Envoy of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  Ahead of them the children had come to a T-intersection and were loudly demanding directions. Maria Zoë and Balian dropped their conversation and joined the children. Taking a daughter by each hand, Balian led the way to the glassmakers’ quarter of Tyre.

  Glassworking was a luxury that a city under siege could not afford, and the glassmakers had boarded up their workshops and either left the city or taken up arms in its defense. Two of these workshops, side by side, had been leased out to Godwin and Mariam for their respective trades, but the accommodations on the floors above were long since occupied to overflowing by other refugees. The couple and Sven therefore lived in the vaulted storerooms behind the workrooms.

  The smell of cinnamon and apples greeted them as they approached the pastry shop, and Helvis dropped her father’s hand to run forward, her sister and Philip at her heels. Mariam had already taken on two apprentices, and they manned the wooden counter, wearing crisp white aprons and neat white head scarves. They did not recognize the Ibelin children, but the arrival of the Dowager Queen produced palpable excitement. Their chatter brought Mariam out of the back, bright red and sweating from working near the oven. She at once wiped her hands on her apron and came forward to greet her exalted customers. Soon she was busily ordering her best for the Ibelin children.

  Balian left his wife and younger children to the sweets, and with John in tow went next door to the armory. Godwin was at work at the anvil, while a hired youth worked the bellows of the forge. The armorer was concentrating so hard that he did not immediately take note of his visitors, and Balian gestured for John to be quiet and watch. “A skilled armorer is an artist,” he told his son in a low voice, inaudible to Godwin over the roaring of the forge.

  Godwin’s hammer clanged down and the blade of the sword he was working rang. There was rhythm to his blows, and the sword seemed to sing in counterpoint. Catching his father’s enthusiasm, John watched wide-eyed until they were both disturbed by men bursting into the forge from behind them.

  “Godwin!” a man roared, followed by a flood of words in an incomprehensible tongue that was both staccato and melodic. Godwin was startled from his concentration and turned to look over his shoulder at the intruders.

  The new arrivals surged past Balian and John, and John instinctively shrank back toward his father. These were big, powerful men in leather armor, and most of them had axes at their hips as big as ox heads. More to the point, they looked as if they’d just come out of a fight with a collection of cuts, bruises, swelling eyes, and bloody chins. A couple of them were nursing real wounds under oozing bandages as well.

  Godwin saw Balian and John surrounded by the tattered, stinking, fighting men, and his eyes widened. “Haakon Magnussen! Don’t you know whom you just shoved aside?” he called out in French. “That’s my lord of Ibelin!”

  The man directly beside Balian stopped short, turned, and looked straight at Balian. “Well,” he grunted in passable French, “you’re the first man out here that I don’t have to look down on.” He might have been referring to Balian’s height, which put them eye to eye, but Balian had the feeling that he meant it figuratively instead.

  “My lord, Haakon Magnussen commands the Norse snecka out in the harbor.”

  “The one that ran the blockade five days ago?” Ibelin asked back.

  Salah ad-Din had resumed the full-scale siege of Tyre on November 26, only four days after Balian and the other refugees from Jerusalem arrived, but it had not been until December 10 that the Egyptian fleet had arrived offshore and instituted a sea blockade as well. Tyre, which until then had been able to receive supplies, reinforcements, and news, was now completely cut off from the rest of the world by land and by sea. Only one ship had slipped past the Egyptian war galleys: a Norse snecka, which had somehow evaded the Saracen ships in the dead of night.

  “The same—and we would have run the blockade again last night in the opposite direction if that son-of-a-Pisan-whore Montferrat hadn’t stopped us! The Queen of Jerusalem promised us one hundred gold bezants to get her out of this piss-pot and land her safely at Tripoli, but Montferrat somehow got word of her intentions. His men ambushed us on the quay before we could even go aboard, and two of my men were killed in the ensuing struggle. May his putrid soul rot in hell! I came here to fight Saracens, not Pisan sailors and French archers!”

  “What happened to the Queen of Jerusalem?” Ibelin asked, cutting through the grumbled curses of the Norsemen’s men, who were echoing their commander’s sentiments.

