CHAPTER 12
April 1177
Acre, Outremer
Isabella had rarely been so excited, for she’d been looking forward to her brother’s Easter court for weeks. She had several new dresses made for the occasion and she’d been allowed to ride her own pony for the last part of their journey from Nablus. As they started toward the great hall, she took several skips to catch up with her mother, asking if the tall one would be there.
Maria seemed momentarily puzzled. “You mean . . . Lord Balian? Yes, I am sure he will, for no one will want to miss the king’s Easter court.”
Just as they reached the heavy oaken door, it swung back and Maria and Isabella found themselves face-to-face with Agnes de Courtenay. Isabella quickly moved closer to her mother, reaching for her hand. She knew hawks did not have blue eyes, but this woman’s piercing stare always reminded her of a very hungry hawk. Since her mother was a queen, the other woman should have curtsied. Instead, she said in a voice that dripped scorn, “I would think you’d have too much pride to keep coming where you know you are not wanted.”
Isabella knew that upset her mother, for although her face remained calm, her fingers tightened around Isabella’s small ones. She smiled, though, saying, “Amalric often said that the happiest day of his life was the day he ended his marriage to you. It is easy to understand why.”
The look on the older woman’s face scared Isabella a little and she pressed closer to her mother’s skirts. Agnes’s lip curled and she brushed past them as if they were no longer there. Still holding her daughter’s hand, Maria led Isabella into the hall.
Despite its being crowded, Maria saw at once that Baldwin was not present; the chairs on the dais were unoccupied. Nor did she see Sybilla and her new husband. Maria was disappointed that William was not here yet. Her entrance appeared to have gone unnoticed. She did not enjoy these visits to the royal court, where she was made to feel like an outsider—the Greek foreigner—even after nigh on a decade in Outremer. All knew Baldwin had no fondness for her and that she was bitterly resented by his mother, so few saw any advantage in cultivating her favor. She accepted these infrequent invitations nonetheless, for she was determined that Baldwin not forget he had another sister, one who deserved his protection and affection.
Across the hall, Raymond and his wife, Eschiva, glanced in her direction and, as their eyes met, acknowledged her with cool politeness; Raymond’s antagonism toward the Greek emperor was a barrier neither he nor Maria had ever tried to breach. They were standing with a man unfamiliar to Maria, tall and imposing, well past his youth but still one to draw attention to himself. Stephanie de Milly was beside him, and when Maria noticed that her arm was linked in his, she realized this must be the notorious Reynald de Chatillon. She’d gotten a letter from her great-uncle, the emperor, telling her that he’d agreed to another alliance and would join in an invasion of Egypt that summer, so Reynald would soon be claiming his marital reward for his successful mission. Judging by the way Stephanie was looking at him, she would be a willing bride.
Maria had decided to withdraw, hoping their chambers would be ready, when the door slammed and a brisk wind blew into the hall, heading right toward her. Baudouin d’Ibelin’s exuberant, tactless personality was utterly unlike her own nature. He was always friendly, though, and they shared a common loathing for his former sister-in-law, so she smiled as he kissed her hand with a flamboyant flourish and then made Isabella giggle by kissing her little hand, too.
Leading them toward the comparative privacy of a window seat, Baudouin signaled to a servant for wine and then grinned. “I was across the courtyard, close enough to see but not to overhear your exchange with Madame Hellcat. It looked to me as if you gave as good as you got. Tell me you drew some blood!”
That won him another smile. “I did,” Maria admitted, “with a lie. I told her how happy Amalric was to be rid of her. He was as closemouthed as a clam about his feelings, though, and once her anger cools, she’ll probably remember that.”
“No, she will not,” Baudouin said cheerfully. “Like as not, Amalric told her that himself more times than she wants to remember—”
He interrupted himself as a servant approached with the wine. He winked at Isabella after Maria refused to give her a cup, too, before saying more seriously, “Do not let your guard down with her, madame. Many women like to keep small dogs as pets and nuns are said to dote on cats. Agnes prefers scapegoats, especially Greek ones.”
