CHAPTER 4
September 1174
City of Acre, Outremer
Amalric and the King of Sicily had been planning a summer attack upon Saladin’s power base in Egypt; their ambitious plans were sabotaged by Amalric’s sudden death. Worse was to follow, for the Franks were warned that Saladin intended to move on Damascus, still under the control of Nūr al-Dīn’s young heir. This news sent shivers of alarm across Outremer. In the past, they’d occasionally made temporary alliances with the Egyptian caliphs or the amirs of Damascus. But if Saladin could gain control of both Egypt and Syria, the Poulains would have no leverage, facing a united enemy for the first time since the birth of their kingdom. And so, once Baldwin was crowned, his barons and vassals hastened to muster men in response to the royal summons, with the urgent intent to block Saladin from marching on Damascus.
Balian had hastened south to his fief at Ibelin and summoned his ten knights. Before they could depart for the agreed-upon rendezvous at the great stronghold of Kerak, which guarded the Cairo–Damascus road, a terse message arrived from the constable: the campaign had been called off. Balian was troubled by this unexpected turn of events; why had this decision been made? After learning that Baldwin had left Jerusalem and was currently holding court at Acre, he set out along the coastal road and on a hot morning in September three days later, he and his men finally saw the soaring walls of Acre rising against the sky.
“Is that Acre, my lord?”
Rolf sounded so breathless that Balian glanced back at the boy with a smile. Rolf had never ventured far from his village before Balian had taken him on as a squire a month ago, and he’d been very excited on their journey north, never having seen cities as large as Jaffa and Caesarea and Haifa, each with a population of more than four thousand. He’d never even been to a public bathhouse until Balian and his knights had gone to one in Caesarea and he’d been astonished by the sweating chamber heated with earthenware pipes from an outside furnace and by the hot and cold pools. He claimed to be fourteen, but his innocence made him seem younger to Balian, who could only marvel that they were now ruled by a king even younger than Rolf.
Balian’s knights had been amused by Rolf’s naïveté and spun stories for him about the lions in the north and the fearsome beasts called crocodiles, said to lurk in a river near Caesarea. As they approached Acre, they filled his ears with tales of the scandalous seaport, notorious for its brawling, its bawdy houses, and its endless opportunities for sinning. Rolf’s eyes got even wider as he listened, and he was both eager and uneasy as Acre came into view, never imaging he’d get to see a city as wicked as Sodom or Gomorrah.
“It has a double harbor!” he cried, dazzled by what looked to be a floating forest of masts, flying the flags of lands he’d never see. Balian explained that Acre was the kingdom’s chief port for both pilgrims and merchants. When the boy asked how many people dwelled within its massive stone walls, Balian paused to consider it.
“Archdeacon William once told me that Acre, Tyre, and Jerusalem each have a population of over thirty thousand.”
Rolf gasped. He took his lord’s most casual words as gospel, yet he wondered now if Balian was jesting with him, for he could not envision a city almost ten times the size of Jaffa or Caesarea. But by then, they were caught up in the throng of travelers seeking to pass through the Patriarch’s Gate, the stone tower that was the southeast entrance into Acre.
Rolf gasped again as they rode in, for never had he seen such a wave of humanity, flowing into every crevice, every space as far as his eye could see—sailors, peddlers, Templar and Hospitaller knights, priests, pilgrims, beggars, drovers whipping their mules as they tried to force a path for their swaying carts, respectably clad matrons, other women who looked like walking sin, street urchins, merchants. Some were astride horses, most afoot, dodging stray dogs and the gutter running down the center of the street, elbowing their way toward the shops, taverns, and churches, all thriving on the sheer chaos of life in the kingdom’s chief seaport.
Rolf found the noise level physically painful. Balian had told him Acre had nigh on forty churches, and the boy thought that all of them must be tolling their bells. A man shouted above the din that his master had opened a new keg of wine at his tavern on St. Anne Street. Sailors already half-drunk squabbled with one another, whistling at the sight of pretty girls. Rolf suddenly remembered the story their village priest had told them of the Tower of Babel in Scriptures, for Acre seemed like that to him. So many languages were assailing his ears—French, Greek, the Syriac and Arabic spoken by the native Christians, German, English, Armenian, Italian dialects, and tongues utterly foreign to him.
But then he gagged, his face contorting. “What is that stink?”
