Archdeacon William could be heard loudly scolding the barons for their impatience. “The King has just lost his father. Give him time to compose himself!”
“Yes, your grace,” Balian answered Baldwin. “I will be behind you when the barons come. But before that, let me be the first to take the oath of fealty.” Balian went down on his knees and held up his folded hands.
Baldwin caught his breath. Then he placed his hands on either side of Balian’s and enclosed Balian’s hands between lifeless fingers encased in cotton gloves.
“I, Sir Balian d’Ibelin, pledge my oath as knight to you, my liege lord, King of Jerusalem, to serve you with my honor and my life so long as we both do live.”
“I accept your oath, Sir Balian, and promise to be a good lord to you so long as you keep your faith with me, so help me God!”
Balian rose to his feet and went to fetch the beautiful kid gloves, embroidered with the arms of Jerusalem, which had been a gift from Queen Maria Zoë. He brought them to Baldwin and, finger by lifeless finger, pulled these over the thin cotton gloves Baldwin was already wearing. Then he went to fetch a comb from the bedchamber on the far side of the wooden partition, but here he was met by the old Arab slave, Ibrahim, who had served Baldwin ever since he had fallen ill. The old man shooed Balian away and called to a colleague. They had been lurking in the background and understood perfectly what had happened. They emerged with a magnificent surcoat, also embroidered with the arms of Jerusalem, with doeskin boots and silk hose. In five minutes Baldwin was dressed like a king, and Balian led him down the stairs to the room below. When William of Tyre saw them, he told the guards to admit the High Court of Jerusalem.
The barons burst in, led by Raymond de Tripoli, and then came to a stunned halt as they caught sight of Baldwin. Balian hung back in the shadows of the stair behind the King. He could not suppress a smile when he saw the amazed faces of the barons, as they found themselves confronted by a fair youth standing straight and with great dignity before them in the splendor of royal robes.
Raymond de Tripoli reacted first. He dropped to one knee and the other barons followed his lead, the last to kneel being Barisan, who was giving Balian a curious look.
“Your grace, your father is dead. We have come to offer homage as your vassals.”
“Where is the Lord of Oultrejourdain?” Baldwin answered, and Balian wanted to laugh out loud as the barons gaped at one another in amazement. His eyes met those of William of Tyre across the room, and they shared a moment of pride; Baldwin had immediately and effectively demonstrated that his body might be crippled, but his mind was not.
“Your grace,” Tripoli stammered, “Oultrejourdain was—misinformed. I’m sure he will rethink his decision. May I?” Tripoli held up his folded hands.
King Amalric was buried in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and Baldwin was crowned King Baldwin IV by the Patriarch of Jerusalem in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. Baldwin rode all the way to Bethlehem from Jerusalem on his magnificently caparisoned white gelding, over which was draped a long trapper stitched with the arms of Jerusalem in gold. Misty pranced and arched his neck so proudly that the crowd mistook him for a stallion.
Baldwin was followed by his sister Sibylla, dressed in cloth of gold and shimmering silk veils, and his stepmother, shrouded in solid black as befitted a widow. The long procession was led by the highest clergy of the realm, including the Patriarch of Jerusalem, the Archbishops of Tyre, Nazareth, and Caesarea, and other bishops of the realm. They were followed by the barons of the Kingdom (except Oultrejourdain), nearly a thousand knights, many with their ladies, and then the merchant companies and guilds, all in their finest. The crowds lining the streets cheered exuberantly, waving banners and scarves and palm leaves.
In his cloth-of-gold cloak, his silk surcoat trimmed with jewels, and his embroidered gloves, Baldwin IV looked splendid. His fair hair was as bright as gold in the sunshine. His return ride, with the crown of Jerusalem on his brow, was if anything more brilliant. The crowds went wild, and the rumor spread that the leper Prince had been healed miraculously the moment he was anointed with oil and had kissed the True Cross.
Back at the royal palace, however, there were no such illusions. Raymond de Tripoli moved into the royal apartments, leaving Baldwin where he had been in the Jaffa Tower. After all, the business of government fell to Tripoli, and there was no point in exposing more people than necessary to the risk of contagion. Raymond ruled Jerusalem, while Baldwin was a puppet to be trotted out for ceremonial purposes only. At the palace, everyone understood that.
