“I’ve a surprise for you,” he said as they crossed the great hall, “although I am loath to let him go. But I promised the archbishop I’d see that you got him back, so consider this proof of the goodwill I bear you.”
Balian had already quickened his pace and Conrad had to lengthen his own stride to catch up. By the time he emerged into the castle bailey, Balian was standing by a chestnut stallion, rubbing his ears as the horse nuzzled him affectionately. Conrad sighed regretfully and offered to buy the Arabian if Balian ever wanted to sell him. As he expected, Balian paid him no heed.
Swinging up into the saddle and luxuriating in the familiar feel of Khamsin’s surging power, Balian reined in before the new lord of Tyre. “Good luck and God keep you all safe during the siege.” Conrad wished him “Godspeed” in return, adding that he did not need luck. Oddly enough, Balian almost believed him.
* * *
On the following day, they resumed their journey. While some were disappointed at being turned away from Tyre, they soon had new worries. When they halted at Beirut for more supplies, Falak al-Dīn was warned by the castle’s Saracen garrison that the refugees led by the Hospitallers had been attacked and robbed after they’d crossed into Tripoli. Falak al-Dīn had intended to leave them once they reached the kingdom’s border. What he’d learned in Beirut changed his mind and he told Balian he’d escort them as far as Jubyal before turning back.
Jubyal had been in Muslim hands since August; its lord, Hugh Embriaco, had been taken prisoner at Haṭṭīn and ordered the castle garrison to surrender in return for his freedom. The Franks spent the night there and set out again before dawn the next morning, feeling suddenly vulnerable without their Saracen protectors. They still had about twenty-seven miles to go before they reached the city of Tripoli and Balian decided it was safer to press on even though that would mean continuing to travel once night fell. He sent Ernoul ahead to alert Count Raymond that he and the patriarch would be arriving long after dark with the last of the refugees and ordered all the men with horses and weapons to ride with him so they’d be ready if bandits struck. While he did not know the identity of those who’d attacked the earlier group of refugees, the Lord of Nephin had a foul reputation, so Balian made a wide detour around that seacoast stronghold despite adding more miles to their journey. He missed their Saracen escort even more than the weary refugees did, for he had a better understanding of the dangers they still faced.
Time had little meaning on the road. Balian knew it was November and guessed that it was past Martinmas, for the temperature dropped once night enveloped them. The moon was almost full, but the countryside still seemed fearfully dark to people who’d lived all of their lives in cities. Spotting lights in the distance, some thought the illumination must be coming from Tripoli. Balian knew better, knew they were looking at torches, held aloft by horsemen. What he did not know was if the approaching riders were friendly—not until he recognized the rider spurring ahead of the others. Ernoul was within shouting distance now, calling out that the lords with him had come to escort them to Tripoli, and only then did Balian ease his grip on the hilt of his sword, letting the weapon slide back into its scabbard.
Ernoul’s use of the word “lords” was not just a courtesy, for the approaching knights were led by two of Count Raymond’s stepsons, Odo and Raoul. They at once wanted to know if he’d had any trouble getting past Nephin. Balian was very glad he’d bypassed it when they told him that its lord, Routared, was the one who’d ambushed those unfortunate refugees as soon as their Saracen escort had turned back.
Eraclius and Renier had ridden up to join Balian and expressed their anger that Christians should prey upon Christians. Balian was somewhat surprised that the Lord of Nephin would have dared to defy Count Raymond so openly even if he was ill; Conrad had heard he’d sickened soon after returning to Tripoli. When he said as much, the count’s stepsons exchanged a quick glance before Odo spoke for them both. “You have not heard, then? The count is dead.” He sketched a quick cross, adding an almost perfunctory “May God assoil him. He was stricken with pleurisy, dying after hearing that Jerusalem had fallen.”
The patriarch did not doubt that God had justly punished the count for his many mortal sins. He would not show his satisfaction before the count’s stepsons, of course, so he confined himself to a polite platitude, saying he hoped Count Raymond had been shriven ere he died. Balian expressed his condolences, but the political implications of the count’s death were too important to ignore. “May I ask whom he chose as his heir?” he queried, half expecting them to name Hugues since the count had died without children of his own.
