Envoy of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  “I have an urgent message for the Queen of Jerusalem,” he insisted.

  “Then wait in the hall, and the Queen will come when she is ready!” the Dowager Queen told him sharply. “Now, will you go freely or must I have you removed by force?”

  “I’ll go, but don’t keep me waiting too long. The Duke of Burgundy commands ten thousand men, and they are on their way here.” With these threatening words he spun on his heel, pushed through the four men-at-arms, who at a nod from Maria Zoë followed him, and left the room. Someone closed the door behind the men-at-arms so that Maria Zoë and her daughter were alone again.

  “What can that odious man possibly want of me now?” Isabella asked her mother in outrage.

  “I’m not sure, but it is safe to say it is not to offer you his deepest sympathy,” Maria Zoë answered sarcastically. “The sooner you meet with him, the better. We’ll gain nothing by making him fume, now that we’ve shown him the door. Sit down and let me put some makeup on you, then we’ll change that veil for one with gold trim and fix a gold circlet over it.”

  Isabella willingly submitted to her mother’s efficient makeover. Conrad, too, had been very sensitive to the importance of appearances, and she knew intuitively that her mother was right: she needed to look every inch a queen in the coming interview. Even more important to her psychologically, she wanted to erase the images Beauvais carried in his memory of her with her hair in disarray and her body covered only by a thin nightdress. It was an image fit only for a husband.

  Although Isabella and Maria Zoë had withdrawn to Isabella’s private apartment immediately after the funeral Mass, a feast had naturally been prepared for the public. Knowing Conrad would want to be remembered for his generosity, Isabella had authorized a large budget and had asked the cooks to “honor my lord’s memory.” The result was an elaborate spread of roasted and grilled meats, mounds of bread, lentil and green-pea pottages, mushroom pasties, and spring greens garnished with oleander flowers. Since the head table was empty, protocol was abandoned, and the food was offered on heavy sideboards lining the room, from which the guests helped themselves, sitting afterwards at the long benches flanking trestle tables. While the staff had not spared on food, they were more careful with the Bishop’s plate and linen, so the tables were bare and only the cheapest Egyptian pottery was used for the serving dishes, while the guests provided their own knives and spoons.

  The funeral guests had been surprised by the arrival of the Bishop of Beauvais. His rude insistence on being brought to the widow had aroused both their indignation and their curiosity. Even those who had already eaten lingered to find out what was going on. The hall was therefore quite crowded, with most people discussing animatedly what the Bishop could want.

  Beauvais was pacing the dais when the Queen of Jerusalem and her mother emerged from the stairwell. He stopped and started slightly, snorting a little to himself at the effectiveness of feminine wiles. The frightened and exhausted girl he had glimpsed upstairs was now a stately young woman encased in dignity and crowned with gold. He had little choice but to bow deeply over her hand. “Madame,” he intoned.

  Isabella sank into the central chair on the dais, Conrad’s chair, and indicated that her mother should sit at her left. The Bishop was not offered a seat. Instead, Isabella opened, “You wished to speak to me, my lord Bishop.”

  “Indeed. The news of your lord husband’s dastardly murder has shocked us all—none less than the noble Duke of Burgundy. As this is obviously the work of that scoundrel King Richard of England, I have been sent to offer French protection. Even now the French crusaders are on their way to Tyre, so we can take control of its defenses and ensure you are safe from enemies of any sort.”

  Beauvais was not a man to pitch his voice low unless he was conspiring or seducing, and he had not bothered to lower his voice to deliver this message. His words, therefore, were heard by more than his intended audience, and behind him in the hall they unleashed a flurry of protest.

  “We can defend Tyre without any Frenchmen!” someone shouted. “We’ve defended Tyre longer than you’ve been here!” someone else noted. “We don’t need your damned help!” a third added, while the whole room grew loud with people repeating and commenting on the Bishop’s words.

  Isabella was relieved by that reaction. It strengthened her own resolve to resist this offer. “As you can hear, my lord Bishop, we have no need of your aid. Thank the Duke of Burgundy, but tell him to spare the exertion of coming here. We are quite capable of defending ourselves.”

