There had been no time to move new settlers in, and Montferrat found himself wondering whether or not the lands had already been divided up among the Sultan’s emirs. In any case, most of the villages were deserted and the towns nearly abandoned, except for remnants of the Jewish and Muslim populations that had returned once the initial hostilities died down. Here and there they passed through villages full of native peasants who greeted the escort with deep bows, and praising Allah a little too enthusiastically for Montferrat’s taste. He suspected they were Syrian Christians trying to pass themselves off as Muslims. They encountered some shepherds who likewise made a great show of being Muslim, but the Marquis noticed large numbers of straying farm animals. These had apparently been left behind when their owners fled. Packs of dogs roamed at large, too, and many farms lay unnaturally fallow. Montferrat hated the sight of fallow fields; gray and bleak in the November rains, they whispered “famine” to his old ears. Whoever controlled this land in the future would first have to live on imported foodstuffs for some time to come, and that took money.
They had been traveling almost two weeks before they finally reached the coastal plain. By that time, Montferrat’s old bones were aching badly from the days in the saddle and the damp cold. Yet when the towers and walls of Tyre came into sight, his heart leapt in pride. Even in the gray and drizzling rain, Tyre looked magnificent to his tired old eyes. It stood defiantly flying the crosses of Jerusalem, while surrounded by a thousand bright-colored tents and a seething mass of Saracen soldiers: The Sultan’s army was besieging it.
The little party of Franks was escorted through the camp, eliciting only mild curiosity, but the old Marquis noted many things. First he sensed that the mood in the camp was glum. This was not an army full of confidence, raring for a fight or on the brink of triumph; this was an army that was bored, discouraged, and tired. Of course the rains had an impact on morale, and the paths between the tents were a morass of mud. Indeed, everything seemed soggy and dirty.
The Marquis de Montferrat had been at enough sieges to know what it was like. He understood that a besieging army didn’t have to suffer outright defeat to reach a state of demoralization. However, he noted keenly that many men were nursing wounds, too, and they loitered together, bandages on their arms, legs, and heads, while others hobbled about on crutches or held their arms in slings. That spoke volumes: these men weren’t just tired, dirty, damp, and bored—they had been badly mauled in one or more assaults on the city. The thought made him proud of the defenders, and he smiled to himself.
Eventually they were brought to a sumptuous tent decorated with sayings from the Koran. Toron showed off his knowledge of the language by reading several aloud, to the disapproval of Montferrat. While Sibylla was taken to a separate tent clad in plain black canvas that huddled behind the Sultan’s green- and-gold tent, Humphrey and the Marquis de Montferrat were taken directly inside. Salah ad-Din was absent, but they were told to sit down on the floor to await him. Water was brought for them to wash their hands and drink.
Roughly a half-hour after their arrival, a large party of horsemen arrived and with a flurry of commands, men rushed to take the horses and others to report the arrival of the visitors. A moment later, the Sultan swept into the tent followed by a half-dozen of his men. The Mamlukes went down on their faces, and Toron imitated them, but the old Marquis simply got to his feet.
The Sultan was not particularly tall, and he was no longer thin, if he ever had been. His beard was sprinkled with white and the lines on his face were deeply carved. “Ah, Monsieur de Montferrat, we meet again,” he opened in Arabic, so the Marquis had to wait for Toron’s translation before replying with a stiff bow. The last time they had met had been immediately after the catastrophe at Hattin, and the Marquis had been subjected to the spectacle of the Sultan personally decapitating the Lord of Oultrejourdain. To be sure, the slaughter of the Templars and Hospitallers that followed had been even more appalling, but that did not, in Montferrat’s mind, wipe out the Sultan’s own barbarism.
At the moment, however, Salah ad-Din was playing gracious host, indicating that Montferrat should sit down again, praising Toron’s command of Arabic with a gracious smile, and snapping his fingers for refreshment. Montferrat, mindful of the fact that hospitality provided protection, gratefully accepted the Sultan’s mint-laced sherbet and some almonds as well. While the Sultan and Toron exchanged flowery pleasantries and smiles, Montferrat admired the beautiful furnishings of the Sultan’s tent: Turkish carpets, silk cushions, low tables inlaid with ivory, lamps with bright-colored cloisonné decorations.
