent, he was the only one allowed to enter, Renier and Ernoul forced to wait outside with their guards.
Salāh al-Dīn and several other men were seated cross-legged on cushions, sipping fruit juice and engaged in an animated conversation that stopped as Balian was shoved into the tent. His guard would have forced him to his knees had al-‘Ādil not interceded, beckoning him forward as if he were a guest, not a prisoner. Salāh al-Dīn had recognized him, too, and gestured for a cushion to be provided, telling his companions that this was the Lord of Nablus. One of the younger men laughed at that; only later would Balian learn that this was Husām al-Dīn, the sultan’s nephew, who was now the new lord of Nablus.
After a formal exchange of greetings, Balian could not keep himself from asking if Ascalon had surrendered. Nor did he try to hide his relief when the sultan said that the city had accepted his terms.
“They held out as long as they could.” Al-‘Ādil signaled for a servant to give Balian a cool drink. “We had your king brought from Damascus, offering him his freedom if he could get Asqalan to surrender. He had no luck, th
ough. They jeered at him from the walls, calling him a coward. But after two weeks, they finally despaired and yesterday, they yielded.”
“You have been extraordinarily generous in offering terms, my lord sultan.” Balian had no trouble in saying that, for he believed it to be true. Haṭṭīn could easily have been followed by a bloodbath. In a land where the past was neither forgotten nor forgiven, all had heard stories of the tragic fate of Jerusalem’s Muslims and Jews when the Holy City had been captured by the Franks in God’s year 1099.
Salāh al-Dīn smiled. “I assume you are looking for terms, too, my lord Balian.”
“I am, my lord. My wife and children have taken refuge in Jerusalem. It is my hope that you will issue me a safe-conduct so I can get them out of the city ere you lay siege to it.”
The sultan was quiet for several moments, considering the plea. When he turned to the other men, they spoke in Kurdish, so Balian could only wait for the verdict. After what seemed like an eternity to him, Salāh al-Dīn’s dark eyes shifted back to his face.
“Your request is granted—on two conditions. You may remain in the city for but one night and you must swear upon your holy relics not to take up arms against me.”
It was only then that Balian realized he’d been holding his breath. “I will so swear. Thank you, my lord sultan.”
* * *
There was something surreal about it—that they should find themselves made so welcome in the camp of their enemies. Renier and Ernoul had been allowed to enter the city so they could borrow a relic from one of its five churches, and when they returned, they were eager to tell Balian what they’d learned—that the Franks of Ascalon were going to be escorted by Saladin’s men to the Egyptian port of Alexandria, where they would spend the winter at its governor’s expense, and then take ship in the spring for countries in Christendom. Balian was not as amazed by this as they were, for he’d already heard of the remarkable clemency the sultan had so far shown. When he and Taqī al-Dīn had taken the stronghold of Toron, he’d even allowed the garrison to join the resistance being mounted at Tyre.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 81
