CHAPTER 28
September 1180
Jerusalem, Outremer
Asad had begun to nuzzle his master’s tunic and Baldwin pushed him away with a laugh. “Sorry, boy, nothing for you to eat.” Taking the comb from Anselm, he began to untangle the stallion’s mane and Asad reluctantly abandoned his search for treats.
Anselm watched for a while, thinking that the only time the young king seemed at peace was when he was in the stables. What would the lad do when he could no longer ride at all? “Do you think Asad can ever be ridden again, my lord?”
“Not likely. But he is no longer in pain.” For a moment, Baldwin had a vision of the stallion racing the wind. Though the memory hurt, he still found a smile for Anselm. “He will not miss his old life, for he has his own harim now and several of his mares are in foal.” Asad nudged him again and this time he won; Baldwin sent Anselm off to the kitchens to get sugar.
A stable cat sauntered over. This one seemed to have formed a bond with Asad, for Baldwin often found her sleeping in the stallion’s stall. She stretched and then leaped onto the top of the stall door. When Asad snorted, Baldwin leaned for a moment against the Arabian’s withers, inhaling the familiar, comforting smells of the stable. “Was I right, boy?” he murmured. “Are the mares enough for you now?” Yet how could a crippled hawk not yearn for the skies?
His balance had become so unsteady that he could no longer groom Asad properly. He still enjoyed brushing the stallion and thought the Arabian enjoyed the contact, too. He’d forgotten to ask Anselm for a soft cloth to clean Asad’s eyes and nostrils. Seeing some piled on a nearby bench, he opened the stall door; this annoyed the cat, who jumped off with a hiss. He’d only taken a few steps before he stumbled and, unable to catch himself, he went down hard.
For some moments, he lay still, the breath knocked out of him. When he touched his forehead, his fingers came away bloodied and he realized he’d cut himself on the edge of a bucket. Rolling over, he managed to sit up. In the past few years, he’d taken falls beyond counting. It was only recently, though, that he’d found he needed help in getting to his feet. Wiping the blood from his eyes, he saw two grooms standing not far away, staring at him. When neither one moved, he felt a sudden rage, sparing neither himself nor these frightened grooms nor the God who’d brought him to this. He wanted to lash out, to punish them for their fear and for witnessing his humiliation, sprawled in the dirt like a turtle turned on its back. But he held on to the shreds of his self-control. Ordering them to fetch Anselm, he slumped down again and listened to their fleeing footsteps.
His head was still bleeding and his cheek was throbbing. It was the injury to his pride that he found hardest to bear, though. He was God’s anointed, a crowned king who’d bloodied his sword at fifteen and then won a miraculous victory at Montgisard. Yet now he was lying here as helpless as a mewling babe. How could he accept this? How could any man? Why would the Almighty demand so much of him?
“My lord!” Baldwin had been so caught up in his own misery that he’d not heard these new footsteps. He tried to sit up again and then arms were encircling him, struggling to help him rise. It was not easy, for his rescuer was slightly built and was panting by the time Baldwin was able to lurch to his feet. “Over here,” he gasped. “Lean on me, sire.”
It was a young voice and vaguely familiar. Baldwin did as bidden, let himself be steered toward the bench. He sank down upon it gratefully, for his legs felt like jelly. Only then was he able to identify his Good Samaritan—the late constable’s grandson, Humphrey de Toron. As always, he was struck by the boy’s uncommon beauty and by his vulnerability, both of which made him seem younger than his fourteen years. His wide-set dark eyes, fringed by improbably long lashes, were regarding Baldwin anxiously. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and quickly returned with a water bucket.
Picking up one of the cloths, Humphrey dipped it in the water, then averted his gaze as Baldwin scrubbed the blood and dirt from his face, sensing that the king’s greatest need was for privacy. Reaching for another cloth, he offered it shyly. “You are still bleeding, my lord. . . .”
Baldwin applied pressure to the cut as Humphrey hurried over to retrieve his cane, then paused before the overturned bucket. “This is what must have caused your fall, sire! The grooms ought to be reprimanded for carelessly leaving it out like this.”
