CHAPTER 8
July 1175
Marj al-Sufar, Syria
Balian had looked forward to seeing Damascus, one of the world’s oldest cities, according to William. He was sorry, therefore, to learn that they’d be meeting Saladin at his camp, set up at Marj al-Sufar, a large plain to the south of Damascus. He soon forgot his disappointment, though, for he was very curious about the enemies who were at once familiar and foreign, and he was sure this would be a memorable experience.
His first surprise was the sultan himself. Because Saladin loomed so large in their lives, Balian had envisioned the man as a physically imposing figure, one who was serious, single-minded, and intimidating. But the real Saladin was not at all like Balian’s mental image of him. He was of average height and slender build, with dark coloring and a neatly trimmed beard. Nor was he aloof or reserved. He was quick to smile, approachable and affable, such a gracious host that it was almost possible to forget Saracen-Frank encounters were usually on the battlefield. Not all of Balian’s expectations were wrong; he sensed a sharp intelligence at work behind those inscrutable black eyes, and he already knew Saladin could be ruthless if need be, having proved that in the past. He’d just not foreseen the sultan’s charm.
Once the formal greetings were over, the ceremonial gift giving came next; Raymond presented Saladin with three very fine gyrfalcons and the sultan reciprocated with several valuable camels and a tent for the young king. If it was anything like Saladin’s pavilion, Balian thought Baldwin would be delighted. Their kings had spacious, comfortable tents for campaigns, yet none were as impressive as this one; it easily accommodated well over a hundred men and even had an inner private compartment, where Balian assumed the truce negotiations would be held. But first they would break bread together, and Balian knew it would be an elaborate, lavish meal, for the Saracens took the obligations of hospitality very seriously.
Raymond had made sure that Balian was introduced to the sultan, a kindness Balian much appreciated. He did not expect to be seated with them at the diplomatic dinner, though, nor was he. Cushions were brought in and distributed, for the meal would be served on low tables or on the ground, a Saracen custom that many of the Poulains had quickly adopted themselves. Tablecloths were spread over the tent carpeting, and once Raymond and Humphrey had taken the seats of honor beside Saladin, they all washed their hands in basins of rose-scented water and settled cross-legged on their cushions. Balian had brought several of his knights along, and they looked surprised when he chose to sit next to one of Raymond’s men rather than with them, for Gerard de Ridefort had not endeared himself to any of the Poulains on the journey to Marj al-Sufar.
While Balian did not know much about Gerard de Ridefort’s background, he was sure the man must come from an influential family in his native Flanders, for he’d managed to attach himself to Raymond’s household soon after his arrival in the Holy Land. On their way to meet Saladin, he’d also learned that the Flemish knight was hot-tempered and had the typical newcomer’s suspicion of the native-born Christians. Knowing that this bias went hand in hand with a visceral hatred of all Muslims, Balian had been keeping an eye upon Gerard, not trusting him to stay on his best behavior once he found himself surrounded by Saracens.
Gerard was already showing signs of agitation and Balian knew from experience with other new arrivals to Outremer that their unease often expressed itself in anger. As soon as they sat down, Gerard began to complain about the lack of chairs or tables, asking scornfully if they were to eat on the ground like dogs. Even though he understood that the Flemish knight was distraught to be dining with men he’d sworn to kill, Balian still had to strive for patience.
“Once you become accustomed to it,” he told Gerard, “you’ll find it is a very comfortable way to eat. Many Poulains prefer it to the European way of dining.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Gerard muttered, sounding so sour that Balian suppressed a sigh, thinking it was going to be a long meal. Gerard next found fault with the liquid being poured by servants into their cups. Taking a grudging sip, he grimaced, and for a moment, Balian feared he was going to spit it out. “God’s blood, what is this swill?”
After tasting his own drink, Balian forced a smile. “It is pomegranate juice, Sir Gerard, not hemlock. The Saracens do not serve wine, for their holy book says it is forbidden.”
