CHAPTER 37
November 1183
Kerak Castle, Outrejourdain
Isabella was alarmed to see blood on Humphrey’s tunic and was very relieved when he assured her that it was not his, that he’d helped several injured townsmen and soldiers into the castle. It puzzled her that neither Humphrey’s mother nor his stepfather offered any praise for what he’d done; she thought saving lives was just as admirable as taking them. But the hero of the hour was Sir Yvein, the knight who’d almost single-handedly held the bridge until it could be destroyed. The meal in the great hall that evening was celebratory in tone because of Yvein’s courage and he was the subject of so many congratulatory wine toasts that by the time he’d reeled off to bed, he’d needed help in finding it.
The triumphal mood in the great hall did not extend to other areas of the citadel. It had already been crowded; now, with the influx of the townspeople, there was no space to accommodate them all. The peasants found themselves treated with even more disdain, uprooted to make room for these new arrivals. They were no longer allowed to sleep in the vaulted halls of the stables and storerooms, evicted so the more affluent apothecaries and chandlers and farriers could settle their families there, and told brusquely to find places to sleep along the walls of the inner bailey.
The townspeople were just as wretched as the villagers. At first, they’d been thankful that their lives had been spared. But some became bitter as they realized they’d lost all of their possessions; their homes would be stripped bare by the Saracen soldiers, their larders emptied, and the houses themselves might well go up in flames before the siege ended. Others were grieving for lost loved ones, for the friends and neighbors who’d not been able to reach the safety of the castle. As they talked among themselves, most agreed that Lord Reynald should not have tried to hold the ridge, the castle, and the town, too. They’d been undone by his arrogance. If he’d permitted them to shelter within the citadel from the first, at least they could have taken their movable goods with them, and no lives would have been lost—unless Kerak fell to Saladin. That was a prospect so frightening that none of them were willing to dwell upon it, for they knew what their fate would be then: slavery or death.
Isabella had heard some of the knights expressing the same anger with Reynald’s strategy, although no one dared to say it within Reynald’s hearing. He remained very much in command, stalking the ramparts like the lions in the bestiaries that Maria had read to Isabella when she was younger. When he was not directing their defense or rebuking the garrison for not showing more zeal, he was up on the walls, shouting challenges and obscene taunts in Arabic. Isabella marveled at his bravado, for if the castle was captured, he could count his life in the span of breaths. All knew that Saladin had sworn a holy oath to behead him personally because of that raid into the Red Sea.
There were many wounded, both soldiers and townsmen, and Stephanie set up an infirmary in one of the vaulted halls above the stables. The town doctor was among the wounded, so she pressed the women into service, for every lady of a manor or castle needed to have some knowledge of the medical arts and herbal lore. Kerak had been targeted so often by the Saracens that Stephanie had become quite skilled in treating war wounds. Isabella was proud when her mother agreed to tend the injured. She offered to help, too, but Stephanie brushed the offer aside, saying she was too young.
When Stephanie was not supervising the infirmary, she was conferring with the kitchen cooks, checking the storerooms to monitor the supplies, setting up schedules for meals; it was a logistical challenge just to see that so many mouths were fed. Isabella did not like her new mother-in-law at all, finding her to be almost as intimidating as Reynald, but she had to admire her for her energy, confidence, and capacity for command.
The first two days after the town fell were not that bad. The primary problem was the overcrowding, for with so many people underfoot, most of them unable to fight, just crossing the bailey was onerous. But on the third day, the Saracens set up more siege engines—six mangonels within the town and two to the south. They soon turned life into a nightmare for those trapped in the castle.
The air became thick with the dust and debris that swirled into the sky whenever a mangonel hit its target and the constant thudding against the stone walls soon stretched nerves to the breaking point. There was no respite after dark, either, for the sultan kept them operating in shifts day and night. And once they’d calibrated the range of their siege engines, some of the heavy rocks began to crash into the inner and lower baileys, adding a new terror for the besieged. People huddled as close to the walls as they could get, afraid to venture out into the open, for that rain of rocks occasionally proved lethal. They could not even prevent the slaughter of the animals in the moats, had to watch helplessly as daring young Saracens slid down into the deep ditch on ropes and butchered the sheep and goats, sending the meat up to feed their troops.
