Eschiva shuddered and was at a loss for words. She sympathized far too intensely to utter stupid protests or offer facile assurances that all would be put right. Even if they received help from the West, who was to say it would be sufficient to liberate the lost territories? And even if they retook Jerusalem, that did not ensure the restoration of the captives. These were now scattered across Syria and Egypt, the property of the men who had served in the Sultan’s army but often held land as far away as Alexandria or Mosul. As for Sir Bartholomew’s daughters, Eschiva knew that the damage had long since been done. They had by now been raped so often that even if they were treated kindly, they were effectively whores. Unpaid whores, she corrected herself, without even the dignity of wages.
“I’m sorry,” Sir Barthomew pulled himself together. “I have no right to ruin your Christmas dinner.”
“Yes, you do,” Eschiva answered, meeting his sad eyes. “That is what this feast is about: the birth of the loving Christ who teaches us to share our burdens and give what comfort we can. I will pray for your daughters and their children tonight. I will beg Christ to reach out to them and all the children who have been taken from Him against their will. We cannot help them tonight or in the short term, but perhaps He can. I’m sure He will find a way to at least give them comfort.”
Sibylla retired early, unable to tolerate either the happiness of others when she was herself so miserable—or the way Conrad was openly making love to her half-sister. It would have shocked her to hear that most people who remembered her at Isabella’s age found Isabella’s behavior nothing short of saintly in comparison with her own. Isabella kept her eyes down modestly when Conrad addressed her, and she blushed more than once at the remarks he whispered in her ear. She certainly could not be heard giggling, nor did she snuggle up against his thigh, or lure him under the mistletoe—all things that Sibylla had done frequently in the years after the death of Conrad’s brother William but before her marriage to Guy de Lusignan.
Sibylla remembered none of that. She saw herself as a virtuous wife, suffering humiliation after humiliation at the hands of her hated brother-in-law—if the brother of a dead husband still rated the term. Furthermore, she was the reigning Queen of Jerusalem, but Conrad de Montferrat treated her hardly better than an unwanted guest, an impoverished widow perhaps, tolerated out of charity. Isabella, on the other hand, was waited on hand and foot, her merest whim read from her eyes before they could reach her lips. Her wine cup was never allowed to become even half empty, while her plate remained full to overflowing no matter how much she ate. Her every word was greeted with smiles, while her inane small talk was treated like brilliant repartee.
No, Sibylla couldn’t take it a moment longer. She stood abruptly, but had to shove back her chair loudly before Conrad even noticed and reluctantly got to his feet. Slowly the rest of the room likewise noted that their Queen was standing, and resentfully also rose.
Sibylla spun about and stalked out to the solar. As the door clunked shut behind her, she heard Conrad urging everyone to sit and resume the feast. They didn’t care in the slightest that their Queen had been snubbed and humiliated. They didn’t care that she had just lost a baby—the heir Jerusalem so urgently needed. They were all a bunch of stupid pigs! Bursting into tears, Sibylla fled to the chamber Conrad had reluctantly put at her disposal, utterly alone in the world she had made for herself.
Shortly before midnight, the Bishop of Beirut withdrew to prepare Mass. The tables had been cleared earlier and now the flow of wine ceased altogether. The guests washed their hands in the offered finger bowls, and as the bells chimed, they filed out of the banquet hall and crossed the courtyard to the Cathedral.
Eschiva took Sir Bartholomew’s elbow, and they stood side by side in the nave while the Mass was read almost inaudibly before the high altar. Eschiva did not need to hear the Mass. She was intent on saying prayers: first for Aimery’s health and release, next for the safety of her children, and then for Sir Bartholomew’s daughters and grandchildren.
As the Cathedral canons filed out at the end of Mass and the crowd slowly shuffled for the exit, Conrad de Montferrat grabbed Ibelin by the arm. “A word with you alone, my lord, if I might?”
