Ibelin reminded him that his younger son was with the Dowager Queen in Tyre, but Mathewos shook his head. “Eskinder is seventeen. He’s old enough to find his own way, and I’m sure he will be proud to fight with you, but my duty is to the girls and my infant grandson.”
As the sun crested the eastern mountains and the refugee train slowly rolled into motion again, less than five hundred people, fighting men and their families, remained behind. Ibelin found himself with just thirty-two of the youths he’d knighted in Jerusalem, his squire, and the faithful Sir Roger Shoreham with his two surviving sons, Father Michael and Edwin, the latter with his wife and family.
The widow Mariam was among those seeking admittance to Tyre and sat on her wagon, nervously biting her lip. She knew Montferrat had explicitly said only the immediate families of fighting men would be admitted to Tyre, and she didn’t qualify. She was just hoping no one would notice, much less enforce, the requirement. She was determined to stay in Tyre, because she didn’t trust the escort remaining with the refugees now that Ibelin was staying here; none of the fighting men continuing to Tripoli commanded the unquestioned obedience of the others—much less of Salah ad-Din.
Mariam looked nervously across at the score of remaining wagons, and noticed Edwin Shoreham’s German wife staring at her. Mariam nodded curtly, but the woman didn’t return it. Instead she started talking to her husband and pointing at Mariam. He called to his father. Sir Roger Shoreham rode over to his son and daughter-in-law, and a moment later looked over his shoulder at Mariam.
“I’ve been betrayed,” Mariam muttered, her lips pressed together in fury. What harm did it do anyone—much less Mistress Shoreham—for Mariam to enter Tyre? It wasn’t any skin off her nose! Damn her!
Shoreham trotted over to Mariam and pulled up. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Ma’am, only the immediate families of combatants are allowed to enter Tyre. Your husband is—ah—dead and buried. I’m afraid—”
“I’m her husband,” Godwin announced, stepping over to stand directly at Shoreham’s stirrup.
Shoreham looked at Olafsen in confusion. “But—I thought—”
“Mariam and I are plight-trothed,” Godwin insisted. “We’ll seek out a priest as soon as we’re in the city.”
Shoreham frowned in obvious disbelief, and glanced over his shoulder at his daughter-in-law.
“You take me and my betrothed with you to Tyre, or I’ll continue to Tripoli!” Godwin threatened.
“What’s going on?” Ibelin demanded, riding up beside Shoreham, his expression forbidding and his tone impatient.
“Master Olafsen is insisting that the good widow here be admitted as his family although they aren’t married, my lord. In fact, Olafsen has a wife and two daughters, who joined the column headed for Jaffa. My daughter-in-law was quite friendly with her and knows that Godwin wasn’t able to pay his or his son’s ransom because he worked for free throughout the siege, and—”
“And gave me a valuable sword,” Ibelin interrupted. “He may be a bad merchant, but he’s a good Christian. He’s part of my household, and if he wants this good widow to come with him, then she is part of my household, too. It’s as simple as that. This is no time for bickering and pettiness, Sir Roger. Tell your daughter-in-law that from me!” He nodded once to Mariam, and then swung his horse around and took up his position at the head of the little column.
“God bless him!” Mariam exclaimed, staring after his back and crossing herself.
“Amen to that!” Godwin seconded her sentiments as he scrambled up beside her on the wagon, adding, “And, of course, you needn’t fear I’ll try to make you my wife in fact.”
Mariam looked over her hefty arm at him with an unreadable expression. “Can’t, seeing as you have a wife already. Still, it might be wise to pretend otherwise in Tyre, if you don’t mind. These are uncertain times, and a woman alone is more vulnerable than a woman with a man. Mistress Shoreham can’t be everywhere, and if we stay clear of her and act like husband and wife, who’s to know differently?”
“We can stay together,” Godwin assured her with a smile at Sven, who grinned back in relief.
The sun was halfway up the sky and the last of the wagons headed for Tripoli had receded into the distance before, with shouting and waving, the drawbridge over the outermost ditch slowly started to descend. As it clunked down on the dusty bank at the near side of the deep sea-water ditch, the gates of the outer defensive wall swung open. The Marquis de Montferrat, flanked by squires with fluttering banners and accompanied by the Dowager Queen of Jerusalem, rode out onto the lip of land at the base of the outermost wall.
