Lionheart (81 page)

“Christ Almighty!” Henri stared at the other man in horror. “Are you saying that the French now control Tyre?”

“No, rest easy, they do not. Isabella told them that she was willing to turn Tyre over to Philippe—as soon as he returned from France to claim it.”

They stared at him in astonishment and Henri gave a shaken laugh. “Good for her!” After a moment to reflect, he said, “I suppose I ought to be thanking you.”

Balian shook his head. “No, it was none of my doing, for I was not there. They took care to seek her out whilst neither I nor my wife nor Renaud of Sidon were with her, doubtless expecting to easily intimidate her into submission. But much to their surprise, they discovered that even kittens have claws. Having reminded them that Philippe had deserted Conrad and turned his back on God’s kingdom, Isabella declared that she meant to obey her husband’s dying wish—that she surrender Tyre only to Richard or the rightful lord of the land.”

The other men exchanged startled looks. Was Conrad capable of such deathbed generosity, putting the welfare of the kingdom before the sea of bad blood that lay between him and the English king? Had he even been capable of expressing such sentiments? “I’ll not deny that comes as a surprise,” Henri conceded. “You made it sound as if Conrad was well nigh dead by the time he was taken back to the castle, beyond all mortal concerns.”

A smile flickered across Balian’s lips, one of paternal pride. “I daresay Beauvais and Burgundy have their doubts, too. But who is to call the bereaved widow a liar? She said Conrad gave her these secret instructions ere he died, and how are they to prove otherwise? Isabella then shut herself up in the castle and put the garrison on alert.”

Henri suddenly remembered that it was the Bishop of Beauvais who’d wed Isabella to Conrad. Beauvais ought to have remembered that, too, he thought, and felt a surge of sympathy for this beleaguered girl. He’d always been impressed by her beauty, but until now he’d not realized that she had such courage. God knows she’d need it in the dark days to come. She’d already been forced into one unwanted marriage, and it was all too likely to happen again. A young, pregnant woman could not rule a war-torn land on her own. She’d need another husband as soon as possible, need to be wed again with indecent haste, for political necessity always triumphed over propriety. He hoped she’d be given some small say in the matter, although he thought it unlikely. But whom could they choose? Who would be acceptable to all warring factions and yet also be capable of defending the kingdom as stoutly as Conrad would have done?

“What now, Balian?”

The older man shook his head wearily. “We can only deal with one crisis at a time. Right now the greatest danger lies in Tyre, for the people are on the verge of panic and the French will grasp any opportunity to seize control of the city. I want you to come back with me to Tyre, Henri. Mayhap your presence will reassure the citizenry and remind Beauvais and Burgundy that Conrad may be dead but Richard of England is still a force to be reckoned with.”

“When do you want to leave?”

“Now,” Balian said, and that succinct reply, so fraught with urgency, told them more about the
poulain
baron’s state of mind than a torrent of words could have done. They were teetering upon the edge of the abyss and who would know it better than a man born and bred in Outremer?

TO BALIAN AND HENRI’S mutual frustration, the winds had died down, delaying their voyage for hours. They considered riding the thirty miles to Tyre but by then twilight was approaching and it made more sense to keep waiting for favorable winds, as a ship under sail could cover three times that distance in a single day. They were eventually able to raise anchor that night. The winds continued to be contrary, however, becalming them at the midway point, and so it was almost sunrise before their galley was within sight of Tyre’s formidable walls and soaring towers. The massive iron chain was lowered to allow them entry into the harbor, and they were soon at the wharf by the Sea Gate. The castle was situated on the eastern harbor mole, and Henri’s gaze kept coming back to it; he wondered if Isabella was still abed, if she dreaded each dawning day now as one sure to bring more trouble and grief.