  “My lady, with all due respect, you do not understand the military situation—”

  Isabella cut him off furiously. “With all due respect, my lord Bishop, I understand the military situation far better than you ever could!” It was bad enough that Conrad had disparaged her opinions when they were in private. She would not tolerate a stranger, a man from France, a bishop, belittling her judgment in front of her subjects. “I was raised here, Monsieur. I lived in the border fortress of Kerak. I was there when it was besieged by Salah ad-Din. I was in Jerusalem when the news of Hattin came; I was here in Tyre during the siege of December 1187. I was with my husband at the siege of Acre! Do not presume to lecture to me just because I am a woman!”

  A cheer went up from the men in the hall, loud enough to almost drown out Maria Zoë’s soft, “Well said.” Both gave Isabella courage and she sat straighter than ever, her eyes flashing with righteous indignation.

  The Bishop bowed to her in a gesture of mock respect, and then, taking a step closer and looking at her with eyes that were no longer bemused, announced, “Your lord husband held the city of Tyre because my liege King Philip of France granted—”

  Isabella didn’t have to answer; the uproar from Conrad’s retainers and admirers was overwhelming. They shouted the Bishop down, reminding him that Montferrat had saved Tyre before the King of France even knew it was threatened. “We saved Tyre!” they told him. “Tyre is ours!”

  Isabella waited until the uproar had died down and then told Beauvais, calmly but very firmly, “Tyre is part of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, my lord. My kingdom.”

  “You don’t seem to understand the danger you are in, my lady. Richard Plantagenet—”

  “Has been fighting for and regaining my kingdom, while you and your knights drink and gamble and whore in Acre!” Isabella flung at the Bishop of Beauvais as she got to her feet. She was exhausted and emotionally drained, and she could feel that she was on the brink of losing her self-control completely. Isabella knew herself well enough to know that if she didn’t break off this conversation now, she was likely to start screaming hysterically. She did not want to do that in front of her subjects and Montferrat’s men, so her only option was to depart now—before it happened.

  The Bishop sputtered protests and bristled with indignation. “How dare you impute such base—”

  “I’ve heard enough!” Isabella cut him off. “I will not surrender Tyre to anyone but the man the High Court chooses as my consort! That was my husband’s dying wish, and nothing will convince me to change my mind or do otherwise!” Then she spun about and strode as fast as she could—without running—to the stairwell. As she disappeared inside, a cheer went up from the men in the hall.

  The Bishop of Beauvais was stunned. He had not expected any resistance from Isabella. He had seriously imagined she would fall into his arms in weeping gratitude. He found himself face to face with the Dowager Queen, and she was looking bemused.

  “Your daughter is a hysterical young woman,” he told the older woman, hoping to win her sympathy. They had, after all, been allies in removing Isabella from Humphrey and ensuring her marriage to Montferrat. “No doubt being with child has unbalanced her mind.”

  Maria Zoë knew her daughter well enough to know that she could indeed appear “hysterical”; she was passionate and spirited, she had thrown terrible temper tantrums as a child, and she had admitted to having violent fights with Conrad. Maria Zoë knew exactly why her dau
ghter had left so precipitously, but she also supported every single word Isabella had said so far and knew that far from being “hysterical,” she was being very wise. It was only her method of delivery that had been somewhat flawed. Because Maria Zoë had been schooled at the court in Constantinople, she knew it would have been better if Isabella had kept her temper under control and had dealt with the Bishop in a more restrained fashion, but none of that diminished her support for her child.

  “My lord Bishop,” she opened in a cool, self-possessed tone, “a young widow whose beloved husband died in her arms after being cruelly stabbed to death can certainly be forgiven for being slightly distraught. A bishop and nobleman, on the other hand, with so little sense of propriety—not to mention so little sympathy—as to burst in upon a grieving widow uninvited is . . .” she hesitated long enough to ensure everyone in the room was holding their breath before she delivered the verdict, “a despicable knave. Save your breath!” She held up her hand and cut off Beauvais before he could open his mouth to voice his protests. “Leave aside the manner in which you burst in here and the manner in which my daughter gave you her answer. All that really matters is the substance of what the Queen of Jerusalem just told you.” She paused, made sure the hall was silent with tense anticipation, and then stated firmly and clearly: “She does not need or want your assistance or that of the Duke of Burgundy. Take that message back to Acre.”

