The Land Beyond the Sea Read online

  William’s face shadowed. “Gone.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “She has taken her daughter and retreated to her dower fief at Nablus. Thankfully, Amalric provided generously for her in the event of his death, for that overweening, spiteful woman made it abundantly clear that Maria is not welcome at court now that Baldwin is king.”

  Balian was sorry to hear that, though not surprised. “Agnes wasted no time, did she?” Glancing back toward the stands, he said, “She looks downright regal—the queen without a crown. How much influence do you think she truly wields over Baldwin?”

  “Unfortunately, the lad is quite taken with her. It is not his fault, though. Such young shoulders were not meant to bear such heavy burdens. All eyes are looking to him, and people he’s known for years seem like strangers of a sudden. Already he is learning a king’s hardest lesson—that everyone wants something from him. I doubt that his sister has ever had a thought she left unexpressed. Baldwin is not like her, keeps much to himself. But I know he must be lonely, missing his father’s guidance, even feeling overwhelmed at times.”

  Balian had never known his own father, who’d died in the year of his birth; his mother had quickly remarried, giving birth to two daughters, and dying when he was just eight. But he’d always had security, for he’d always had his older brothers to stand between him and the unknown. How much more vulnerable Baldwin was, called upon to be a king ere he was even old enough to shave. “And at such times, Agnes is there for him.”

  William nodded glumly. “She is cunning, too, more so than I realized. Had she sought to smother him or coddle him, he’d have rebelled straightaway. Instead, she listens and laughs and does what women have always done well—makes him feel as if he is truly special. He is, of course, and he knows it. It must still be comforting to him that she thinks so, too.”

  They’d drawn away from the crowd so they could speak without fear of being overheard. But they still had a clear view of the stands and the split on such public display for all to see, including Salāh al-Dīn’s spies. “I came to Acre to find out why we are not trying to stop Saladin from laying claim to Damascus,” Balian said quietly. “I fear the answer can be found over there. Has it truly come to this, William? Our leaders would rather settle old grudges than defend the realm?”

  William nodded again. “I fear so, Balian. Whilst Miles has always been obstinate and prideful, Amalric was quick to tell him if he overstepped. Now there is no one to rein Miles in. He and Odo de St. Amand are not even on speaking terms anymore. Miles has also alienated the grand master of the Hospitallers and Jobert is no firebrand like Odo. The latter must bear his share of the blame for the breach with Miles. Not Jobert, though. He is amenable to reason, yet Miles so offended him that he flatly refused to take part in the campaign.”

  “And Humphrey?”

  “He was not about to lead an army against Saladin without the support of the Templars and Hospitallers, especially since he was not sure how many lords he could rely upon. He told me that he’d heard there were some who were loath to see Miles triumph, fearing that would firmly entrench his hold upon the regency.” William saw Balian frown and felt a dart of sympathy for his young friend, for Baudouin was rumored to be one of those reluctant barons. He would never confide that to Balian, of course, and so he began to talk instead about a bitter altercation between Miles and Walter de Brisebarre, the disgruntled lord of Blanchegarde.

  “Walter has never gotten over losing Beirut to Amalric and then losing Outrejourdain when his wife died and it passed to her sister, Stephanie. I think most men feel he got an unfair deal, so he had some support when he asked Miles to return Beirut to him or, failing that, to arrange a marriage for him with the next available heiress. Miles refused both requests. Whilst I am not often in agreement with the man, Miles was right about Beirut. It is part of the royal domain now and it is his responsibility as regent to protect Baldwin’s interests. He erred, though, in not throwing Walter a bone. Had he promised an heiress, at least that would have salvaged Walter’s pride. Instead, he mocked Walter and with others looking on. Coming from the man who now holds Outrejourdain, that was too much for Walter to accept. He made a fool of himself, raging and cursing and screaming out threats. One more drop of poison into an already toxic brew.”

  Balian could only shake his head in disgust. “This is madness, William. Amalric would have dragged himself from his deathbed to keep Saladin from taking over Damascus. How can so many be so blind? What of Baldwin? Is he aware that his is a house divided?”