“‘Holy book’? Most men would think it blasphemous to use words like that for vile infidel beliefs,” Gerard snapped. Balian kept silent, hoping that would discourage him from continuing with his harangue. Gerard was quick to find another grievance, though, staring incredulously at the communal serving trays being placed on the tablecloth within reach of their plates. “Christ Jesus, you mean we are to eat out of the same dishes?”
Balian knew dishes were often shared at meals in the English and French kingdoms and he did not think it was any different in Flanders. What appalled Gerard, of course, was that some of the fingers being dipped into these dishes were Saracen fingers. Balian had hoped that he’d be able to ease the Fleming’s discomfiture so he could relax and enjoy the meal. He realized now that he’d set an impossible task for himself, that the best he could do was to keep Gerard from making a scene that would offend their Saracen hosts and put all the Franks in a bad light.
“This is the first course, honey dates stuffed with almonds. I am sure you’ll like them if you give them a try.” Balian leaned over and put a date on the other man’s plate. The knight let it lie there untouched. He was gazing at it as if it were offal, not a delicacy sure to please the most demanding palates, and Balian began to entertain a fantasy in which he held Gerard down and force-fed him every date in Outremer.
The main dishes were served next, brought out all at once instead of in separate courses, as was the custom of the Franks and their European brethren. Balian was pleased to see one of his favorites, sikbāj, a lamb dish marinated in vinegar, then cooked in olive oil with eggplant, onions, almonds, figs, and raisins. After helping himself, he offered to put some on Gerard’s plate, only to get a curt refusal. More from stubbornness now than any hope of shaming the Fleming into remembering his manners, Balian continued to talk about the food, pointing out a dish called zirbāj, a sweet-and-sour fish dish fried in flour. All to no avail.
“You really need to try one of them,” Balian persisted. “In this part of the world, it would be very rude to refuse to eat after being invited to dine. I think you’d like this dish. It is called būrān, made with eggplant fried in sesame oil, with yogurt, garlic, and chicken.”
Gerard balked again. “Yogurt? What is that?” When Balian said it was curdled milk, Gerard muttered something in Flemish that did not need a translation, for the look of disgust on his face said it all. “How do you know so much about their food?” he demanded. “Do you have a Saracen cook?”
He’d meant it as sarcasm and was dumbfounded when Balian said that he did. That was not strictly true; the Ibelin cooks were Syrian Christians, but familiar with the Saracen style of cooking, which most Poulains preferred to the blander Frankish cuisine. “You have an infidel cook?” Gerard was staring at Balian in genuine horror. “Christ Almighty, man, do you not fear being poisoned?”
“No, I do not. And lower your voice. Men are looking in your direction.” Balian said that to embarrass Gerard into better behavior, but as he glanced around, he saw to his dismay that it was true. He’d not worried about any of the Saracens overhearing Gerard’s rants, for very few of them understood French. Body language was universal, though, and Gerard’s belligerence had attracted the attention of two of the nearest Saracens.
The younger one seemed faintly amused; his companion did not. Balian guessed the latter to be in his mid-thirties, wearing an elegant tunic called a kazaghand that was lined with mail and proclaimed his high rank. He was scowling, his dark eyes cutting from the Flemish knight’s flushed face to his plate, empty except for that ignored lone date, and there was a fierce intensity in his unwavering gaze that put Balian in mind of a hawk first sighting prey.
“You think the Count of Tripoli will be pleased if you start a brawl in Saladin’s tent?”
Balian’s urgent undertone finally got through to Gerard, and he lapsed into a sullen silence after that, although he still refused to take a single mouthful of this alien, enemy fare. Balian devoted himself then to the pleasures of the meal, and the rest of it passed without incident. But each time he looked toward the Saracen hawk, the man was staring at Gerard.
After qatāyif, a sugared crepe baked with almonds, was served, basins of water and towels were provided again. As Saladin disappeared into the interior of his pavilion with Raymond and Humphrey, servants cleared away the remains of the meal. Gerard was already on his feet. “I need some air,” he declared, and began to shove his way toward the tent entrance. To Balian’s alarm, the hawk rose, too, and followed Gerard, shadowed by the younger Saracen.