As Maria Zoë watched Balian slowly emerge from the approaching column, taking distinct and individual shape as he drew nearer, she was conscious of emotional strain unlike any she could remember. It was neither pure joy nor sheer fear and trepidation—but something between the two. When she had left Jerusalem, she had not believed she would ever see him alive again. When Sir Bartholomew brought her the unbelievable news that Balian was not only alive but would soon be joining her in Tyre, it had seemed too good to be true. She had lived with the irrational fear that something would still go wrong. But here he was, only a few feet away from her—and he looked ravaged.
Not that he looked that way to strangers, she supposed. He rode at the head of the column, upright and unbent, with his squire carrying his banner on a vertical lance behind him. His armor didn’t gleam, but it was clearly in good order, and his surcoat might not glitter with gold as Montferrat’s did, but it was brightly dyed and proudly displayed his arms. The stallion was gray at the muzzle but he held his head up and pranced, showing his breeding. No, Maria Zoë thought to herself, to a stranger her husband looked every inch a proud, fearless, and undefeated baron. But to her he looked—changed. Frighteningly changed.
Ibelin crossed the drawbridge at a controlled pace, and he stopped directly in front of Montferrat, who bowed and announced in a voice intended for posterity: “My lord, I am honored to receive you and the other gallant defenders of the Holy City into my city of Tyre!”
For a moment it seemed as if Ibelin wouldn’t dignify him with an answer, but then he remarked in a lower voice, thick with bitterness, “I hope you are satisfied, my lord. I bring you 33 knights, 18 crossbowmen, 3 Greek engineers, 69 archers, and 146 able-bodied men prepared to join the defense of Tyre—and their immediate families.”
This memorized message delivered, he at last shifted his eyes to his wife. She had donned her Greek finery for this occasion, a purple gown with broad bands of gem-studded gold embroidery at the hem and neck. The long, open sleeves were lined with cloth of gold, and her veils, draped loosely over her head to cross under her chin and hang down her back under an embroidered crown-like hat, were made of sheer, gold silk. She had never looked so regal as now—when she, too, had lost her kingdom.
Their eyes met, and he saw concern bordering on fear in her dark eyes. He lifted his lips in an effort to reassure her, but already the Marquis de Montferrat was inviting them into the city with sweeping, dramatic gestures. More important, the rest of the train was waiting impatiently behind him. Ibelin urged his horse forward and Montferrat fell in beside him on his left, his wife on his right. She reached out a hand and he took it for a moment, squeezed it, and then let it drop as they passed into the outer gate.
Beyond this first wall was a second, shallower, evil-smelling ditch, beyond which was a second wall. Rather than a central gate and protruding gatehouse, this wall had three flanking towers that provided complete crossfire for two smaller gates offset from the outer gate they had just passed through. The Marquis led through the gate to the left and across the narrow “killing ground” between the two walls to the massive barbican protecting the entrance through the last and highest of Tyre’s landward defenses.
As they entered the dog-legged barbican the noise from the city reached them, and when they emerged out of the darkness of the stone building they were met with thunderous
cheers. The street ahead was lined with people three to four deep, while men and women waved from the windows of the upper stories. Both the Marquis and the Dowager Queen cast a quick glance at Balian to see his reaction to the tumultuous reception, and neither liked what they saw. Ibelin appeared completely indifferent.
The crowd had started chanting “Ib-lin! Ib-lin!” led by Ernoul and some of the other squires of his household, who had managed to place themselves close to the gate. Ibelin raised his hand to acknowledge the cheer, but his face remained impassive—as if it were chiseled in stone. A chill ran down Maria Zoë’s spine as she watched him.
Montferrat raised his voice to be heard above the noise, “You would appear to be well loved, my lord!” He was wearing a smile to conceal his own intense displeasure. He did not like to see crowds this enthusiastic about anyone but himself.
Ibelin shrugged, “I expect they’ve had little to cheer about of late.”
“But they are pleased to see you, Balian,” Maria Zoë assured him anxiously.
Ibelin glanced at her and then back at the crowd, recognizing Ernoul, Eskinder, and some of the others. He nodded, but he did not smile.
