Henri hadn’t the heart to drag out the suspense and told them then what they were so desperate to hear, that Richard had given his consent. They were too seasoned as diplomats to show the intensity of their relief. It was more subtle, an easing of a rigid posture, a soft expulsion of a held-in breath—except for Ansaldo, who said fervently and forthrightly, “Thank Almighty God!” That broke the tension and Henri soon found himself surrounded, knights, canons, priests, and servants all jockeying to get closer, wanting to share in so significant a moment in the history of their kingdom.
Henri had to acknowledge their congratulations, well wishes, and expressions of gratitude, and it was a while before he could request that the archbishop send a messenger to the castle. “Please convey my respects to the marquise and ask if I may call upon her on the morrow.” Feeling then that he’d done his duty, he confessed to fatigue from his journey and was escorted up to his bedchamber by the archbishop himself.
Privacy was always at a premium in their world and he realized that it was an even rarer luxury for a king. This night might be the last time he would be free of constant scrutiny, able to be alone with his thoughts. After sending his squire down to the hall to eat, he sat on the edge of the bed. It was too early to sleep and he could not very well ask the archbishop to lend him a book when he’d just pleaded exhaustion. Finally, inspiration struck and he opened the door quietly, following the stairwell up to the roof.
As he expected, it was laid out like a sky-top garden, with benches, large flowering planters, and even a trellised arbor to provide shade from the sun. Sitting on a bench, he gazed up at the sky. The moon was in its last quarter and the roof was bathed in a silvery glow. The Holy Land seemed to have more than its share of stars, those remote, pale lights “offering mankind our only earthly glimpse of infinity.” The thought wasn’t Henri’s, but the musings of a childhood tutor. He hadn’t thought of Master Roland in years, but his memories of Champagne were close to the surface tonight.
He soon rose and began to pace. His eye was caught by a flash of color, and when he squinted, he could make out the triangular shape of a yellow sail. For a time he watched that distant vessel, speculating upon its destination. Was it heading for Cyprus and Guy de Lusignan’s new kingdom? Or the fabled city of Constantinople ? Mayhap even France? Two months from now, God willing, it could be dropping anchor in the harbor at Marseille. He was trying to remember how many miles lay between Marseille and his capital city of Troyes when the door banged behind him.
“My lord count, we were so worried! We could not imagine where you’d gone.” The man hastening toward him was vaguely familiar and, after a moment, Henri recognized Archbishop Joscius’s steward. Henri’s normally equable temper had begun to fray around the edges in the past week and he opened his mouth to send the steward away. He wasn’t given the chance, though. “I am so sorry to disturb you, my lord, but you have a visitor!”
Henri’s brows rose. “At this hour? Say that I’ve retired for the night and suggest he come back on the morrow.”
“But . . . but my lord, it is the queen!”
Henri said a very rude word under his breath, for the last person he wanted to see tonight was Balian’s strong-willed wife. It was nigh on twenty years since King Almaric’s death had left Maria Comnena a young widow, but Henri thought she remained convinced her handsome dark head was still graced with a crown. His mouth tightened and he started to say that his instructions stood. He remembered just in time that Maria would soon be his mother-in-law. “I will, of course, see Queen Maria,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Tell her that—”
“No, my lord, it is the Lady Isabella!”
The steward’s consternation would have been comical under other circumstances ; it was obvious he thought Isabella had committed a serious breach of etiquette. Henri had hoped to put off this meeting until the morning, but he was not truly surprised that his plans had gone awry; that seemed to be the developing pattern of his new life in Outremer. “Tell the marquise that I will be down to the hall straightaway.”