The stench of blood and death overhung the citadel like a smothering miasma. The horses were terrified, and even the most docile of animals began kicking against their stalls. The destriers became even harder to handle now that they were deprived of their daily exercise; Reynald’s favorite war horse, a bay stallion with as evil a reputation as Balian’s Demon, trampled a careless groom. Isabella smuggled her small dog from the kennels up to their bedchamber and tried not to think of the stories she’d heard of past sieges, when food ran out and the desperate besieged were reduced to eating the castle’s dogs and cats and finally, even the horses.
On the seventh day of the siege, Reynald attempted to set up a mangonel of their own on the roof of the northeast tower, over the gate. But the Saracens targeted it immediately, aiming all six of their mangonels at the tower roof, and they reduced the mangonel to kindling.
Isabella was finding it hard to sleep at night. Even with pillows pulled over her head, she could not block out the rumbling of the mangonels, thunderstorms that never slackened or moved on. She’d placed her dog’s basket nearby and once Humphrey fell asleep, she invited Jordan to jump onto the bed, cuddling with him for comfort. And she kept reminding herself that help was on the way. They’d caught sight of a beacon on a distant hill, which meant that a bonfire had been lit in Jerusalem, sending a fiery message across the miles that relief was coming.
But would they arrive in time? Was Baldwin strong enough to lead a rescue mission? And even if their army was able to break the siege and drive off the Saracens, she found little solace in thoughts of what would happen next. Once the infidels retreated, she would be reunited with her brother and her stepfather. Then Baldwin would return to Jerusalem and Pateras and her mother would go home to Nablus, leaving her behind in this desolate desert citadel with Humphrey’s sharp-tongued mother and swaggering stepfather.
On the morning of November 22, the groggy castle inhabitants awoke to excited shouts from the battlements; keen-eyed soldiers had spotted the dust clouds rising above the horizon. A large army was approaching. There was great rejoicing—until the riders were close enough for them to see the banners taking the wind. This was no rescue force from Jerusalem. It was another Saracen army arriving from Egypt, led by the sultan’s brother al-‘Ādil.
It was not until the arrival of Saladin’s brother with the Egyptian reinforcements that Maria seriously began to fear that Kerak would fall to the Saracens. She was not afraid for her daughter’s life or for her own. They’d be such valuable hostages that their good treatment would be guaranteed. She knew, too, that Saladin had a reputation for being chivalrous with women. But much more was at stake than mere survival. The lives of her household knights. The hundreds of noncombatants who’d be doomed to the slave markets of Cairo or Damascus. The price of the ransoms demanded, for they could be high enough to bankrupt a family’s fortunes. And for women, the loss of their honor.
A woman held captive by the Saracens emerged tainted in the eyes of many, for people assumed she had been violated during her captivity. A husband often put such a wife aside, even if she swore she’d not been raped. The perception almost always proved stronger than the reality. Even a queen had been repudiated, the wife of Jerusalem’s second king. So, for women, ransom did not end their troubles; often it was just the beginning. A wife cast aside for her “failure to preserve the sanctity of the marriage bed” had little choice except to withdraw to a nunnery. Balian had told Maria that Muslims and Jews were more realistic. They recognized that a woman prisoner could not prevent being raped, and so she was not judged as wanton, not harshly blamed in the way that Christian women were. Yet even in their societies, it was believed that death was preferable to dishonor for a female captive, so it was still not easy for a Muslim or a Jewish woman to return to her former life.