Maria wondered if it was as simple as that. Mayhap so, for Agnes had been hostile from the day of their first meeting. Not wanting to discuss Agnes in Isabella’s hearing, she asked if Sybilla was here yet. Baudouin shook his head. “She’s ever been one for making a dramatic entrance, so I expect they’ll not arrive till the morrow.” As if reading her mind, he added, “The Archbishop of Tyre is already here, though. Unfortunately, so is the Archbishop of Caesarea, Agnes’s devoted lapdog.”
Maria did not really know Archbishop Eraclius, but William disliked him and that was enough for her. She did not think it politic to be criticizing him so openly, however; Baudouin’s booming voice could carry for miles. Changing the subject discreetly, she queried the whereabouts of the young king.
Baudouin’s smile disappeared at the mention of Baldwin’s name. “The lad took a bad tumble down the stairs this morning. Fortunately, he did not break any bones, just bruised his face and his pride. But the fear is that he is losing more and more feeling in his right foot and this is what caused his fall.”
“He is under his doctor’s care, then?”
Baudouin shook his head. “If his mother had her way, he’d have gone straightaway to bed whilst she summoned every physician in the kingdom. Yet the last thing he needed was time to dwell upon what happened and what lies ahead. Luckily, Balian was one of the witnesses to his mishap. Do not tell him I said this, but my little brother can be quick-witted. He ignored the fall and challenged Baldwin to a race. If looks could kill,” he chortled, “Balian’s blood would have been all over Agnes’s hands. Baldwin jumped at the chance, of course. The only time the lad can outrun his troubles is when he is astride that Arab stallion of his.”
Raised voices across the hall drew their attention, then. The conversation between Reynald de Chatillon and Count Raymond had become increasingly tense and now their smoldering antagonism burst into flames. Reynald had a voice almost as carrying as Baudouin’s and all heard him clearly. “Christ, what a fool you are! You spent nine years as a prisoner of those accursed infidels and yet you learned nothing!”
Raymond’s voice was lower-pitched, his reply reaching only those within immediate hearing distance. Yet the look upon his face made it abundantly clear that he returned Reynald’s contempt in full measure.
Maria frowned, for an open rupture between these two powerful men was bound to have troubling consequences for the kingdom. She’d often seen Balian deftly defuse tensions with humor and she urged Baudouin to intercede, only to learn that he and his brother were not cut from the same bolt of cloth. “Intercede? Why would I want to do that? This is the most entertaining thing that has happened at the Easter court so far!” He rose then, heading toward the combatants, and Maria hastily followed his example.
“You honestly believe Christians and Muslims can live side by side in harmony?” Reynald jeered. “Scriptures may claim that the day will come when the wolf will dwell with the lamb, but it will never happen in our lifetimes, my lord count!”
“Not if you have your way, my lord,” Raymond said coldly. “Some men lust after blood the way other men lust after women and I think you are one of them.”
Baudouin and Maria were not the only ones drawn by the commotion. Fire and ice, Maria thought uneasily, for there could be no common meeting ground between them. She felt some relief when she saw Joscelin de Courtenay striding toward the men. It lasted only until she saw Joscelin take up a position beside Reynald, glowering at Raymond. Archbishop Eraclius was also there by now and he, too, had moved to Reynald’s side. Others were showing support for Raymond and as Maria watched in dismay, it seemed as if lines were being drawn in the sand, gauntlets flung down. When she saw Humphrey de Toron shoving his way through the crowd of spectators, she frowned again, for he might well have a vested interest in backing Reynald, who was soon to wed his widowed daughter-in-law.
She need not have worried, for Humphrey democratically directed his blistering glare at both men. “I suggest you take this show out into the street. Saladin’s spies will have a better chance of witnessing it there.”
