“No, she was being very coy about it. Saying it was to be a surprise.”
“Balian, of course,” Reginald answered with a grin to his father-in-law. “What else could we call him?”
Balian was surprised by how flattered he felt.
The christening over, the spectators started to drift in the direction of the large field that had been cordoned off for the tournament. This was to be a melee, with two teams competing across an area roughly a mile wide and half a mile deep. It had gullies, wadis, rocks, and scrub brush, just as a real battlefield would have. The objective was to capture or unhorse as many of the opposing knights as possible. Capture was effected by forcing the opponent to surrender or by physically dragging him, with or without his horse, to the area behind the starting line of each respective team. The tournament ended when all members of one or the other team were unhorsed or captured.
Maria Zoë had been mildly surprised that Balian chose not to participate. “This sort of thing isn’t for grandfathers,” he’d replied, adding, “it’s for the next generation.”
He was probably right, she reflected, but by not participating he also gave John a chance to shine. In ways Maria Zoë could not fully fathom, John and Balian’s fight earlier in the year had resulted in a stronger bond between them. Balian, of course, had already recognized by the next day that his son’s safety was more important than his obedience. He had sent Sir Galvin not to drag him home, but merely to ensure nothing happened to him. Ever since the incident, which neither of them spoke about, Balian treated John more like an adult. Even more surprising to Maria, John seemed more at ease with his father too. He was less deferential and more self-confident without being disrespectful. In May, in a public ceremony celebrated with as much pomp as they could afford, Balian had knighted John. It was therefore as Sir John d’Ibelin that he would compete in the tournament today.
Another advantage of Balian not taking part in the tournament was that it freed up Georgios to serve as John’s squire. Georgios had once been squire to the famous tournament champion William Marshal, during the latter’s sojourn in the Holy Land. Georgios still lionized the old tournament master, who had evidently regaled Georgios with many tales of his tournament successes. The squire had been giving John tips ever since they heard about the tournament, and Maria Zoë had the impression that Georgios was at least as (if not more) excited about the event as John himself.
John would be riding the destrier his father had given him on the occasion of his knighting. He was a young black stallion, a younger brother of Balian’s own Ras Dawit, and he had been named Trojan. John, Maria Zoë knew, was more than a little nervous about riding the still-unfamiliar horse in an event like this. The risks of serious injury resulting in the need to put the horse down were very real. At a minimum there could be cuts, abrasions, bruises, strained muscles, wind and bog spavins, or bowed tendons as a result. To not participate, however, would have been to concede defeat before he even started, and John was dogged if nothing else.
With John participating, Philip on Cyprus, and Helvis confined with baby Balian, the Ibelin spectators consisted of only Balian himself, Maria Zoë, Margaret, and Barry. The latter had been entrusted to Meg, to keep him from getting underfoot in the melee. Meg, however, had gone to change, leaving the confused dog with her parents. She now came breathlessly down the spiral stairs from the chamber she was sharing with a half-dozen other noble maidens to join her impatient parents. As a maiden, she wore her hair long and uncovered. She had inherited her mother’s curly dark-auburn hair, and had expertly braided two little strands leading back from her temples and from behind her ears to meet in a single braid at the back of her head. This had the effect of pulling her bushy hair away from her face, thereby highlighting its aquiline symmetry, while allowing her generous and luxurious tresses to explode around her shoulders. Added to the natural beauty of the hair itself were little gold wires that she had inserted into her thick hair so that it was highlighted by gold. Her gown was crimson, but the linings of her wide sleeves were the brightest of marigold silk: Ibelin colors.
Balian nearly gasped at the sight of her. What had become of his little girl? He did not remember her being on the brink of womanhood when they left Caymont ten months ago. Had she grown up overnight? Or had he been blind?
Maria Zoë’s reaction was far more practical. “You are not wearing that gown to the tournament!”
“But it’s made of Ibelin colors to support John!” Meg pointed out in astonishment.