Maria did not fear that she would ever face such a fate. A queen was not cast aside, not if she was an heiress, too. In her case, ending her marriage would also have ended the d’Ibelin claim to her Nablus fief. But she was confident that Balian would not have repudiated her even if she had been violated, even if Nablus were not balanced in the scales. She did not doubt that he loved her. Moreover, he was the fairest man she’d ever known, and unlike so many of his male brethren, he saw the injustice in blaming a woman for being raped. They’d occasionally discussed the plight of female captives and he’d always expressed sympathy for such women.
Maria’s fears were for her daughter. As certain as she was that Saladin would never permit Isabella to be carnally abused, she knew that was almost irrelevant. Balian seemed convinced that Humphrey had a good heart, but who could say what a seventeen-year-old boy might do in such circumstances? Most likely it would be Stephanie who’d make that decision, for Reynald would never survive Kerak’s fall. And whilst Isabella would be freed to return home if she was rejected by her young husband or her mother-in-law, that would be a short-term blessing, for her captivity and repudiation could damage her chances of making another marriage. Her beautiful, clever, loving daughter might find her only future lay within the cloister.
Maria consoled herself with the meager comfort that Isabella did not realize her danger. The other woman at Kerak did, though. She saw the fear on their faces. The women of lesser rank were even more vulnerable, their futures more uncertain. At least highborn women could expect ransom. Would the wife of a knight be so lucky? Only Stephanie seemed impervious to the threat, for she was such a great heiress that, besmirched honor or no, there’d be no shortage of men eager to wed the woman who was the Lady of Outrejourdain.
Al-‘Ādil had received an enthusiastic welcome in the Saracen camp, for he’d also escorted a caravan of Egyptian merchants with goods they were eager to sell and the soldiers eager to buy. The soldiers were even happier with the arrival of fresh troops. Not only would their numbers speed up the capture of the castle, they’d then take over for the veterans, who’d be able to go home to their families. Resuming the siege with renewed energy, they kept the siege engines going without pause, denying the besieged any rest. But unless their mangonels could shatter the south walls, they could not launch an assault, so they began the laborious task of trying to fill in the moat. Since it was almost one hundred feet deep, they joked about how many years it would take, with men pledging the services of their sons after they’d died of old age.
Twilights were sudden in the Levant and once the sun disappeared below the western horizon, night staked its claim. By the time al-‘Ādil and his brother had completed the sunset prayer of salat al-maghrib, the sky was as black as polished ebony or Āliya’s raven hair, lit by as many stars as there were soldiers with sins to repent.
When the sultan stopped to chat with several of his Mamluks, al-‘Ādil paused to admire the formidable silhouette of al-Karak, holding the darkness at bay with flaming torches along the battlements. It posed such a danger to the caravans traveling between Egypt and Damascus that many Muslims wanted to see it razed to the ground, reduced to sheer rubble, preferably with the infidel Arnat’s body buried under the stones. Al-‘Ādil thought that would be a great waste of a strategic site and intended to ask his brother for the castle when it was taken.
If it was taken, he amended, for he knew al-Karak would be no plum ripe for the picking. He supposed it could be starved into submission—eventually. But the Franks would not give them that much time. Their young leper king had never failed to respond to one of their invasions. He’d come to al-Karak’s defense even if he had to drag himself from his deathbed.
Upon their return to Salāh al-Dīn’s tent, they were joined by his vizier, al-Fādil, and al-‘Ādil’s chancellor, al-Sanī‘a b. al-Nahhāl. Seated on cushions, they sipped fruit sorbets while al-‘Ādil studied his brother. He’d seemed distracted all day and it was time to find out why. “You still mean to give me control of Aleppo?” Assured that Aleppo was still his, he said, “What is preying on your mind, then, Yūsuf?”
“It involves ‘Umar. I’ve written to tell him that you will be governing in Aleppo, and he is not pleased.”
Al-‘Ādil was not surprised. He’d known for a long time that their nephew had a soul shriveled by envy, never pleased to see the fortunes of other men rise. But Taqī al-Dīn’s discontent could not be dismissed out of hand; he was too good a soldier for that. Moreover, Yūsuf loved him. “How much trouble does he plan to cause?”
