Envoy of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  Conrad nodded and answered, “Understandable, Madame. Very understandable.” He found he had to make a conscious effort not to let his eyes shift to Isabella’s lovely face. It was ridiculous in a man his age, with as many conquests as he’d had, to be infatuated with a mere girl, he told himself, but the desire to look at her again was almost irresistible.

  A priest glided into the solar with a tray of refreshments that he began offloading onto the small round table. Maria Zoë pointedly watched him offload the silver pitcher, chalices, and bowls (all objects that belonged to the absent Archbishop of Tyre), thanked the priest, and waited for him to depart again before asking Conrad, “Does that mean you will allow me to send someone?”

  “I’m not sure, Madame. Whom should I put at such risk? Anyone issuing forth from Tyre and requesting an audience with the Sultan Salah ad-Din is as likely to face immediate execution as to be escorted to the Sultan. I can hardly order a man to take such a risk for the sake of information about the fate of one man, can I?”

  “I have several volunteers, Monsieur, if that is your only concern.”

  She made it sound as if she did not believe he was really worried about the fate of the messenger, while the reference to volunteers was a pointed reminder to Conrad that she had men willing to do her bidding. Yes, it would be wise not to underestimate this woman, Conrad concluded. “In that case, Madame, I can only wish them Godspeed.” He opened his hands in a gesture of invitation, but his gaze slid back to Isabella and his smile was directed at her rather than her mother.

  Isabella smiled back, and it lit up the whole room. “Thank you so much, Monsieur!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “You can’t know how much this means to my mother and me! Sir Bartholomew has promised to bring me back word of my lord husband as well,” she explained with juvenile candor.

  Maria Zoë, watching closely, saw Conrad flinch before assuring Isabella smoothly that he was more delighted than ever to assist her in any way he could, and that he was “enchanted” to see two wives so concerned for the fate of their husbands. Maria Zoë rose to her feet to the rustle of silk taffeta and held out her hand. Conrad and Isabella hastily got to their feet and Conrad bowed low over Maria Zoë’s hand. He then turned and, with a smile only for her, bowed even lower over Isabella’s hand. “Please, come to me with whatever requests you have. I will always try to accommodate.”

  Maria Zoë nodded and her lips smiled, but her eyes met Conrad’s coldly as she noted cynically, “As you have today.”

  After they left the palace and were riding side by side back to their own residence, Isabella, who was still beaming, remarked to her mother, “Monsieur de Montferrat is very gallant, Mama, don’t you think?”

  “He is very polished, well traveled, and good-looking,” Maria Zoë answered.

  Isabella considered her mother, sensitive to her tone as well as her words. “That doesn’t sound entirely approving, Mama.”

  “It’s not. Conrad de Montferrat is exceedingly ambitious and far too sure of himself for his own good.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Isabella admitted.

  “Hmm,” Maria Zoë replied. She had no intention of telling her daughter that Conrad was a notorious seducer and settled for saying, “He calls himself ‘Caesar’ in his correspondence, although it is an empty title now that he has fled Constantinople, and he occupies the archiepiscopal palace as if he owned it.”

  “But the Archbishop is away and no one knows when he will return. Why shouldn’t he live in the palace?”

  “Lord Balian didn’t move into the royal apartments in Jerusalem just because Sibylla abandoned the city,” Maria Zoë reminded Isabella. “But no matter. Conrad de Montferrat has saved this city for Christ, and as long as we hold it, aid can come from the West. God willing!” She crossed herself and prayed that it would be so.

  Chapter 2

  Jerusalem, October 1187

  THE SHEER SIZE OF THE ARMY spread out on the hills around Jerusalem made Sir Bartholomew’s throat go dry. It was all too reminiscent of Hattin: the same bright-colored tents of the emirs surrounded by rows and rows of plain-colored smaller tents for the common soldiers; the same corrals for the horses; the same long lines of tethered camels. To the Frankish knight’s well-trained eye, it was clear the Sultan had drawn all his forces together for the assault on Jerusalem. The army mustered here easily numbered forty thousand men, of which more than ten thousand were cavalry. What chance had Jerusalem stood against such a force?