Whether reacting to his own formidable presence or the message itself, neither Raymond nor Reynald challenged him. Maria was struck by the difference in the demeanors of their women. Eschiva seemed to be trying to soothe Raymond’s anger, while Stephanie looked as if she were spurring Reynald on. Thinking that mayhap it was for the best that she and Isabella no longer lived at court, Maria’s gaze happened to fall upon the youngster standing a few feet away. The other boys in the hall had reacted with excitement to the confrontation. But this boy was as tense as a drawn bowstring, watching Reynald so warily that Maria realized he must be Stephanie’s son, Humphrey. She’d not seen him for several years and she reckoned he was about eleven now, still as handsome and shyly vulnerable as she remembered.
The expression on young Humphrey’s face stayed with her and when she and Baudouin returned to the window seat, she heard herself wondering aloud what sort of stepfather Reynald would make. Baudouin glanced over at the boy and then shrugged. “I daresay Reynald will not be likely to coddle the lad. Humphrey needs to toughen up, though. He is heir to Outrejourdain, after all, not some timid clerk or scrivener.”
Again they were interrupted by a sudden clamor, this time coming from outside. Baudouin got quickly to his feet, saying it sounded as if Baldwin and Balian were back. Taking Isabella’s hand in hers, Maria accompanied him as he strode to the door. So did the other guests.
A nasty bruise was already darkening the skin along Baldwin’s cheekbone. His face and clothes were splattered with mud, too, for they’d had an unusual April rainstorm the day before. But he was laughing as if he had not a care in the world.
“Not that I’d accuse you of cheating, my liege,” Balian grumbled, “but it was hardly fair when you jumped that ditch.”
Maria had never understood why men took such pleasure in this sort of barbed banter. It was obvious, though, that Baldwin was glorying in it, for he grinned and reminded Balian that he could have jumped the ditch, too.
“Tell that to Smoke,” Balian said with a snort, patting his stallion’s neck. “He’d not have attempted that jump unless a mare in heat was waiting on the other side, and even then, he’d have had to think it over.”
Although Balian had appeared to give the spectators only a cursory glance, he’d homed in on Maria immediately, for he now doffed his cap in her direction. “What is that Greek legend, madame? The one about a winged horse? Mayhap that would be a better name than Asad.”
“Pegasus.” Taking her cue from Balian, Maria went on to mention another Greek folktale, this one about centaurs, mythical beasts who were said to be half man and half horse.
That clearly amused Baldwin, for he gave Maria an unusually friendly smile. His mother had materialized at his side, looking up intently at her offspring, her concern written plainly on her face for all to see. Agnes was wise enough to keep silent, though, contenting herself with a scowl of angry reproach, which she divided equally between Balian and Maria.
Maria was no longer holding Isabella’s hand and the little girl suddenly darted forward to tug at Baldwin’s boot. “Brother! Can you take me for a ride?”
Baldwin gazed down at the child, then slowly shook his head. Balian gave Isabella no time for disappointment, quickly offering her a ride on his palfrey, joking that Smoke was not as tired as Asad since he’d not run as fast. Baudouin lifted Isabella up into the saddle in front of Balian and, to her delight, he treated her to a slow, sedate canter around the courtyard.
Baldwin briefly met Maria’s eyes and she inclined her head to express both her understanding of his refusal and her gratitude. She was surprised that he’d not yet dismounted, soon realizing why; he naturally preferred to dismount in the stables, where there would not be a crowd waiting to see if he stumbled or limped once he was on the ground.
“My lord king!” Baldwin’s chaplain was hurrying across the courtyard, a sealed parchment held aloft. “This came from Ascalon whilst you were gone, a message from the Lady Sybilla.”
Baldwin leaned down to take the parchment. “My sister is probably warning that they will not be at Acre for another day or two. I’d wager that she’d be late for her own wake.”
Once Baldwin began to read the letter, his smile vanished. “My sister and her lord husband will be unable to attend our Easter court. He is ailing and does not feel up to such a long journey.”
Those terse, carefully chosen words smothered all other conversation. Even after Baldwin told them that Sybilla did not think Guillaume’s illness was cause for apprehension, those listening did not agree. As she glanced around, Maria saw that earlier animosities were forgotten for the moment, with all united by the same fear. As much as people worried about Baldwin’s well-being, they were even more anxious about Guillaume’s health, for Baldwin was their present and Guillaume their future.