Balian and his knights laughed. “That is the perfumed air of Acre, lad. It takes getting used to, but you will. In truth, I think the townsfolk take a perverse pride in it, for I’ve heard them boasting that their city stench is ripe enough to sicken a pig.”
To take the lad’s mind off the onslaught of so many foul odors, Balian began to describe the sights likely to interest his squire, pointing out the banner of the Templars flying above their commandery in the southwest corner of the city. The Hospitallers’ quarters and hospital were to the north, he said, as was the royal palace. The Genoese, Venetian, and now the Pisan merchants all had their own quarters, too.
“Down the Street of Chains is the customhouse,” he continued, “where foreign and Saracen merchants go to have their goods inspected and a toll levied upon them.” He smiled then, thinking of the shock of European newcomers to Outremer when they discovered that trade between the Franks and the Saracens continued even during war. Rolf was a Poulain, so he’d understand that their kingdom’s survival often depended as much upon compromise and conciliation as it did upon the steel of their swords.
Balian was telling Rolf about the fortified sea tower known as the Tower of the Flies that protected the harbor’s approach, when he heard his name called out, loudly enough to rise above the clamor of street traffic.
Turning toward the sound, Balian grinned at the sight of Jakelin de Mailly and guided his palfrey across the crowded street. Swinging from the saddle, Balian handed the reins to Rolf, instructing his knights to continue on to his brother’s town house. Seeing Rolf’s dismay at being left on his own, he said, “You need not fret, lad. They know where it is, on Provençal Street, not far from St. Mary’s church. I’ll not be needing any of you for the rest of the day, so you can amuse yourselves as you like. Just try not to get arrested by the city’s viscount.”
They laughed, delighted by the prospect of a free afternoon, and rode on, Rolf stealing an occasional glance back over his shoulder. Balian watched them go, then smiled at Jakelin. “I often bless Baudouin for buying a town house here, sparing us a stay in one of Acre’s flea-ridden inns. It is not as if you could take us in, after all.”
“True,” Jakelin acknowledged, with a smile of his own. “Our grand master sets high standards when approving Temple guests. Luckily for you, Lord Baudouin is less particular.”
Balian still found the sight of Jakelin in the white mantle and red cross of the Templars startling, though it had been two years since his friend had declared his wish to join the order. Balian had tried to talk him out of it, fearing this was another of Jakelin’s spur-of-the-moment whims, one he’d soon come to regret. Despite Balian’s admiration for the Templars, the best fighters in the kingdom, he did not understand what had motivated Jakelin. A Templar’s life was not an easy one. They courted danger the way other men courted women, and had to swear oaths of obedience, poverty, and chastity—all of which would have presented an enormous challenge to Balian. Nor had Jakelin been able to explain satisfactorily to Balian why he’d made such a drastic decision. But he had to admit that Jakelin seemed content with his choice and he supposed that was what mattered, even if he did miss visiting the Acre bordels with Jakelin.
He and Jakelin de Mailly were such opposites that Baudouin had jokingly dubbed them Salt and Pepper. Balian was tall and lean, clean-shaven, with olive skin deeply tanned by the sun, and dark hair and eyes. Jakelin had blue eyes, hair so blond it looked white in the sun, a neatly trimmed Templar beard, a fair complexion that burned easily during the hot Outremer summers, and he was only of average height, but as powerfully built as a blacksmith. He was also as impulsive as Balian was deliberate and as idealistic as Balian was pragmatic. Yet their friendship had taken root at their first meeting four years ago when the young Frenchman had arrived in the Holy Land, eager to fulfill his crusader’s vow and perhaps to make his fortune, being a younger son with limited prospects back in Lorraine.
“Let’s get a drink so we can catch up,” Balian said, looking around for the closest tavern. That did not take long, for Acre had taverns beyond counting. Glad to be out of the burning sun, they ducked under the sagging sign, peeling paint turning its half-moon into something unrecognizable, and found a table.
Balian knew that Templars were permitted to drink wine, but he thought it was not made easy for them; Jakelin had explained that it could not be drunk between dinner and Vespers, nor could it be drunk in a tavern or house that was less than a league from a Templar commandery. So, when a morose serving maid with tired eyes finally shuffled over to them, he ordered wine for himself and water for Jakelin, apologizing as she turned away. “We’d never find fruit juice or almond milk in a hellhole like this.”