Finally the Sultan turned directly to Montferrat and, through Toron, addressed him. “I’m pleased to see you looking so well, my lord,” he told the old man, and Montferrat bit back the inclination to snap, “No thanks to you!” He bowed his head instead. “It would be my pleasure to have you with me as guest for a while longer, but I suspect you would prefer to join your own family.”
Again Montferrat bowed his head in agreement, but the hope he had carried in his heart from the start of this voyage swelled his chest and made his blood run faster.
“I daresay it may have escaped your notice, seeing that you were so far away and cut off from the world in Aleppo,” the Sultan continued through Toron, “but your son Conrad is now in command of the Frankish forces holding Tyre.”
“What?” The Marquis could hardly believe his ears and, to be sure he had not misunderstood, asked: “Conrad? Here?”
The Sultan smiled and assured him, “Yes! Just beyond the walls of Tyre. Not more than a mile away at this very minute.”
This was, indeed, marvelous news. Conrad, his father thought, had always been audacious, but this was truly an exceptional demonstration of both daring and filial devotion. To leave the safety of Constantinople and come voluntarily into the lion’s den took a degree of arrogance that was not to everyone’s taste, but the old Marquis burst with pride at the thought. It was like Conrad, too, he thought indulgently, to seize command at once, whether it was his place or not. He smiled to himself.
“I suspect that you would like to be reunited sooner rather than later, so if you have refreshed yourself from your arduous journey,” the Sultan continued with a gesture toward the empty water goblet, “I suggest we go.” He smiled as he stood.
The Marquis was so eager he almost fell over as he tried to get up too rapidly. Toron caught him with a beaming smile, and they went out together.
Horses were waiting for them. They remounted and rode through the camp, then out onto the field before the castle. Halting just out of bowshot, the Sultan signaled his men to wave a white parley flag. On receiving an answering signal from the outer gate, they started forward in a small group: the Sultan, two of his emirs, four Mamlukes, the Marquis, and Toron.
They rode to the very edge of the first salt-water moat and halted there. On the massive main tower above the closed drawbridge archers stood at the ready, while a man in gleaming armor with a well-polished helmet leaned out. The Marquis’s old heart was pumping so fast it was almost painful. It was recognizably his dashing son Conrad!
The Sultan gave instructions to Toron, who raised his voice and shouted across the distance in French. “The Sultan Salah ad-Din sends his greetings and presents your father, William Marquis de Montferrat!”
If the man on the ramparts was pleased, relieved, or surprised, he was too far away for them to tell. From this distance he seemed completely impassive.
“We are here,” Toron continued, “to return your father to you.”
“On what terms?” Conrad shouted back, and his father felt his heart sink. The question made it clear there had been no negotiations in advance. This wasn’t the final act in his release—it was the first.
“Why, what do you think?” Sultan sounded surprised. “The surrender of Tyre!” he answered through Toron.
The Marquis gasped when he heard Toron translate the terms and cried out: “He can’t do that!”
Fat
her and son were of the same mind. Conrad’s “No!” reached them even as his father spoke.
The Sultan responded by drawing his sword with a loud hiss and brandishing it over the Marquis’ head. The old man again saw the execution of Reynald de Châtillon in his mind’s eye, and started to recite the Pater Noster.
“Surrender Tyre, or your father dies!” Toron shouted out at the Sultan’s bidding.
“My father is an old man! Look at his white hair! He has lived long enough!” Conrad retorted. “I would rather kill him myself than surrender this city to you! By God’s grace, I will hold Tyre for Christendom until help comes from the West! May God receive my father’s soul with the grace!” As he spoke, Conrad grabbed a crossbow from the nearest archer and aimed it at the party addressing him—whether at his father, the Sultan, or Toron was irrelevant.
“Well said!” the Marquis of Montferrat shouted back at his son. “Well said, my boy!”