“I did not trip over it, Humphrey,” Baldwin said wearily. “I fall easily, for I can no longer feel the soles of my feet when they touch the ground. That is why lepers so often stagger around like drunkards.” He was not sure why he felt the need to explain this to the boy, nor why he then confided that he could not brace himself when he went down because of his dead arm. He did not reveal, though, that he was losing strength in his left arm, too, for that was a secret he’d shared with no one, not even his doctors.
Humphrey looked stricken and Baldwin realized that the youngster had not fully understood just how difficult daily life was for a leper, even one with servants on hand. Humphrey surprised him then with honesty of his own. “Where do you find the courage, my liege?”
Baldwin shrugged off the compliment, for he did not think courage was all that commendable if there was no other choice. “I could well ask the same of you, for few men would have dared to come to my assistance as you did. That took considerable courage.”
Humphrey’s expression was so dubious that Baldwin wondered if he feared he was being mocked. The boy’s response was almost inaudible. “I’d not say that in front of my mother and stepfather, sire, for they’d likely laugh themselves sick.”
Baldwin remembered Reynald de Chatillon’s contemptuous quip. “Men would not follow that milksop out of a burning building.” He shifted on the bench, not trusting his legs. “I could tell you the opinions of others do not matter, Humphrey. We both know that is not true, though. Unless a man is a hermit or a saint, they matter. But this is a bedrock truth—that it is your own opinion of yourself that matters the most. And after today, you need not doubt your courage. You proved it by rushing to my aid, by being willing to lay hands upon a leper.”
Humphrey’s sudden smile was sunlit. It was also brief. “But I was afraid,” he confessed. “I just did not give in to it. . . .”
“Courage is not a lack of fear, lad. It is overcoming fear.” It seemed odd to call Humphrey “lad,” for there were only five years between them. Yet Baldwin felt a lifetime older than this unhappy youth and the pain from an old wound began to stir. Never had Humphrey needed his grandfather more than now, trembling on the cusp of manhood. The wound inflicted by the constable’s death was still unhealed, both for his only male heir and for the king he’d died trying to protect.
“My lord! Are you hurt?” Coming to a halt, Anselm gave a gusty sigh at the sight of his king seated on the bench. “I ought to take a strap to those lackwits for scaring me pissless!” Hastening forward, he subjected Baldwin to a critical scrutiny. “What happened, my lord?”
“I took a fall, Anselm. Fortunately for me, Humphrey was here to help.” And when Baldwin glanced over at the boy, he saw that those casual words of praise meant more to Humphrey than a hoard of golden bezants.
After changing his clothes, Baldwin sat at his desk. He did more and more of his work in the privacy of his bedchamber now, away from prying eyes. He began with the packet of letters brought that noon by an imperial messenger from Constantinople. He tensed as he broke Joscelin’s seal, fearing that he’d be told the emperor was dead, for their alliance might well die with him. Scanning the letter, he was so relieved that he shared the good news with Anselm.
“My uncle says that they are making progress in the negotiations.” Joscelin would never give William credit for laying the groundwork so well, but Baldwin’s innate sense of fairness compelled him to admit that Joscelin’s task had been made much easier by the archbishop’s skilled diplomacy during his long stay in Constantinople. Setting Joscelin’s letter aside, he was surprised to find one from Baudouin d’Ibelin, reporting joyfully that the emperor had agreed to pay his ransom and thanking Baldwin again for all he’d done to secure Baudouin’s release.
When he shared this news with Anselm, the squire did not comment. Baldwin knew why—Anselm was not sure how the king felt about Baudouin d’Ibelin now. Baldwin was not sure himself. He did not see how Baudouin could have been an active participant in the coup, for he’d not regained his freedom until Holy Week. Both d’Ibelin brothers had sworn to him that Baudouin would never have agreed to usurp his throne, and Baldwin wanted to believe them. Yet a nagging doubt remained, for he knew how easy it was for men to convince themselves that what they wanted was also for the greater good. If the plot had succeeded and Baudouin had wed Sybilla, would he truly have objected when Bohemond and Raymond then insisted that the next step must be the king’s abdication?
Picking up another letter, he told Anselm that it was from his sister and the squire stopped playing with Cairo to ask if she and Lord Guy were staying in Ascalon much longer; they had retreated there after Easter and there was growing impatience about their absence from Jerusalem. Men were eager to learn more about their future king.