  The Bishop of Beauvais wasn’t prepared to accept this answer. “My lady, that is not an option. Tyre must be held at all costs, and a distraught” (he smiled condescendingly as he used the word) “pregnant widow cannot be trusted to—”

  There was again an uproar from the men in the hall, but Maria Zoë gestured for them to be still. “Cannot be trusted to do what, my lord? Defend her city and her kingdom? You seem unaware that the women of Jerusalem defended the Holy City against Salah ad-Din’s whole army for almost ten days!”

  “Come now!” the Bishop scoffed. “Your husband was in command—”

  “Yes: of women, children, and priests. Turn around and look at the men here! Tyre is not at risk!”

  They cheered her as Maria Zoë had rarely been cheered at any time before. After a moment, she signaled them for silence again.

  “My lord Bishop, given that the strength of Tyre’s defenses is evident,” she gestured to the men in the room, “it is equally evident that you are not in the least concerned about the safety of Tyre. Your sole concern is obtaining control of my daughter. The Duke of Burgundy, having rejected Sibylla’s hand and with it the burden of being King of Jerusalem, now wants to foist his candidate upon my daughter—”

  “What do you think we did together eighteen months ago?” the Bishop burst out in exasperation. He couldn’t believe that this woman, who had been his closest ally before, was now standing in the way of what ought to be their mutual interest in seeing Isabella married to a man amenable to the King of France.

  “Do you honestly not see the difference?” the Dowager Queen asked back in a withering tone. “The Marquis de Montferrat was selected as my daughter’s husband by the High Court of Jerusalem, and it is the High Court and only the High Court who will select her next husband. Now, Monsieur, you’re welcome to refresh yourself at my son-in-law’s funeral feast, but we have nothing more to say to one another.”

  She stood and turned her back on him, not stopping until she reached the door to the stairwell. There she paused, turned to the men assembled in the hall, and ordered: “Do not let that man upstairs again!” Then she disappeared inside.

  A moment later she almost collided with Isabella. “Sweetheart!”

  “I wanted to hear what happened next. Thank you!”

  Maria Zoë took her daughter by the arm, and together they returned to Isabella’s chamber. This time Maria Zoë carefully bolted the door behind them. Then she looked around for wine and glasses, as they were both in need of a drink. Isabella sank down into one of the chairs by the window table.

  As Maria Zoë brought her a red glass goblet filled with wine, Isabella met her eyes and asked tensely, “So, Mama, who has the High Court selected?”

  Maria Zoë laughed shortly before remarking, “All that ridiculous fuss was for nothing, really, as the High Court has chosen someone who will very likely please the Duke of Burgundy well.”

  “Stop torturing me! Who is it?” Isabella demanded, her nerves very much at the breaking point again.

  “The Count of Champagne,” Maria Zoë admitted, watching Isabella very closely. To her amazement, a flicker of a smile crossed Isabella’s face.

  Champagne had accepted Ibelin’s hospitality, and it was here that a messenger from his uncle King Richard reached him. Henri stepped into the solar window niche to read the letter in as much privacy as possible, his back to the room in which Ibelin and Sidon were ostensibly going over some papers, Ernoul and Alys were practicing, and Ibelin’s sister-in-law and Helvis were spinning. He broke the seal and scanned the letter in nervous haste.

  King Richard’s congratulations almost leapt off the page, written in his own forceful hand. He even went so far as to praise the wisdom of God in ordaining the twist of fate that gave to the Holy Land a leader of greater merit than either Montferrat or Lusignan. Henri was a little overwhelmed and flattered by the strength of his uncle’s support—but on second thought, he wondered how much of it was dictated by Richard’s desire to return home. Was the English King just grasping at straws? After all, he’d been willing to back Montferrat, too. Was there anyone Richard would not have accepted? Well, maybe Burgundy, Henri thought whimsically, and then picked up the letter to read to the end. King Richard wrote: “Of course, Toron is still alive, so if my cousin’s marriage to Montferrat was bigamous, then so would be her marriage to you.”