  “I’ve not talked to him about it, but he is a bright lad. I am sure he knows that Miles is hated. He also knows that his father wanted Miles as regent. He has a mind of his own, though, always has,” William said with his first real smile of the day, one of almost paternal pride.

  “Miles may forge ahead like a stampeding bull, yet he was shrewd enough to ingratiate himself with Baldwin’s mother, and for now Agnes is on his side. I saw proof of that less than a fortnight ago when I overheard Miles and Agnes trying to convince Baldwin that he ought to replace Humphrey de Toron as constable. Whilst the lad heard them out, he was obviously not swayed by their arguments, and so Agnes made a personal appeal, saying that she did not trust Humphrey. Baldwin effectively silenced her then by saying calmly, ‘Well, I do, Mother.’ She had the sense to back off after that, but I do not doubt she and Miles are still plotting to get Humphrey dismissed, and God help the realm if that ever happens.”

  A sudden blare of trumpets signaled that the first race was about to begin. The riders and horses had entered the track and there was a loud roar of approval when the spectators recognized the youth on a chestnut stallion. “Baldwin is riding?” Balian swung toward William, but the older man was just as surprised. Looking toward the stands, Balian saw that Agnes had not expected this, either, for she half rose, then sank back in her seat. As the riders paraded past the crowd on their way to the start, Baldwin acknowledged the cheers with a jaunty wave, doffing his cap playfully when he caught sight of William and Balian. By then, though, Balian had eyes only for the young king’s mount, for he knew horses. This one was smaller and lighter than the usual Frankish stallion, with a finely chiseled head, deep chest, graceful arching neck, and a tail carried high. “That is an Arabian! Where did Baldwin get him?”

  William had the typical cleric’s lack of interest in horses. “He was a gift from Agnes, I think. I take it an Arabian is something out of the ordinary?”

  “You could say that,” Balian said dryly, thinking he’d have pledged the surety of his soul to have one of those magnificent stallions. “No wonder Baldwin has fallen under his mother’s spell! Clever lady. You can rest assured that he’ll be well mounted in the race, for Arabians are cat-quick, agile, and highly intelligent, whilst not as hard to handle as our destriers.”

  “I pray you’re right,” William said, trying to fend off frightening visions of Baldwin being thrown and slammed into the dirt in a welter of flying legs and down-plunging hooves. And then he caught his breath, for the flag was dropped and the horses and riders were off in a cloud of dust.

  Now that Baldwin was doing this mad thing, William wanted the boy to win and he felt a throb of disappointment to see that the chestnut was blocked as they thundered past the stands. But Baldwin bided his time and began to weave his way between horses as they hit midstretch, finding holes where William was sure there were none. He was fourth with a quarter mile to go and then, in the blink of an eye, it was over. Like a golden streak of light, the Arabian overtook the leaders and then he was in front, pulling away from the others with every stride. By the time he crossed the finish line in solitary splendor, the crowd was cheering wildly, even those who’d wagered against him, and Baldwin was laughing. William suddenly found himself on the verge of tears, almost as if he knew he’d just been given a precious gift, a memory of the young king at a perfect moment in his life, one that held no shadows
or dread, only bright promise.

  * * *

  Balian declined William’s invitation to dine with him that evening, explaining he’d already made plans, and if the archdeacon suspected those plans would require Balian to seek out a priest, confess, and do penance, he politely gave no indication of it. The next day, Balian arrived at the palace to discover that Baldwin was still flying high after his triumph at the races. He’d always liked Balian, who was young enough to joke with, and they passed an enjoyable quarter hour discussing Baldwin’s new stallion, which he’d named Asad, Arabic for “lion,” both because of his tawny coat and his lion-like courage. He’d just invited Balian to accompany him to the stables so he could see Asad’s majesty for himself when Agnes reminded him that he’d agreed to hear petitions that morning. Baldwin was not happy about it, but he did not attempt to evade his royal responsibilities and promised Balian they’d visit the stables later. Balian was amused by what he did next, showing he did indeed have a mind of his own, as William claimed. Instead of staying in the stifling hall, he declared, he’d hold court up on the rooftop garden.