Salah ad-Din was furious enough to backhand the old man so hard that he swayed in his saddle and his nose gushed blood, but he put away his sword. Then he swung his horse around and galloped back to his camp, leaving Toron and his escort to bring the worthless prisoner back with them.
December 14, 1187
Balian and John sat side by side upon an elaborately carved oak chest, with Balian’s chain-mail hauberk spread across their four knees. Balian had a brush with metal bristles in his right hand and was demonstrating the short, vigorous strokes necessary to clean the rust off the armor. “You’ve got to push down a little so the bristles get right between the rings. Like this. See? Now you try.” He handed the brush to John, who with great concentration tried to imitate his father’s motions.
Under the boy’s vigorous but inept assault, the heavy hauberk started to slide off their laps. As he grabbed it with his small fist to pull it back in place, the lower part of the large metal shirt sagged down, revealing a long gash.
Maria Zoë, glancing up from her own needlework to enjoy the sight of her husband and son together, caught her breath. Leaving her needlework behind, she walked over the pair. “That cut,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she measured the distance from the shoulder to the gash, “was below your rib cage!” Sword thrusts that penetrated armor below the rib cage endangered a man’s innards and were often fatal.
“It drew blood,” Balian admitted, “but wasn’t deep enough to leave a scar.”
“When?” Maria Zoë demanded sternly, as her son looked up at her with large eyes that reflected growing understanding.
“Last sortie,” Balian replied dismissively, and immediately distracted attention from the subject of the wound by announcing, “I have an idea. Let’s take this hauberk to Godwin Olafsen for repair. His wife” (Balian consciously dignified Mariam with a status he knew she did not enjoy to shield his young children from knowledge of an illicit relationship and shield Godwin and Mariam from disapprobation) “is a pastry and sweets maker—”
“Oh, can we go, Mama? Can we?” Helvis and Margaret had already jumped up, dropping their needlework, Margaret from disinterest in the tedious task of stitching and Helvis because she loved sweets.
“We haven’t had any sweets in ages,” Philip added so solemnly that the adults burst out laughing.
Moments later they all left the house together, disdaining horses because Balian assured them they could walk. “They need the exercise,” he explained to Maria Zoë as the boys rushed ahead down the cobbled street. “It’s not good for boys their age to be cooped up all the time.”
“You’re right,” Maria Zoë agreed. “But they don’t like letting you out of their sight. Tell me when they get on your nerves.”
“I will, and they aren’t.” Although he had been with his family three weeks now, Balian still felt he could not get enough of them.
Maria Zoë squeezed her hand more firmly on his elbow and briefly leaned her head on his upper arm. “Thank you for being so indulgent,” she murmured.
Balian looked down at her, surprised by her tone.
“You know,” Maria Zoë started cautiously, “I didn’t tell them you weren’t coming with us when we left Jerusalem, which was the main reason I insisted on them all—even John—traveling in the litter. They didn’t find out you were still in the city until we stopped for the night. When John learned that, he screamed furiously at me and ran away—swearing he would go back to be with you. When I tried to stop him, he turned on me, hitting out with his fists and screaming insults.”
Balian stiffened with disapproval.
“The escort was clearly amused and impressed by his fiery spirit. The commander came over to assure me that his men would watch over him carefully, but that it was better to let him burn out his anger. Reluctantly, I followed their advice, and an hour or two later John crept back into the camp and buried himself under his blanket. The blanket was shaking so violently that I didn’t know if he was crying or shivering with cold. I went over to cover him with a second blanket, and then I sat beside the blanket and tried to explain your decision.”
Balian looked at her in wordless anguish.
“I said that you loved us too much to let us die when there was a means of escape—but also too much to leave us a legacy of shame. I told him you had no choice, as an honorable man, but to defend Jerusalem. I explained that had you slunk away to safety, leaving Jerusalem and the other Christians in captivity, that you would have thrown away something more precious than life itself—your honor.”
“Did John understand that?” Balian asked with a glance toward his son, who was currently scuffling with his younger brother.
“He never answered me directly, but he eventually went still and fell into a deep sleep. We never spoke of it again.”
“And the others?” Balian pressed her.
