Widow of Jerusalem: A Medieval Mystery (10 page)

“Then it is fortunate that I am here, milady,” I said.

“Why is that, Monsieur Droignon?”

“For my powers of gossip are not limited by the walls of this town. I can give you gossip from the tents, from Acre, and from points south, if you like.”

“Has anyone else been scandalized as I have?” she asked.

“When the rank is great, the scandal must be commensurate with the rank,” I said. “But the scandal to the lowest person will still be great to her.”

“In other words, you’re saying that my problems are insignificant?” she said, turning on me.

“No, milady, but they shall pass in time,” I said. “In my experience, things either get better, get worse, or stay pretty much the same, and that’s God’s truth.”

She laughed in spite of herself. A bit ruefully, it’s true, but a laugh none the less. She sat down and motioned me to do the same. “Scarlet used to say the same thing when I was little,” she said. “Does he say it anymore?”

“No,” she replied. “I guess that he thought that I knew it by now. Tell me, Monsieur Droignon, what trouble do other women have right now? Start with the tents.”

“There is a sad story, but I do not wish to burden you any further.” She sat up straight in her chair.

“I am the Queen,” she said. “I don’t want to be shielded from the cares of my people.”

“This one is beyond care,” I said, and I told her of the dead woman. “And she has no one?” she asked when I was done.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I am trying to find out.”

“Are you?” she said, a bit surprised. “What was she to you?”

“I never saw her before,” I said. “I’m just naturally curious.”

“So am I,” she said. “Please, Monsieur Droignon, find out more about her. And tell me when you do.”

“I will, milady.”

“That will be all for today,” she said. “Thank you for the distraction, Monsieur Droignon.”

I stood, bowed and left.

W
hen I arrived
at the novitiates’ clearing the next morning, the boys and girls were buzzing with news, sitting in a large circle and tossing the rumors back and forth to each other. I sat and listened.

“Her name was Rachel,” said a boy. “She was from Tortosa.”

“Not from Tortosa,” corrected a girl. “From a farm near Tortosa. Her family was killed by the Saracens.”

“No, they died before Saladin came.”

“Except for—“

“Except for—“

“There was a sister!” shouted Sara triumphantly. “An older sister, who had been married off and went to live with her husband.”

“And where is she?” I asked.

“She’s here,” said Magdalena. “She lives in the tents. I heard some women talking about the one who was weeping in her tent just after Rachel’s body was taken through. Her name is Mary.”

“But she’s not here anymore,” Ibrahim said.

“Where did she go?” I asked.

They looked around at each other, waiting to see which one had that vital piece of information. After a minute, a collective sigh rose from the circle.

“Well, that was excellent work for one day,” I said encouragingly. “Now, if we find out where Mary went—“

“Tdu saw her, you know,” said Peter, one of the smaller boys.

“I did?” I said. “When?”

“She was one of the women who danced when you came to play with the musicians,” he said. “I sneaked out to listen. I always sneak out when there’s music. I’m a good sneak.”

“A worthy attribute for an aspiring fool,” I laughed. “There were several women dancing. Can you describe her?”

“She was the one with the henna designs on her face and arms,” he said.

“A pretty maid and a good dancer,” I recalled. “She should be easy enough to find. Let’s get to our regular exercises. Continue your gossiping assignment when you go back to the tents.”

I called to Ibrahim when they finished and gave him some extra instruction after the class.

S
ome excessive cooing
woke me a few mornings later. I looked out to find that one of Scarlets pigeons had returned and was being greeted by its colleagues, no doubt catching up on their own gossip. The note tied to the bird’s leg said tersely, “Arrived safely. Back unstabbed. So far.’’

The Bishop of Beauvais returned on the same day as the pigeon, bringing the news that Richard had indeed settled for seizing the recently abandoned Ascalon and rebuilding its walls. He blamed the oncoming winter for his reluctance to take on the Holy City. Privately, he had been advised by the Templars about the effect that the conquest of Jerusalem would have on his troops’ obligations, and he had come to the same cautious conclusion that Conrad had before. I heard much later that Blondel and Ambroise also had some part in influencing him, but I don’t know the whole story.

With the fighting season over, negotiations began anew. Richard sent an envoy to speak with Saladin and was still awaiting the results when the Bishop left for Tyre.