  He was soon sitting on a marble bench, shielded from the sun by a striped canvas canopy, with Agnes on one side and Miles on the other, as men were ushered forward to kneel and state their grievances. Watching with William from another bench, Balian was impressed by the boy’s conduct. He listened attentively and if the complaint involved a point of law, he said it would be taken under deliberation and told the petitioner to return in a few days for his decision. If he occasionally glanced wistfully toward the turquoise sea and the ships sailing for the horizon, Balian thought no one could blame him.

  William shared with Balian now the nonmilitary news, revealing that the Archbishop of Tyre was very ill; he’d accompanied Maria to Nablus, only to be stricken with a stomach ailment. And word had reached Outremer of the latest chapter in the English king’s ongoing struggles with his own queen and sons. The lads were still in rebellion, having fled to the French court, but Eleanor had not been so fortunate; she’d been captured by a royal patrol and taken off to confinement in one of Henry’s castles. William disapproved strongly of the English queen, and he began quoting from Scriptures to bolster his argument that a wife who was not obedient to her husband violated the condition of nature and the divine will of the Almighty.

  “William . . . forgive the interruption, but Humphrey de Toron has just arrived.” Balian was intrigued by the expression on the constable’s face. “Smug” was not a word he’d normally apply to Humphrey, yet he thought the other man definitely had the look of a cat that had gotten into the cream. He was intrigued, too, by the stranger at Humphrey’s side. He appeared to be in his thirties, of medium height and slender build, with a swarthy complexion and straight, dark brown hair. His posture was very erect, his head held high, and his deportment that of one accustomed to privilege and power. “That man with Humphrey . . . do you know him, William?”

  William shook his head, no less curious than Balian, and they rose to follow as Humphrey and his companion strode toward the king and seneschal. Miles had risen abruptly, the expression on his face indicating he did know the identity of this newcomer. The stranger made a deep obeisance to Baldwin, kissed Agnes’s hand, and acknowledged Miles with courtesy that was utterly correct and yet somehow seemed like an afterthought. Balian and William got within hearing range just in time to hear Miles say, with a smile that was almost a sneer, “You are a long way from home, my lord count. I would think you’d be loath to leave Tripoli after such a prolonged stay in the prisons of Aleppo.”

  Balian and William exchanged quick glances. So, this was Raymond de St. Gilles, Count of Tripoli, the young king’s cousin, the man Humphrey had described as a “serious candidate” for the crown of Jerusalem. They smiled at each other, the same thought in both their minds: that things were about to get interesting.

  Miles was very good at provoking other men to bad behavior. His barb went astray now, for Raymond ignored it, as if the implied insult—like the man himself—was not worthy of notice. Addressing himself to Baldwin, he said, “My king, I would offer my condolences for the death of your father, may God assoil him. I held him in great esteem and I believe that he thought equally well of me. He ruled Tripoli for me during those years that I was held prisoner by Nūr al-Dīn and it was my wish that Tripoli pass to him if I died during my captivity.”

  “You are most welcome at my court, Cousin Raymond,” Baldwin said politely but cautiously, for he did not give his trust easily to men he did not know. Agnes was regarding the count warily, and it was clear that her trust would have to be earned, too. Many in their audience were looking suddenly hopeful, however, seeing Raymond de St. Gilles as a formidable rival to the detested Miles.

  “I am here,” the count continued, “because I am your closest male kin, and so I am the one who ought to serve as regent until you reach your majority. I base my claim upon the laws of your kingdom, our shared blood, and the bond that existed between your lord father and me.”

  “You have not heard, then?” Miles queried with heavy sarcasm. “That position has been filled. I was named regent by the High Court, in accordance with the dying wishes of King Amalric.”

  “I heard. But the High Court chose you as acting regent, no more than that. I was not present to argue my own claim. Now I am.”

  “You are not the king’s only male kin,” Miles snapped. “The Prince of Antioch is his cousin, too!”