Ibelin looked at the Marquis with raised eyebrows, but then gestured for Maria Zoë and Isabella to go ahead and nodded to Monferrat. The latter pulled him out a side door into the cloisters, abandoned at this hour and crisply cold.
“My lord,” Montferrat opened formally, “I’m not sure if you realize just how precarious our situation is.”
“How should I know? You’ve been miserly with information,” Ibelin noted caustically with raised eyebrows.
“And you’ve made yourself scarce!” Conrad snapped back. Since the day of his arrival, Ibelin had not once sought an audience with Montferrat, nor had he offered his sword to the city.
“I’m a refugee like thousands of others,” Ibelin replied with a shrug. “What else should I do but look to my family’s welfare?”
“You might try to assure their welfare by assisting in the defense of this city!”
“By recognizing you as my overlord?” Ibelin inquired with a hint of mockery in his voice. “I may be a pauper, Montferrat, but I’m not a mercenary.”
“You can’t mean to say you recognize that brainless peahen as your Queen!” Montferrat fumed, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the apartment he had assigned to Sibylla.
“Sibylla of Jerusalem is a crowned and anointed queen,” Ibelin answered soberly, before adding with an acid hiss, “She is also a duplicitous usurper. No, I don’t serve Sibylla or her jackanapes husband—not anymore.”
“Whom do you serve, then?”
“I try to serve Christ,” Ibelin admitted, and any hint of arrogance that might have been implicit in the words was utterly negated by his tone. It was late, and Balian was feeling the hopelessness of his situation more intensely than ever.
Montferrat considered the man opposite him and weighed his words carefully. “Surely,” he started cautiously, “you recognize the need to hold this city for Christ?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Then help me!” Montferrat flung out his plea like an order.
“How?”
Montferrat dropped his voice, “Listen to me! I may have put on a feast tonight, but our reserves are almost at an end. If we can’t break the blockade within a fortnight, we’ll have to start shortening rations. I was prepared for the Sultan’s army to return, but I never thought he’d cut off my lifeline to Cyprus! Christ knows, the Syrians are no seamen. And we’ve beaten the Egyptian fleet so often in the past, I never thought they could choke us like this. Now Tripoli has failed me, too! We’ve got to break the blockade—soon. That or overrun Salah ad-Din’s camp and force him to lift his siege.”
The latter was so obviously fantastical that Ibelin focused on the former. “Why don’t you ask your friends the Pisans to help you out?”
“Have you taken a look at their ships?” Montferrat shot back. “Merchantmen, all of them!” he explained. “There’s not a war galley among them. They have constructed makeshift hide screens on their skiffs to turn them into archery platforms, and using these they tried to capture one of the enemy galleys. They are not cowards, Ibelin, but in the end all they did was lose a dozen men.”
Ibelin nodded. Ernoul, who frequented the harbor taverns, had told him about this incident. “So, what do you think I might do? I’m no sailor.”
“I know, but there’s no denying that you command the respect of the men from here—from Outremer. Certainly you have the loyalty of the men you brought from Jerusalem. They have been idle ever since they got here—”
“Hardly,” Ibelin interrupted. “They all take their turn on watch—”
“Ha! I thought so!” Montferrat sounded triumphant. “You are keeping an eye on them.”
Ibelin could not deny that and fell silent, unsure where this was going.
“Listen, we need to set a trap for the Sult
an’s ships. Lure them into a sense of complacency and then attack. If we could somehow convince them that there were riots in the town, perhaps? Or spread rumors that the rich are going to make a break for safety and then lower the chain across the harbor entrance? If we did that, maybe they could be lured into a position where we could attack them with small boats in confined waters, or at least lure them inside the range of our crossbowmen on the harbor walls.”
Ibelin considered Montferrat with reluctant admiration. He was undoubtedly cunning, and this plan was clever. “Let me think about it,” he answered at length.
“What do you mean?” Montferrat asked tensely. “Will you help me or not?”
Ibelin paused long enough to see just how urgently Montferrat wanted his help, and then nodded. “I’ll help you, but this plan is far from ripe. We need to refine it. I’ll think about it and get back to you.”