The Bishop’s arrival created an opportunity for one noticeable public ceremony: a baptism of many new converts, including Balthazar and Leo, who were now Balian’s proteges. It took place in early November on a beautiful cloudless Sunday, with the sea breezes cooling the air to a deliciously comfortable level.

A good portion of the Christian population turned out for the ceremony, pouring between the granite columns into St. Mary’s. I came in ordinary garb, sans makeup. Although I generally wear whiteface and motley in church, this was my first time in this particular house of worship, so I thought I would blend in until my position in the town was more established. No one recognized me this way.

It was a grand cathedral inside, three aisles stretching nearly three hundred feet to the triple apse at the end, the ceiling a barrel vault sixty feet above us. The narrow, arched windows were unshuttered, letting in enough light to warm us up and enough air to cool us back down.

The Queen and her husband were seated together at the front, along with Balian d’lbelin, the Falconbergs, and their families. I was in the back with the rest of the servants, trying to get a glimpse of the proceedings. Fortunately, the sound carried well, and Beauvais turned out to be quite the public celebrant, his voice booming across the congregation like the Herald of God.

After praying at the altar, he marched up the aisle to the front doors, flanked by a pair of priests. As these were adults being baptized, he wore a flowing white cope embroidered with gold threads over his regular vestments, and as he passed by each window, the incoming sunbeams reflected off the garment and dazzled all who beheld it.

The priests each stood by a door and, upon the Bishop’s signal, flung them open. Outside stood the catechumens, each dressed in white. They were taken in one at a time, exorcised, crossed, blessed, and salted, ready to make their plunge into Roman ritual.

The various sponsors beamed as they stood to join the ceremonies. The catechumens prostrated themselves before the altar, recited the prayers together, and stood by the font.

When it was Leo’s turn, Balian d’lbelin himself stood as sponsor, placing his hands on the younger man’s shoulders.

“What error do you now renounce before God?” inquired the Bishop.

“I renounce the error of the Syrian rite,” replied Leo.

Balian braced him, and the Bishop bent him back until his head was in the font.

“Leo, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” cried the Bishop. Leo came back up, looking a bit dazed, and the Bishop anointed him with chrism.

That left only Balthazar. I had supposed that Balian would sponsor him as well, but there was a sudden burst of murmuring that formed at the front and spilled through the cathedral.

Conrad had taken his place behind Balthazar. He stood calmly before the gathering storm, and answered the Bishops questions with ease.

“Sinner!” someone shouted off to my right. The Bishop stopped in midquestion and looked furiously in that direction. Someone booed from behind me and was joined in by first a few, then practically the entire congregation.

“Adulterer!”

“Bigamist!”

“How dare he stand before God and renounce Satan? He is the Devil!”

Conrad’s face grew dark, but he continued his responses to the catechism. Then Balthazar stepped forward.

“I renounce the error of the Syrian rite,” he said, and he was baptized, Conrad keeping his hands on his shoulders the entire time. When the Bishop finished anointing him, Balthazar took his place with the other converts. Conrad stepped to the center of the apse and held up his hands.

“Look at them,” he cried. “They are clean, washed in Holy Water, consecrated with this newest member of our church. I came to Tyre with clean hands, and they remain so. I swear by every icon, relic, and artifact in this church that I am neither adulterer nor bigamist but a poor widower who found new happiness in this city. Have you forgotten, my friends, everything that I have done for Tyre? What I was willing to sacrifice?”

He held out his hands in supplication toward Isabelle.

“Will you not believe me, my Queen?” he implored her. “Take these hands, as they once took yours, and denounce those who would libel us for their own petty purposes. I am your husband and no one else’s. I am the father of the future King of Jerusalem. I have no other ambition than to be reconciled to your bosom. Before God, will you not take my hands again?”

Slowly, she stood and approached him. Without a word, she took his hand and turned to face the congregation.

The boos and catcalls stopped. Then there was a cheer, and another. Slowly, each congregant joined in, and the Bishop himself stood behind the couple and blessed them.

Yet her eyes remained dull, her tongue mute. She smiled, but I knew that it was forced. The whole thing had been stage-managed beautifully.

After the service, the converts were escorted from the cathedral by their sponsors.

“For your part in this, you shall find a place in my service,” said Conrad to Balthazar as they passed by me.

“Bless you, milord,” cried Balthazar fervently.