“He wanted to leave Tripoli to his godson, the Prince of Antioch’s eldest son, Raimond,” Odo said, and though his words were neutral, his tone was not, sharp enough to slice bread in Balian’s opinion. He could understand their disappointment, for Haṭṭīn had changed everything. Now that the principality of Galilee was lost to their family, how could they not have hoped Raymond would leave Tripoli to the young man he’d raised as a son?
“You say he ‘wanted’ to make his godson his heir. Did he change his mind, then?”
“No such luck,” Odo muttered, and Raoul shook his head, saying that Prince Bohemond was the one to object, for Raimond would inherit Antioch after his death and he thought ruling over both realms would be too much of a burden. So, he sent his younger son and namesake, Bohemond, to Tripoli instead.
“Whilst Count Raymond was not pleased, he was on his deathbed, so there was little he could do about it. He ordered the lords of Tripoli to swear allegiance to Bohemond.”
Neither Balian nor Eraclius could remember how old Prince Bohemond’s younger son was, but they did not need to ask, for Odo volunteered that information, saying disapprovingly, “He is just sixteen. At least his brother had bloodied his sword.”
Turmoil in Tripoli could be disastrous for the refugees and indeed, for their kingdom, or what was left of it—Tyre and a few beleaguered strongholds like Kerak. Balian refused to let himself dwell upon that now, not with his wife and children just a few miles away. Al-‘Ādil had assured him that his family had been safely escorted to Tripoli, but he yearned for details and once they were on the road again, he interrogated Odo and Raoul at length. They were able to reassure him that Maria and the children had been received warmly and Eschiva had invited them to stay at the count’s palace in the city. Nor had Raymond’s death changed that. Odo grudgingly admitted that young Bohemond seemed pleased to have them there, even finding them a town house of their own.
Balian was relieved to hear that, but he realized that his family’s future was going to be even more complicated than he’d first thought, with Conrad laying claim to Tyre and a young stranger ruling in Tripoli.
* * *
The stronghold of the Counts of Tripoli had been built on Mount Pilgrim, a steep hill overlooking the city and the sea. It was to the castle, not the town, that they were heading, for Odo and Raoul said the new count was staying there until their mother was ready to move out of the palace into her dower fief. They were less than a mile from the citadel when they saw riders galloping toward them, led by none other than Count Bohemond. “I could not wait,” he said, reining in beside Balian. “Welcome to Tripoli. It is an honor to meet the man who saved the Holy City. I cannot wait to hear all about it!”
Bohemond had inherited his father’s dark coloring. He was taller, though, with broad shoulders that made him look older than sixteen. But his enthusiasm and exuberance demonstrated both his youth and his privileged upbringing as a prince’s son. Utterly unlike the late Count Raymond, who’d measured his words as if they were coins to be counted before being spent, Bohemond chattered on cheerfully as he rode beside Balian toward the citadel.
The Jerusalem refugees would have to camp outside the walls, but he’d make sure that they were guarded and fed. On the morrow, he’d have to determine how many of them could stay in Tripoli
. He’d had to turn away most of the earlier refugees, for the city could not accommodate so many new residents. He’d sent them on to Antioch, for his lord father had agreed to take them all in since Antioch had far greater resources than Tripoli.
Balian listened without interrupting, needing time to observe Bohemond before forming any impressions about his character or his understanding of a ruler’s responsibilities. He seemed surprisingly self-confident for a sixteen-year-old, which could be either a blessing or a curse, depending upon how amenable he was to taking advice. Bohemond had seemed at ease with the count’s stepsons, apparently willing to overlook their resentment. Odo had told him Hugues was no longer in Tripoli, having joined Conrad at Tyre, and Balian suspected Hugues’s brothers would eventually join him there, too. He and Maria would have to make decisions of their own about the future. Not yet, though, God willing, not yet. For now, he wanted only to rejoice in his reunion with his family.