Montferrat deftly guided his horse to the right, effectively herding the others toward the archiepiscopal palace. The crowd lined the street, still cheering—until with a screech of nearly hysterical joy, a woman discovered her husband among the men behind Ibelin. Soon other citizens and refugees experienced their own reunions, most completely unexpected, while others searched the column in increasing despair and fading hope. With each yard, the column was disintegrating into the crowds and the cheering died away, replaced by the gabble of hundreds of people talking at once.
At the archiepiscopal palace Montferrat had gathered the dignitaries of Tyre: the leading merchants and sea captains of the Italian communes, the Bishops of Beirut and Sabaste—refugees like so many others—the officials of the Archbishop’s household and other senior clerics, the city’s guild masters, and the knights who had washed up here. Ibelin acknowledged his own men, the men he’d led off the field of Hattin but left behind when he went to Jerusalem, but his expression remained sober. Indifferently he let Montferrat introduce him to the leading citizens of Tyre, nodding and thanking them as Montferrat slowly guided him to the high table. Here Isabella was waiting, and she (Maria Zoë noted with relief) at last drew a wan smile from her stepfather by rushing forward and kissing him enthusiastically on both cheeks. Maria Zoë was too busy watching her daughter and husband to note Montferrat’s sour face at the spectacle.
Montferrat indicated that Ibelin should sit in the place of honor to his right with his wife on his far side, while Isabella was seated to Montferrat’s left. As soon as they were seated, trumpets sounded, and liveried servants paraded into the hall laden with platters of food. Other servants came forward to offer bowls to wash their hands, towels to dry them, and then wine to go with the food being laid out before them.
“Tell me, my lord,” Montferrat opened, “just how in the name of our Sweet Savior did you ever convince the Sultan Salah ad-Din to allow the citizens of Jerusalem to buy their freedom? He’d publicly vowed to slaughter the entire population, and the Saracens had already breached the walls when you finally sought to negotiate. By then, Salah ad-Din already had you! Jerusalem was no longer defensible.”
“True, but I still had nearly a thousand fighting men. I told him that before we sortied out to kill as many of them as possible, we would first slaughter our women and children, denying him slaves, and—more important—we would destroy the sacred monuments of the city. I promised to chisel away the rock in the Temple of God, known to them as the Dome of the Rock, until there was nothing left of it.”
His audience was staring at him wide-eyed: Montferrat in admiration and Maria Zoë and Isabella in horror.
“I wasn’t bluffing,” Ibelin added. “I would have done that if he had denied me terms. I think,” he added softly and chillingly, “I would have enjoyed doing it.”
Maria Zoë and Isabella looked at one another.
“I also heard you managed to destroy several of the Sultan’s siege engines,” Montferrat pressed him, clearly intrigued. “How did you do that with no trained fighting men in the entire city?”
“With the courage of the lepers of St. Lazarus,” Ibelin answered. He added into the astonished stillness, “They volunteered to sortie out of the St. Lazarus postern and set fire to the siege engines attacking Tancred’s tower. They knew we could not leave the postern open and that they would all die, but they took pots of Greek fire with them and set them ablaze. This served as a diversion for me and my knights to sortie out of the Zion and Jehoshaphat Gates to attack the siege engines. Speaking of my knights, I am now a pauper with no income and cannot possibly pay the thirty-two knights who chose to come to Tyre. I presume you will assume the costs of their maintenance?” It was clearly not a question, and Montferrat was not inclined to quibble. He’d brought a fortune out of Constantinople, most of which had not belonged to him, and he had no need to pinch pennies—at least not when it came to fighting men. He nodded and glanced out into the hall where the knights Ibelin had brought to Tyre had taken seats at the lower tables with the other guests.
The conversation continued with Montferrat, and occasionally the ladies, asking Ibelin questions, while course after course was served. Meanwhile, musicians had taken their place in the gallery and jugglers were entertaining between the tables. The atmosphere at the lower tables was relaxed and good-natured, with volleys of laughter and occasional singing punctuating the continuous babble of men talking. Yet even the excellent wine, of which he partook very sparingly, failed to make Ibelin unbend.
