“Olafsen collected the spent arrows and conducted a very thorough investigation. There was not one other crossbow bolt anywhere. Only one was shot, and it was shot at you with a poisoned tip. That’s convincing evidence to me,” Maria Zoë replied firmly.
Balian had to concede mentally that she was right, but he was not yet sure what to make of it. Usually, only kings were the target of assassins. . . .
Chapter 6
Tyre, March 1188
“I CAN HANDLE HIM! I CAN handle him!” John insisted furiously.
It was a beautiful, sunny day, and Balian was taking a patrol into the surrounding countryside for forage and reconnaissance. John had asked not only to come along, but to ride Balian’s aging destrier, Centurion.
The request wasn’t completely unreasonable. There had been no sign of the enemy since January. Many refugees had moved outside the walls of Tyre and were gradually building a substantial (if indefensible) town of adobe, wood, and stone on the mainland. Ibelin, meanwhile, had fenced off pasture for his horses and was trying to keep them and his knights fit and trained. They had a riding ring for training the young horses, a tiltyard to hone their own skills, and an archery range for the archers. John came out with the men every day and had ridden Centurion in the ring many times.
With the loss of their land, neither Ibelin nor Maria Zoë had any income, but they still had substantial expenses. Maria Zoë had cleverly exploited the insecurity of the ruling despot of Cyprus (a distant relative who styled himself “Emperor of Cyprus” and claimed to represent the “legitimate” Emperor against the usurper in Constantinople) to sell her coronation crown at an enormous price. Her crown had come from the Imperial treasury in Constantinople, was Greek in style, and had been part of her dowry. Sibylla, naturally, had been crowned with the traditional Latin crown of Jerusalem, and Maria Zoë had retained possession of her crown—until she sold it to Isaac Comnenus.
The proceeds of this sale would keep the whole household clothed, fed, and equipped for at least six months, but Balian had been quick to point out that she had only one crown to sell. Maria Zoë countered that she next planned to sell to the Cypriot “Emperor” her jewel-studded coronation robes for his wife or daughter. But the sale of his wife’s jewels could never be more than a stopgap, and Ibelin was obsessed with finding a sustainable means of maintaining his family and household. He placed his hopes in his horses.
Trained destriers often cost a knight’s annual income, even in the West. Good destriers commanded an even higher price in Outremer, because many horses failed to survive the rigors of sea travel or the climate and conditions once they arrived. As a result, many a rich and powerful nobleman—and many more knights—found themselves without a mount in Outremer. A knight or noble without a horse was worthless. New arrivals had been known to pay half a fortune for little better than a broken-down nag.
There had been a steady stream of promises of help from the West, and some early recruits, like Haakon Magnussen, had already trickled in, but Ibelin hoped that when the Mediterranean opened again for long-range traffic, the trickle would become a flood. If he could have several first-rate destriers ready for sale, he calculated, the combined proceeds from Maria Zoë’s jewels and his horses would to get them through a full year or more. After that, it was a matter of breeding and training more colts indefinitely.
The barony of Ibelin had had a good stud, and Shoreham and Maria Zoë between them had rescued the bulk of the brood mares and some of the older colts. Although they had lost some of the older stallions and mares and the youngest foals (those not able to travel at the pace or distance required), they had the makings of a good herd.
That said, Ibelin had lost his younger destrier, and he and all his knights had lost their palfreys at Hattin, so they were themselves very short of horses. The bulk of his grooms had preferred to continue to Tripoli and Antioch, so Ibelin, his knights, and their squires had to do the training themselves. Not all of them were suited to the task.
With Ibelin concentrating on training two promising three-year-old colts, exercising Centurion had fallen to the eager John. Balian had been pleased to discover that John not only loved horses, but was a natural rider. He seemed glued to the saddle (once he managed to get into it), and he had rapidly developed a rapport with the old warhorse, who (Balian swore inwardly) was more docile and calm for John than ever he had been for Balian.