  “Montferrat’s men put a sack over her head—literally—and carried her off kicking and screaming. Well, they silenced her fast enough. Stuck something in her mouth, I presume, or just knocked her out. I was too busy keeping myself from getting gutted by those Pisan bastards to notice much more than that she suddenly went silent.”

  Balian didn’t like the sound of that, although part of him couldn’t help noting that Sibylla’s death would solve a lot of problems. “Thank you for the intelligence,” he told the Norseman with a nod of his head. Then, turning to Godwin he noted, “These customers have more urgent need of your services than I, it seems, but when you have time, let me know. My hauberk is in need of repair.”

  “Of course, my lord!” Godwin readily agreed, and turned to take the ax Magnussen was handing him.

  Balian turned to leave, but his son was gazing at the Norsemen with a wonder that was not to Balian’s liking. These men might all wear crosses, but to Balian’s mind they were little better than Vikings. “Come along, John!” he ordered sharply, and firmly pulled the boy away from their evil influence.

  Tyre, Christmas Eve 1187

  The rains had let up, replaced by a “cold snap” that was far above freezing but still seemed chilling to the inhabitants of Outremer. The grooms were bundled up in the warmest clothes they owned, and the horses were exceptionally frisky. Ibelin stepped out into the alleyway beside the house to get out of everyone’s way while they tacked up the horses. His household had been invited to a Christmas feast hosted by Montferrat at the archiepiscopal palace. Dinner would be followed by midnight Mass at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. The very name seemed like mockery to Balian as he waited in the silent street under the glittering canopy of the night sky.

  It hardly seemed credible that just a year ago he and Maria Zoë had celebrated Christmas in the Church of the Nativity at Bethlehem. They had been avoiding Sibylla and Guy’s court, and instead of going to the traditional Christmas court at Jerusalem, they had accepted Guillaume de Hebron’s hospitality to spend the Christmas season in Hebron. They had taken Helvis and John to experience Christmas in Bethlehem for the first time—never thinking it might be the last time as well, for all of them. Just as they might never see Jerusalem or Ibelin again. . . .

  Balian sighed and tried to shake off his memories. What did Ibelin and Jerusalem matter, when it was beginning to look as if their very lives and freedom were in danger? Even if the city was not yet feeling the effects of the siege too intensely, the situation was getting increasingly untenable. Montferrat, to give credit where it was due, had confiscated the bulk of the city’s warehouses to ensure grain was neither wasted nor sold at usurious prices, but he had in the past purchased important staples such as wine, olive oil, and salt from Cyprus. Those supplies were now cut off. Furthermore, Godfrey had confided to Balian that Mariam’s sugar supplies, brought with her from Jerusalem, would also soon be depleted. She’d used almost everything she had left for the Christmas sweets that would be served tonight. It was safe to assume that the situation was similar for others who had come to Tyre with all their stores. In short, with each passing day the number of people dependent on the rations Montferrat doled out increased, and those reserves were drawn down faster and faster. Balian had already heard rumors that some taverns were getting short of both ale and wine.

  Meanwhile, and more important, Salah ad-Din had stepped up his assaults on the city’s defenses ever since Conrad had refused to surrender the city in exc
hange for his father’s life. Each time an assault failed, the Sultan paraded the aging Marquis de Montferrat before the walls, dressed in nothing but rags and heavy chains. Just yesterday, after yet another failed attack, the Saracens had not only paraded the old man, they had chased him with whips until he stumbled over his chains and then made him crawl. Salah ad-Din clearly hoped to soften the heart of the prisoner’s son.

  Ibelin was relieved that Montferrat had remained obdurate so far, yet he found the spectacle heart-rending nevertheless. The sight also reminded him how much they would all be at the Sultan’s mercy if no help came from the West before one of the Sultan’s assaults succeeded. At least in Jerusalem, he had known that Maria Zoë and the children were safe. . . .

  “What are you thinking, Uncle Balian?” Eschiva’s voice startled him from his thoughts, and he turned to smile guiltily at his niece.