It was midafternoon before the banquet was over, and Ibelin, accompanied by his wife, stepdaughter, and household knights, was free to make his way to the home he’d never seen. Sir Bartholomew led the way through streets that were now nearly deserted, as a cold, drenching rain had swept in off the sea. Montferrat graciously provided both ladies with voluminous cloaks to protect their gowns, but the men were soaked by the time they reached the expropriated residence.
Sir Bartholomew led the party to the back entrance for ease of stabling the horses, and as Ibelin led his horse in out of the rain he was ambushed by Eskinder. “My lord!” the Ethiopian youth asked anxiously, taking the bridle of Ibelin’s horse but standing still and confronting his lord. “Where is my father? Where are my sister and Beth and Menelik?”
Maria Zoë saw her husband stiffen as if he’d been hit, but his face remained an impenetrable mask. “Your father, sister, and Beth with Menelik did not wish to endure another siege. They chose to continue to Tripoli, and from there to Ethiopia.”
“And Dawit?” Eskinder demanded. “Sir Bartholomew said he was killed in the siege, but I have a right to know more. How and when did he die?”
“Yes, you do,” Ibelin agreed solemnly. “Everyone should hear the news, for it was after the Saracens had breached the walls and I had gone out to negotiate with Salah ad-Din that some Saracens managed to take the northeastern tower. They planted the Sultan’s banners on it, and Salah ad-Din pointed to them, mocking my attempts to negotiate by scoffing that ‘one did not negotiate for a city one already held.’ In that moment a Christian counterattack flung the banners and the Sultan’s men down off the walls. We saw them fall, and I could answer that the city was not yet his.” He paused to lend his words greater weight before continuing, “It was Dawit who led that desperate attack against the men already on our walls.”
A murmur of awe and appreciation surrounded them, and several men crossed themselves.
“On the very last day, the last hour . . .” Eskinder murmured in numbed horror.
“Dawit gave his life for—” Ibelin broke off. He had been about to say “for Jerusalem,” but that was not true. When Dawit died, Jerusalem was already lost. “For sixty thousand Christian lives.”
Eskinder stared at him, and around them everyone else had fallen so st
ill and silent that they could hear the rain splattering on the cobbles of the street outside.
Ibelin continued, “If he had not made his attack—if he had failed—none of us would have survived in freedom,” Ibelin told them. “Not one man, woman, or child. Dawit gave his life for his father, sister, wife, and son. I cannot believe that he regrets that choice.”
A murmur of assent followed, and many crossed themselves again as they commended Dawit’s soul to God.
“And Gabriel?” It was Ernoul who asked the next question. Like Eskinder, he knew already from Sir Bartholomew that Gabriel was dead, but he too wanted more of the details.
“Gabriel was with me until the night before the surrender. That night we made a last sortie in the hope of reaching the Sultan’s tent and killing him.” Ibelin paused. Had he really hoped to reach the Sultan’s tent? No, that had been a fairy tale for the others. He’d hoped only to die honorably rather than face humiliation, slavery, and possibly torture. “We were overwhelmed by the Sultan’s cavalry and forced back through the Jehoshaphat Gate almost as soon as we sallied forth. Unfortunately, Gabriel’s horse went down in the confusion, and he fell into Saracen hands. I had hoped to ransom him after the surrender had been negotiated, but Salah ad-Din told me personally that Gabriel had refused to accept imprisonment and requested execution. I suppose at the time he thought our situation was hopeless and preferred a quick end to the prospect of slavery.” Ibelin paused, thinking for the hundredth time of Gabriel’s dilemma and regretting again that he had allowed this to happen. Out loud he said simply, “He was very proud.”
Ernoul remained stunned in place as Ibelin and his lady continued toward the passageway to the house. Gabriel had been Ernoul’s only friend when he came to the Ibelin household as an incompetent and unwilling squire. Gabriel had saved Ernoul’s life at Hattin, dragging him onto his own horse, after Ernoul had been severely wounded and was about to fall between the horses to his death. Gabriel had tended Ernoul’s wounds and loaded him on a sledge behind his horse to get him from Hattin to Safed and then Tyre. And it was only because Ernoul was still recovering from his wounds that Gabriel had gone with their lord to Jerusalem, while Ernoul stayed behind in Tyre. The news of his heroic death left Ernoul feeling very cold and lonely.
Envoy of Jerusalem Page 9