Balian trampled some toes, but he got there in time, all three men converging at the tent entrance. “Assalaamu ‘alaykum,” he said, rather breathlessly. The hawk merely stared at him, although his companion responded politely to Balian’s greeting with “And peace be upon you.”
“My lord.” Balian paused, hoping his elementary Arabic would be up to the task. “My friend is a newcomer to the East and has not yet become accustomed to the heat. He has been suffering from belly pains for days and so he was unable to eat any of this delicious meal.”
Now that they were face-to-face, Balian thought the Saracen lord looked even more like a hawk than he’d first thought. If he was placated by the apology, he gave no sign of it; his mouth was set so tightly that it was impossible to imagine it ever softening into a smile and his eyes caught the torchlight, a reddish flame reflected in their dark depths. It was then that the other man leaned over and murmured something in his ear, too softly for Balian to hear. The hawk was still for a moment and then spat some Arabic at Balian, glaring at both men before he spun around and stalked away.
Balian was indifferent to the insult, caring only that he’d not gone in search of Gerard.
The other man had remained at Balian’s side. “Did you follow what he said?”
Balian was by no means fluent in Arabic and he needed it to be spoken slowly for full comprehension. He’d heard only one word clearly—khanzeer—and since he knew the pig was considered an unclean animal to Muslims, that was enough. “I think he called someone a swine,” he said lightly. “Naturally I assume he was not referring to me.”
Although the Saracen’s face was not easy to read, Balian thought he could detect the inkling of a smile at that. He was curious about the other man, who’d obviously been minding the hawk as he’d been minding Gerard de Ridefort. The thought of the Fleming roaming the Saracen camp unsupervised was a disturbing one and he beckoned to one of his knights, delegating that duty to him. “Come find me if he seems likely to get himself killed. But if you think he’ll only be beaten to a bloody pulp, there’s no need to hurry.” The knight grinned and headed out as Balian turned back to the Saracen.
“I am Balian, Lord of Ibelin. Thank you.”
The other man did not pretend to misunderstand. “The sultan would not have been pleased had his nephew started a brawl with one of the Franks,” he said. Balian was amused that his words almost exactly echoed his own warning to Gerard, but then he blinked in belated comprehension.
“The hawk is the sultan’s nephew?”
“‘Hawk’?” the man echoed, and this time the smile in his voice was unmistakable. “That suits him well. He is indeed the sultan’s kinsman. You may have heard of him—Taqī al-Dīn?”
Balian’s eyes widened as he realized how close they’d come to disaster, for a confrontation between two hotheads like Gerard de Ridefort and Taqī al-Dīn was sure to have ended in bloodshed. Saladin’s nephew had a reputation for being utterly fearless on the battlefield and just as aggressive off it, while his hatred of the Franks was as well-known as his reputation for violence.
“Who has not heard of Taqī al-Dīn?” he said, for Arabic lent itself easily to such rhetorical flourishes. He casually looked around then, wanting to make sure that the sultan’s fiery nephew had not slipped out in search of that dolt de Ridefort. He was relieved to see Taqī al-Dīn talking with two men who wore the yellow-gold colors of Saladin’s elite bodyguard. But he was surprised, too, that so many of the Saracens were glancing in his direction.
“We seem to be attracting more than our share of attention,” he said, not sure what to make of it.
“They are probably curious about you, for few of the Franks bother to learn Arabic.”
“True enough,” Balian conceded, although he was unable to keep from riposting, “yet even fewer of the Saracens bother to learn French.”
He saw that he’d judged his man correctly by the gleam in those dark eyes. “That is also true. Do you know why?”
That was another challenge Balian could not resist. “I can hazard a guess. They do not think it is worth their while. They are sure the Franks are like unwanted houseguests, troublesome but temporary.”