“He is complaining about the loss of Sinjār, and when I told him I was giving you control of Manbij, too, he objected strenuously, for he’d long held the iqta for that fortress and town.”
Al-‘Ādil was willing to concede that his thin-skinned nephew had a legitimate grievance about Manbij. “So, he wants to be compensated for his losses.”
Salāh al-Dīn sighed, for there were times when it seemed as if the entire world was seeking money from him, with their blood kin at the head of the line. All but Ahmad, who’d loaned him one hundred fifty thousand dinars for his campaigns. “I’ve been giving it a great deal of thought. Now that you will no longer be governing for me in Egypt, I will need someone competent and trustworthy to replace you. I am thinking of sending ‘Umar.”
Al-‘Ādil considered that in a pensive silence. ‘Umar was competent. Trustworthy? More or less, he supposed. And he was the sultan’s nephew, no small matter when blood counted for so much. Glancing toward the vizier, he saw a faint smile on al-Fādil’s face. Al-‘Ādil trusted his judgment and if he thought it was a good idea to send ‘Umar to Egypt, it probably was.
His brother had put aside his sorbet. “My old friend will accompany ‘Umar to Egypt,” he said, with a fond glance at al-Fādil, “at least until he feels comfortable in his new role.”
“An excellent idea,” al-‘Ādil agreed, reassured to see that Yūsuf’s affection for Taqī al-Dīn had not blinded him to the need to keep their nephew under scrutiny. “You said that ‘Umar would be joining us at the siege. Does he know yet that you’ll be naming him as my replacement in Egypt?”
“No, I thought we could tell him together,” the sultan said blandly, and al-‘Ādil grinned, thinking that he was a better battle commander than his brother and a better administrator, but Yūsuf was a more skilled politician.
He excused himself soon afterward so his brother could get some sleep. As they headed toward his own tent, his chancellor cleared his throat several times, a sure sign that something was on his mind, and he gave the younger man an encouraging glance. “I am listening.”
“My lord, will you retain my services once we are settled in Aleppo?”
“Of course. Why would I not? You’ve been with me for years.”
Al-Sanī‘a was surprised that he needed to remind his lord of his controversial background. He’d been born and raised in the Christian faith, but he’d converted to Islam after falling in love with a Muslim girl, so there were always people who looked at him askance, doubting his faith. Neither the Muslims nor the Christians ever put much store in conversions. “Some of those in Aleppo might be suspicious of me,” he explained, “once they learn of my history.”
“You have my trust,” al-‘Ādil said, “and that is all that matters. In fact, I want you to take charge of my chancellery in Aleppo.”
“Thank you, my lord! I am greatly honored and will justify your faith in me. There is one more thing. . . . Several of my clerks are Christians. Have I your permission to continue employing them?”
“If the sultan can consult a Jewish doctor, I see no reason why we cannot hire Christians now and then, provided they are the most qualified.” Al-‘Ādil’s step slowed and he turned to stare at the fortress of the Franks, shrouded in darkness but not silent, for their mangonels continued to slam rocks down upon it. His chancellor’s mention of Christians brought a particular one of them to mind, the amiable Lord of Nablus, whose wife and stepdaughter were trapped within al-Karak. He stood there for a time, puzzling al-Sanī‘a, who did not know he was imagining his fear if Āliya or Halīma or his children were caught in a siege led by that devil, Arnat.
The weather turned very cold on the morning that marked the first day of December to the Franks and the thirteenth day of Sha’ban to the Saracens. A knife-sharp wind was coming from the mountains of Moab and the sky was blotched with leaden rain clouds. Salāh al-Dīn had been awakened at dawn by one of his scouts, bearing information that was unwelcome but not unexpected. Dressing hastily, he summoned his brother and vizier, and they spent some time discussing how they should respond. Then, Salāh al-Dīn sent for his nephew, for he would have to break the news to Taqī al-Dīn before sharing it with his army.