As the castle came into view, casting an impressive silhouette against the night sky, the barbican’s portcullis was winched up and Bohemond gestured for Balian to enter with him. “I know it is too late for supper and too early for breaking our fasts. But I assumed you must be hungry after being on the road for so many hours, so I ordered a meal to be prepared for us.”
“That is most kind of you, my lord, but I would rather see my lady first. Or is she at the castle awaiting us?” Balian frowned at the startled expression on Bohemond’s face, for he’d entrusted Ernoul with two tasks; the lad was to ask for an escort to be sent out to meet them and he was to request that they let Maria know of their imminent arrival. He glanced over his shoulder at his squire, who insisted that he’d done as his lord bade, telling Count Bohemond himself.
Bohemond looked uncomfortable, or as uncomfortable as princes ever got. “He is right. He did tell me and I meant to send a message down into the town to Queen Maria. But in all the excitement, it must have slipped my mind.”
Balian shrugged. “No matter. It will be better this way, for I’ll get to surprise her.”
“But what of the meal we have waiting for you? I want to hear about the siege and how you bluffed Saladin into backing down—you were bluffing? And I need your advice about how to punish that bandit lord at Nephin. I want to talk to you, too, about staying in Tripoli. I know you’ll be going to Antioch to visit your ailing brother and my father will be sure to try to gain your allegiance for himself. I want to make my argument ere he does!”
At that moment, Bohemond sounded very much like a young lordling accustomed to getting his own way. Balian had no intention of indulging him, not if it kept him from his family for a few more hours. “It will be my pleasure to spend time with you later, my lord count. But I am bone weary and in desperate need of a bath and a bed and there is a beautiful woman below in the city who means the world to me. With all due respect, you cannot compete with that.”
Balian had tried to keep his tone light, hoping that would mollify Bohemond. The new count did summon up a brief smile, but it was obvious he was not happy about having his plans disrupted—not until a melodious female voice entered the conversation. Isabella had unobtrusively nudged her mare closer and she gave Bohemond one of her most captivating smiles. “I do not believe we’ve met, my lord count. I am Lord Balian’s stepdaughter, the Lady Isabella.”
Bohemond suddenly had eyes only for Isabella, dismounting hastily so he could approach and gallantly kiss her hand. When she murmured that she would be pleased to accept his invitation to dine, he beamed and declared magnanimously that of course Lord Balian would want to see his wife first. Isabella glanced triumphantly toward Balian, amused to see he was scowling, his protective paternal instincts triggered by Bohemond’s behavior. He would have to understand that beauty was a woman’s weapon, one she was learning to wield with some skill. Favoring Bohemond with another dazzling smile, she asked him to send a knight with her stepfather so he’d be able to enter the city and find her mother’s town house. He would indeed do that, he assured her, and while he beckoned to one of his men, she took advantage of his distraction to urge her mare over to Balian’s side.
“Do not fret, Pateras,” she said softly. “This will not be a cozy meal for two. The patriarch and your friend Renier must be famished and I know all of my household are, especially Stephanie. Can you imagine a better guardian than Humphrey’s crocodile of a mother?” The enchanting smile she’d used on Bohemond gave way to a grin of pure mischief. “Go to my mother. Let us worry about getting those poor, weary souls settled in. You’ve earned this.”
Balian was realizing belatedly that he was looking at a composed, clever young woman, one who would have made a far better queen than her sister. What had happened to the little girl whom he’d called “kitten” and comforted after her pet lark died and taught to speak some of his father’s Piedmontese dialect? “Daughters grow up much too quickly.”
She laughed. “Tell my mother that I am eager to see her and that I am very proud of her husband. But then, I am sure she is, too.”