Baldwin at once dispatched his personal physician, Abū Sulayman Dāwūd, to treat his brother-in-law. Joscelin accompanied him; while Agnes was torn, she decided to remain at Acre until she was able to evaluate her son’s latest symptom. Within a fortnight, Joscelin was back, assuring the court that Guillaume would recover. The letter he brought from the doctor was not as optimistic, though, for he believed the illness was hectic fever, not an inevitable death sentence but still a very serious ailment. The Poulains offered fervent prayers on his behalf in the city’s churches and almost convinced themselves that there was no need for alarm. Then another messenger arrived from Sybilla; her husband had taken a turn for the worse.
Rainfall was uncommon in May, so the sudden thunderstorm that rolled in from the sea took the travelers by surprise, and some saw it as a bad omen. Baldwin had insisted they depart Jaffa at dawn, for they had more than thirty miles to cover and he wanted to reach Ascalon by nightfall. It had been a dismal journey. Fear rode with them and spirits remained low even when the city walls came into view. They were wet and tired and their hopes hung as limply as the gold and silver banners of their kingdom, rain-sodden and slack in the humid ocean air.
Once they passed through the Jaffa Gate, they were struck by the eerie silence. Ascalon had over ten thousand inhabitants and its streets were usually crowded, loud and cheerfully chaotic. Now it seemed like a plague town, the marketplace all but empty, the cries of vendors silenced, and while a few of the passersby raised a dutiful cheer at the sight of their king, their faces were etched with worry.
When they crossed the drawbridge into the citadel’s bailey, they saw Sybilla awaiting them on the steps of the great hall. Her eyes were red and swollen from too many tears and too little sleep. “Thank God you’ve come!”
Baldwin dismounted with deliberation, as if willing his body to do what his brain commanded, and William was not the only one to remember how easily he’d swung from the saddle just a few short months ago. Catching sight of his physician, Baldwin beckoned to him and they drew apart from the others, who were gathering around his sister. William had followed, for he knew they’d learn the truth of Guillaume’s condition from his doctor, not his wife.
Baldwin wasted no time with formalities. “Are you sure it is hectic fever?”
The doctor nodded. “I have no doubts, sire. He has been exhibiting all of the classic symptoms of the disease—high fever, headache, chills, a rapid pulse, that telltale red rash on his chest and belly, and a constant thirst.”
Baldwin swallowed with an effort. “Will . . . will he recover?’”
“I do not know, my liege. The third week usually is the most critical, for if the patient does not rally by then, his prognosis is not good. We are now into the fifth week and the count has shown no improvement. But he still lives, so we can hope . . . and we can pray.”
Baldwin’s reservoir of hope had long since gone dry. Yet he’d clung to the belief that God would not let Guillaume die, for that would be one burden too many to bear. He’d even made a lame joke about it, reminding William of that Saracen proverb about a camel’s back being broken by one final straw. There was no humor in it now. “I want to see him,” he said, with more determination than honesty.
Sybilla halted before the bedchamber door, saying nervously that some of Guillaume’s days were better than others, so they were braced for what they would find—or so they thought.
The man in the bed was a stranger, gaunt and pallid, his eyes unfocused, his lips cracked and dry. They were horrified to see the toll that the disease had taken upon him, but what they found most disturbing was his lack of response as Sybilla said his name. He stared up at her dully, showing not even a glimmer of recognition. Lying on his back, he’d kicked off the covers. Before she tucked the sheet around him again, they could see that his abdomen was very swollen and his chest covered with blotchy red spots. When the doctor raised his head and tilted a cup to his mouth, he drank as if he could never get enough, then fell back against the pillows, mumbling words that made no sense to any of them. Approaching the bed, Baldwin leaned over, offering reassurances that he did not believe and Guillaume did not hear. He felt sick himself, as if he’d just taken a blow so powerful that it robbed him of breath and hope, of all but despair. How could the Almighty let this happen?