“It’s very fine silk, cost a fortune, and is totally unsuitable! You could have worn it to the christening, but not to a tournament!”
“But it’s the prettiest thing I have!” Meg countered, revealing her true motives.
“All the more reason you don’t want it getting covered in dust, much less risk getting the sleeves or hem torn and trampled on! Honestly, Meg! Use your head. Now go change, or we’ll miss the start!”
Trumpet signals were already sounding, calling the teams to marshal.
“But, Mama—” Meg started to argue.
“Do as your mother says, or you aren’t going to the tournament at all,” Balian warned.
Meg knew she was defeated when her father weighed in against her, and with a furious expression she turned and ran back up the stairs in an angry huff, frantic to change rapidly. She had to be at the start! Sir Walter of Caesarea the younger had whispered to her in the great hall that he wanted to wear her colors!
Left at the foot of the stairs, her father asked her mother, “When did she grow up?”
“Don’t deceive yourself, my love, she hasn’t. She’s still a child. She’s only flirting with the idea of growing up—without a clue about what it means.”
“How old is she?”
“Fourteen,” Maria Zoë answered readily, only to pause, surprised, before admitting what she had only just remembered: “A year older than I was when I married King Amalric.”
“Hmm.” Balian thought about that, too. Maria Zoë had been a very poised, disciplined, and distant young queen. At times she had seemed more like a doll than a human: beautiful but so impassive that she seemed indifferent to everyone around her. It had taken their shared love of a young prince isolated by his leprosy to give Balian a glimpse beyond her façade. He had then discovered what a lively, passionate, and intelligent person she was. Not once, however, had he seen her as a child.
“I was forced to grow up fast, just like Helvis. We’ve let Meg remain a child longer than usual, but I don’t regret it.”
Already the sound of light footsteps, almost tripping over themselves as they hurried down the stairs, warned them that Meg was returning. She was now dressed more suitably, in a sky-blue linen gown with a sheer green surcoat of Egyptian cotton. “Much better,” Maria Zoë praised her, but Meg was still seething with resentment and refused to acknowledge her mother’s remark. Instead she took her father’s elbow and looked up at him expectantly.
“Um hum,” he remarked ambiguously, and then offered his other arm to his wife.
They were late getting to the improvised grandstand beside the tourney field, and it was already crowded, but people automatically made way for the Dowager Queen of Jerusalem and the Lord of Caymont/Ibelin. They climbed easily to the middle of the bench on the highest rung to settle down next to the host, Reginald de Sidon, and the bishop. Barry had absorbed the excitement and was looking about curiously, his wagging tail slapping spectators in their faces, so that Balian realized he would have to be tied to the base of the grandstands and returned with him.
Meg, meanwhile, was anxiously searching the men lining up on either side of the grandstand on nervous destriers. They wore full armor, which meant nowadays that most of the helmets had visors, and she couldn’t see faces anymore. The identity of the rider could only be discerned by the colors and insignia they wore on shields, surcoats, and the trappers of their horses. John had adopted his father’s colors and shield: a gold field with a red cross pattée. H
is surcoat was marigold with red crosses on it, but Trojan’s trapper was red with marigold crosses on it. The bright combination made John stand out amidst his fellows. Meg, however, was looking feverishly for Walter of Caesarea, but she wasn’t sure of his device. Was it a black falcon or a black tower? She was sure it was black on blue. A knight separated himself from the others and came to the foot of the grandstand, saluting with his lance.
“Meg!” Her mother discreetly trod on Meg’s foot to make her pay attention. “The knight requests a token from you.”
“But—” Meg broke off, flushing furiously. It wasn’t Walter, but Hugh of Tiberius.
“Give him something,” her mother told her.
“But—”
“I don’t care. A lady does not humiliate a young knight in front of everyone by refusing. My daughter certainly won’t,” she added ominously.
Meg swallowed, pulled from her sleeve the red-and-yellow ribbon she had been saving for Walter, and with a forced smile reached down and tied it to the tip of the offered lance. Sir Hugh bowed his head and saluted her with his hand before riding off.
