Envoy of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  Maria Zoë, however, had been so wounded by their fight earlier that she had been crying and reproaching herself for days. Her composure shattered instantly, and she broke down into tears, returning Isabella’s embrace and clinging to her as she stammered, “It’s my fault, too! I should never have let them take you away from me! I should have gone to the King myself! None of this would have happened if I had protected you from Agnes de Courtenay.”

  Balian stiffened, taking it as criticism, but Isabella opened her arms to pull him into them as well. Hugging him, too, she declared, “You did the best you could, Uncle Balian! I know you did! And you visited me as often as you could,” she reminded him.

  Then, drawing back a little, she looked from her mother (who was now wiping the tears from her face) to her stepfather (who was looking strained) and declared firmly, “I don’t want to think of Kerak, or Oultrejourdain. That is part of the past. It is time to think of the future. Please,” she indicated that they should come and sit down at a crude little table with two folding chairs flanking it; these were the only furnishings of her tent-chamber beyond the bed and a wicker chest for clothes.

  Balian took his wife’s arm again and escorted her to one of the chairs, but he remained standing behind it so Isabella could take the other seat. When Isabella was seated, she announced, “You will have heard that the Church council has declared my marriage to Toron null and void?”

  Her mother and stepfather nodded solemnly.

  “The Archbishop of Pisa also told me I was free to marry whomever I please.” Again Maria Zoë and Balian nodded warily. They had been talking all afternoon about what Isabella was likely to do. Would she insist on marrying Humphrey as an adult, or would she agree to set him aside?

  Isabella answered with a question: “That is not strictly true, is it?” She looked Balian straight in the eye as she said this.

  “No,” he answered candidly, “not if you want to be recognized as Queen of Jerusalem.”

  Isabella nodded and drew a deep breath. “As is right and proper, the High Court has chosen for me, have they not? It is their wish that I marry Conrad, Marquis de Montferrat.”

  “Yes, that is correct,” Balian confirmed.

  “But as the brother of my late sister’s former husband, some would say we are related within the prohibited degrees. Don’t you think?”

  “They might,” Balian admitted, tight-lipped and defensive. “But he’s the best we’ve got. This is about the survival of your kingdom.”

  “And there are more serious canonical obstacles than that,” Maria Zoë noted dryly. Surprised, Isabella looked over at her mother, and Maria Zoë continued, “Montferrat was married according to Greek rites to Theodora Angela, the sister of Emperor Isaac Angelus. He claims she has since renounced him, but I have been unable to verify it. My ties to Constantinople are not what they once were. I cannot in honesty assure you it is true, but we know for a fact that she is still alive.”

  “So Conrad may still be married to someone else, which would make his marriage to me bigamous, and make me nothing but a concubine?”

  “If it is true that his marriage to her has not been dissolved,” Maria Zoë added, “which it very well may be, since neither Emperor Isaac Angelus nor his sister Theodora has any reason to want her marriage to Conrad to continue in force.”

  “And you still think I should go through with this?” Isabella asked, a little shocked.

  There was a moment of embarrassed silence, when both Balian and Maria Zoë hoped the other would answer. Then Maria Zoë reached across the table and took Isabella’s hand as she said, “If you are not going to marry Conrad de Montferrat and seek to regain your kingdom, then why leave Humphrey? You could remarry him—your choice this time, and as a consenting adult.”

  They gazed at each other, woman to woman, while Balian went rigid with tension, holding his breath in horror at the thought. He knew Maria Zoë thought as he did, but he could also see that her heart, not her head, was guiding her now.

  Isabella had one last moment of doubt. She thought one last time about doing just that, but she could not. Humphrey had not been able to make a woman of her, and he had not been willing to fight for her. She didn’t believe he was unnatural or cowardly, so there had to be some deeper reason.

  The afternoon of prayer had revealed to her an answer. She met her mother’s eyes squarely as she explained, “Mama, I think Humphrey has always known he was not suited to be king. That is why he always tried to persuade me that I couldn’t—and shouldn’t want to—be Queen. He always called my aspirations “foolish” and “childish.” He did that to make me not want my inheritance.