“He ought to sleep now,” he told his sister, not knowing what else to say. She nodded, but then said she needed to speak with him in private. Baldwin, Joscelin, Agnes, William, and Archbishop Eraclius had followed Sybilla into her husband’s bedchamber, Eraclius included at Agnes’s insistence when she saw that William was coming. Now, as they exited into the stairwell, William hesitated, not sure if Sybilla’s invitation was meant only for her family. But she gestured for him to follow. Eraclius would have followed, too, had Sybilla not stopped him, saying politely yet firmly that he must be weary after such a long journey and in need of rest.
William was not the only one who gave her a look of surprised respect at that; so did her mother and brother, all of them thinking the same thing—that Sybilla had found strength as Guillaume’s strength ebbed away. Once they were seated in the solar, she remained standing. “He is not going to die,” she said at last, sounding almost defiant.
William wondered if she truly believed that or if she was whistling past a graveyard; he did not know her well enough to judge. Agnes and Joscelin quickly made the appropriate responses, assuring her that Guillaume would recover, but they did not sound convincing. Baldwin roused himself to agree, although he never met his sister’s eyes.
“There is something you all must know.” For a young woman who’d always paid such heed to her appearance, Sybilla looked somewhat disheveled; her veil was askew and there were water stains on her bodice, even a smudge on her cheek. Vanity had obviously lost much of its importance during these past weeks as her husband fought for his life.
When she seemed to hesitate, Joscelin prodded gently. “What is it, sweetheart? You can tell us anything. Surely you know that?”
Her lips curved slightly in what was not quite a smile. “My news is good, Uncle. Guillaume and I were going to wait to share it, but you need to know now. I am with child. I missed my flux in mid-April and again this month. I consulted a midwife last week and she says the baby should be born in December—”
She got no further, for Joscelin let out a jubilant shout. Leaping to his feet, he embraced his niece so exuberantly that he actually lifted her off her feet. Agnes’s response was just as elated. “I am so happy to hear this, Sybilla!” Taking her daughter into her arms, she kissed the girl on the forehead like a benediction. Baldwin was more restrained, staying in his seat as he said God had blessed her.
William alone was at a loss for words. He could only muster up a weak smile, too distressed to feign joy he did not feel. Sybilla’s pregnancy was indeed a blessing—for the de Courtenays. Not for their kingdom, though. Did Baldwin understand that? While Joscelin and Agnes continued to express their happiness, William looked toward the young king. As their eyes met, he had his answer. Baldwin understood all too well.
Guillaume was dying; only a miracle could save him. Even if Sybilla gave birth to a healthy son, it would be many years before the lad would be old enough to rule in his own right. As soon as Guillaume drew his last breath, she would need a husband again. The search would begin for another Guillaume, but would such a man be willing to marry Sybilla now? If she had a son by Guillaume, he would take precedence over any son of theirs. How many highborn, ambitious men would find that acceptable? Where would they find a man whose Christian faith was stronger than his dreams of a dynasty?
May finally ended and June sidled in under cover of night. Baldwin’s sixteenth birthday came and went all but unnoticed. Time seemed to have frozen for those trapped at Ascalon, watching helplessly as Guillaume edged closer and closer to death. By now, all knew the ending was as inevitable as it was disastrous for their kingdom, yet they had to join in Sybilla’s pretense that there was still hope for her husband. Word soon spread that Sybilla was with child; William was sure it was Joscelin who’d spilled that secret. The de Courtenay allies welcomed the news gratefully, eager to see Sybilla rule once Baldwin could no longer do so. Others were not so pleased, seeing her pregnancy as William did, as another complication for a succession already in peril. As bad as things were, though, they were about to get much worse.
Agnes and William had noticed Baldwin’s lack of appetite, for his health was an obsessive concern with them both. He’d shrugged off their questions and they reluctantly accepted his reassurances, knowing how deeply shaken he’d been by his brother-in-law’s fatal illness. But then he began to cough. Within a few days, he was running a fever, experiencing chills and shortness of breath, in such discomfort that he had to take to his bed.