“Now I don’t have anything for Sir Walter,” Meg hissed angrily to her mother.
“That’s perfectly all right,” Maria Zoë assured her with infuriating calm. “Ribbons mean absolutely nothing in the real world.” Maria Zoë knew that Meg had been devouring romances this past year. “In the real world,” she continued, “your father will choose your husband for you, and it need not be anyone you’ve ever given a ribbon to.”
Meg opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the return of her father. Just as he re-seated himself, a trumpet fanfare set the knights cantering in echelon to their starting positions. Compared to the elaborate pageantry of French and Flemish tournaments, this was a very crude affair. There were no heralds, for a start—but then again, in this close-knit society everyone knew everyone anyway, and heralds were hardly necessary. There was also no parade of knights. They cantered to the start positions, and at a renewed trumpet signal they charged from either end of the field to clash more or less in front of the grandstands.
Within a very short space of time, so much dust had been stirred up that it was increasingly difficult to see anything at all. They could hear shouts, occasional threats or insults, the clash of weapons, and the snorting and whinnying of horses—and Barry’s frantic barking. Now and then a horse and rider appeared on the periphery, usually turning to return to the fray. A couple of men staggered out on foot, one limping badly, and the barber-surgeon immediately went to his aid. Riderless horses also escaped the cloud of dust, happy to get away from the madness, and were quickly captured by waiting grooms.
Soon the spectators closer to ground level were racked with coughing fits, and Maria Zoë pulled the upper flap of her scarf down from the top of her head to cover her face.
“I can’t see a thing,” Meg complained impatiently.
“John’s still mounted and fighting,” her father answered.
Meg didn’t dare say she didn’t care about John, but she was far more interested in what had happened to Sir Walter of Caesarea. She was also getting bored. Since she couldn’t really see what was happening, it was not very pleasant sitting out here in the heat and dust. Fortunately, a canvas awning over the grandstands kept them in the shade, but even so, it was June in Palestine and very hot. Meg could feel herself sweating, and inwardly thanked her mother for making her change. She would have ruined her beautiful gold-and-scarlet dress out here.
“Ah!” Her father sprang to his feet, and his wife and daughter looked up at him.
“I think John’s down!”
“No, there he is!” Sidon elbowed his son-in-law. Sure enough, John had just ridden out of the dust toward the sidelines, to be greeted by frantic barking from Barry. John was hunched over the saddle, but still in it. As they watched he righted himself, and Georgios trotted over to give him water and a new lance. He drank, thanked the squire, took up the new lance, and turned Trojan around to re-enter the mock conflict.
The dust was slowly beginning to thin and settle, however, as more and more riders were either unhorsed or forced off the field. Of the nearly one hundred knights who had initially clashed, only about a quarter of them were still engaged.
“Which side is winning?” Balian asked Reginald.
“Haven’t a clue,” Sidon answered honestly. “Next time we should have one side dress up as Saracens. It would make for a more realistic test anyway.”
“Who would want to be the Saracens?” Balian countered.
“All right, we can make it English against the French, or Pisans against Genoese. That would be realistic!”
They laughed, and in so doing breathed in so much dust that they both started coughing. Maria Zoë signaled for water from one of the waiting pages.
A half-hour later it was over. The team under the Prince of Galilee had won. Still mounted and uncaptured were Ralph of Tiberius, the elder (but not the younger) Caesarea, and John d’Ibelin. It was a very strong showing for such a young knight.
The spectators gratefully climbed down from the bleachers and started drifting back to the castle for refreshments. Balian, however, wanted to congratulate John, and he urged Maria Zoë and Meg to go ahead of him. Maria Zoë agreed, but Meg said she’d wait for him. She released Barry’s leash and sat down on the lowest bench with Barry at her feet, gratefully gazing up at her as she petted and scratched him indulgently.