Outside, the converts lined up to receive the congratulations of the congregation. Three women joined Balthazar and Leo. The former’s wife and the latter’s wife and daughter, I guessed. Balian went over to them and embraced each of the men heartily. The brothers Falconberg followed. I noticed that William extended his embrace to the women, an especially enthusiastic one to Balthazar’s wife.

I stood in line and congratulated the two men.

“You must thank your friend,” said Leo. “His guidance proved worthwhile. We cannot thank you enough for directing us to Balian.”

“I am glad that you were successful,” I said. I smiled at his daughter, who peeked out shyly from her cloak. “This one is certainly worth protecting.”

“Thank you, friend Fool,” said Leo.

I turned to congratulate Balthazar. I managed to keep my face expressionless as I did, but it was a near thing.

His wife was standing some feet away, talking to the Bishop. The henna designs had been washed off, and the sinuous figure was concealed under more modest garb, but I had no difficulty recognizing her as our missing dancer.

I
did not speak
with Balthazar’s wife that day, but I trailed them after the celebration and marked where they resided. It was a small room in a building that belonged to Balian d’lbelin in which laborers, soldiers, and transients were jammed together. It did not strike me as much of an improvement over the tents, but it had to recommend it those triple walls separating their new home from the hostile world.

The next morning, I watched the building from an alleyway. Balthazar and Leo emerged together in a crowd of laborers, but I did not follow them. Shortly thereafter, women began coming out, many with children clinging to their robes or shooting out in all directions as if launched by a wayward sling.

Balthazars wife came out at the end of this group, looking around tentatively. She was alone. I hadn’t spotted Leo’s wife in the group. I had noticed her the day before, a skinny woman with a constant cough that she muffled with her cloak.

Balthazar’s wife walked past my alleyway, glancing quickly inside as she did. I was deep in the shadows with my cloak around my motley and remained unobserved. When she continued on, I slipped out and followed her.

She proved to be wholly uninteresting in her wanderings, going through the stalls at the markets, looking longingly at some of the more expensive items, particularly the beaded necklaces that glinted in the sunlight. She purchased bread, dates, and a small skin of wine, then started back toward home.

I turned a corner and bumped into her. She frowned a bit.

“My apologies, milady,” I said, then I pretended to recognize her. “I know you, don’t I?”

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“No, no, I’m sure of it,” I said, then I snapped my fingers. “Of course! I saw you dance one night out in the tents. I was sitting in with some musicians I had met.”

“Oh, that’s possible,” she said. “I don’t remember seeing you there.”

“I am not surprised,” I said. “You seemed very caught up in the dancing.”

“It can be… rapturous,” she said, smiling a bit shyly. “But I don’t do that anymore.”

“Really?” I said. “A pity. You were quite marvelous.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I enjoy it. But now that we live here, there’s no more need for it.”

“Ah, you’ve come up in the world,” I said. “Congratulations.”

“My husband gained a generous benefactor,” she said. “We were very fortunate to leave the tents.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Such a dangerous place at night. Why, I heard a woman got her throat cut there only last week. Can you believe that?” She turned pale suddenly and faltered in her step. I took her arm and steadied her.

“My apologies, lady,” I said solicitously. “I did not mean to upset you so. Curse me for the fool that I am for speaking of such an indelicate topic to such a delicate woman. Did you know the unfortunate creature?”

“No, no,” she said, recovering a bit. “It’s just that it was upsetting to hear.”

“Well, of course,” I said. “I’ve seen so much death and destruction since coming to this world that I suppose I’ve become inured to it. But I shouldn’t assume everyone is like that. Let me escort you home, lady.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Which way?”

She indicated the route, and I took her arm again and guided her back. She thanked me again.

“I hope you change your mind about the dancing,” I said in parting. “Entertainers can do quite well in Tyre. I’m sure that I could find you some work.”

“Thank you, but no,” she said. She took her leave and went inside.

I watched for a while to see if she would come out again and look for someone, but she remained there the rest of the day. When the men came home, I gave up and left.

Something there, I thought. A pity I couldn’t bring any of the tent children into Tyre. I could have used some help watching her.

When I saw Isabelle on the following day, she was at her usual place by the window, staring out moodily. There was no sign of Ralph Falconberg this time, and the Queen was back to her royal paleness. I announced mv presence with a soft chord on my lute, and she waved me languidly to a chair opposite hers.