Balian d’Ibelin was summoned to the King’s audience chamber in the Tower of David the day after the coronation. The chamber was full of supplicants, household officials, hangers-on, clerks, and men-at-arms. Everyone was milling about, apparently anxious to be the first to curry favor with the new power—or to assess it.
As he entered, Balian warily swept the room with his eyes. To his surprise, it seemed that most of the members of the High Court were still here. The Patriarch of Jerusalem stood directly behind Tripoli, listening attentively to all that he was saying, while Hebron was engaged in an apparently earnest conversation with the Archbishop of Nazareth. Beirut, who had arrived too late for the fateful meeting of the High Court but appeared all the more anxious to show his support for Tripoli, was inattentively following their conversation while keeping a weather eye on Tripoli. Although the Masters of the militant orders were absent, they had each sent deputies to keep an eye on what was happening, the Grand Hospitaller and the Marshal of the Temple respectively. These armed monks kept to opposite sides of the room, eyeing each other suspiciously—as always, Balian thought with a sigh; the rivalry between the militant orders weakened both of them and the Kingdom.
More surprising was the presence of the Princess Sibylla. She had been brought out of her convent for her father’s funeral and her brother’s coronation, but showed no inclination to return now that both events were over. At fourteen she was still more girl than woman, but by the look of things she was nubile, pretty, and very flirtatious. She had ensconced herself in one of the window seats, her long blond hair confined only by a crown-like roll of twisted silk at her brow, and her gown was a splash of vivid red embroidered with gold lotus blossoms. No less than three men were lounging about at her feet as if enthralled. One was the son of the Lord of Tiberius, a legitimate suitor for the Princess’ hand, but another was Balian’s brother Barry, and the third was Aimery de Lusignan. Although Balian knew that Barry’s relationship with Richildis had become increasingly strained since the birth of a stillborn son the year before, he still took offense at his brother’s behavior. As for Aimery de Lusignan, he was far too lowborn for the heiress of Jerusalem.
“Ah, Sir Balian,” Tripoli called out, catching sight of him in the doorway and gesturing for Balian to come forward.
Balian obeyed, bowing before the count. “My lord.”
“First, let me express my thanks for all you have done for the King. I understand the impressive horsemanship he displayed on his way to and from his coronation is all thanks to your tutelage.” Balian inclined his head in a gesture of restrained thanks. Teaching a boy to ride was something a good Arab slave could do, and Balian judged that Tripoli saw his service in exactly that light.
“More important, I know you have been a manly influence on him—something he desperately needed. You have shown a rare kind of courage, one I greatly respect.” Tripoli paused to lend his remarks weight, and Balian again inclined his head, this time more sincerely than before. Not everyone acknowledged that the role he played had indeed taken courage.
“Naturally, you will be retained at the same rate as heretofore,” Tripoli continued in a more businesslike tone, adding, “and for the foreseeable future, there is no need to change your daily routine with the King. Be mindful of his dignity, however. Be sure that he is never seen in public without appropriate attire, and never ride out without a large escort—at least a score of k
nights and twice that many men-at-arms. Appearances must be maintained,” Tripoli admonished. Balian nodded, although he thought the King, not Tripoli, should decide the size of his escort.
“I will be consulting with his physicians regularly, of course, but am counting on you to report to me anything you observe about the King’s health that might be relevant. Also, I want you to report to me any remarks he makes about the governing of the Kingdom. If he complains to you about anything I am doing, I want to know about it immediately. Anything else?” he turned to ask the Patriarch, unintentionally giving Balian time to compose himself. Balian was furious about being asked to spy on Baldwin and had no intention of complying, but he knew better than to openly defy Tripoli.
Tripoli turned back to Balian. “I understand King Amalric saw his son daily. I doubt I will have time for that, but I will try to see him once a week at least. Be sure he keeps his distance at these meetings. I recognize that you and the Archdeacon of Tyre have so far avoided contagion, but I intend to take no chances.”