Henri politely declined Balian’s offer of hospitality, not wanting to intrude into a house of mourning, and instead chose to return to the archbishop’s palace, where he’d lodged on his earlier visit. Rather than wait while a servant was sent to Balian’s stable to fetch horses, they decided to walk, glad to be on firm ground after so many hours aboard ship. The city was beginning to stir, people opening their shops, street vendors preparing to start their rounds, windows being flung open and voices echoing on the early-morning air. But there was none of the usual bustle and cheer, and the subdued atmosphere reminded Henri of a town under siege.

The archbishop’s palace was unusual in that it was not situated near the Cathedral of the Holy Cross; instead it was next to the hall of the Genoese commune, so after passing the church of St Mark, they turned west. By now the streets were not as deserted and they soon attracted attention. Suddenly people were flocking around them, bursting out of their shops and houses, cheering and laughing. Henri was not surprised that the despairing citizens of Tyre would embrace Balian as their savior. All knew he’d saved the inhabitants of Jerusalem from Saladin’s wrath after the battle of Ḥaṭṭīn, so it made sense that they’d feel more secure if he was in the city. Their emotional welcome showed Henri just how raw their nerves were, how badly they’d been shaken by Conrad’s murder.

There were so many in the street now that they were unable to make much progress. Glancing at the other man, Henri essayed a small joke. “Since you’re Tyre’s new patron saint, you might try parting the crowd like Moses parted the Red Sea.”

Balian turned to stare at him. “They are not cheering for me, Henri. If Tyre has a new patron saint, it is obviously you.”

Henri started to scoff, but then he listened more closely and, to his astonishment, they were indeed shouting his name. Before he could ponder this unexpected development, a priest broke through the throng, seized his hand, and kissed it fervently. “You are our salvation, my lord count, the answer to our prayers! Tell us you’ll save our city and our kingdom!”

Henri was rarely flustered, but he was now, and he extricated his hand with difficulty from the priest’s frantic grip. As he studied the eager faces of the men and women surrounding them, a memory stirred—Dārūm and the freed prisoners mobbing Richard, acclaiming him as their savior. An alarming suspicion was taking form in the back of his brain even before he heard a man cry out in a loud, booming voice, “Promise us, my lord, promise you’ll wed our queen and be our next king!”

It took them almost an hour to reach the archbishop’s dwelling, fighting their way through crowds every step of the way. Archbishop Joscius hastened out into the courtyard to bid them welcome, and it was only when they’d been ushered inside that Henri could draw an unconstricted breath. His heart twisted with pity for these poor, despairing souls, but he was aware, too, of an instinctive unease, and he told the archbishop that he needed to rest for a few hours ere he went to make his condolence call upon the Lady Isabella. The archbishop was a gracious host even in the face of calamity, and Henri and his squire were soon escorted to one of the best bedchambers in the palace. His need had been for solitude, not sleep, but he’d been awake for fully a day and night, and once Lucas had helped him remove his boots, he stretched out on the bed.

While he hadn’t meant to sleep, he soon slipped into that shadow state between the borders of slumber and wakefulness, and although he would remember none of his dreams, he knew they’d not been pleasant. He had no idea how much time had passed when he opened his eyes to find Lucas bending over him, reporting that the archbishop needed to speak with him as soon as possible.

Henri was still groggy and stumbled to the table, where a basin and towel had been laid out for his use. Splashing his face with cold water, he shrugged when Lucas announced dolefully that he could not find a brush. Henri prided himself upon lacking vanity, although Joanna had once pointed out that only the good-looking could afford to be indifferent to appearance. Remembering his aunt’s astute observation now, he smiled, for she’d been right, of course; he’d been blessed with his share of his grandmother Eleanor’s beauty, and since childhood, he’d known there were almost as many advantages in being pleasing to the eye as there were in being highborn. But he did want to look presentable when he called upon the Lady Isabella and he was attempting to smooth his curly, fair hair with the palm of his hand when another knock sounded on the door.