“Soon!” Montferrat insisted, already sounding more imperative than he had a moment earlier.
“Soon,” Ibelin agreed, and then he nodded and took his leave.
Chapter 5
Tyre, December 26, 1187
ANY SHORTAGE OF WINE AND ALE was not yet noticeable in the narrow alleys behind the dockside warehouses. Here Christmas was still being celebrated in ways not sanctioned by the Church, and often in excess. The alleys, never particularly savory places at the best of times, smelled particularly foul—as many customers, unaccustomed to excess, had vomited into the gutters.
Four hooded men picked their footing carefully to avoid the puddles of piss and several unconscious drunks as they moved between the shabby buildings by the port. Detouring around one of the men lying in the gutter, one of the men collided with a pair of drunks coming the other way. The latter took instant umbrage and snarled, “Watch where you’re going, dunce!”
The insult instantly drew steel, and for a moment naked blades flashed in the dim light filtering from the shuttered windows of the buildings lining the alleyway. But the companions of the men who’d drawn intervened to calm tempers, and each party went their separate ways.
Around the next corner, the four men reached the establishment they were looking for and slipped out of the crisp darkness of the winter night into the murky light of an overheated tavern. A fire was booming in a large fireplace, spilling smoke into the room, and the tables were lit by cheap tallow candles that also smoked badly. The smell of stale ale and spilled wine mixed with the fatty smell of candles, but the scents oozing from the kitchen were not displeasing. Furthermore, a hefty woman was diligently wiping off the tables with a wet cloth in an effort to keep things moderately clean. As harbor taverns went, this was one of the “better” places.
The four hooded men found a place at a vacant table and sat down warily, looking suspiciously at their surroundings—at least three of the four men did. The slightest and youngest of them, on the other hand, was obviously familiar with both his surroundings and the landlord. He raised his hand and waved for service, and the proprietor came over with a smile. “Where have you been keeping yourself, Ernoul, my lad? I’ve had customers asking for you.”
“I’ve been busy,” the squire answered with evident pride. “The Marquis asked me to sing at his Christmas feast.”
“Pays better than my customers, eh? Better watch out, though—got competition these days.” Then without further explanation the landlord moved on to business by asking, “So what are you and your friends drinking?”
“What wine do you have?” one of Ernoul’s companions asked.
“Red and white,” the tavern owner answered simply.
After a baffled moment of silence, one of the new customers asked pointedly, “From where?”
“Haven’t a clue. Found it in a barrel in the warehouse out back. Didn’t seem to have an owner, so I adopted it.”
Silence greeted this announcement. It was too cheeky to be credible, but eloquently expressed the tavern-keeper’s intention not to reveal the source of the wine he sold. The landlord put a point on his position by concluding, “it’s your choice, sirs; you can drink it—or not.”
“White,” one of the men ordered, while two of the others opted for red and Ernoul ordered “the usual.”
“Anything to eat?” the landlord asked next.
“What have you got?”
“Umbles and leek stew, or kidney pies.”
The guests placed their orders and then leaned back to settle in—without, however, removing their hoods. The landlord brought their drinks and they tested them skeptically, only to be pleasantly surprised. They were speculating among themselves about the origin of the wine when another figure slipped into the tavern. The body hidden by the voluminous but filthy and tattered cloak was far too small for the garment, suggesting the latter had been made for someone else altogether. The newcomer approached the landlord, received a nod in reply, and then threw back the hood to reveal the long, braided hair of a girl. With a deep breath, the woman turned to face the tavern from the serving counter, and a moment later she lifted her head and began to sing. Her voice was so clear and beautiful it made every man in the room turn to stare at her, none faster than Ernoul.
This singer was not the usual tavern wench. She was neither buxom nor bold. Indeed, she kept her cloak clutched around her as she sang, revealing nothing but her face, while her eyes consciously avoided those of the customers by singing to the beams of the ceiling. The contours under the ragged cloak and the tiny, bird-like fingers that clutched it together suggested the girl was all skin and bones, with enormous eyes in a face too thin and triangular to be pretty.