  Eschiva was wrapped in a leather cloak lined with otter fur that fastened at her neck with a heavy silver brooch. She wore a wool scarf wrapped around her head to keep her ears warm, and wool mittens on her hands. She slipped one of her hands through his elbow and asked earnestly, “Do you think the Count of Tripoli will send a second relief effort?”

  Four days ago, the lookouts on the northern watchtowers of Tyre had watched in frustration as ten galleys sent from Tripoli to break the blockade had encountered such ferocious headwinds that after fighting wind and waves for almost a day, they had given up and turned back.

  “Hard to say,” Balian answered honestly; “it will depend on how much damage the ships sustained. I’d say the chances are high that they will need substantial repairs and a refit before they can put to sea again.”

  “And Antioch?” Eschiva asked in an almost inaudible voice.

  Balian looked down at her sharply. Eschiva’s face was very strained, and it struck him that it wasn’t just enduring Sibylla’s whining and complaining or concerns for her captive husband that was eating away at her youth and substance. “Wouldn’t you have thought my father would have made some effort to come to our rescue?” As she put the thought into words, the tears were in her voice, though not on her face.

  Balian’s brother, Eschiva’s father, had preferred to abdicate his baronies rather than pay homage to Guy de Lusignan. As a highly respected nobleman, however, he had been welcomed at the court of Prince Bohemond of Antioch. He no doubt felt Hattin vindicated his judgment of King Guy, but it was hard to understand how he could also turn his back on his daughter and grandchildren. “It is odd,” Balian admitted cautiously, “that we have heard nothing from him, but I would not assume he has forgotten us.” He knew this was Eschiva’s fear.

  “No?” Eschiva asked, with an expression that suggested she thought he was trying to coddle her.

  “I fear Barry may be seriously ill or already dead.”

  “Or maybe he’s just married again and doesn’t care about us anymore,” she put her suspicions into words.

  “You are being unfair, Eschiva,” Balian told her sternly. “Barry desperately wanted a son and because of that he slighted you—I don’t deny that—but he loved you, too.”

  “Maybe. And Aimery, do you think he loves me?”

  This conversation was taking unpleasant turns and becoming increasingly uncomfortable for Balian. He was prepared to speculate about and defend his brother’s feelings, but felt considerably less qualified to talk about the Constable’s. He avoided a direct answer by asking instead, “Why do you doubt it?”

  Eschiva shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “He had affairs, you know.”

  “He’s certainly not having affairs now,” Balian shot back, adding, “If there is one thing a man needs when in captivity, it is the assurance of his wife’s fidelity. I’m sure Aimery is clinging to the thought of you and yearning for a reunion. His current situation will make him regret every dalliance all the more intensely, because he knows you alone can bring him home.”

  “Can I, Uncle Balian? Can I bring him home? How? I’m utterly dependent on your charity.” Eschiva was close to tears again, and Balian recognized that she was close to breaking down. She was usually so self-effacing, dutiful, and calm that one tended to forget she also had a fragile heart and overly strained nerves. In response, he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Eschiva, you aren’t charity! You are as much a part of my family as Isabella or my own children. Together we will find a way to obtain Aimery’s freedom.”

  “And Humphrey’s?” Isabella asked pointedly, as she emerged from the stables leading her mare.

  Eschiva immediately stepped back out of Balian’s embrace, as if she were ashamed of the moment of weakness she had shown, and hurried back inside to get her mare. Isabella came up beside her stepfather and looked up at him. “What about Humphrey?” she asked again pointedly.

  “Humphrey’s mother has the means to set him free!” Balian answered in exasperation. “I don’t!”

  Isabella’s lips narrowed and she snapped back, “Stephanie de Milly would rather see Humphrey dead than surrender Kerak—and so would you!”

  “Isabella!” It was he mother’s commanding voice. “Don’t use that tone of voice when speaking to my lord of Ibelin!”

  “But it’s true, Mama!” Isabella spun around on her mother. “He doesn’t care about Humphrey. He never has!”

  “Humphrey has done precious little to win my lord husband’s respect,” Maria Zoë replied firmly. “And this is no night to pick a fight with anyone. We should be celebrating the birth of our Savior, not squabbling like spoiled children.”