“Yes, they are still in Ascalon,” Baldwin confirmed. “She promises, though, that they will be here for my Christmas court.” Like his subjects, Baldwin found it frustrating that Guy remained such a stranger. Yet he could not blame his sister for wanting time alone with her new husband. He knew that most men were withholding their judgment until they got to know Guy better. He was, too, especially after hearing William’s troubling account of the de Lusignan attack upon the English queen. But Sybilla had already reached her own verdict, for never had she sounded so happy. They could only hope that her assessment of Guy de Lusignan was right.
He had just opened a letter from Joscius, the Bishop of Acre, when Cairo barked sharply.
Anselm hurried over to open the door, listened briefly, and then glanced toward Baldwin. “My lord, the Archbishop of Tyre has arrived at the palace and is requesting an audience.” He took care to keep his voice neutral, for he did not know if this was welcome news or not.
Baldwin hesitated before replying. He’d been hurt by his estrangement from William; as far back as he could remember, the older man had been his rock and his anchor. He wanted to mend their rift. But he was in no mood to resume their quarrel about the Easter conspiracy, not after the morning he’d just had. Yet how could he refuse to see William? “Tell the seneschal to escort the archbishop to my bedchamber.”
As soon as William entered the chamber, Anselm found an excuse to depart, escaping after he’d poured wine for them. There was an awkward formality about the first moments, as William waited respectfully for permission to sit. But protocol was forgotten as soon as he saw the young king’s face. In a day or so, Baldwin would have several spectacular bruises as a result of his fall. The skin along his cheekbone was only reddened now, yet that was enough for William’s sharp eye. He opened his mouth to express his concern, catching himself just in time. Tearing his gaze away from that proof of yet another mishap, he cast court decorum to the winds and said simply, “I have come to ask your forgiveness.”
Baldwin reined in his initial pleasure; wariness had become second nature to him by now. “Forgiveness for quarreling with me? Or for not believing me?”
“Both.” William leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands so tightly that Baldwin could see his knuckles whitening. “Bohemond swore to me that he and Raymond had never plotted against you and he was very convincing. That was no excuse, though. I ought never to have doubted you.”
Baldwin agreed wholeheartedly with that; he’d been shaken by William’s apparent willingness to give Raymond the benefit of every doubt. “How did you learn the truth?”
“From Balian d’Ibelin. He assured me that what happened at Easter was no de Courtenay plot, that it originated in Antioch and Tripoli.”
Baldwin had not fully realized how heavy a burden their estrangement had been, not until he suddenly found it easier to breathe. “I am glad that you know what really happened.”
“And you forgive me?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then we can put this behind us?” William’s relief was overwhelming when Baldwin assured him it was already forgotten. But he sensed it would leave a scar. And as their eyes met, he saw that Baldwin feared that, too.
After a long illness, Emeric, the elderly Patriarch of Jerusalem, died on October 6 and all eyes turned toward the canons of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, for they had the responsibility to select a new patriarch. There were two obvious candidates—William, the Archbishop of Tyre, and Eraclius, the Archbishop of Caesarea. Others were allowed to address the canons on behalf of the candidates and Agnes de Courtenay made a passionate speech in which she urged them to choose Eraclius. William also asked to speak, and riveted the canons in their seats as he argued against the election of Eraclius, pointing out that the archbishop’s immoral life was an open secret, citing his notorious liaison with Pasque de Rivieri, the wife of a Nablus mercer.
Although William was not a particularly eloquent speaker, no match for Eraclius in that regard, few doubted that he was speaking from the heart. But no one expected what he did next. Instead of advocating his own election, he pleaded with them not to choose a prelate from Outremer. The kingdom would be better served, he insisted, by the selection of a wise man of God from elsewhere in Christendom.
The canons were impressed by his willingness to sacrifice his own ambitions to keep the patriarchy from going to Eraclius. But they were not convinced by his plea that they look beyond the sea for their next patriarch; most of them preferred to elect a man already known to them. Yet when they gathered in the chapter house to vote, they discovered to their dismay that they were split into equal factions between the two archbishops, and none could come up with a compromise candidate.
Denys was not looking forward to the unpleasant task he’d taken upon himself, but William was an old friend and he thought he should be the one to deliver the bad news. He was quickly ushered into the solar of the archbishop’s town house, where he was warmly welcomed. “How is the king?” William asked as soon as greetings had been exchanged. “Is he still ailing?”