Still, Centurion had always been prone to shying when confronted with something unexpected or new. The first time he’d seen the sea almost a decade earlier, he’d nearly killed both Balian and himself in his panicked about-face and bolt across the dunes near Ibelin. Furthermore, this was a reconnaissance patrol, and there was always the risk of running into the enemy. With the weather improving, Salah ad-Din, too, might feel it was time to resume the offensive. For a start, Salah ad-Din was known to be besieging Belfort Castle, which still held out under Reginald de Sidon.
“The only way to find out if John can handle Centurion in open country is to try,” Eskinder suggested (unhelpfully, from Balian’s perspective).
Balian snapped back, “It was because Ernoul couldn’t handle Thor that I was late to the rendezvous at Le Fevre, which led to the massacre at the springs of Cresson, which in turn led to—”
“The fall of the Kingdom, no doubt,” Sir Bartholomew interrupted with a wink at John. “We know. It was all Ernoul’s fault. But now there’s no kingdom left to lose. Let John come along. The sooner he learns about reconnaissance, the better.”
“We can bring him home at the first sign of trouble,” Sir Galvin chimed in.
“Please, my lord!” John pleaded earnestly, using the formal “my lord” as he always did in front of his father’s knights, and stroking Centurion’s neck.
There was no point threatening punishment if something went wrong. If something went wrong it would bring a catastrophe worse than any punishment. Fearing that he was losing his nerve and turning into an old woman, Ibelin reluctantly agreed.
John beamed at him and scrambled up on the mounting block to fling himself into the saddle. Ibelin signaled for Eskinder to bring him one of the colts he was training, and within minutes they were riding out onto the road, a party almost fifty strong. They wore hauberks but no chausses, and although they rode with their coifs over their heads, their helmets hung from their pommels. They were not expecting trouble, but they were prepared for it.
They rapidly left behind the large, flat apron around Tyre, still scarred by the perimeter ditches and improvised mud walls of the Sultan’s army. The entire area was littered with discarded equipment and broken weapons. It had been a trampled morass throughout January, but it was now sprouting grass, a testimony to how rapidly the land recovered on this fertile, coastal plain.
As they turned onto the road leading north to Sidon, Beirut, and Tripoli, the footing became harder, enabling the company to take up a trot. John rode between his father and Sir Bartholomew. Centurion, used to leading, snapped irritably when the younger horse edged a little ahead of him. The young stallion flattened his ears and snapped back, causing Centurion to squeal and swing his haunches for a kick.
“Get your horse back under control!” Ibelin ordered his son sharply, “Or I’ll send you right back to the stables!”
“But—” John started to protest, then he clamped his mouth shut. Still glaring at his father, he bent and told Centurion: “Behave yourself, or we’ll both be sent home!”
The knights around them laughed, but Ibelin did so ruefully. He’d always talked to Centurion, too.
“The outer town is growing up very fast,” remarked one of the younger knights, looking over his shoulder at the improvised city spreading north along the coast.
“I’ve heard some of the refugees who first continued to Tripoli have returned,” another knight reported. “They prefer to live out here where they have more space and can plant kitchen gardens. They figure if Salah ad-Din returns, they’ll still have time to get back inside Tyre.”
&n
bsp; Ibelin reflected inwardly that all that depended on how suddenly and stealthily the enemy attacked. But that was not his problem, he told himself, turning his attention to the countryside around them. It was green from the winter rains and already going wild—although some men had found plows and draft horses and were starting to till the coastal plain all the way to the banks of the Litani. It was good, fertile soil—just as at Ibelin, Balian reflected—but it was very late for planting, and success would depend on late rains.
At this thought he searched the skies, and registered that rain might indeed be in the offing. It was certainly worth trying to farm, he reflected. While the land belonged to the Archbishop of Tyre and the men tilling it would owe him rent, the prices they would command with their harvest—if they had one—would more than compensate them.
Ibelin was so distracted by the men attempting to cultivate the soil so late in the season that Sir Galvin saw them first. With a grunt of alarm he called out, “Riders! Coming down the Litani from the east!”
“And wearing armor!” Sir Bartholomew added, seeing the glint of sun on steel.
Sir Galvin was already reaching for his helmet, while Ibelin cursed inwardly. He’d known better than to bring John. His instincts had been right. He had to start trusting them again. Aloud he only barked, “John, go back!”