“Of course not, my lord,” Balian agreed with a cynical smile.
“And one more thing—” Tripoli was interrupted by an outburst of loud giggling from Sibylla. He cut himself off to frown across the room at the Princess. “My God! Does the girl have no sense of propriety? Someone needs to teach her how to behave! I can’t have her giggling all day long while I deal with affairs of state! Why doesn’t she go back to the convent, or at least keep to her quarters?”
“And who, my lord, is to tell her to do so? You have ordered the Dowager Queen to withdraw to a convent with her infant daughter, and the girl’s own mother is the last person on earth who could lecture a maiden on virtue and propriety,” the Patriarch pointed out.
Balian caught his breath. No one had told him the Dowager Queen had left court. More distressing: she had not told him herself. She had not taken leave of him at all. That hurt. So much for being her knight, his brain mocked his heart. For two years, it said, you have been living an illusion, a self-serving, childish illusion. . . . But this was no time to think about that.
A commotion at the door distracted everyone’s attention. There were loud voices and stomping feet, the guards stood back respectfully rather than stopping the intruders, and Oultrejourdain stormed into the room with a bevy of knights in his wake. He was dressed in mail, the coif over his head but the aventail dangling open. His surcoat was canvas rather than silk, as if he had just ridden in from somewhere far away, although Balian knew he had remained in his city residence throughout the week despite not taking part in yesterday’s coronation.
“You wanted to speak to me, Tripoli?” Oultrejourdain called from halfway across the room, his left hand on his hilt. Balian now understood why the members of the High Court and representatives of the Military Orders were lurking here.
Raymond de Tripoli rose to his feet. He was a tall man, at least a head taller than Oultrejourdain, so that even if standing might seem like an act of respect, it also should have put him at a slight advantage. Oultrejourdain, however, seemed insensitive to it. He stopped a good six feet in front of Tripoli and propped his left foot on a footstool, hastily vacated by a clerk who had been taking notes of Tripoli’s orders. Oultrejourdain’s legs were clad in mail. He leaned his left elbow on his bent thigh and stood thus, casually and disrespectfully, before the Regent. “So, Tripoli?”
“My lord of Oultrejourdain,” Tripoli spoke with blistering politeness, “it has been noticed with deep regret that of all the barons of the realm, you alone have not paid homage to King Baldwin IV.”
“You may put the Crown of Jerusalem on an ape for all I care, Tripoli, but that leper boy is no king to me!”
“The King, my lord, has charged me to remind you that you hold the barony of Oultrejourdain from him, and if you do not feel disposed to pay homage to him for it, you forfeit the barony to the crown.”
“Tell your jackass leper king,” Oultrejourdain sneered, “that he is welcome to come and take my barony from me.” Oultrejourdain let this challenge hang in the air a moment. Then he laughed and his knights joined in, imagining a leper (which they pictured like the belled beggars in the streets) trying to fight Miles de Plancy and his knights. “Tell him,” Oultrejourdain added, “I’ll be waiting for him at Kerak.” Kerak was Oultrejourdain’s most formidable castle. Kerak had also come to Oultrejourdain through his wife, and Balian strongly suspected that her rights to it were not impinged even if her husband’s titles were forfeit.
Balian looked back at Tripoli, and was relieved that Tripoli appeared not in the least surprised by Oultrejourdain’s reaction. Instead he asked calmly, “Is that your final word, Sir Miles?”
“It is, Sir Raymond.”
“Then I suggest you withdraw to Kerak at once so you have time to prepare your wife for the indignity of poverty.”
Oultrejordain dropped his foot from the stool with a loud clunk and stood upright, glaring directly at the Regent. “If you think I’m frightened of a fop like you, Tripoli, you have even more to learn than I thought.” He turned his back and started to leave. Then he stopped and turned again to say: “Oh, and if you thought the dungeon in Damascus was unpleasant, wait until you see the one I have in Kerak.”
Balian thought he heard more than one man suck in his breath, but Tripoli was clearly determined not to be provoked. “There is more than one lord who has ended his days in his own dungeon,” Tripoli answered slowly, “and for lesser insolence to their king than you have demonstrated this day.”