  Eloise had followed Maria Zoë out of the house, while Georgios was bringing Balian’s stallion, so the conversation came to a natural end, but the tension lingered in the air as they mounted up and started down the street to the clatter of hooves on cobbles.

  The archiepiscopal palace was well lit by torches along the outside wall and in the courtyard. The horses were taken from them and led across the street to a livery, while young boys carrying lanterns led the arriving guests in relays up to the main hall. The Dowager Queen of Jerusalem and her daughter Princess Isabella were immediately ushered to the high table, where they were greeted with great gallantry by Conrad de Montferrat. Isabella was placed to his left because her half-sister Sibylla, as the reigning Queen of Jerusalem, was already seated to Montferrat’s right. Since the Archbishop of Tyre had sailed to the West with the news of the defeat at Hattin, the highest-ranking prelate in Tyre was the Bishop of Beirut. He was seated on Isabella’s far side, while Ibelin was accorded the dubious honor of sitting on Sibylla’s right hand with his wife on his other side, flanked by the Bishop of Sabaste, another refugee.

  Maria Zoë detested Sibylla—and vice versa—so the ladies exchanged only the barest of outward courtesies, while Isabella and Sibylla made a show of touching cheeks for the people at the lower tables—although anyone who could see their expressions could easily read the dislike they bore one another.

  Given the atmospherics at the high table, Eschiva was relieved to find she and Eloise were relegated to the lower tables. Eloise sought a place with some nuns, while Eschive sat next to Sir Bartholomew. He gallantly helped her over the bench and reached down the table for wine, which he poured into her waiting glass goblet. Eschiva had lived with Balian and Maria Zoë as a child and had known Sir Bartholomew since then. She had only come to value him, however, since her arrival in Tyre. When the Sultan had sent his bodyguard to escort Maria Zoë and Isabella out Jerusalem, she and her children had gone with them. It had all happened so fast and unexpectedly that no one had really been prepared for suddenly being refugees in Tyre. The ladies had been grateful when the knights who had escaped Hattin with Uncle Balian rallied around them and provided not just protection but a sense of household and support. No one had been more of a source of reassurance and comfort in those uncertain weeks before Uncle Balian joined them than Sir Bartholomew.

  “Did you get the children settled, my lady?” Sir Bartholomew asked with a gentle smile, one
that suggested he knew Eschiva bore the brunt of keeping the youngest members of the household happy. These, with the resilience of youth, were more excited by the prospect of Christmas treats and caroling on the morrow than worried by the continued siege and the repeated assaults on the city. The assaults took place far away on the eastern walls, after all—and only John, who had questioned his father mercilessly about it, seemed to understand the implications of the word “blockade.”

  “As best I could, sir,” Eschiva answered, adding, “It’s kind of you to ask.”

  “A grandfather’s indulgence,” Sir Bartholomew answered sadly, and Eschiva caught her breath. While the children might rejoice, Christmas was clearly having a melancholy effect on the adults. Evidently, Sir Bartholomew had been thinking of his own lost family on this high feast day. “If only I didn’t know what the Arabs do to slave children,” he added, confirming Eschiva’s intuition.

  It was now her turn to offer comfort. Summoning her own waning courage, she laid her hand on Sir Bartholomew’s arm and declared firmly: “Hope is not lost, sir. The captain of that Norse snecka—that man over there—says that when he put in at Messina to take on water he heard that King William of Sicily is building a fleet to come to our aid. Furthermore, King William had personally sent messengers to his father-in-law of England, demanding a vigorous response. We need only hold out until next summer, and we are bound to be reinforced by the finest knights in Christendom.”

  “You do well to remind me of it,” Sir Bartholomew answered, before sighing deeply and admitting, “But all I can think about is that my grandchildren will not even hear the bells this Christmas, much less see the mummers and dance carols. Nor will they sup on stuffed goose, baked apples, and frumenty,” he continued, waving in the direction of the platters being brought in from the kitchens. “Indeed, I can’t be sure they will not go hungry. On this sacred day they may be burdened with labor while their stomachs growl from emptiness. It takes my appetite away,” the old knight admitted, pushing his trencher away and sighing deeply.