“I enjoyed the show the other day, milady,” I said.

“Are you referring to the ritual of baptism?” she said frostily.

“There was a ritual aspect to the performance, I agree,” I replied. “Public roles are still roles, after all. I thought you played yours rather well.”

“Not well enough, I see,” she said. “If I had played it properly, you would not have known that I was playing.”

“I think that your heart may not have been in it, milady.”

“True enough,” she sighed. “But one must put the welfare of one’s kingdom over personal happiness.”

“Nobly spoken,” I said, applauding lightly. “And your husband? Was his heart in his performance?”

“His desire to retain his position was genuine,” she said. “Strong enough to overcome his lack of integrity.”

“’Vou still believe him to be false,” I said.

“I don’t know anymore,” she replied.

“Tell me something, milady.”

“What, Fool?” she asked wearily.

“Did you believe him when you married him?”

“It didn’t matter what I believed,” she said bitterly. “I had no choice in the matter.”

“But did you believe him?” I persisted.

“Of course,” she said. “He was the savior of Tyre. Who could believe anything else? The mere suggestion otherwise would have been monstrous.”

“Did you look at his face when he took his vows?”

“You are impertinent, Fool.”

“I know, milady.”

I waited.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I looked at his face.”

“How did he appear at the moment he pledged his soul to yours?”

“Happy,” she said. “At that moment he was happy. But of what value was this soul? A worthless pledge, Fool, and his was the happiness of the successful swindler.”

“Why do you believe this Greek sailor over your husband?” I asked. “A woman knows when she is loved,” she said. “And when she’s being used. He’s never loved me, Fool.”

She stood and went inside to lie upon her divan.

“What of your investigation, Monsieur Droignon?” she asked.

“I have made some progress, milady.”

“Tell me,” she commanded.

“The dead woman had a sister who still lives. I have learned her identity, or think that I have. Her name is Mary. She is the wife of Balthazar, the man your husband sponsored at the baptism.”

“I remember her,” she said. “My husband has taken on Balthazar as a messenger. He’s proving quite useful.”

“I am happy to hear it,” I said.

“Have you spoken to the lady?”

“I spoke to her,” I said. “But she would not tell me much. I think that she may know something more.”

She thought for a moment, then sat up.

“I need a new servant,” she said. “I will employ her. Perhaps I can learn what she is concealing.”

“Milady, I would not have you risk anything,” I said. “Especially on my account.”

“There’s no risk,” she said. “It’s settled. I shall do it. Will you send for my lady-in-waiting?”

“Yes, milady,” I said.

I left, wondering if I had done the right thing in roping the Queen into my own little investigation. I also wondered how much she would hinder it in her well-meaning way.

I
wish
that I knew you had this bias against spoiled inquisitive noblewomen before I married you, teased Claudia.

You were different, Duchess, I replied. I’ve never met anyone like you, noble or otherwise.

I
sabelle made
good on her intentions, and Mary was soon added to her personal retinue. We arranged for the dancer to be on errands outside the castellum at the hour of my daily visit, not wanting to spook the woman any more than I already had.

But the Queen made little progress. Mary was not used to service, and the more time she spent in the castellum, the more she seemed to shrink within herself. Balthazar escorted her inside every morning before leaving for Conrads orders. When he left, she would stand stock still, watching him until the doors closed behind him, then she would take a deep breath and force herself up the stairs. It became harder and harder to see the ebullient dancer of my memory disappear into this frightened mouse of a woman. For all her talk of desiring the safety of the walls, she seemed trapped in Tyre.

A
pigeon arrived a week later
, heralding the departure of Scarlet from Saladin’s camp. I announced the news to the novitiates, who cheered happily, then laughed as I feigned hurt over being so disfavored.

“But enough about him,” I said. “Today, children, I will teach you about one of life’s great passions. More importantly, I will teach you how you can make some money from it.”

“Gossip again?” said one of the boys.

“No, my friend. I speak of nothing less than love.”

The younger children made faces while the adolescents snickered.

“But isn’t making money from love called prostitution?” asked Sara.

“Don’t confuse mere acts with the ideal,” I said. “Love is the foundation of chivalry. In the pursuit of it, any man of armor and ardor will need the services of poetry and music. That’s where you come in. Let me demonstrate. Magdalena, I need you to play the object of desire.”