The Saracen grinned. “Come,” he said. “Let’s continue this conversation sitting down.” Finding two vacant cushions, he signaled to a servant and they were provided at once with ornate cups that were cold to the touch. Even before he tasted it, Balian recognized the drink, for it was sprinkled with pine nuts, one of the ingredients of a jallab, which was made with date syrup, rosewater, and snow brought down from the mountains by carts covered in straw. Knowing he was showing off a bit, he said, “Ah, a jallab. Nothing better on a hot day like this.”
The other man grinned again. “As troublesome houseguests go, at least you are very well-mannered.”
Balian thought that applied to this Saracen Good Samaritan, too, for he was speaking slowly and distinctly so that his Arabic was easier to understand. He noticed that they were still drawing occasional glances, and then it all came together for him and he could only marvel that it had taken him so long. He was not the object of interest; it was his companion. It would take a brave man to risk antagonizing Taqī al-Dīn. It would also take a highborn one, for status mattered as much in the Saracen world as it did in his own. Deciding that the best way to satisfy his curiosity was by a direct frontal assault, he said candidly, “Not too many men would have challenged an acclaimed warrior like Taqī al-Dīn as you did, all the more so since he is the sultan’s nephew. Is he likely to hold a grudge against you?”
He got a nonchalant shrug and then the answer he wanted, if not one he was expecting. “Not for long. He’s my nephew, too.”
Balian could hardly believe his good luck; how better to learn more about the enigmatic Salāh al-Dīn than from a close kinsman? “I am honored,” he said, wishing he could remember some of the more flowery Arabic expressions used for such occasions. “And you are . . . ?”
“Al-Malik al-‘Ādil Saif al-Dīn Abū Bakr Ahmad bin Ayyūb.”
Balian sat up straight in astonishment, for the best-known of Saladin’s siblings was al-‘Ādil, the younger brother who’d so capably put down a rebellion against the sultan in Egypt that he’d been entrusted to govern there in Saladin’s absence. He suspected that he was being gently mocked, for the Saracens knew the Franks were baffled by their naming practices, and most would have been lost as soon as al-‘Ādil reeled off that string of names.
But William had studied Arabic nomenclature in order to write his Saracen history for King Amalric, and Balian blessed the archbishop now for having shared some of that knowledge with him. He knew that there were five elements in a Muslim name: the ism or given name; the kunya bestowed after the birth of a son; the nasab, which identified a man’s father; the laqab, which was a title of honor; and the nisba, which he thought was similar to a surname. William had told him that Salāh al-Dīn was the sultan’s laqab, meaning “righteousness of the faith,” and his ism was Yūsuf, the biblical Joseph. While he’d forgotten a lot of William’s lesson, he did remember that the ism was not used outside the family, so it would have been an insult had he called al-‘Ādil by his ism, Ahmad. Knowing he was about to surprise the other man and relishing the opportunity, he smiled, saying blandly, “Please correct me if I am in error, but I believe I would address you by your laqab, Saif al-Dīn?”
Al-‘Ādil cocked an eyebrow and when their eyes met, they both laughed, in that moment discovering that humor could briefly surmount the formidable barriers of religion and language and culture.
Now that they were no longer verbally jousting with each other, they found that conversation flowed easily. Al-‘Ādil was willing to answer a few questions about his elder brother, and if his answers did not offer insight into the workings of the sultan’s mind, Balian still found them interesting. The Franks used the terms “Saracens” and “Turks” to refer to all Muslims, but Saladin’s family were Kurds, a tribe that was often viewed with suspicion by the caliphates of Egypt and Baghdad, and Balian thought that made his rapid rise all the more impressive. Saladin had been born in the Islamic calendar year 532 AH, and after al-‘Ādil said he was thirty-seven years of age, Balian was able to figure out that would have been God’s year 1138. Balian learned that the sultan did indeed excel at mall, that he liked poetry and hawking, that al-‘Ādil was, at thirty, seven years his junior, and would soon be back in Egypt, so his meeting this July day with Balian was pure happenstance.