“Ah, but I don’t have a king,” Oultrejourdain countered. “You may have kissed the leper’s paws, but I have not.” With these words he continued striding out of the room with his knights in his wake.
No sooner had the door crashed shut than everyone started talking at once. “You can’t allow him to withdraw to Kerak!” Blanchegarde gasped. “Kerak is all but invincible!”
“No castle is invincible,” Hebron countered sensibly.
“Either Miles de Plancy is a vassal of the King of Jerusalem, or he is no one at all!” Tripoli declared coldly.
“That may be legally correct, but Miles de Plancy has the loyalty of sixty knights and three times that many men-at-arms. Kerak may not be invincible, but it will take a large army and a long siege to subdue it,” Bethgibelin warned.
“If we start fighting each other, how long do you think it will be before the Saracen is gobbling up the scraps?” the Grand Hospitaller reminded them all, clearly alarmed. “You must seek reconciliation with Oultrejourdain, my lord,” he urged Tripoli.
“You heard the man!” Tripoli retorted. “He mocked his anointed king and refused yet again—for the third time—to do homage to him. If we let him get away with this, we undermine King Baldwin’s rule irreparably—practically before it has started. Indeed, we make a mockery of King Baldwin! That, my lord, can be in no one’s interest either!”
“Of course not,” the Templar Marshal agreed. “But there are other ways to bring a man to heel besides outright warfare!”
“Indeed,” Tripoli agreed. “I’ll remember that.” Then, gesturing toward the open windows through which the rolling bells of a dozen churches were calling to Vespers, he announced, “I will pray for guidance.”
The other men could only stand in confusion as Raymond de Tripoli turned and exited the audience chamber.
Balian was still gazing after him when Barry grabbed his arm. “We’ve got to get word to Henri!” Barry hissed under his breath.
“What do you mean?” Balian asked.
“Don’t be dense! We have to warn Henri that Tripoli is serious.”
“I doubt he needs us to tell him that,” Balian observed.
“Let me be the judge of that! Get word to him. Ask him to meet with us at home tomorrow.” By home, Barry meant the Ibelin town residence, a house that took up a city block.
Watching his brothers fight, Balian was struck by how similar they were. They both took after his fair-haired father, and Henri at twe
nty-four was as muscular and tall as the three-years-older Barry, so they stood eye to eye and jaw to jaw, shouting at one another.
Balian took no part in the fight. Barry was right, of course, to insist that Baldwin IV was king, and the Ibelin family had nothing to gain by denying that fact or undermining the King’s authority. He was relieved to find his older brother, who had taken no interest in Baldwin before, was so vehement in his support of the young King. But Balian had sympathy for his brother Henri because of the way Barry had handled the entire meeting. He had treated Hugh like a schoolboy, dressing him down and dismissing his objections without even hearing him out. Given the fact that they had parted in anger after their brother’s funeral, this was hardly the best way to mend fences.
Henri was now shouting all the insults he’d picked up from Oultrejourdain about the King, and Barry was calling him an idiot and ordering him to quit Oultrejourdain’s service.
“You can’t make me!” Henri countered.
“Yes, I can!” Barry insisted. “I’ll send word to Sir Miles myself—and see how fast he kicks you out!”
Henri’s eyes betrayed how much he feared Oultrejourdain would do exactly that, even as he shouted, “He’d never do that! Never!”
Balian nodded to himself, knowing that Oultrejourdain would dismiss Henri—probably without any urging from Barry. If Oultrejourdain had decided on a confrontation with the Crown, he could not afford to have an Ibelin in his household, certainly not as a household knight, knowing how close Balian was to the King.
Balian spoke up for the first time. “There are other lords, Henri. We could probably talk Hebron—”
Henri responded by cursing Balian and the Baron of Hebron, then declaring vehemently: “I’m Oultrejourdain’s man! There’s no one else in the whole Kingdom half as good as he! The rest of you put together are not his equal!”
“We’ll see about that, but you’ll see it from the dungeon of Ibelin if you don’t obey me!”
Knight of Jerusalem Page 8