“There is no need for that.” This voice came from the stairwell, and as both men spun around, Isabella stepped from the shadows onto the roof. Henri was the first to recover and came forward swiftly, kissing her hand with his most courtly flourish. She murmured, “My lord count,” and then dismissed the steward with a smile. He made a sound like a strangled squawk and Henri realized he was appalled that they’d be alone and unchaperoned. Just then, another form emerged from the stairwell, and the steward’s shoulders sagged in relief at the sight of Isabella’s lady-in-waiting. Reassured that the proprieties would be observed, he bowed and hastily withdrew. Isabella introduced her companion as the Lady Emma, saying fondly that Emma had been with her since her childhood. Emma reminded Henri of Dame Beatrix, his aunt Joanna’s mainstay, ever poised to guard her lamb from prowling wolves, and when he smiled at her, he was faintly amused by her cool response. She would not easily be won over; sheepdogs never were. He was expecting her to hover protectively by Isabella’s side, but when Isabella suggested they sit upon a marble bench, Emma took a seat some distance away.
Isabella seemed to sense his surprise. “I trust Emma with all my secrets, with my very life,” she said matter-of-factly, and he realized she was reassuring him that Emma would be telling no tales or relating choice gossip about anything she saw or heard on the roof this night.
“You are fortunate to have such a faithful confidante,” he said, thinking that at least she’d had one ally in Conrad’s household. He’d occasionally felt a few conscience pangs for the part he’d played in bringing that marriage about. He’d been convinced by Balian and Conrad that it was a matter of Outremer’s very survival, but he was still chivalrous enough to feel sympathy for that eighteen-year-old girl, tearfully insisting that she loved her husband, did not want to be separated from him. He’d been pleased, then, by what he’d seen when he’d dined with Conrad and Isabella before his departure for Acre. They’d appeared comfortable together, and he’d noticed no overt signs of stress in Isabella’s behavior toward her husband. Even though it had gotten off to the worst possible start, he thought their marriage seemed no worse than many and probably better than some; at least he’d hoped so. In their world, women were always the ones to make the concessions, and he supposed that was true even for queens.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I ought to have seen you ere I left to consult my uncle. That was not only bad manners, it was cowardice.”
“I was not offended,” she assured him, “truly I was not. Like me, you’d been tossed without warning into deep water and you were struggling to stay afloat.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and then said, “Mayhap I ought to be apologizing to you? For coming to you like this, I mean. No one wanted me to do it. Not my mother, nor Balian, for certes not the archbishop. When I was announced, he looked dumbstruck, and even tried to convince me to return to the castle, saying it was not proper for me to seek you out like this. I think it makes them nervous when I show that I have a mind of my own,” she said with a smile, and Henri caught his breath.
When she’d emerged from the stairwell, his first impression was one of fragility and loss. She was clad in a plain, dark-blue gown with a high neckline, wearing no jewelry but her wedding band, her hair covered by a simple linen wimple. Her skirts hid any evidence of pregnancy, for she was still in the early stages; Henri was intensely aware that she was with child, though, and that made her seem even more vulnerable in his eyes. But then she’d smiled, a bewitching, luminous smile that gave him a glimpse of the young woman beneath the somber widow’s garb, and suddenly he saw her not as a tragic figure, not as his fellow victim in a bizarre twist of fate, but as a very desirable bedmate.
“I am glad you came,” he said, with enough sincerity to bring a faint flush to her cheeks.
“I had to . . . Henri. I know you do not want to stay in Outremer.” When he started to speak, she stopped him with a light touch of her h
and. “I understand, for this is my home, not yours. And I also understand your reluctance to wed me. How could you not have misgivings about such a marriage—a reluctant wife carrying another man’s child, not the best of beginnings.”
Her lashes swept down for a moment, and then she raised her head and met his eyes without artifice or coquetry. “I cannot ease your yearning for Champagne. But at least I can ease your mind about me. I am not being compelled to marry you, Henri. I will not deny that I am being urged to it on all sides. But I am in a stronger position than I was when they insisted I wed Conrad. The laws of our realm offer me protection against an unwanted marriage, for the Assizes provide that a widow may not be forced to wed for a year after her husband’s death. So at the risk of being shamelessly bold, you need not fear that I’ll be an unwilling wife.”
Henri very much wanted to believe her. “I know you have a strong sense of duty. You proved that when you agreed to marry Conrad.”