Jakelin merely smiled and shrugged, as if what he drank was a matter of indifference, and Balian supposed that was true; a man who craved the luxuries of life was not likely to have joined the Order of the Temple. Settling back on the bench, he wasted no time. “Do you know why the campaign was called off, Jake?”
“Of course. Our grand master confides in me daily, never making a move without my counsel.” Jakelin leaned across the table then, lowering his voice. “I can hazard a guess, though. Master Odo is peacock proud and Miles de Plancy commanded him to join the army at Kerak. He did it in public, too, the fool.”
Balian was both surprised and puzzled, for the Templars and Hospitallers were not subject to the king’s authority, being independent orders answerable only to the Pope. “Miles ought to have known better than that. It is not as if he is a newcomer to the Holy Land.”
“Men say that holding the regency has gone to his head. I hear he has been denying others access to the young king.”
“At times I think there must be something in the Outremer water that scrambles men’s wits. How else explain why they think we have the luxury of ignoring the Saracens whilst we feud with our own? I assume the king is at the palace?”
“Yes, but you’ll not find him there. They are holding races this afternoon. If you hurry, you’ll be in time to put down a few wagers ere they start. Although you’d do better to abstain, given your rotten luck in picking winners.”
“That was only when I heeded your advice,” Balian countered, using the past tense since gambling was forbidden to Templars. Before Jakelin could retort, another serving maid approached their table and set two chipped cups before them. This one was sultry, not sullen, with flashing black eyes and golden skin that proclaimed some Saracen blood, although she wore a small wooden cross at her throat. When she asked if there was anything else they wanted, she made that innocuous sentence sound like an invitation to engage in mortal sin, and it was an offer Balian found very tempting. He resisted her appeal, though, shaking his head with a smile.
“If you change your mind, my lord, you need only ask for Salma,” she said with a provocative pout, and sauntered away.
Balian watched those swaying hips and sighed. No man with a few coins in his scrip would have trouble finding a bedmate in Acre, where bawdy houses sprang up like weeds, resourceful young women used taverns for hunting grounds, and whores who could do no better for themselves lurked in doorways after dark. But Salma’s exotic good looks and spirited self-confidence had stirred the desire that never fully slept in a man of Balian’s age, and he felt a real regret when she moved off to flirt with other customers.
“Jesu, Balian, call her back! You’re all but drooling.”
Balian blinked in surprise, for he’d been trying to spare Jakelin’s feelings. “I did not think it was good manners to accept her offer whilst you looked on,” he protested. “I would not boast of having enjoyed a five-course meal to a man who was starving.”
Jakelin burst out laughing. “I am touched by your concern for my well-being. But do you truly think I am so weak that I’d violate my vows because you futtered a whore?”
Rather than matching Jakelin’s bantering tone, Balian seized this opportunity to admit he was both awed and baffled by his friend’s resolve. “I do not know how you do it, Jake,” he confessed. “You’ve given up so much and you make it sound so . . . so easy.”
“Easy?” Jakelin gave a hoot of disbelief. “Whoever said it was easy? It is a constant struggle, with my body always at war with my will. But that is as it ought to be. If it were too easy to honor these vows, then anyone could become a Templar. Even the likes of you,” he added with a grin, rising to his feet and slapping Balian on the back. “I have to go, for we are patrolling this afternoon. I assume you’ll be in Acre for a while? Stop by the commandery when you can find some free time.”
With a wave, he headed for the door, pausing to thank Balian for “that costly swallow of pure spring water.” Balian laughed, for even when they did drink wine together, he always paid, as Jakelin claimed the rules of their order forbade him to carry money. Skeptical at first, he’d been surprised to learn that this was indeed a serious sin, one that could cause a Templar’s expulsion. Taking another sip of the wretched wine, he thought that he’d never understand how Jakelin could embrace such an austere life when there were other ways to serve God.
The voluptuous serving maid was glancing in his direction again and he beckoned her over. As he expected, the tavern keeper allowed her to rent a small room abovestairs, and they soon agreed upon a price acceptable to them both. He’d be back by Vespers, he assured her, for the sweet sins she offered would have to wait. First, he must seek out the young king and try to learn why they were letting Damascus fall into Saladin’s clutches like a ripe plum.
Races and tournaments were held out on the plain east of Acre, not far from the mouth of the Belus River. Balian was not surprised to find a large crowd had gathered, for racing was a popular sport with the Poulains. Dismounting, he tethered his horse to a railing provided for that purpose and tossed a coin to a youngster to watch over the palfrey. Looking around for the stands set up for those of noble rank, he headed in that direction.