They found that they shared some common interests—a love of horses and hunting and music—and were soon getting along so well that al-‘Ādil invited Balian to go hunting upon his next journey from Egypt, adding dryly, “Assuming that we’re not back to killing one another by then.” In times of peace, such hunts were not unusual occurrences, and Balian hoped it would come to pass, for he’d been fascinated once al-‘Ādil revealed he hunted with trained cheetahs. He was telling the Saracen lord about Baldwin’s cherished Arabian, Asad, when Saladin and his guests emerged from the inner tent.
All three men appeared to be pleased, so Balian concluded they’d come to mutually agreeable terms. While Raymond was his usual impassive self, Humphrey and Saladin were joking, so obviously comfortable together that Balian remembered something William once said—that Humphrey had met Saladin during one of Amalric’s Egyptian campaigns, adding disapprovingly that they’d become quite friendly. At the time, Balian had been skeptical, given the power that both men wielded. As he watched them now, he decided they genuinely seemed to like each other. Was it friendship, though? Could the sultan of Egypt and the constable of the Kingdom of Jerusalem ever truly be friends? Casting a curious glance toward al-‘Ādil, he wondered if friendship was possible between them, either. He wanted to believe it was so, yet he doubted it.
Denys de Grenier had joined his wife in Jerusalem for her son’s Christmas court. They’d celebrated their reunion in bed, but afterward, Agnes could not sleep. As her husband snored peacefully beside her, she tossed and turned, listening to a cold rain beating down upon the flat roof of the palace before she finally pulled back the woven hangings enclosing the bed. Snatching up her mantle as a robe, she walked over to the window, where she watched drops of water streaking the cloudy pane. She’d heard that glass was a rare commodity in the rest of Christendom, that even the wealthy often had their windows blocked with oiled linen. She could not envision life in those distant lands, places that were only names to her, places where lepers were shunned and banished to lazar houses, cut off from contact with their family, friends, and neighbors.
Agnes left the window and began to pace. These dark thoughts assailed her only at night. During the daylight hours, she could keep them at bay. She was a fool to let them lay claim to her imagination like this, for they were mere shadows, lacking substance or reality. Her son did not have leprosy. She refused to believe that God would let that happen.
Seeking other concerns to occupy her restless brain, she concentrated upon Sybilla. The girl seemed happy enough with the proposed marriage. Especially after she’d been told Guillaume of Montferrat was said to be a handsome man. Agnes recognized that she was being cynical, but she did not have great confidence in her daughter’s judgment. She’d been able to forge a bond with Baldwin as soon as Amalric died, although they could never make up for all that lost time together, and she fervently hoped that Amalric’s stay in Purgatory would exceed a thousand years for keeping her from her son. Yet Sybilla continued to elude her. It was not uncommon to pass an entire day in the girl’s company and come away feeling as if she’d spent those hours with a flighty stranger, one who flitted from one subject to another like a bee in search of nectar. Agnes reminded herself that the girl was young, just sixteen, that it was only natural for her to be a butterfly after being secluded for so long in the cocoon of the Bethany convent. But she knew she’d not been so naïve at Sybilla’s age, already a widow, already learning that life was neither easy nor fair.
Her ladies were sleeping on pallets not far from the hearth; on the nights that Denys came to her bed to claim his marital rights, he left his squires back in his own bedchamber. Agnes considered awakening one of the women to play a game of chess or merels, anything to occupy the hours until sleep finally came.
Denys was still snoring. Passing strange that she’d found the greatest contentment in her fourth marriage. She could not recall much about her first husband, dead for more than twenty-five years. All her memories of Amalric were poisoned. Whilst she supposed they must have had some happy times, she could not remember any. Hugh, too, was fading away. She could only call to mind now his plaintive brown eyes, always wanting more than she could give.