Meanwhile, Balian ducked under the perimeter railing and waved to John, stopping him from returning to the stables. John trotted to meet his father, and flung open his visor as he drew up. He was grinning broadly. Balian stood beside him, patting Trojan on the neck. The horse, dripping sweat, tried to rub his nose on the Baron of Ibelin, shoving him this way and that as he talked to his son. Then, stepping back, Balian signaled for John to return to the castle just as Barry broke free of Meg and streaked across the field, barking wildly in greeting as he caught sight of John.
As he joined his daughter, Balian was smiling almost as broadly as his son, and he gladly gave Meg his arm. Now that her mother was not around, Meg leaned her head on her father’s upper arm. “Daddy?”
“Yes, dove?”
“I know Helvis is very happy, but . . . ”
“But what?” Balian was already frowning slightly, afraid of what was to come.
“Well, we’re different.”
“You think I haven’t noticed?”
“No, I just mean . . . ”
“What?”
“Well, when you start looking for a husband for me . . . ”
“Ah. Yes?”
“I really do like Walter of Caesarea the younger.”
“Hmm. Aiming high.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s heir to Caesarea. The lordship includes the port of the same name, which used to be very prosperous before Hattin. Although it hasn’t recovered fully by any means, there’s no reason to think it won’t. It once owed one hundred knights to the feudal levee—compared to ten for Ibelin or a mere six for Caymont. In short, you’d better lower your expectations, child.” The use of the word ‘child’ said it all. He was not taking her seriously.
Meg tightened her jaw (much as her brother and father did) and considered her answer carefully. At last she settled for, “Well, will you promise me my husband won’t be as old as Reggie?”
“No. I won’t promise you anything, dove. Marriage is politics and very rarely takes affection or attraction into account; it’s about land and alliances. So don’t wish for it too soon. Enjoy your freedom instead.”
Tyre, July 1195
Ayyub crawled out from under the nailed-together pieces of rubbish that he used as a roof and brushed the worst creases and dirt from his kaftan. He slid his feet into his dilapidated sandals, and then ran a wooden comb through his long hair before tying it with twine at the back of his neck. Rubbing his cheeks, he measured the stubble, and could only hope that today h
e would earn enough for a bath and a shave.
The thought drove him forward. Yesterday he’d heard rumors that work would at last begin on the expansion of the sea wall. The Archbishop had engaged a master builder, and people said he would be recruiting laborers at prime today. With a glance toward the east, Ayyub increased his pace. He didn’t want to be late and risk not getting a job.
As he came around the corner, his heart sank. There were already at least two score men clustered inside the main gate, the “job market” for any construction work in the city. As he watched, a well-dressed man with a clerk in attendance rode up and was immediately besieged by the crowd of job seekers. The master builder waved the supplicants away irritably and gestured for them to line up with their backs to the wall. The scribe dismounted from his mule, withdrew his utensils from a leather pouch attached to his belt, and started down the line of job applicants.
Ayyub had no choice but to go to the end of the line, and he wasn’t the last. By the time the clerk reached him, another score of jobless men had joined the lineup. Work for unskilled laborers was scarce in Tyre in 1195.
“Name?” the clerk barked at Ayyub.
“Ayyub ibn Adam,” Ayyub answered readily.
“Age?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Place of birth?”
“Nablus.”
“Any skills?”
“I was an apprentice mason before Hattin.”
The clerk looked up and their eyes met. Ayyub saw understanding. The priest nodded once. “Good enough. Join the men over there.” He pointed and jotted a note on his scroll. Ayyub gratefully joined the cluster of men selected.
After the clerk had found fifty suitable workers, the hired men were divided up into teams of ten, each under a journeyman mason. Ayyub’s troop was led outside the city gates and across the two drawbridges to the start of the causeway that led from the mainland toward the city. Here a long convoy of ox-carts, loaded with freshly cut quarry stone, waited patiently. These unwieldy and heavy carts exceeded the weight limits of the drawbridges; they could not be allowed in.
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