  Henri winced inwardly. He hadn’t even thought of that. He folded the letter together again, lost in thought, taking no note of the commotion in the street out front. As he turned back into the room, Sidon and Ibelin were both looking at him expectantly.

  “He approves,” he informed them simply.

  It was rare for expressions to change so rapidly from wary dread to unfettered elation, and rare, too, for two grizzled barons to be so openly delighted. Grinning with relief, they came forward with outstretched hands to clap him on the back. Sidon suggested it would be more appropriate to kneel in homage, and Henri protested vigorously, “Good heavens! Not yet! I’ve told you I won’t go through with this unless Queen Isabella is in agreement. All this does is—” He was struck dumb by the figure standing in the doorway from the great hall.

  Isabella was still in mourning, her gown one of thick and impenetrable black Mosel cotton, but the overgown was of sheer purple silk, and so were the veils covering her head and encasing her throat. A circlet of gold crowned her forehead. She was stunningly beautiful, and she was looking straight at him.

  Mortified by the fact that he’d been stunned into staring at her, Henri hastened forward to bow deeply over her hand, stammering, “My lady, I came to offer my condolences as soon as I heard the dreadful news, but I was not admitted—not that I’m complaining. I completely understand that you had no wish for visitors—strangers—at such a time, but please accept my deepest, deepest sympathy.”

  “Your condolences were conveyed to me and were much appreciated,” Isabella told him with a faint smile, and then she turned to the others standing or sitting in the solar, all of whom were watching with expressions ranging from shock to amusement. “I would like to be alone with the Count of Champagne,” she announced.

  Ernoul and Alys scuttled for the great hall, while Helvis and her aunt Eloise dutifully left their spinning—though not without a backward glance from Helvis, who was only persuaded to continue by a firm hand from her betrothed. Ibelin was the last to leave, shepherding the others out and then standing with his back to the solar to make sure no one re-entered.

  Isabella advanced deeper into the room, gesturing toward the window niche Henri had just left. �
�Shall we sit, my lord?”

  “My lady!” Henri gestured for her to precede him.

  She stepped up into the window niche and sat on the stone bench. He followed her, taking the seat opposite. “My lord, forgive me for taking you by surprise,” she opened. “My mother told me that you have been selected by the High Court—”

  “Not yet,” Henri hastened to assure her. “The full High Court has not yet given their consent to your stepfather’s suggestion, and I have told them repeatedly that . . .” He broke off, because Isabella was smiling at him. It wasn’t a radiant smile. The strains and horrors of the last week still sat heavy on her face and shoulders; her eyelids sagged from too much crying. Yet a smile from the heart spilled out of her eyes nevertheless, and it took his breath away. In fact, he lost his train of thought entirely.

  When he fell silent in sheer uncertainty and embarrassment, she noted gently, “I heard what you were saying as I entered, my lord, and my mother had already reported your hesitation to take on a wife who was unwilling and resentful. We both remember too acutely how we first met to want to endure a repeat of that night.”

  If he had been tongue-tied before, he was speechless now. The reference to that night in Acre conjured up the image of Isabella in her nightdress with her hair cascading down around her—an image best saved for a woman’s husband. At the time he had only been shocked by the rude manner in which the Bishop of Beauvais had proceeded, and the sight had sparked his pity and protectiveness. Now, with the prospect of becoming that husband, the image ignited desire as well. She was a very desirable woman.

  “I came here to assure you that I am not being forced into this marriage against my will—any more than I was forced to marry Montferrat. I wish that the illegal nature of my marriage to Humphrey had been established without the drama of that night in Acre, but I no longer doubt that it was not a valid marriage in the eyes of God. I married the Marquis de Montferrat in accordance with the constitution and for the benefit of my kingdom. I was, and am, determined not to follow in the footsteps of my elder sister, who by her willfulness and selfishness forced upon the barons of Jerusalem a man unworthy of the crown.”