* * *
Balian and Ernoul followed Prince Bohemond’s knight down a street not far from Tripoli’s cathedral, which was still being rebuilt after having been destroyed in the great earthquake of 1170. Balian was impressed by what he could see of the city, which, like Tyre, was protected on three sides by the sea. He knew Maria had missed living by the seacoast and he wondered if she’d like to make their home here in Tripoli rather than Antioch. He did want to visit Antioch as soon as he could, although Maria may have news of Baudouin’s illness, for Conrad had told him that his niece Esquiva had sailed for Antioch whilst he’d been in Jerusalem.
“There it is, my lord.” As the knight rode off, they approached the gate. Dismounting, Ernoul pounded on the door until a sleepy porter peered down at them. He was opening his mouth to complain about the early hour when he recognized Balian and let out an excited shout. With surprising speed, the door swung open and Balian got his first look at his family’s new home. Like many houses in the Levant, its center was the courtyard, surrounded by the two-story living quarters, the windows overlooking the court rather than the street. The porter was hovering beside them as they dismounted and volunteered to show Ernoul the gate leading out to their stables. Their voices carried to Balian as they led the horses away, the porter peppering Ernoul with questions about the siege and Ernoul happy to respond. Balian wished that he could delegate the youth to answer all of the questions he was sure to get for the foreseeable future. He had some healing to do ere he wanted to discuss what had happened in Jerusalem.
He was about to head toward the closest door when a window opened overhead and he found himself gazing up at his wife. “Wait there!” Maria disappeared before he could reply. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, she was in the doorway and then she was in his arms.
Her hair was loose, flowing down her back like a midnight river, and she wore only a woolen mantle, having been in too much of a hurry to look for her bed robe. Exploring the soft curves and warm skin underneath the cloak, he pulled her even closer. “You are cruel to tempt me like this, Marika, for I will be of no good to you until I can get some sleep first.”
“A bath might help, too,” she suggested, and he agreed with a grin, knowing full well how much he needed to soak away the grime of the road. Noticing that she’d not even taken the time to find her bed slippers, he guided her toward the closest seat, a marble bench by the fountain, and she tucked her bare feet up under her, becoming aware how chilly the paving stones were. The sky was still starlit, but to the east, a silvery glow was visible; it would not be long until the last of the night shadows would be banished by the splendors of another Levant sunrise.
After assuring her that Isabella was fine and would be with them soon, he shifted so he could gather her onto his lap. “Passing strange how little we seem to need words anymore. If more couples followed our example, marriages might be much happier.”
<
br /> “It helps, too, that we keep having these dramatic reunions,” she pointed out, and he pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand.
“There is so much we need to discuss, Marika—our future, the future of Outremer, what life will be like for our children. But not yet. For now, I just want to sit here, holding you and letting our silence speak for us.”
“You know I’ve always been one for planning ahead, Balian.” Reaching up, she touched her fingers to his unfamiliar new beard, thinking it almost made him look like a Greek. “That was the old me, the other me. Now I am quite content just to savor my miracle.”
“Miracle?”
“That I am not a widow.” He kissed her again, very tenderly, for that seemed like a miracle to him, too, and they remained there in the garden courtyard until the peace was shattered by the joyous sound of young voices, as their children awakened and came flying out to welcome their father home.
AFTERWORD
Sybilla remained loyal to Guy and that loyalty would lead to her death at age thirty-one. After he was freed by Saladin, Guy and Sybilla headed for Tyre, but Conrad of Montferrat refused them entry. In desperation, Guy and his small band of followers then lay siege to Acre. To the amazement of most people, probably including Guy himself, the siege became a symbol of resistance to the Saracens. The fight for Acre continued for several years, not falling to the Franks until after the arrival of Richard the Lionheart in the summer of 1191. By then, Sybilla and her two young daughters were dead, dying when a plague swept the siege encampment in the summer of 1190. Guy still claimed the crown, but the Poulains rallied around Conrad and only the misguided support of the Lionheart allowed Guy to make his tenuous claim. Richard had conquered Cyprus on his way to the Holy Land and eventually he arranged for Guy to take control of that wealthy island; Guy moved to Cyprus in 1192 but did not enjoy his new possession for long, dying in 1194.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 88