Baldwin had been running a fever all week, troubled with a sore throat and cough, but Denys was able to assure William that so far the illness showed no signs of flaring into a more serious ailment. “He ought to have heeded his doctor’s advice that he stay in bed for a few days. You know how stubborn the lad is, though.”
William’s smile was sad. “I’ve never known another soul with a will as strong as Baldwin’s.” He waited until a servant had served them wine before resuming the conversation. “Is it true that the canons are stalemated over the choice for patriarch?”
Denys was not surprised that William had heard the news already. “The canons were unable to choose between you and Eraclius. When they could not break the deadlock, they came to Baldwin with both names and implored him to make the choice.” The sudden hope on William’s face was hurtful to see and he said hastily, “Alas, Agnes was present and she asked Baldwin to let her choose, reminding him that this had been done in another election for patriarch, when the king allowed his mother, Queen Melisende, and her sisters to make the choice.”
“And . . . and Baldwin agreed?” William sank back in his chair as if all the energy had suddenly been drained from his body, leaving only an empty husk. When Denys nodded somberly, he closed his eyes for a moment, struggling to maintain his composure. His disappointment was like a finely honed blade, too sharp to handle. But his fury was even greater, for what could be more outrageous than that accursed woman’s willingness to take such selfish advantage of her son’s sickness? He could not let his anger loose, though, had to remember that Agnes was Denys’s wife. When he finally felt that he could trust his voice, he said, “Again and again I’ve counseled Baldwin that he must accept God’s will, no matter how difficult that is. It seems that the time has come for me to drink my own poison, Denys.”
Upon his return to the palace, Denys learned that Agnes had wasted no time. After announcing that she would follow the example of Queen Melisende and consult with other ladies of high birth, she held a hasty meeting with Stephanie de Milly and Joscelin’s wife, Agneta, selecting Archbishop Eraclius as the next patriarch of the kingdom. Denys was a student of history, so he knew that many considered that earlier election to be irregular because of the queen’s participation. He was sure that Baldwin knew it, too, and decided that, if only from morbid curiosity, he had to know why the king had agreed to Agnes’s proposal.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Denys made his way to Baldwin’s private chambers, knowing that his stepson often found sleep to be an elusive quarry. His gamble paid off and he was admitted at once. Baldwin was lying on his bed, fully dressed except for his shoes. He seemed grateful for the company and when Denys refused the offer of refreshments, he asked Anselm to take Cairo for a walk, for this would not be a discussion for other ears.
Denys did not temporize. Pulling a chair up to the bed, he said simply, “Why?”
Baldwin regarded the older man in silence for a time, his expression pensive and not easy to read. “Ere I answer that, tell me your opinion of the two men.”
“Well . . . they are both qualified to serve as patriarch. They are well educated and whilst Eraclius is not a Poulain like William, he has been here long enough to learn our ways and to understand the dangers we face from Saladin. William is a good man, a far better man than Eraclius, but the latter is the better politician. Is that what tipped the scales in Eraclius’s favor?”
“My mother hates William. And he detests her and Joscelin. The animosity between them does not matter whilst I live, but what would happen if William were the patriarch when I die and the crown passes to Sybilla? William cannot dissemble to save his soul. Whether he willed it or not, he would become a rallying point for all who mistrust the de Courtenays, who are loath to accept a foreigner as king. The court would be split asunder, far worse than it is now, for I can keep peace between the two factions. Sybilla could not. If we have any hope of keeping Saladin at bay, we must be united, Denys. Dissension would doom us.”
Denys was impressed by the unsentimental and unsparing clarity of Baldwin’s thinking. Nor could he argue with Baldwin’s reasoning. Amalric would have been proud of the lad, for he had learned well the harsh lessons of kingship. But he knew Baldwin found it far harder than Amalric to heed his head and not his heart, for he loved William.
He yearned for the right words, for some comfort to offer. “I saw William a few hours ago and I’ll not deny that he was distraught. Yet you made it easier for him, Baldwin, by letting Agnes choose the patriarch. By being able to blame her and not you, he need not fear that the friendship between you has waned, and I think that is as important to him as the patriarchy itself.”
“Yes,” Baldwin said softly, “that was my hope.”