  Sir Bartholomew knew that the Templars and Hospitallers had mustered for Hattin with their entire mobile force. That meant that while they had left knights to garrison strategic castles like Safed and Krak des Chevaliers, they had taken the full complement of knights, Turcopoles, and sergeants from their headquarters at Jerusalem. Only the sick, the infirm, and the non-combantant lay brothers had been left behind to maintain their establishments. King Guy had likewise taken the entire royal household—knights, squires, and Turcopoles—along with the hundreds of sergeants from the royal domains and those who owed service to the Canons of the Holy Sepulcher. Not a single fighting man below the age of forty had remained behind in Jerusalem when the feudal army marched out to face Salah ad-Din’s invasion.

  The Dowager Queen had told Sir Bartholomew that her husband had knighted over eighty youths of good family and described how he’d organized the merchants, tradesmen, and clerics, particularly those from the non-Latin Christian communities. But the Lord of Ibelin still held a city where women and children outnumbered men capable of bearing arms by fifty to one. So Ibelin had organized the women, too.

  Sir Bartholomew shook his head in wonder, for as he approached the city he could clearly see the evidence of a fierce and far from one-sided battle. Even from a distance he could make out the hulking and listing wrecks of burned-out siege engines. He next saw many dark stains on the white stone surface of the walls, marking where the defenders had poured burning pitch on their assailants. Nearer still, the dusty earth was littered with crossbow shafts and broken pieces of equipment. Various bloodstained rags, the remnants of clothes cut away, testified to the wounded who had bled out here. The rows of neat Saracen graves bore silent witness to the Sultan’s losses. No, Jerusalem had not collapsed or surrendered easily. It had been overwhelmed.

  Sir Bartholomew had traveled this far under a white flag, and a young Mamluke, Khalid al-Hamar, had been detailed to escort him to the Sultan. The youth was a redhead, probably from the cold regions north of the Black Sea, but it was unlikely he had any memory of the land of his birth. He was now the Sultan’s man, ambitious and talkative. He provided Sir Bartholomew with a running commentary about the battle for Jerusalem, to which Sir Bartholomew listened only partially. The older man was more interested in the testimony of his own eyes than in the bragging of a stripling young enough to be his grandson. He noted that the moat had been almost completely filled to enable the Sultan’s troops to get closer to the walls. More impressive still, a solid stone structure protected the entrance to the tunnel used by the sappers to dig under the walls. The sight of the collapsed section of the northern wall, easily forty yards long, took Sir Bartholomew’s breath away. Khalid grinned and made a gloating remark that Sir Bartholomew’s numbed brain could not take in. They must have been able to pour hundreds of men through that breach, the old soldier calculated, and followed them up with thousands more. They would have slaughtered everyone in the city in just a matter of hours!

  Yet the absence of vultures wheeling overhead and the lack of swarming flies suggested that the city was not clogged with corpses. On the contrary, the air smelled of nothing more offensive than dust and Saracen latrines along the moat. Puzzled, he looked beyond the Saracen sentries guarding the breach in the wall and caught his breath in amazement. He could see the Temple of God rearing up against the cloudy sky, and it was still crowned by the cross of Christ. That didn’t make sense in a city that was now controlled by the Muslims. The Temple of God was known to
the Saracens as the Dome of the Rock. It had been built over a rock that, they claimed, bore Mohammed’s footprint from his ascent into heaven.

  Sir Bartholomew reached out and caught his escort’s arm to get his attention. “The cross,” he pointed; “why is it still there?”

  “The forty days aren’t up yet,” the Mamluke answered puzzlingly, as if that explained everything.

  Before Sir Bartholomew could ask any more questions, however, they reached the northeast corner of the city and turned to start descending into the Kidron Valley. The Tomb of the Virgin, the Grotto of the Agony at Gethsemane, and the Church of St. Saviour stood out like islands of light amidst the swarming mass of Saracen troops. Surprisingly, they did not appear to have been totally trashed, much less gutted by fire. Beyond the valley, the Mount of Olives was scarred by felled trees, however, and the sight stabbed at Sir Bartholomew’s heart. Those trees had once given shade to the Savior. They had been cut down simply to make a large place for the Sultan’s brilliant yellow tent and a pasture for his horses. Such was the price of defeat.