“I am so glad you understand that!” She leaned toward him, that enchanting smile flashing again. For all that she’d been twice wed, she still seemed like an innocent, and he felt sure she did not realize the impact her physical proximity was having upon him. “Not everyone does,” she confided. “I loved Humphrey, did not want to leave him. But I was not browbeaten into agreeing to marry Conrad as so many think. Yes, I was greatly pressured by Conrad, by my mother, my stepfather, Archbishop Joscius, almost all of our lords and bishops, even the papal legate. I did not yield, though, until I realized that this was the only way to strip Guy de Lusignan of his kingship.”
“I think you showed commendable courage . . . Isabella.”
“I never expected to be queen. Why would I, for my sister had two children already and was still young enough to have many more. I was content with Humphrey and the life we had together. But the deaths of Sybilla and her daughters changed everything.”
“Just as Conrad’s death has.”
She nodded. “At least he died happy. He so desperately wanted to be king. I’m glad he had those few days. . . .”
Henri was surprised both by the sentiment and by the ironic undertones, coming from a girl with the face of an angel. “Conrad . . . you and he were able to . . .” He did not know how to ask so probing and personal a question, but he needed to know. If she’d been maltreated, it might well affect their own marriage.
“Yes,” she said simply. “When I agreed to marry him, I realized that I could not do so with hatred in my heart. It was not always easy, not at first. But I did my best to be a dutiful wife and if I could not give him more, I do not think he missed it. He had what he wanted most, a claim to the crown. It may be that our child might have brought us closer together. He very much wanted a son.”
Now that they’d come to it—the baby in her womb that was both a blessing and a curse—he did not know what to say, not sure how honest he dared to be. How much easier it would have been if only she’d not been pregnant!
Isabella proved to be the braver of the two. “We need to talk about it, Henri, about the fact that I am with child, Conrad’s child.” Instinctively her hand moved to her abdomen, a protective gesture that caught at his heart. “The welfare of my baby matters even more to me than the welfare of my kingdom. Not many men would be willing or able to accept another man’s child. I know it can be done, though, for Balian did it. I was just five when he married my mother and he always treated me as if I were his flesh-and-blood, even after they had their own children. Conrad could never have done that, not when a crown was at stake. But I think . . . I hope you can, Henri. The others chose you for your courage and royal blood, your kinship to the kings of England and France. What matters more to me is that you are honorable and have a good heart.”
They were very close now on the bench. Her eyes looked almost black against the whiteness of her face, and he found himself thinking that a man could drown in their dark depths. “Isabella . . .”
“I know you think we are both trapped,” she said softly, “and I suppose we are. But if you wed me, I promise you this—that I’ll do all in my power to make sure you never regret it.”
He reached for her hand, entwining their fingers together. How fearful she must have been and how brave she was now, putting her pride aside to offer herself to him like this. He could see the pulse throbbing in her slender throat, and suddenly knew he could not bear to think of her wedding another man, one who might not treat her and her baby with the kindness, tenderness, and respect they deserved.
“I will be honored to wed you, Isabella,” he said, and when she lifted her face, heartbreakingly lovely in the moonlight, he kissed her soft cheek, her closed eyelids, and then those full red lips. He’d meant it to be a pledge, a reassurance, but her mouth was so sweet and her body flowed into his arms so naturally that he forgot she was so newly widowed, forgot she was pregnant, forgot all but the passion that blazed up between them with an intensity, a hunger he’d not experienced before. When he finally ended the embrace, he saw that she was as shaken as he was. Her dark eyes were starlit, her breathing uneven. “This is not the destiny either of us expected,” he said. “But it is one we can forge together.”
ON TUESDAY, MAY 5, 1192, Henri and Isabella were wed in Tyre by a French bishop, a week to the day after Conrad of Montferrat’s assassination. Henri at once set about mustering an armed force to assist Richard in an assault upon Dārūm Castle. When he and the Duke of Burgundy moved the army to Acre, the chronicler of the Itinerarium reported that “The count took his wife with him, as he could not yet bear to be parted from her.”