After the initial surprise, most of the men returned to their respective conversations, but Ernoul could not tear his eyes away from the girl with the beautiful, melancholy voice—not even when a party of six other men loudly entered the tavern.
These men were clearly regular customers, and they called their orders to the landlord even before they settled at a table. Ernoul’s companions immediately stood to approach them, but Ernoul was too entranced by the singer to move. The girl had finished singing and was going from table to table holding out a tin cup in the hope of contributions. Ernoul was appalled to see that most of the customers just shook their heads or pointedly turned away. He started frantically digging in his purse.
“Ernoul!” one of his companions called.
“Coming!” he answered, stepping over the bench while still digging with his fingers in the bottom of his purse.
Behind him, one of his companions addressed the newcomers: “Haakon Magnussen?”
The blond Norseman kicked over his stool and sprang to his feet in a fluid motion, his hand already reaching for his ax. But as he unfolded to his full height and realized the man opposite him was just as tall as he, his pose relaxed. A smile seeped across his weathered face, and he bowed his head slightly. “Monsieur d’Ibelin, we meet again.”
“May we join you?”
“I don’t believe I know your companions,” the Norseman replied with a significant look at the two men flanking Ibelin, both of whom were broad-shouldered and wearing hauberks and swords.
“Sirs Bartholomew and Galvin, and the lad over there is my squire Ernoul.” “Ah, the boy with the golden voice. We need to teach him a few Norse drinking songs. Sit down.” The Norse captain indicated empty stools at his own table.
While his lord and the knights sat down at the Norseman’s table, Ernoul dropped every coin he had into the girl singer’s battered cup, whispering in breathless enthusiasm as he did so, “You have the voice of an angel! What’s your name?”
“Thank you, sir! Thank you!” The girl was bowing and clutching her cup to her chest as if afraid someone might take it from her or she might spill the contents. Her tone of voice and the look on her face could have been no more fervent if he had just saved her life. “God bless you, sir!”
“Ernoul, bring our mugs over here!”
“Your name, angel? Please!”
“Ernoul!”
“Co
ming, sir! Your name, angel?”
“Ernoul!”
Ernoul grabbed the mugs and hurried over to the other table, but he was looking over his shoulder at the girl singer. He thought he heard her say “Alys” but he didn’t catch her last name.
As he joined his companions, his lord was saying in a low voice: “Last time we met, Master Magnussen, you boasted you could run the blockade again.”
“That was no boast. I can run it anytime I want,” Haakon Magnussen retorted.
“Then why stay here?”
“We came here to fight Saracens and regain the Holy Sepulcher, not run away!” The Norseman’s words were seconded by his men, many of them thumping their fists on the table for emphasis.
“Then you would favor an attack on the Sultan’s fleet?”
“One to ten?” Magnussen raised his eyebrows.
“Those are the usual odds here in Outremer, sometimes less, sometimes more. I’ve led charges often enough against cavalry ten times as strong. But of course, I know nothing about naval warfare.”
“Obviously,” Magnussen replied.
“Then I have my answer,” Ibelin answered in a level tone as he started to get to his feet.
Magnussen clamped his hand on Ibelin’s forearm and stopped him in mid-motion. “What does that mean?”
“The Marquis and I want to break the blockade. We thought if we could plant rumors in the enemy camp of growing disaffection and then simulate riots by the harbor, we might be able to lure the Sultan’s ships closer. Salah ad-Din knows this city is most vulnerable from the sea, and he knows that if he could penetrate the harbor with his ships, our landward walls with their towers, moats, and barbicans would be worthless. If we could lure the Sultan’s ships into the confined waters of the outer harbor and then strike them, we thought we might have a chance of destroying one or two. That would then reduce the odds to something more favorable, no?”
Envoy of Jerusalem Page 13