  Khalid al-Hamar unnecessarily pointed out the Sultan’s tent to Sir Bartholomew, and he nodded absently, still trying to figure out what was going on. All the gates of the city were manned by Mamlukes—but he had seen no one moving in or out. The reference to forty days suggested the surrender had been agreed upon but not yet implemented. The city had been given forty days. To do what?

  They rode together through the denser rows of the Sultan’s personal bodyguard camped within the olive grove. Between trees, tents, and campfires there was hardly room for the horses to find a footing, and they had to weave their way slowly. Finally they reached the space before the Sultan’s tent and dismounted. While a boy took the reins of his horse, Khalid gestured for Sir Bartholomew to follow him inside.

  Once inside, the Frank was told to wait, while Khalid continued deeper into the partitioned tent. Other Saracens of various ranks, imams and Sufis as well as fighting men, cast him curious glances as they came and went. Sir Bartholomew’s patience wore thin. He had come a long way, and he wanted to know the fate of the citizens of Jerusalem. He couldn’t bear the suspense much longer, he thought.

  Khalid returned and announced that al-Adil, rather than the Sultan, would receive him. Sir Bartholomew nodded stiffly. The Sultan’s brother was good enough for him. He followed the red-haired Mamluke into a room completely carpeted with painted canvas and on which a table and cushions had been arranged neatly. He was told to sit, and he sank down behind the table. His nerves were getting the better of him, however, and he couldn’t keep his hands still. They galloped in place on the carved surface of the table. Egyptian manufacture, he noted, with ivory inlay.

  “You requested an audience with the Sultan?” a deep, cultivated voice asked from behind.

  Sir Bartholomew drew himself back up onto his feet with an unconscious grunt. (For an old man, it was a long way up from sitting cross-legged on the floor.) He bowed to a man wearing long-flowing, elaborately embroidered silk robes and a satin turban, and then reached inside his gambeson and removed the Dowager Queen’s letter. “My lady, Maria Zoë Comnena, Dowager Queen of Jerusalem, Lady of Nablus and Ibelin, has charged me to bring this letter to the Sultan,” he explained in passable Arabic. Sir Bartholomew had been born and raised in the Holy Land, and he had learned to speak Arabic from the Syrian Christian servants and the tenants.

  Al-Adil held out a beringed hand, and Sir Bartholomew crossed the space between them to place the letter in it.

  “May I open it?” asked al-Adil. “Or is it for the Sultan’s eyes alone?”

  “You may open it, but it is in Greek.”

  “Ah.” Al-Adil turned and ordered Khalid to fetch him Benjamin, a Jewish scribe literate in Greek, then indicated Sir Bartholomew should sit down again. He ordered refreshments for both of them, but before the fruit juice and nuts arrived an elderly man in the robes and long curls of a Jew joined them. Al-Adil indicated he should sit with them and handed him the Dowager Queen’s letter.

  The Jewish secretary cautiously sliced through the Queen’s seal with a little knife he carried in his belt. He then unfolded the letter and spread it out. He leaned over and read intently, nodding to himself as he went along. Only when he had read to the end did he sit upright again and look at al-Adil. “Do you want me to read it aloud?”

  “For now, a summary would suffice,” al-Adil replied.

  “The Dowager Queen politely and deferentially requests news of her husband, the Lord of Ibelin, the return of his remains if he is dead, or his release if he is captive.”

  “Write a faithful translation of the letter for my brother,” al-Adil ordered the secretary, “and bring it to me when you are done.”

  After the secretary had departed, al-Adil turned to Sir Bartholomew. “Rest assured your lord is in good health,” he told the old knight. Sir Bartholomew’s relief was so great that he crossed himself without thinking about where he was.