“All reacted in their own way. Margaret started wetting her bed again. Philip has been particularly rebellious, and Helvis took to prayer.”
“Do you think Helvis is suited to a religious vocation?” Balian asked, glancing at his eldest child, who was still the most timid of the four.
“Perhaps, but it’s too soon to tell.”
“Yes, of course.” Balian was thinking that he had nothing with which to dower either of his daughters, and that their future was therefore bleak. To distract himself he suggested to his wife, “Tell me the gossip from Eschiva.”
The infuriated Sultan had put the Marquis de Montferrat in chains, but he had gallantly released Queen Sibylla. Balian cynically noted that Salah ad-Din knew perfectly well that she enjoyed neither respect nor support among the defenders of Tyre. Her presence in the besieged city was nothing but an awkward burden. “He’s sent us a gift he knows we didn’t want,” Balian summed it up.
No one, however, had been less pleased by the arrival of Queen Sibylla in Tyre than Eschiva. As the wife of the Constable of Jerusalem, it was her duty to serve the Queen, particularly since there were so few other ladies of rank in the city. Balian had not been included in the ensuing drama, but the house was too small and crowded for secrets. Balian knew that Isabella had spiritedly advised Eschiva to refuse Sibylla’s summons, reminding her of Sibylla’s earlier slights and insults. “She’s a selfish bitch!” Isabella declared emphatically, earning reprimands from Eschiva but (notably, Balian thought) not from her mother. Eschiva had dutifully gone to the Queen, reminding Isabella, “She was in Aleppo. Maybe she’ll have news from our husbands.”
Maria Zoë sighed. “Are you sure you want to hear all this feminine gossip?”
“Absolutely,” Balian assured her.
“Well, we can start with the fact that dear Sibylla never left the comfortable apartments put at her disposal and could not say a word about Aimery’s condition.”
“Selfish bitch!” Balian spat, echoing his stepdaughter’s sentiments.
“She could report, however, that my dear son-in-law has managed to ingratiate himself with his jailers and is accorded totally different treatment from the others. He is housed separately
, has access to the baths and other conveniences, and now dresses like an Arab scholar, while spending most of his time with one of the Sultan’s secretaries.”
Balian was gazing at his wife with an expression somewhere between outrage and disbelief. “Tell me you jest.”
Maria Zoë slowly shook her head. “Sadly, I do not. And it gets worse. He escorted Sibylla and the Marquis de Montferrat here and did the translation at the negotiations with Conrad. Conrad didn’t know him, of course, and assumed he was a blond Mamluke.” Since Mamlukes were bought or captured as boys, many were blond.
“Jesus God! Has Humphrey converted?”
“No, not according to Sibylla, but now comes the real news: while in captivity with Guy, Sibylla managed to get herself pregnant—”
“Holy Mother of God!”
“Which was why Guy ordered her to leave him, in the hope that the child she was carrying would be born in freedom—”
“That’s the first sensible thing Guy’s done since he set foot in the Kingdom,” Balian commented.
Maria Zoë smiled cynically and continued, “However, Sibylla lost the baby on the way here.”
Balian said nothing. That was good news as far as he was concerned. He did not want to see Guy’s claim to the throne strengthened by a child, particularly since he did not think a child born to two such parents would amount to much. It would probably combine Sibylla’s stupidity with Guy’s cupidity, he thought.
Maria Zoë was continuing, “Understandably, Sibylla is still deeply dispressed. She’s convinced herself, though there is no way of knowing so early in the pregnancy, that the child was a boy. She variously blames Guy for sending her away, the Sultan for the arduous travel, and God for abandoning her.”
“Everyone but herself, it seems.”
“Quite, but, it seems, Conrad’s brother William wrote Conrad rather intimate—and none too complimentary—details about his marriage to Sibylla. Furthermore, he accused Sibylla of being a bad mother and all but murdering his brother’s child. It escalated into a huge fight, with Sibylla screaming hysterically and Conrad shouting insults back. Eventually Sibylla started screaming that she wanted to go back to Guy—which, of course, Conrad flatly refused to let her do.”
Envoy of Jerusalem Page 11