Agnes de Courtenay had been given the seat of honor under a canvas awning protecting them from the sun, and Balian had to admit that she looked quite elegant in a gown of scarlet silk. Beside her, Sybilla appeared suddenly grown-up in green brocade. Miles de Plancy was seated on Agnes’s other side, carrying on an animated conversation with her, while his new wife, Stephanie de Milly, scolded her young son, Humphrey, for some minor misdeed. Balian thought the lad was the best-behaved child he’d ever met, but his mother set standards so high that not even an archangel could have met them.
A wide space separated Agnes’s party from those gathered around the constable. Humphrey de Toron was looking bored; a man of action, he found any inactivity to be tedious. His wife was attracting the most stares, for she was highborn, beautiful, and had been involved in a great scandal. Philippa was the sister of the current Prince of Antioch, Bohemond, and she’d shocked their society by embarking upon a blatant affair with a Greek nobleman, Andronicus Comnenus, a kinsman of the Greek emperor. He was a man of undeniable charm, but one who seemed better suited for the lawless life of a pirate, as he soon proved. He and Philippa had lived openly together in Antioch until Andronicus paid a visit to Outremer. While there, he caused an even greater scandal by seducing a queen, Theodora, widow of Amalric’s late brother, Baldwin, and eloping with her to Nūr al-Dīn’s court in Damascus. Humiliated, her reputation in tatters, Philippa had agreed to marry the much older widower Humphrey de Toron, knowing he’d face down the scandal with the same fierce defiance he displayed upon the battlefield.
Seated with the de Torons was a woman who looked vaguely familiar to Balian; after a moment, he recognized the Lady Eschiva, the very rich and recently widowed Princess of Galilee. She had none of the alluring blond beauty that God had bestowed upon Agnes and Philippa. She did have a serene demeanor and wry humor that both Agnes and Philippa lacked, and Balian found her quite likable. Eschiva had four young sons and word had it that she was a devoted mother, very involved in her offspring’s lives, so it was no surprise to see them beside her, jostling, squirming, and joking under her tolerant eye.
On the other side of Humphrey de Toron was the Templar grand master, glowering from time to time in Miles de Plancy’s direction. As he glanced between these two groups, Balian realized that he was looking at a court breaking up into factions, so antagonistic that they could not even keep up public appearances and mingle on social occasions. His brother was back at Ramlah, but had Baudouin been here, Balian knew he’d be seated with the constable and the grand master. Had Denys de Grenier not returned to Sidon after Baldwin’s coronation, Balian assumed his loyalty to his wife would have kept him at Agnes’s side even though he was good friends with Humphrey and distrusted Miles. The more Balian regarded these warring camps, the more unsettled he became. How could a thirteen-year-old boy be expected to mend rifts as deep and dangerous as these?
And where was Baldwin? Balian had been stunned by the secret that William had revealed to the High Court. It was not just that a sickly king would put Outremer at great risk. He was horrified to think Baldwin might be afflicted with leprosy. He’d done his best to convince himself that the Almighty would not curse Baldwin or their kingdom like that. But when he noticed Baldwin’s absence, he felt a sudden pang, his first thought that the boy must be ailing. He realized almost at once that if Baldwin were ill, Agnes would not have left his side. Unlike his brother and William and many others, Balian did not doubt that Agnes loved her son.
Deciding not to approach the stands now that choosing a seat had become a public declaration of loyalty to the regent or the constable, he went looking for William and soon spotted the archdeacon on the edge of the crowd. William was pleased to see him and quickly assuaged the last of his lingering concern about Baldwin. “The lad is around somewhere,” William said nonchalantly. “You know him and horses. He wanted to see the racers up close.”
Balian had noted another conspicuous absentee. “Where is Queen Maria?”
William’s face shadowed. “Gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
“She has taken her daughter and retreated to her dower fief at Nablus. Thankfully, Amalric provided generously for her in the event of his death, for that overweening, spiteful woman made it abundantly clear that Maria is not welcome at court now that Baldwin is king.”
Balian was sorry to hear that, though not surprised. “Agnes wasted no time, did she?” Glancing back toward the stands, he said, “She looks downright regal—the queen without a crown. How much influence do you think she truly wields over Baldwin?”