Denys, bless him, asked nothing from her. He seemed to enjoy sharing her bed when they were together, yet she doubted that he missed her much when they were apart. He’d not complained that she spent so much time at Baldwin’s court, as other husbands would have done. She occasionally wondered if he was as satisfied with their marriage as she was, more from curiosity than genuine caring. She saw their marriage as a bargain and felt that she’d held up her end. It was true she’d not given him a child. He’d known she was thirty-five at the time of their wedding and not as likely to conceive again as a younger woman would, so she felt she’d not cheated him. And he’d been nigh on forty then, with no bastards or by-blows of his own, so he could be as much to blame as she for the barrenness of their marriage; she’d never believed that it was always the woman’s fault.
She’d talked to Sybilla about marriage, trying to make the girl see that the best ones were like hers and Denys’s, a partnership in which both knew what was expected of them. She suspected, though, that Sybilla wanted the passion, the romance of those foolish minstrel songs. Well, she’d learn. Agnes doubted that passion survived most women’s first experience of the birthing chamber.
Crossing to a table, she poured half a cup of wine, thinking that might help her to sleep. When the knock sounded suddenly, she was so startled that she almost spilled it, wine splashing onto her hand. Drawing the mantle tightly about her, she moved toward the door. “Who is it?”
The name given was familiar to her, one of Baldwin’s servants, and she fumbled with the latch, so hastily that she caught her fingers as she slid back the bar. She never even felt that pinch of pain, in that moment aware only of the sudden pounding of her heart and the odd expression on the man’s face—bewilderment mixed with fear.
Yves, Baldwin’s squire, was awaiting Agnes in the young king’s antechamber. He quickly cast his eyes down, blushing at the sight of her long blond hair, covered haphazardly by a hastily pinned veil, for a woman’s hair was normally not seen in public, revealed only to her husband in the privacy of their bedchamber. “Forgive me for disturbing you, my lady,” he mumbled. “I did not know what else to do.”
“You summoned me, then? Not Baldwin?” He nodded, still keeping his eyes on his shoes, and she struggled with the urge to start shaking answers out of him. “Tell me what happened,” she said as calmly as she could manage.
“The king did not want to go to the public baths because of the rain, so he decided to have a bath here. After the servants brought up buckets of hot water, I helped him undress and then went over to test the bathwater. Whilst it was very hot, my lady, I thought I could cool it by adding the water from the washing basin. When I turned around, the king was about to step into the tub. I cried out a warning and he jerked back in time. His toes were bright red, though, and there was more redness where the water had splashed onto his ankle. I hurried over to see how bad the burns were, but he . . . he pushed me away. I said there was an ointment in one of the coffers. He did not seem to hear me. He just kept staring down at that bathing tub . . . and then he told me to get out.
“I did as he bade, of course. The other servants went off to find places to sleep. I did not feel right doing that, so I waited. For a long time, there was only silence, and then I heard a crash. More noise followed and I tried to talk to him through the door, asking if I could be of any help. I just heard a loud thud again, as if something had been thrown at the door. . . .”
Yves was a few years older than Baldwin, but he looked younger now, scared and confused. “My lady . . . did I do something to make him angry with me? I did not mean to. . . .”
“You did nothing wrong. Go off to bed now.” Looking relieved, he fled, and only then did Agnes approach the door. She felt no surprise to find it barred from the inside. “Baldwin? It is your mother. Will you let me in?” There was only silence. “There is no one else with me and I promise not to stay if you do not want me to. Open the door . . . please.”
What if he continued to refuse? He could not be left alone in there. But the door could not be forced. She would not do that to him. “Baldwin, I beg you,” she whispered, words that she’d never have thought to utter in this life. After another interminable silence, she heard the bolt slide back and the door slowly swung inward.
She’d never dreaded anything so much as she now dreaded crossing that threshold. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, surveying the wreckage of Baldwin’s bedchamber. The floor was strewn with shattered cups and flagons, a dented metal mirror, clothing, boots, a hairbrush, books, whatever he’d found within reach. Almost at her feet lay a wooden bucket, staved in when it struck the door. In the midst of all this destruction stood her son. The room was cold and at some time during his rampage, he’d put his braies and shirt on again, but he was still barefoot and she instinctively started to warn him about cutting his feet on the broken glass, catching herself just in time.