  “At the same time, he knew it was my destiny—and that is why, in the end, he let me go. He didn’t fight for me. It was Humphrey as much as the Church tribunal that set me free to remarry. This marriage is for Jerusalem, but you need not be afraid that I dread it or fear it. I’m proud to do my duty for the good of my realm, but I’m also ready to become a woman, Mama. I have been ready for a long time.”

  Siege camp at Acre, November 25, 1190

  Rahel and Edith had spent much of the morning trying to brush dust and creases out of the embroidered silk gown Queen Maria Zoë had brought with her. It consisted of a long-sleeved kirtle made of cloth of gold, over which a sheer, high-waisted white silk surcoat embroidered with the crosses of Jerusalem was worn. The silk was so transparent that the gold kirtle glimmered through. The neckline was a band of heavily embroidered silk depicting the crosses of Jerusalem in a continuous band. The long, pleated sleeves were of the same silk as the surcoat and unlined, so that they too were transparent. At her hips, Isabella wore a belt studded with amethysts that hung down from the knot to her knee. On her head she wore nothing, and her hair had been brushed for nearly an hour so that it gleamed a reddish brown. Maria Zoë brought out a pair of large, elaborate amethyst earrings, which had been a gift from her own mother on the occasion of her marriage to King Amalric of Jerusalem.

  Maria Zoë bent and kissed Isabella on her forehead, then wordlessly threaded the earrings through her daughter’s earlobes and helped her to stand. Rahel held the curtain open for them, and they exited into the main section of the tent and from there out the main flap into the daylight.

  Several large canvas mats had been spread over the muddy ground to create a kind of improvised porch. The Archbishop of Pisa waited, attended by the Archbishop of Nazareth and the Archbishop of Mainz. Around the canvas porch a large crowd had gathered. The Lusignans were conspicuously absent, of course, but the sacred and secular members of the High Court of Jerusalem were jostling with the most prominent of the crusader lords: the Duke of Austria, the Duke of Burgundy, the Counts of Flanders and Champagne. . . .

  Isabella’s eyes met those of Henri de Champagne for a moment, but she quickly looked away. His gaze was filled with far too much sympathy, as if he felt she were in need of it. She focused instead on Conrad de Montferrat, who stood at the front of the crowd and at the sight of her, stepped onto the canvas. His eyes were fixed on her face, his expression tense. He was like a lion focused on his prey, she thought to herself. Then he smiled and bowed to her gallantly, and the lion was banished from thought.

  The Papal Legate signaled for the principals to come and stand before him. They turned their backs on the crowd and stood side by side. They weren’t touching, and yet Isabella was acutely conscious of Conrad’s presence. They bowed their heads as the Papal Legate raised his hand and blessed them, making the sign of the cross with his upraised fore and middle fingers. He called down God’s blessings on their heads and on their union. Then he took Isabella’s hand and placed it in Conrad’s. Each in turn repeated the marriage vow after the Papal Legate, and then the Archbishop pronounced them man and wife. A cheer went up from the crowd as they turned to face them.

  Behind her, the Archbishop of Nazareth called for silence. “My lords! Queen Isabella of Jerusalem!”

  Another cheer went up, and again the Archbishop cal
led for silence. Isabella glanced toward her mother, who nodded once, and then watched as her stepfather gestured for silence from the men around him. Stillness spread until the entire crowd waited with bated breath in anticipation.

  Isabella raised her head and projected her voice as far as she could. In the open air, that was not as far as she would have liked. To her own ears her voice sounded frail and high. “My lords! I stand before you, the last surviving child of King Amalric of Jerusalem. In my veins flows the blood of both Jerusalem and Constantinople. I claim by right of that blood the throne and crown of the Kingdom of Jerusalem!”

  They interrupted her with cheers of “Long live the Queen!”

  But again Ibelin quieted them so that Isabella could continue. “My lords, it is our duty to see that the Kingdom is resurrected from the ashes that it now is. Our duty is to see it restored to its former dignity!”