“But, my lord—”
Ibelin backhanded his son so hard that the boy reeled in the saddle and came up with a bleeding nose.
“Back, now!” Ibelin ordered a second time.
Resentfully John turned a reluctant Centurion around, so angry that he kicked and jerked unnecessarily.
Meanwhile the other knights donned their helmets and Sir Galvin reported, “Twenty to thirty is my guess.”
“They’ve got a banner. Can you decipher it?” Sir Bartholomew asked the younger knight, while Ibelin shaded his eyes and tried to answer the same question.
“The shape is not Saracen,” Ibelin decided out loud. “The banner is Frankish—but that might be a ruse, of course.”
“Or they may be knights from Belfort,” Sir Bartholomew suggested cautiously. “They’re coming from the right direction.”
“They would have had to ride through Salah ad-Din’s army to get here. . . .” Ibelin reached for his own helmet and pulled it on, making it fast before declaring: “Let’s go find out.”
They picked up a canter, leaving a dejected John struggling to keep Centurion from following.
The riders coming toward them had evidently seen and recognized Ibelin’s troop, for they too took up a canter. The two parties of horsemen closed at a good rate, and Ibelin soon distinguished the banner of Sidon. The armor of the riders was likewise Frankish, yet it wasn’t until he could see their faces that Ibelin was fully convinced this was not a ruse.
Both parties drew up, and Ibelin was face to face with Reginald de Sidon. He had known Sidon all his life. Sidon and his elder brother Hugh had been friends, and Sidon had married his brother’s widow. Sidon was roughly twenty years older than Balian, and fast approaching sixty. He had been one of a handful of knights, and the only other baron, to break out with Tripoli early in the Battle of Hattin. He had gone to Tyre, but he had been badly demoralized, and it had been rumored (although Ibelin had never been convinced) that he had intended to surrender the city. The arrival of Montferrat had, at all events, turned the tide. Sidon had left Tyre to defend his inland castle of Belfort, which lay on the border between the baronies of Sidon and Galilee. Ibelin had not seen him since.
The sight of the older man shocked him now. Ibelin knew he too had aged—he had white streaks in his hair, and his expression had hardened—but Reginald de Sidon looked like an old and broken man. He could hardly sit upright in his saddle, his shoulders hunched, and curiously he was not using his stirrups. Instead he let his feet hang loose. His hair had thinned so much that half his scalp was exposed, and his eyes were sunken in a colorless face with a scraggly red-grey beard.
“My lord of Sidon!” Ibelin exclaimed, in both salutation and shock.
“Ibelin! Thank God it’s you!” Sidon choked out in a voice that was gravelly and breathy, as if he’d been shouting or drinking all night. “I beg your hospitality.”
“What I have is yours, my lord, but I have almost nothing. My lord of Tripoli—”
“I don’t think I can make it that far,” Sidon gasped out. “I need—rest. Please!” He reached out a gnarled hand and laid it on Ibelin’s arm.
The wrist, exposed because he had reached out, was raw and bleeding between new scabs formed over similar wounds. Ibelin stared at it and then lifted his eyes back to Sidon in a horrified question.
“He tortured me, Ibelin. Hung me from my wrists and put burning irons to the soles of my feet. I tried to bite my own tongue out rather than give in, but I—I broke. I ordered the surrender of Belfort.”
“Salah ad-Din ordered this?” Ibelin asked, horrified.
“Yes, the ‘chivalrous’ Salah ad-Din himself,” Sidon confirmed.
“But how did you fall into his hands?” Ibelin asked, still confused.
“He tricked me. Gave me a safe-conduct, and then broke it.”
A shudder went down Balian’s spine. He too had trusted in a safe-conduct from Salah ad-Din. This could have been him. Out loud he announced, “We’ll get you back to Tyre and into the care of my lady and household. How many are with you?” He lifted his eyes to count the men riding with Sidon.
“There are just eighteen of us left. Most made for Tripoli and Antioch,” Sidon explained.