  “But you are not,” Raymond responded coolly. “I will right gladly debate the merits of my claim against those of my cousin in Antioch, if that be the wish of the king and High Court. You will be free, or course, my lord seneschal, to argue your own claim—such as it is.”

  Many of those listening were grinning widely, for they knew this was a new experience for the imperious Miles—discovering how deadly a weapon icy indifference could be. Miles was looking baneful. Baldwin seemed uncertain and, seeing that, Agnes leaned over to whisper in his ear.

  Giving his mother a grateful smile, Baldwin raised his hand in time to keep Miles from launching a verbal assault upon the count. “None would deny you deserve to be considered for the regency, Cousin Raymond. But this is a decision for the High Court, and, alas, we do not have enough lords in Acre for a quorum. We will have to summon them to a session in Jerusalem.”

  If Raymond was vexed by the delaying tactic, it did not show in his face. “Of course,” he said. “I welcome the opportunity to be heard before the High Court.” He made another respectful obeisance to the young king before adding, “I trust that will be soon.”

  William was delighted by the Count of Tripoli’s challenge to Miles. Once he and Balian had a chance to talk in private, he sounded more optimistic than he had since Amalric’s death, telling Balian that all he’d heard of the count was to his credit. He’d fought bravely on the battlefield before his capture; he was well educated and was said to have learned Arabic during his captivity; he was of high birth and a Poulain, not an outsider like Miles. Balian agreed that Raymond de St. Gilles was an impressive figure and his credentials were impeccable. He wished, though, that the count was not as reserved or aloof; not once had he smiled. Balian hoped he was wrong, but he wondered if Raymond would be able to win over the members of the High Court, for despite the strength of his claim, he was a stranger to most of Outremer.

  CHAPTER 5

  October 1174

  Nablus, Outremer

  Balian had intended to leave Acre by week’s end, wanting to inform Baudouin about the arrival at court of the Count of Tripoli, news his brother would welcome. Miles had other ideas and ordered him and his knights to escort a supply caravan to the Hospitallers’ frontier stronghold at Belvoir. Balian knew Baudouin would be highly indignant when he heard, for it was questionable whether this duty fell within the scope of those owed by vassals to the Crown. But Balian had learned at an early age to pick his battles and he decided it di
d not make sense to turn a vindictive man like Miles into a personal enemy by refusing.

  The roads were always dangerous, for pilgrims and merchants were tempting targets for bandits, both Franks and Saracens. The journey to Belvoir had proved uneventful, though, and Balian was glad to accept the castellan’s offer of hospitality. He and his men were made so welcome that by the time he departed, he was no longer vexed with Miles for disrupting his plans.

  It was now October and they kept an eye on the cloud-mottled sky, although heavy rains did not usually begin until November. They were traveling the watershed road, a major route to Jerusalem, but when Balian saw a milestone indicating they were approaching Nablus, he decided to stop there and see how Queen Maria was faring in her new home.

  The seigneury of Nablus was one of the larger lordships, covering almost six hundred square miles and ninety villages, a center for sugarcane production and the manufacture of soap, so Balian thought Maria ought to have enough income to live comfortably. The town was an ancient one, and although it had no bishop, the canons of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre had property there, as did the Hospitallers. Nablus was not a backwater like Balian’s Ibelin, but he thought it must still be quite a change for a woman who’d grown up amid the cosmopolitan grandeur of Constantinople and passed her married life in Jerusalem and Acre.

  A half mile from Nablus was Jacob’s Well, where the Lord Christ had met the Samaritan woman, and Balian and his men stopped to say a prayer and leave a donation at the church. All around them was proof of the prosperity of Maria’s dower fief: orchards, vineyards, and olive groves. But what struck Balian most forcefully was the absence of town walls. Villages like Ibelin had no walls, either, its inhabitants depending upon the small castle for protection. In light of its size, Nablus’s lack of fortifications was notable. On past visits, Balian had never given it much thought. Now he frowned, not happy that Maria and her daughter should be living in a town so vulnerable to Saracen attack.