“Unfortunately, the lad is quite taken with her. It is not his fault, though. Such young shoulders were not meant to bear such heavy burdens. All eyes are looking to him, and people he’s known for years seem like strangers of a sudden. Already he is learning a king’s hardest lesson—that everyone wants something from him. I doubt that his sister has ever had a thought she left unexpressed. Baldwin is not like her, keeps much to himself. But I know he must be lonely, missing his father’s guidance, even feeling overwhelmed at times.”
Balian had never known his own father, who’d died in the year of his birth; his mother had quickly remarried, giving birth to two daughters, and dying when he was just eight. But he’d always had security, for he’d always had his older brothers to stand between him and the unknown. How much more vulnerable Baldwin was, called upon to be a king ere he was even old enough to shave. “And at such times, Agnes is there for him.”
William nodded glumly. “She is cunning, too, more so than I realized. Had she sought to smother him or coddle him, he’d have rebelled straightaway. Instead, she listens and laughs and does what women have always done well—makes him feel as if he is truly special. He is, of course, and he knows it. It must still be comforting to him that she thinks so, too.”
They’d drawn away from the crowd so they could speak without fear of being overheard. But they still had a clear view of the stands and the split on such public display for all to see, including Salāh al-Dīn’s spies. “I came to Acre to find out why we are not trying to stop Saladin from laying claim to Damascus,” Balian said quietly. “I fear the answer can be found over there. Has it truly come to this, William? Our leaders would rather settle old grudges than defend the realm?”
William nodded again. “I fear so, Balian. Whilst Miles has always been obstinate and prideful, Amalric was quick to tell him if he overstepped. Now there is no one to rein Miles in. He and Odo de St. Amand are not even on speaking terms anymore. Miles has also alienated the grand master of the Hospitallers and Jobert is no firebrand like Odo. The latter must bear his share of the blame for the breach with Miles. Not Jobert, though. He is amenable to reason, yet Miles so offended him that he flatly refused to take part in the campaign.”
“And Humphrey?”
“He was not about to lead an army against Saladin without the support of the Templars and Hospitallers, especially since he was not sure how many lords he could rely upon. He told me that he’d heard there were some who were loath to see Miles triumph, fearing that would firmly entrench his hold upon the regency.” William saw Balian frown and felt a dart of sympathy for his young friend, for Baudouin was rumored to be one of those reluctant barons. He would never confide that to Balian, of course, and so he began to talk instead about a bitter altercation between Miles and Walter de Brisebarre, the disgruntled lord of Blanchegarde.
“Walter has never gotten over losing Beirut to Amalric and then losing Outrejourdain when his wife died and it passed to her sister, Stephanie. I think most men feel he got an unfair deal, so he had some support when he asked Miles to return Beirut to him or, failing that, to arrange a marriage for him with the next available heiress. Miles refused both requests. Whilst I am not often in agreement with the man, Miles was right about Beirut. It is part of the royal domain now and it is his responsibility as regent to protect Baldwin’s interests. He erred, though, in not throwing Walter a bone. Had he promised an heiress, at least that would have salvaged Walter’s pride. Instead, he mocked Walter and with others looking on. Coming from the man who now holds Outrejourdain, that was too much for Walter to accept. He made a fool of himself, raging and cursing and screaming out threats. One more drop of poison into an already toxic brew.”
Balian could only shake his head in disgust. “This is madness, William. Amalric would have dragged himself from his deathbed to keep Saladin from taking over Damascus. How can so many be so blind? What of Baldwin? Is he aware that his is a house divided?”
“I’ve not talked to him about it, but he is a bright lad. I am sure he knows that Miles is hated. He also knows that his father wanted Miles as regent. He has a mind of his own, though, always has,” William said with his first real smile of the day, one of almost paternal pride.
“Miles may forge ahead like a stampeding bull, yet he was shrewd enough to ingratiate himself with Baldwin’s mother, and for now Agnes is on his side. I saw proof of that less than a fortnight ago when I overheard Miles and Agnes trying to convince Baldwin that he ought to replace Humphrey de Toron as constable. Whilst the lad heard them out, he was obviously not swayed by their arguments, and so Agnes made a personal appeal, saying that she did not trust Humphrey. Baldwin effectively silenced her then by saying calmly, ‘Well, I do, Mother.’ She had the sense to back off after that, but I do not doubt she and Miles are still plotting to get Humphrey dismissed, and God help the realm if that ever happens.”