  Al-Adil continued, “He agreed to surrender Jerusalem intact in exchange for us allowing the survivors to ransom themselves. We gave them forty days to raise their ransoms—after which those who have paid will be allowed to go free, while those who have not will be enslaved. Ibn Barzan is engaged in raising the necessary ransoms for himself, his household, and the many poor and destitute in the city. He has another thirty-two days before the ransoms are due.”

  “May I be allowed into the city to see him?” Sir Bartholomew asked anxiously. He had promised the Dowager Queen that, if her husband was alive, he would try to see him. He had imagined visiting a man held in a dungeon, possibly in chains. The thought that he might see Ibelin as a free man was both amazing and elating, but the news that the city’s residents and refugees likewise stood a chance of rescue was downright intoxicating. Sir Bartholomew could hardly contain the hope that his daughters had found their way to Jerusalem. And if they had, they would surely have found safety with the Ibelin household. He could already picture himself embracing them and sweeping his grandchildren up into his arms again.

  “Of course,” al-Adil answered, opening his hands and smiling. “You may go at once,” he suggested generously.

  Sir Bartholomew could hardly stop himself from just jumping up and running out. He managed, however, to bow and thank al-Adil before rushing outside. Here he found his horse, remounted, and started as fast as he could to weave his way through the crowded orchard toward the Jehoshaphat Gate.

  He had already reached the foot of the valley and was starting up the far slope when the gate ahead of him opened. A Frankish knight emerged from the gate, riding a large but graying palfrey. The man was exceptionally tall but slender, and he sat very upright in the saddle. He was not wearing his helmet, but he wore chain mail, and over this a surcoat particolored in gold and scarlet. Sir Bartholomew at once recognized the Lord of Ibelin and spurred forward.

  Ibelin caught sight of Sir Bartholomew and likewise urged his horse to a faster gait. They reached one another in a swirl of dust, drew up, and dropped from their saddles before the horses came to a complete halt. The two men embraced heartily, indifferent to the large and curious Saracen audience around them.

  After that first exuberant greeting, Sir Bartholomew drew back and exclaimed in excitement, “My lord! We thought you must be dead! We heard Jerusalem had fallen, and your lady—”

  “She made it safely to Tyre? With the children?” Ibelin interrupted to ask, the fears that had haunted him still shadowing his eyes.

  Sir Bartholomew’s smile broadened even more. “Yes. She, the ladies Isabella and Eschiva, and all the children are safe and well. Your lady sent me with a letter to the Sultan requesting more information about you. Al-Adil told me you lived, and I was on my way to find you. I still can’t believe it!”

  Reassured that his family was safe and well, Ibelin could focus again on the immediate problems. “I negotiated a surrender that allows us to ransom ourselves,” Ibelin reiterated what al-Adil had already said
. Yet as he spoke Sir Bartholomew noted the weariness and worry that had carved out his cheeks and drawn his eyes deeper into their sockets. Ibelin did not look particularly pleased to still be alive, the older man noted with surprise—until Ibelin burst out hotly, “The ransom’s more than many poor people here can pay! The Hospital has turned over all the money King Henry of England deposited with them, but it’s not enough. The city’s filled with refugees—women and children, people who’ve lost everything already!”

  “My daughters?” Sir Bartholomew asked, unable to withstand the suspense a moment longer.

  Ibelin started, looked at the old knight in horror, and then slowly shook his head. “They’re not here, Bart. Didn’t they get to Tyre?”

  Sir Bartholomew swallowed to keep his constricted throat from closing entirely as he slowly shook his head. The short flare of hope was already extinguished.

  “I’m sorry,” Ibelin told him honestly, laying a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated. But in the next instant his agitation had overwhelmed his sympathy and he burst out, “But, God help me, if I can’t find another thirty thousand dinars, tens of thousands of innocent women, children, and clerics are going into Saracen slavery!”

  Sir Bartholomew understood Ibelin’s distress, and recognized that the baron was focused on the total tragedy rather than one man’s individual grief. He nodded to indicate he understood, but he also felt utterly helpless. If the girls and his grandchildren weren’t here and they weren’t in Tyre, then they were already in Saracen captivity—or dead.