She had no words, so she walked over and put her arms around him. She feared that he’d pull away, but he simply stood there, limp and unresponsive in her embrace. He’d had a growth spurt in recent months, and when she remembered how proud he’d been that he could now look down upon her, she felt such a stab of pain that it took her breath away. “Come, my dearest,” she said, and guided him toward the bed, finding a path through the debris littering the carpet.
He sank down upon the edge of the bed and she sat beside him, clasping his hand in hers as she waited until he could talk about what had happened.
“The water was hot enough to boil,” he said at last. “But I did not feel the heat, would have been badly burned if not for Yves.”
She stared down at his foot, wincing at the reddened skin. She wanted to ransack the chamber until she found the ointment Yves had mentioned and slather it upon his burned toes. She forced herself to sit still, although she could not keep her fingers from tightening around his. William had tried to tell her about the symptoms of leprosy. She’d refused to listen, as if hearing it would make it so. How she regretted that now! “You . . . you are thinking of your hand,” she said, “how you lost feeling in it, and you fear this is the same. But you may just have been tired, Baldwin, or distracted, your thoughts elsewhere. This could be an accident, nothing more. . . .”
For the first time, he looked her directly in the face, and then he slowly shook his head.
“Let me prove it to you.” Before he could react, she reached down, took his foot in her hands, and then dug her nails into his heel. “Did you feel that, Baldwin?” When he nodded, she could have wept, so great was the intensity of her relief.
“You see? There is no numbness. You felt the pain! It is not . . . not what you fear.”
He was shaking his head again. “William told me that the first symptom is an inability to feel heat or cold,” he said tonelessly. “Next I will be unable to feel pain, and then the foot will become so numb that I’ll feel nothing at all. It is already starting. The burns hurt, but not as much as they ought. . . .”
Agnes wanted to put her hand over his mouth, anything to stop those awful words, so precise, so impersonal, as if he were speaking of someone else’s pain. She’d even have welcomed another flare-up of wild rage, anything but this eerie detachment, this utter lack of hope.
“I am not willing to accept this! Nor should you, Baldwin. There are other doctors in the world, physicians more knowledgeable than that Syrian doctor of yours. We will find one, that I promise you, my dearest, someone who knows what is really wrong with you and how to treat it. We can go to Constantinople. The Greeks are skilled in medicine. . . .”
She got no further, for he was actually smiling, the saddest smile she’d ever seen. “I know what is wrong with me, Mother,” he said softly. “I am a leper.”
His words seemed to echo in the air between them. Agnes’s throat closed, cutting off speech, as she was overcome by sorrow so overwhelming, so savage, that she truly thought she might die of it. Baldwin suddenly tensed and then recoiled, stumbling to his feet and backing away from the bed.
“You must not be here with me like this! Leprosy is contagious. Even the breath of a leper is said to be dangerous. Forgive me, I never thought—”
“Baldwin, no!” She rose so swiftly that she’d reached him before he could retreat, grasping him by the shoulders so tightly that her fingers would leave indentations in his skin. “I do not know if you have leprosy,” she said in a choked voice. “But you will always be my son, always! And . . . and if it comes to pass that you are right, we will face this disease together and fight it together.”
When she later looked back upon that moment, she would realize that her bravado and her faith had been equally false, that in the depths of her soul she’d always known this day was coming, that her beautiful, brave son was doomed. When had God ever shown pity on her and her own?
She saw now that Baldwin had desperately needed to hear what she’d just said—that he was not alone in this, that he was still worthy of being loved. He did not resist when she embraced him again, clinging to her as tightly as he’d done as a small boy, awakened from night terrors and in need of a mother’s comforting arms. Neither spoke. Reaching up to stroke his cheek, she found that his skin felt hot against her fingers. And when she realized that it also felt wet, she could no longer hold back her own tears.