  This time their cheers were tinged with desperation.

  When they had calmed down again, she continued, “My lords, I pray that one day I can be anointed in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher—”

  They interrupted her to cheer again, drawing courage from their dreams, and she had to wait again before continuing.

  “But until that day, I beg you to demonstrate your support for me by taking the oath of homage due to me as your Queen.”

  Ibelin, of course, had been instrumental in suggesting she make this demand, and he moved promptly to lead his fellows. He was thus the first to go down on one knee before his stepdaughter and offer her homage for Ibelin, Ramla, Mirabel, and Nablus. When he stood and backed away, his place was taken by William of Tiberius for Galilee—whose enthusiasm was even greater than Ibelin’s, because he was younger and more easily inspired with hope. After that came Haifa and Sidon, and then each of the other lords of the defunct Kingdom. Their expressions varied from euphoric to sober, but no one hung back, until only one man was left. Toron was here after all, and he stood at the edge of the canvas staring at the woman he loved with an expression of such profound anguish that Isabella’s heart bled for him.

  Yet even so, she could not feel regret. Faced with his silent misery, she saw what Oultrejourdain had seen a decade earlier, and what Ibelin and the High Court had seen since: a young man of fragile beauty, fine emotions, and great intelligence—utterly unsuited to reign a kingdom won, held or lost with blood.

  “My lords!” She raised her voice over the chattering that was spreading through the already dispersing crowd. “My lords! My lord of Toron was as blameless as I in our unfortunate, invalid marriage. Therefore, it is only right that all the properties he surrendered to my brother at the time of our presumed marriage now be restored to him. As Queen, I hereby restore to him the baronies of Toron and Châteauneuf, for him and his heirs to hold in perpetuity, as soon as we have regained control of them.”

  Her words were greeted by general indifference. The Western lords were getting bored, while the lords of Outremer were more concerned with regaining their own baronies than those of the ineffectual Toron. People at the back were talking among themselves as they turned away. Beside her, Montferrat had taken hold of her elbow to propel her inside the tent for the wedding Mass.

  Isabella and Humphrey stared at one another for one last moment and one last silent exchange of thoughts. Humphrey shook his head. “I don’t want Toron,” his eyes told her. “I want you.”

  Isabella shook her head in answer. “No, Humphrey,” she told him mentally. “You want the little girl from Kerak. You don’t want Isabella, Queen of Jerusalem.”

  Montferrat was anxious to leave Acre. He had said from the start that he did not want Isabella in a siege camp, and although the weather was unseasonably mild at the moment, it was late November; the winter storms were overdue. They had to be expected shortly.

  As soon as they had taken the sacrament together, Montferrat hustled Isabella, still in her wedding gown, to a Pisan dromond waiting at the improvised quay of the siege camp. Magnussen’s ship was also lying alongside, Isabella noted, and she was pleased to see that her mother had already gone aboard, while her stepfather was on the quay giving instructions to Sir Bartholomew.

  The captain of the Pisan ship greeted Isabella at the foot of the gangplank with profuse courtesy and not a little excitement. Then he led her aboard his ship to a waiting cabin that was cramped but luxuriously appointed. Silk hangings covered the walls, hiding the planking, and bright cushions spilled from the bunk onto the carpeted floor. Isabella noted that her chest of belongings was already waiting for her here, evidently transported while she was at her wedding Mass.

  Isabella thanked the captain, but said she would stay on deck for now. The captain agreed readily and led her up onto the poop, but here he asked her to stay at the poop rail. She nodded agreement, while Conrad assured the captain he would “keep her out of the way.”

  Already the main deck was alive with sailors—some hauling in the lines cast off from the quay, others climbing dexterously up the ratlines, and still others flinging halyards and sheets off the belaying pins in preparation for setting sail. The bow of the ship was slowly pushed away from the quay by a tender. When the bow pointed roughly forty-five degrees away from the shore, the sailors began chanting and hauling together on the halyards. The heavy booms of the lateen mainsail jerked upwards a foot or more at a time. The sail flapped loudly, spilling the wind and rattling the rings around the mast until the upper boom of the lateen sail reached its position. Once the halyard was secured, the captain ordered the sail sheeted in and the helm put over. Wind filled the mainsail, and the ship surged forward so forcefully that Isabella could hear water gurgling along the hull.