A click woke Sidon from his doze, and his eyes snapped open to take in warm sunlight flooding through the thick, yellowish panes of glass set in the window. The room was small by castle standards but elegantly appointed, with glazed green and white tiles in a checkerboard pattern and green-trimmed wooden paneling on the walls. Best of all, the box bed built into the wall was soft and cozy.
Following the sound, Sidon saw a serving girl backing into the room carrying a tray. She was dressed neatly in a blue wool gown with a starched and bleached linen surcoat, while her hair was saucily braided with what looked like bright satin ribbons. They were a bit cheeky for a serving girl, he thought disapprovingly—until the girl turned around, and he realized it was Ibelin’s eldest daughter Helvis.
He tried to right himself in his bed, combing at his hair with his fingers and pulling the sheets up to cover his skeletal body. “What are you doing carrying trays about, my child?” he asked as she advanced to set the tray down on the little table beside the bed.
“Mama says we’re poor now and we all have to do our bit,” Helvis answered firmly without a hint of shame or sorrow. “I don’t mind helping,” she added cheerfully. “Didn’t Christ teach us to be humble? Would you like me to pour ale for you? Mama keeps the wine for afternoon and so there’s only ale for breakfast. Well, the babies get milk, of course, and John still drinks it, too, but I hate milk. I prefer ale, or sometimes the cook presses oranges and lets me drink the juice. Or lemons with sugar, only we’re all out of sugar. Daddy says we have to hope ships come from Cyprus with sugar when the storms are over.”
Sidon let Helvis chatter away, completely content to listen to her prattle. She seemed so full of hope and optimism, despite her words, and it buoyed up his own spirits.
“. . . and I really wanted to adopt her,” Helvis was explaining with childish earnestness, “but Mama says she will not have a dog in this little house. She says I have to wait until we have a proper palace or castle again, but Daddy says we may never have a castle again. What do you think?” Helvis suddenly looked at him with her bright amber eyes. “Do you think we’ll ever defeat Salah ad-Din and recapture Ibelin?”
Sidon was spared the need to answer by the arrival of Queen Maria Zoë, who swept into the room, having apparently caught some of what Helvis had been saying. “Helvis!” she called sharply. “You were told to see if my lord of Sidon wanted some breakfast, not to talk his ear off with your idle chatter! My lo
rd, I beg your forgiveness. Helvis—”
“Has been a delight, my lady!” Sidon assured the child’s mother. “She has brightened up my morning and made me want to face the world again. You and Lord Balian must be very proud to have such a bright, cheerful, and devout daughter. ”
His words made Helvis blush and look down, embarrassed. Maria Zoë gave her eldest child a startled look, but then smiled and inclined her head to Sidon. “If she was not getting on your nerves . . .?”
“Not at all,” Sidon assured her.
“And you are feeling better this morning?”
“Very much, thanks to you and your lord’s kindness. The salve you had for my feet enabled me to sleep for the first time since I was tortured. The pain tormented me so much this past week that at night I could do nothing but thrash about in agony.”
The floorboards creaked and Ibelin loomed up behind Maria Zoë. Maria Zoë looked over her shoulder at him and reported, “My lord of Sidon is feeling better for a good night’s sleep.”
“And your daughter’s cheerful wakening,” Sidon added, smiling again at Helvis.
Ibelin entered the room, giving his eldest girl a rueful smile. He had always harbored secret fears that God would mark her in some way because she had been conceived in sin before Maria Zoë and he had received the sacrament of marriage. But God seemed to love her best in some ways, blessing her with an even temperament and innate optimism. She was the most obedient of his children, her younger sister Margaret being prone to temper tantrums and the two boys being, well, boys: generally rambunctious, mischievous, and occasionally defiant. She was physically timid, too, afraid even now of horses, but she was self-confident and precocious when it came to household tasks and book learning. This had led him to believe she might prefer a life in the Church. Without a dowry for her, however, it would be hard to find a convent willing to take her. Her best prospects lay with the Hospital, but Ibelin was reluctant to let her join an order that was so much at the forefront of the struggle. He could not—or did not want to—picture Helvis dealing with hundreds of mutilated and dying men in a city under siege. . . .
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