“It’s not playing, it’s who I am,” she said, batting her eyes at the boys.

“Perfect,” I said. “Now, this normally would take place on a balcony.

Since we have none, I want you to climb that tree and sit on that first limb.”

She looked at the tree, then took a running start and jumped. She planted her right foot on a bole and drove herself upward. She caught the limb with both hands and used her momentum to swing herself up into a handstand, then settled down on top of the limb. She smiled down at us.

“A unique method of climbing,” I said, applauding. “One not generally favored by the nobility. All right, so you are a lady being sought by a knight. The knight, having attained his position by accident of birth, is a coarse and clumsy fellow.”

“Then why should I want him?” asked Magdalena.

“’You don’t,” I said. “But you soon will, because he has brought you the very sounds of love. A serenade if you will, Ibrahim.”

Ibrahim picked up his guitar, stood before the tree, and began to sing to Magdalena. It was a song that I had taught him privately, one that had been composed by the troubadour Cercamon several decades before. I have sung it to many a lady on behalf of one swain or another, and I knew the power in it.

And now, that power belonged to Ibrahim. As with all who wield power effectively, he held back, letting his voice caress softly where his hands could not. I had never heard it sung with guitar before, and I must say that the instrument lent itself nicely to the occasion, entwining Magdalena in its chords until she seemed ready to swoon.

Ibrahim finished, and as the last chord seeped into the woods, the clearing was still. Even the birds seemed to have stopped their chirping to listen. And the girl in the tree was his.

Ibrahim laid down his guitar, stepped up to the tree, and held out his arms. Magdalena swung down from the limb straight into his embrace.

“And that, children, is how you conduct a serenade,” I said, finally breaking the spell.

The novitiates looked at the young couple in awe, then started cheering. Ibrahim and Magdalena separated reluctantly, still holding hands.

T
he opposite
of a serenade is an aubade, sung to alert illicit lovers of the coming of dawn and discovery. Such a song awakened me a few days later, the soft plunking of the guitar insinuating itself into my dreams. Funny, I thought. I never taught Ibrahim that one. And what is he doing in Tyre?

Then logic returned to me. I stepped outside the rooftop cottage to see Scarlet singing to his pigeons who regarded him with sleepy affection. The first glimmerings of the sun were appearing beyond the plains. I pulled out my flute and joined in, and we greeted the dawn together.

“Do the neighbors ever complain?” I asked when we finished.

“Only when I play badly,” he replied. “And I never do.”

I clasped his hand.

“Good to see you alive and unperforated,” I said.

“Good to be that way,” he replied. “It was an interesting journey. We were in Lydda, which is to the east of Jaffa. There were two Saracen camps, one with Saladin, one with Al-Adil, his brother. His brother is the negotiator, quite the shrewd diplomat. It turns out that they had separated into two camps so each could play to one of us. We were dealing with Saladin while Al-Adil was having Richard to dinner and continuing with his envoy. Guess who that was, by the way?”

“Humphrey of Toron again?”

“You’ve hit the mark in one. Isabelles ex, making eyes at the serving boys while bringing Richard’s proposals, the most interesting of which involved his sister.”

“Whose sister?”

“Richard’s sister Joanna. He brought her to the Holy Land as barter material. He’s offering her in marriage to Al-Adil in exchange for good terms on the truce. They were talking about it in Saladin’s camp. In fact, they were quite amused at the prospect, wondering what she looked like. I think they were worried that she might resemble brother Richard, which would be unduly formidable in a woman.”

“Has anyone bothered to ask Joanna what she thinks about the idea?”

“Vehemently opposed, from what I heard, and ready to send for the Pope if the discussions persist. Richard has a niece in reserve just in case, but I don’t think the Saracens will sell their souls for a little French flesh.”

“What about your negotiations?”

“Conrad neglected to bring along a supply of female relations for trade bait. Quite careless of him. He is also not quite the influential figure that Richard is. But Saladin respects him more. Richard is the fierce warrior, running around and lopping off Arab heads like he was a deranged cabbage farmer, but everyone knows that he won’t be staying here forever. Conrad is in it for the long haul, and determined to keep what he regards as his. But Saladin wants him to turn against Richard, and he won’t do that.”