“Tell them I’ll be down straightaway, Lucas.” A soft cry of surprise from his squire spun him around, his scabbard not yet buckled. The boy stepped aside, hastily making an obeisance as the Archbishop of Tyre moved into the chamber, followed by Balian and at least a dozen others. Henri instantly recognized the undeniably ugly visage and intelligent dark eyes of Renaud Garnier, Lord of Sidon, one of the kingdom’s most powerful barons. Beside him stood two men Henri had met on his prior visit, Aymar de Lairon, whose recent marriage had made him Lord of Caesarea, and Rohard, son of the newly deceased Pagan, Lord of Haifa. Behind them were Ansaldo Bonvicino, Conrad’s chancellor; Atho de Valentia, the citadel’s castellan; and Guglielmo Burone and Bonifacio de Flessio, the most influential members of the local Genoese commune, as well as several bishops and a few men unfamiliar to Henri.

After greeting them, Henri asked warily, “What is so urgent that it could not wait until I came down to the great hall?”

“Our need is more than urgent, my lord count.” Archbishop Joscius had apparently been chosen as their spokesman. Coming forward, he put a hand on Henri’s arm and then said, in the grave, sonorous tones reserved for the pulpit, “We have come to offer you a crown, a bride, and a kingdom.”

Henri took a quick backward step, his eyes narrowing. But it was Balian he addressed. “Is this why you wanted me to come to Tyre? Did you know this would happen?”

Balian was neither disturbed nor defensive. “I did not lie to you, Henri, when I told you why you were needed here. But yes, I did hope you would be acclaimed by the people, and I make no apologies for that. We do not have the luxury of mourning Conrad and I make no apologies for that, either, not when the very survival of our kingdom is at stake.”

“And Isabella does not get to mourn, either? Does she know that you are planning to marry her off within days of her husband’s funeral?”

Balian gave Henri an odd smile, one that managed to convey sadness, sympathy, and an implacable resolve. “She knows,” he said, and Henri shook his head angrily, for anger was the safest of the emotions he was struggling with.

“Why could you not be honest with me, Balian? Why could you not tell me that the lot of you had decided I’d make a satisfactory suitor for Isabella’s hand?”

“Would you have come back if he had?” the archbishop asked. “We needed a chance to talk with you, to make you see that you are not just a ‘satisfactory suitor.’ You are the only one whom we can rally around, the only one deemed worthy by us all. You are a man of courage and common sense, a man of good birth and—”

The archbishop was not often interrupted, but Conrad’s chancellor was growing impatient that they’d not yet gotten to the heart of the matter. “That is all well and good,” Ansaldo Bonvicino said brusquely. “Yes, men respect you, Count Henri, and you’ve proven yourself in battle, so you can be trusted to lead an army. But none of that makes you indispensable. What does is the blood flowing in your veins. You are the nephew of two kings, the one man able to command the support of both the English and the French. You are known to stand high in Richard’s favor, but you’d also be acceptable to the Duke of Burgundy, for you are the son of Philippe’s sister. Even after peace is made with Saladin, we will need the continued support of the other Christian kingdoms, need money and men. And we are much more likely to get it if you are the one ruling over us.”

Not all of them were pleased with Ansaldo’s interference. They would have preferred that the case be made by their urbane, eloquent archbishop. They looked to him now to repair any damage done by the other man’s brash candor, and Joscius was quick to step into the breach.

“I’ll not deny that your kinship to the kings of France and England is important to us. But we’d not seek you out if we did not think you’d make a good king, for we cannot afford another Guy de Lusignan. In you, my lord count, we are confident we will have a ruler able to meet the great challenges that lie ahead. I understand that you did not expect this. None of us did. But God’s Will is not always comprehensible to mortal men. ‘For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face.’ We can only do our best, and for now that means arranging a marriage between you and the Lady Isabella, our queen.” He smiled then, giving Henri a look that was both avuncular and earnest. “In truth, you are being offered a remarkable gift—the Kingdom of Jerusalem and a wife who is highborn, beautiful, and biddable.”