A sudden blare of trumpets signaled that the first race was about to begin. The riders and horses had entered the track and there was a loud roar of approval when the spectators recognized the youth on a chestnut stallion. “Baldwin is riding?” Balian swung toward William, but the older man was just as surprised. Looking toward the stands, Balian saw that Agnes had not expected this, either, for she half rose, then sank back in her seat. As the riders paraded past the crowd on their way to the start, Baldwin acknowledged the cheers with a jaunty wave, doffing his cap playfully when he caught sight of William and Balian. By then, though, Balian had eyes only for the young king’s mount, for he knew horses. This one was smaller and lighter than the usual Frankish stallion, with a finely chiseled head, deep chest, graceful arching neck, and a tail carried high. “That is an Arabian! Where did Baldwin get him?”
William had the typical cleric’s lack of interest in horses. “He was a gift from Agnes, I think. I take it an Arabian is something out of the ordinary?”
“You could say that,” Balian said dryly, thinking he’d have pledged the surety of his soul to have one of those magnificent stallions. “No wonder Baldwin has fallen under his mother’s spell! Clever lady. You can rest assured that he’ll be well mounted in the race, for Arabians are cat-quick, agile, and highly intelligent, whilst not as hard to handle as our destriers.”
“I pray you’re right,” William said, trying to fend off frightening visions of Baldwin being thrown and slammed into the dirt in a welter of flying legs and down-plunging hooves. And then he caught his breath, for the flag was dropped and the horses and riders were off in a cloud of dust.
Now that Baldwin was doing this mad thing, William wanted the boy to win and he felt a throb of disappointment to see that the chestnut was blocked as they thundered past the stands. But Baldwin bided his time and began to weave his way between horses as they hit midstretch, finding holes where William was sure there were none. He was fourth with a quarter mile to go and then, in the blink of an eye, it was over. Like a golden streak of light, the Arabian overtook the leaders and then he was in front, pulling away from the others with every stride. By the time he crossed the finish line in solitary splendor, the crowd was cheering wildly, even those who’d wagered against him, and Baldwin was laughing. William suddenly found himself on the verge of tears, almost as if he knew he’d just been given a precious gift, a memory of the young king at a perfect moment in his life, one that held no shadows or dread, only bright promise.
Balian declined William’s invitation to dine with him that evening, explaining he’d already made plans, and if the archdeacon suspected those plans would require Balian to seek out a priest, confess, and do penance, he politely gave no indication of it. The next day, Balian arrived at the palace to discover that Baldwin was still flying high after his triumph at the races. He’d always liked Balian, who was young enough to joke with, and they passed an enjoyable quarter hour discussing Baldwin’s new stallion, which he’d named Asad, Arabic for “lion,” both because of his tawny coat and his lion-like courage. He’d just invited Balian to accompany him to the stables so he could see Asad’s majesty for himself when Agnes reminded him that he’d agreed to hear petitions that morning. Baldwin was not happy about it, but he did not attempt to evade his royal responsibilities and promised Balian they’d visit the stables later. Balian was amused by what he did next, showing he did indeed have a mind of his own, as William claimed. Instead of staying in the stifling hall, he declared, he’d hold court up on the rooftop garden.
He was soon sitting on a marble bench, shielded from the sun by a striped canvas canopy, with Agnes on one side and Miles on the other, as men were ushered forward to kneel and state their grievances. Watching with William from another bench, Balian was impressed by the boy’s conduct. He listened attentively and if the complaint involved a point of law, he said it would be taken under deliberation and told the petitioner to return in a few days for his decision. If he occasionally glanced wistfully toward the turquoise sea and the ships sailing for the horizon, Balian thought no one could blame him.
William shared with Balian now the nonmilitary news, revealing that the Archbishop of Tyre was very ill; he’d accompanied Maria to Nablus, only to be stricken with a stomach ailment. And word had reached Outremer of the latest chapter in the English king’s ongoing struggles with his own queen and sons. The lads were still in rebellion, having fled to the French court, but Eleanor had not been so fortunate; she’d been captured by a royal patrol and taken off to confinement in one of Henry’s castles. William disapproved strongly of the English queen, and he began quoting from Scriptures to bolster his argument that a wife who was not obedient to her husband violated the condition of nature and the divine will of the Almighty.