CHAPTER 33
MAY 1192
Ascalon–Dárúm Road
Upon his arrival at Ascalon, Henri learned that Richard had grown impatient with waiting and had ridden south to begin the siege of Dārūm Castle on his own. Henri set out at daybreak the next day, his men soon complaining of the oppressive heat. It was Pentecost Eve, the weather already much hotter than it would have been back in Champagne. Henri wondered if he’d ever get accustomed to the sultry Syrian climate, and he was relieved when the seventeen stone towers of Dārūm eventually came into view. Raising his hand, he signaled for a halt so they could assess the situation. By now he could see Richard’s tents in the distance, and the siege engines he’d brought by ship from Ascalon, but they were strangely silent. A swirl of dust heralded the approach of the Duke of Burgundy, and Henri coughed when he inhaled a lungful, hoping the other man did not plan to ride beside him for the rest of the way. That was apparently Hugh’s intention, though.
“What did he think he could accomplish with only his household knights? Sometimes that man has not a grain of sense, just an insatiable hunger for fame.”
Henri had never liked the duke, feeling he’d done nothing but obstruct their progress, and he was still angry at the way Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais had attempted to browbeat Isabella when they thought she’d be most vulnerable. Yet he knew Outremer needed French support and so he contented himself with saying mildly, “You do remember, Hugh, that Richard is my uncle?”
“A man cannot pick his kinsmen,” Hugh said, generously absolving Henri of that tainted family bond. “But you cannot deny that Richard is a lunatic on the battlefield.”
“I’ll not deny he is reckless about his own safety.” Henri ignored Hugh’s snort. “But he is never reckless when it comes to the lives of his men.”
“And I am? Why—because I am urging an assault upon the Holy City? That is why we are here, Henri, why so many good men took the cross. We swore to retake Jerusalem. If we do not even try, we dishonor the memories of all those who died for their faith.”
It was obvious to Henri that Conrad had not confided in his French allies, for Hugh did not appear to know of the marquis’s secret talks with Saladin. “Do you truly believe it is worth putting the very survival of the kingdom in jeopardy, Hugh? I’ve yet to talk to a single poulain who thinks we ought to take so great a risk. To a man, they say another loss like Ḥaṭṭīn wou
ld doom Outremer.”
“You know what I think? That the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn has sapped them of their will to fight for the True Faith. They no longer have the stomach for battle, even if it means humbling themselves before the enemies of God.”
Henri turned in the saddle to stare at the other man, incredulous. “The Templars have no stomach for battle? I’d not say that in their hearing if I were you.”
“I am not saying they lack courage. But living in the midst of pagans and infidels and unbelievers corrupts the soul, and not even the Templars are immune to it. Nor am I surprised that the poulains are so willing to yield Jerusalem to Saladin. They still attend Mass, but they live like Saracens, luxury-loving, decadent, and effeminate—”
“And we take frequent baths, too. What greater proof of depravity can there be?” Neither Henri nor Hugh had noticed as Balian d’Ibelin had reined in his stallion within earshot. Balian was accustomed to hearing criticism like this from suspicious newcomers, those who thought the Syrian Franks were too much at home in this alien environment, and he no longer reacted with youthful anger or indignation, for it served no purpose. He’d long ago acknowledged the irony of it, that the survival of Outremer depended upon men who judged its inhabitants to be unworthy to dwell in God’s Kingdom.
Balian’s sly raillery was not lost upon Hugh, who gave him a suspicious scowl, but the poulain lord was pleased to see that Henri looked amused. He wanted Isabella to be happy with her new husband, wanted the young count to be content with his new life. “As interesting as this discussion is,” he said, with just a hint of sarcasm, “you might want to direct your attention to the castle battlements.”
It took a moment or so for them to see it, and when they did, they could only stare in disbelief at the red and gold banner flying from the keep—the royal lion of England.