Once they were seated on cushions, an oil lamp’s flickering flame losing its battle against the encroaching gloom of a coming storm, the sultan wasted no time. “I have bad news. One of my scouts has reported that the army of the Franks is coming to the defense of al-Karak and they have already reached the town they call Hebron.”
Taqī al-Dīn glanced around the tent and did not like what he saw. “What of it? We are supposed to fear their leper king? A man so crippled that he cannot even ride a horse, must be carted around like a sack of flour.”
“His knights can ride,” al-‘Ādil said, keeping his tone mild.
Taqī al-Dīn scowled, but before he could reply, the sultan leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees, his body language conveying composure. “I have decided that there will be no battle. We will withdraw ere the Franks arrive.”
As he expected, his nephew erupted in outrage. “I thought you wanted to fight the Franks! How are you to drive them into the sea if you are unwilling to face them on the field?”
“It will happen in Allah’s time and by Allah’s will,” the older man said calmly. “I think it makes sense to postpone the day of reckoning. Our men are tired, eager to go home. Discipline is always a problem with our soldiers, as you well know. And the holy fast of Ramadān is approaching. We can afford to wait.”
Taqī al-Dīn could not recall ever being so angry. He glared at his uncle, thinking that he was becoming an old man, with no more ballocks than the eunuchs that guarded their harims. But he managed to swallow those words. He could probably have gained Yūsuf’s forgiveness for speaking his mind; he’d always been able to do so. Ahmad was less forgiving and he had Yūsuf’s ear. So did al-Fādil and he was slowly shaking his head in an unmistakable warning.
“I do not agree,” he said at last, knowing he sounded sullen, not really caring. “But it is your decision, Uncle, not mine.”
It was not a graceful concession, but Salāh al-Dīn was sure of his own authority and did not need subservience from others to prove it. “My brother and I will depart in a few days’ time for Damascus. I want you to ride for Egypt, where you will rule in my stead.”
Taqī al-Dīn inclined his head, still angry, but somewhat mollified by the reminder of the power that awaited him in Egypt. He could not resist one last parting shot, though, warning his uncle that he was losing a chance to make the infidel Arnat pay for his sins against Muslims, one that might not come again.
“You need not fear, Nephew. That is a debt that will be paid.” Although the sultan did not raise his voice, Taqī al-Dīn was suddenly glad that he’d kept his temper under control.
Once they turned east toward Kerak, the army of the Franks took up battle formation, compelling Baldwin’s litter to withdraw to the rear. He was one of the last, therefore, to hear the report from their scouts. Alerted by the sudden shouting, he leaned out at the approach of the Count of Tripoli and several other lords. Reining in beside the litter, Count Raymond slid from the saddle with one of his fleeting smiles. “Good news, sire. Our scouts say that the Saracens are gone. Clearly, they heard of our approach, for they have retreated. The siege is over.”
The abandoned Saracen camp had a forlorn appearance. They’d taken everything of value, possessions and plunder, but there was always stuff left behind when an army moved out. Campfires had been extinguished with sand. Latrine ditches scarred the rocky ground and litter was being blown about, collecting wherever tattered tents still stood, judged too weathered to be packed up.
The men slowed their mounts as they approached the town walls and most of them grew quiet, for they were looking upon a scene of tragedy and abject misery. The town of Kerak was no more, its bones picked clean. The cathedral church rose up from the ruins like a shattered tombstone, its roof fallen in, a few charred pillars still standing in the nave. Doors of houses were kicked in, shops ransacked, discarded trash everywhere. Wine kegs had been dragged from taverns and axed open, so much wine spilled into the ground that the odor still lingered. No dogs had survived, but a few hungry cats had emerged from their hiding places, only to fade away again as the men entered the town. They rode slowly through the streets toward the moat, warned by the stench of what they would find: the bodies of men and carcasses of animals thrown down into the ditch to rot.
But across the moat were the living and they were joyfully embracing their deliverance and eager to embrace their rescuers, too. Men were hanging over the citadel’s walls, cheering and gesturing. The gate soon opened, the Lord of Kerak striding out to welcome them. Reynald looked tired, otherwise none the worse after a month-long siege, and he had a cocky grin on his face, as if he were the one responsible for driving the Saracens away.