Their first fear was that he’d contracted Guillaume’s hectic fever. Abū Sulayman Dāwūd eased their minds, telling them he believed Baldwin’s illness was one called peripneumonia by doctors and lung fever by laymen. Revealing yet another danger faced by lepers, he said that although he could not explain why, those stricken with leprosy seemed to become more susceptible to other ailments, too. While any disease seemed preferable to the one ravaging Guillaume’s body, they soon realized that lung fever was just as capable of claiming Baldwin’s life, for his condition quickly worsened. By then, Guillaume had lapsed into a coma, and once people learned that the young king was very ill, too, panic swept the city.
William and Agnes had been keeping vigil by Baldwin’s bed, enemies temporarily forced into an alliance of expediency, their fear for him greater than their hostility toward each other. On this afternoon in mid-June, William was alone, for Guillaume had died during the night and Agnes was trying to comfort her grieving daughter. Rising, he leaned over the bed and put his hand on Baldwin’s forehead. If they could not lower the lad’s fever, he’d surely die. How could this be God’s will? Guillaume and Baldwin, too?
William slumped back in his seat. When he glanced up again, he saw that Baldwin had awakened and was watching him. He hastened to fetch a cup of watered-down wine and slid his arm around Baldwin’s shoulders, lifting him up so he could drink, and then settling the boy back against the pillows.
“I did not dream it. . . . Guillaume is dead?” Baldwin’s voice was slurred, weakened by his continuing cough and the sharp pain that accompanied his breathing now. He’d been unable to eat, for that brought on bouts of vomiting, but at least he’d so far been able to keep liquids down. When William nodded, he closed his eyes, his hand moving in what William thought was an attempt to make the sign of the cross.
“Baldwin. . . . I must leave you for a time. Guillaume is to be buried in the Church of St. John in Jerusalem, and Sybilla has asked me to preside over the services for him.” William found a thin smile. “She said Guillaume would want that, for he’d taken a liking to me. I will return straightaway after the funeral, that I promise.”
Baldwin’s lashes lifted and for a moment, his vulnerability showed so plainly that William’s throat closed up. Then he lowered his gaze, saying softly, “My mother . . .”
“She is staying here with you, lad. Joscelin and Denys will escort Sybilla and Guillaume’s body to Jerusalem.” William reached out and covered one of Baldwin’s hands with his own, thinking how few dared to touch the boy and grudgingly giving Agnes credit, both for her fierce maternal devotion to her son and for her courage.
Baldwin had fallen asleep again by the time Agnes returned. As William had done, she leaned over to put her hand on the boy’s forehead, gauging his fever. “You can go,” she said curtly, as if the archbishop were a servant to be dismissed at her whims. William was too weary to protest and did as she bade, leaving her alone with her son.
William had intended to go to his own chamber, but instead he found himself moving in the direction of the castle chapel. Approaching the altar, he sank to his knees, no easy feat for his stiffening muscles and aching bones.
It was hard, so hard, being torn between his love for the young king and his love for their homeland. For Baldwin, death would be a mercy, sparing him all the suffering and misery that lay ahead. But his death would be catastrophic for the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Even before he was buried with the honors he deserved, the struggle to choose his heir would already have begun—either his sister, Sybilla, or his cousin Raymond. It would seem to be an easy choice—an eighteen-year-old girl, widowed and pregnant, or a man well versed in the ways of war and statecraft. It was not, though. The de Courtenays would fight tooth and nail to gain the crown for Sybilla, and they would not lack for allies. Some would be opportunists like Archbishop Eraclius. Others would be men unwilling or unable to accept Raymond’s belief in peaceful coexistence with the Saracens, men like Reynald de Chatillon. William feared that disaster would befall them all if Sybilla were chosen as queen. He also feared that if Raymond were chosen, a civil war was possible, even likely.
By now William’s face was wet with tears. Lowering his head, he did what Baldwin would have expected of him. He prayed for the survival of their kingdom, for Baldwin’s recovery.