“William . . . forgive the interruption, but Humphrey de Toron has just arrived.” Balian was intrigued by the expression on the constable’s face. “Smug” was not a word he’d normally apply to Humphrey, yet he thought the other man definitely had the look of a cat that had gotten into the cream. He was intrigued, too, by the stranger at Humphrey’s side. He appeared to be in his thirties, of medium height and slender build, with a swarthy complexion and straight, dark brown hair. His posture was very erect, his head held high, and his deportment that of one accustomed to privilege and power. “That man with Humphrey . . . do you know him, William?”
William shook his head, no less curious than Balian, and they rose to follow as Humphrey and his companion strode toward the king and seneschal. Miles had risen abruptly, the expression on his face indicating he did know the identity of this newcomer. The stranger made a deep obeisance to Baldwin, kissed Agnes’s hand, and acknowledged Miles with courtesy that was utterly correct and yet somehow seemed like an afterthought. Balian and William got within hearing range just in time to hear Miles say, with a smile that was almost a sneer, “You are a long way from home, my lord count. I would think you’d be loath to leave Tripoli after such a prolonged stay in the prisons of Aleppo.”
Balian and William exchanged quick glances. So, this was Raymond de St. Gilles, Count of Tripoli, the young king’s cousin, the man Humphrey had described as a “serious candidate” for the crown of Jerusalem. They smiled at each other, the same thought in both their minds: that things were about to get interesting.
Miles was very good at provoking other men to bad behavior. His barb went astray now, for Raymond ignored it, as if the implied insult—like the man himself—was not worthy of notice. Addressing himself to Baldwin, he said, “My king, I would offer my condolences for the death of your father, may God assoil him. I held him in great esteem and I believe that he thought equally well of me. He ruled Tripoli for me during those years that I was held prisoner by Nūr al-Dīn and it was my wish that Tripoli pass to him if I died during my captivity.”
“You are most welcome at my court, Cousin Raymond,” Baldwin said politely but cautiously, for he did not give his trust easily to men he did not know. Agnes was regarding the count warily, and it was clear that her trust would have to be earned, too. Many in their audience were looking suddenly hopeful, however, seeing Raymond de St. Gilles as a formidable rival to the detested Miles.
“I am here,” the count continued, “because I am your closest male kin, and so I am the one who ought to serve as regent until you reach your majority. I base my claim upon the laws of your kingdom, our shared blood, and the bond that existed between your lord father and me.”
“You have not heard, then?” Miles queried with heavy sarcasm. “That position has been filled. I was named regent by the High Court, in accordance with the dying wishes of King Amalric.”
“I heard. But the High Court chose you as acting regent, no more than that. I was not present to argue my own claim. Now I am.”
“You are not the king’s only male kin,” Miles snapped. “The Prince of Antioch is his cousin, too!”
“But you are not,” Raymond responded coolly. “I will right gladly debate the merits of my claim against those of my cousin in Antioch, if that be the wish of the king and High Court. You will be free, or course, my lord seneschal, to argue your own claim—such as it is.”
Many of those listening were grinning widely, for they knew this was a new experience for the imperious Miles—discovering how deadly a weapon icy indifference could be. Miles was looking baneful. Baldwin seemed uncertain and, seeing that, Agnes leaned over to whisper in his ear.
Giving his mother a grateful smile, Baldwin raised his hand in time to keep Miles from launching a verbal assault upon the count. “None would deny you deserve to be considered for the regency, Cousin Raymond. But this is a decision for the High Court, and, alas, we do not have enough lords in Acre for a quorum. We will have to summon them to a session in Jerusalem.”
If Raymond was vexed by the delaying tactic, it did not show in his face. “Of course,” he said. “I welcome the opportunity to be heard before the High Court.” He made another respectful obeisance to the young king before adding, “I trust that will be soon.”
William was delighted by the Count of Tripoli’s challenge to Miles. Once he and Balian had a chance to talk in private, he sounded more optimistic than he had since Amalric’s death, telling Balian that all he’d heard of the count was to his credit. He’d fought bravely on the battlefield before his capture; he was well educated and was said to have learned Arabic during his captivity; he was of high birth and a Poulain, not an outsider like Miles. Balian agreed that Raymond de St. Gilles was an impressive figure and his credentials were impeccable. He wished, though, that the count was not as reserved or aloof; not once had he smiled. Balian hoped he was wrong, but he wondered if Raymond would be able to win over the members of the High Court, for despite the strength of his claim, he was a stranger to most of Outremer.