Riding to the edge of the moat, Balian swung from the saddle, laughing from sheer relief when he recognized Maria among the women now emerging from the castle to greet them. Isabella was already there, waving wildly to attract his attention. He was looking appraisingly at that deep moat when he heard his brother’s voice behind him. “Do not even think of doing it.”
“What?”
“You know what, Balian—lowering yourself down by rope and then trying to climb up the other side. You’ll just break your damn fool neck.”
Balian could not argue with that, but he still said, “You could help me, Baudouin. After all, you’ve a wife over there, too.”
“True enough,” Baudouin said, then grinned. “But I’m not that desperate to be reunited with her.” Giving a sudden shout, he caught the attention of the jubilant knights congregating across the moat. “So, we cannot get into the castle until you lazy drones build another bridge?”
That sparked laughter, for the garrison found humor in everything at that moment; a reprieve from death could be as intoxicating as the strongest wine. “Go back to the berquilla!” one man yelled, gesturing toward the southern end of the castle. “Swim across it and we’ll lower a ladder from the wall for you. Or you can try to make your way around the cistern—as long as you’re not as clumsy as you look.”
Baudouin cheerfully told him to do something anatomically impossible, setting off another wave of raucous laughter. The rest of the rescue force were studying the sheer angle of the slope and the dizzying drop down into the wadi below, while wondering how badly they wanted to enter the castle.
When they’d reached the Salt Sea, Baldwin had been compelled to turn the command of the army over to the Count of Tripoli. He was still given such a warm welcome when the people spotted his horse litter that he found himself fighting tears. It meant more than he could ever say that his subjects understood how much he’d sacrificed for them, understood that he’d clung to royal power only to keep them and the kingdom safe.
Despite being hailed as their savior, Baldwin did not linger at Kerak, remaining only long enough to give his men and horses a much-needed rest. He preferred to spend Christmas in Jerusalem, where he’d have greater comfort and greater privacy.
His lords were eager to return to their own homes, too, after four months in the field. Balian and Maria intended to accompany the king back to Jerusalem, then to continue on to Nablus and hold their own Christmas there. They knew the days were gone when Baldwin would be presiding over a Christmas or Easter court. In the past year, he’d appeared in public only when his royal duties demanded it and he’d begun to wear the Saracen headdress, the kaffiyeh, which enabled him to shield his face from curious or pitying eyes.
On an overcast morning in mid-December, the army left the ravaged town, where the devastated residents were trying to pick up the broken pieces of their lives as best they could, and descended into the wadi that bordered the castle on its eastern side. Isabella and Humphrey hastened across the bailey toward the keep, racing each other up the stairs to the roof so they could watch until the riders were out of sight. Isabella had told Balian and her mother that she’d be there and so they kept turning in their saddles to wave until Kerak had receded into the distance and Maria could no longer hold back her tears.
Guy de Lusignan was not among those heading for Jerusalem. He’d seethed during their march to Kerak, complaining angrily to his brother that the other lords were shunning him as if he were the accursed leper, not Baldwin. He did have one ally left, and Patriarch Eraclius privately warned him that he believed Baldwin had it in mind to annul his sister’s marriage, thus neatly solving the problem posed by the brother-in-law he’d judged and found wanting.
Guy was stunned by this warning. Privately, he’d always dismissed Baldwin as a helpless cripple. He’d never imagined that the leper king would prove to be such a lethal enemy. He was appalled to think that Baldwin could take away all that mattered to him—his marriage to a woman he loved and the kingdom that belonged by rights to them both. So, as soon as he could, Guy had gathered his household knights and rode swiftly to his stronghold at Ascalon, quickly putting it on a war footing. He then sent an urgent message to Sybilla, telling her to leave Jerusalem at once and join him at Ascalon, which she was willing to do, even though it meant she had to leave her young son behind.