  As they glided away from the shore, she noted that the sea air was sharply cooler than the stagnant air of the siege camp. It smelled fresh and clean, too. Isabella took a deep breath of it and pulled her cloak closer around her shoulders.

  “Are you cold, my lady?” Conrad asked. Without awaiting an answer, he drew her inside his cloak, pressing her close to him, his arms around her belly.

  It was the first time he had done more than take her hand or elbow, and Isabella felt a rush of blood in her veins from head to foot as he enclosed her. She instantly recognized that although clothed in courtesy, his gesture was more predatory than protective. She was in the arms of a near stranger, yet he had the right to hold her. Even more shocking: through the back of her dress she could feel his hard male organ. He was aroused, and they were both fully clothed!

  She stiffened and tried to pull away from him, but Montferrat laughed and held her tighter still. Then he bent to whisper in her ear. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, my love. It will soon give you pleasure you cannot yet imagine. It will give us both pleasure.”

  “Not here; not on this ship!” Isabella protested in near panic.

  “Why not?” Conrad answered, surprised. “All those soft cushions and the sound of the water under the hull will make it particularly delicious.”

  “But, but —it’s so public.”

  “Not as public as here on deck,” Conrad answered, amused and not displeased by her modesty. He had married a virgin, after all. Then he bent and spoke so directly into her ear that his warm breath curled up her eardrum, sending waves of nearly unbearable tension through her nervous system. “Because if you don’t let me take you to the cabin soon, I’m going to lose control and make love to you right here.”

  Her cheeks burned so brightly, Montferrat was sure he would scald himself by touching them. Amused, he murmured in her ear, “You thought I married you for a crown, but that’s not so. I married you for what we’re about to do.” Stepping back and releasing her, he gestured with a gallant bow toward the gangway leading down to the cabins. “My lady, I believe it is getting too chilly on deck. May I suggest we go below?”

  Isabella, while nervous, was not seriously disinclined. As she descended the gangway, she registered that she had traded a friend for a lover—and she prayed that it was a good trade, one that
would bring her happiness as well as being the price of her crown.

  Chapter 12

  Coast of the Levant, January 1191

  IBELIN SAW THE WAVE COMING AND braced himself for its collision with the hull. He tightened his grip on the rail and then ducked and turned his back into the spray as best he could. The water cascaded down on him, drenching him further. He was already soaked through to the skin, and his clothes clung to him, while the salt was starting to crust on his eyebrows and face.

  They had been fighting this storm for thirty-some hours, and he could feel his own strength and willpower draining away. He had to keep his mind on his goal. The siege camp at Acre was completely dependent on supplies brought by sea. At this time of year, when the Mediterranean was closed to shipping from the West, that meant supplies from Cyprus and Tyre. Unfortunately, the Cypriot tyrant Isaac Comnenus had been bribed by Salah ad-Din to keep his ships in port. Montferrat, on the other hand, had promised to send grain, oil, wine, and other desperately needed foodstuffs to the beleaguered Frankish camp at Acre.

  The little supply fleet consisted of four busses, crammed to the gills with the promised food, and six galleys to defend them from Saracen attack. While there had been no sign of the Saracens, they had been fighting headwinds ever since they passed Scandelion. The galleys could butt their way into it to a certain extent by the force of their oarsmen’s arms, but the busses were forced to tack. They’d clawed their way another ten miles down the coast, and then the wind had veered to the west and had begun to blow a gale.

  If they stayed too close to the shore, they risked being wrecked on the underwater shoals and rocks that dotted the coastline, but if they stood off too far, they were caught in a strong southern current that swept them backward. They sought to navigate the middle ground between these extremes—but as the crews became increasingly exhausted, the risk of error grew. One of the busses was already lagging so far behind it was almost out of sight behind the intermittent rain squalls.