The Land Beyond the Sea, Page 2

  * * *

  “My lady? Do you think your lord husband will be back soon?”

  Agnes blinked as her past receded and her present came into focus again. “I expect so, Mabilla.” She knew her ladies assumed she was daydreaming of her golden future, and why not? She was finally to be rewarded for all the sacrifices she’d made, for all she’d lost. King Baldwin had suddenly sickened and his doctors could not save him. He’d died five days ago, leaving behind a grieving young widow but no children. The heir to the throne was his brother, Amalric. It was true that the crown was elective, not strictly hereditary, yet Agnes saw that as a formality. Amalric was meeting now with the High Court, composed of the barons of the realm. By week’s end, he would be crowned and she would be Queen of Jerusalem.

  Sitting on a coffer, Agnes relaxed as Mabilla unpinned her hair. It reached to her waist in a swirl of pale gold. Amalric often said it was a pity that women could not venture out in public with their hair uncovered; he was proud of having such a desirable wife and enjoyed the envy he saw in the eyes of other men. Agnes decided she would wear it loose at her coronation, as only queens and virgin brides could do, and for a moment, she envisioned her long, flowing hair graced with a jeweled crown—the ultimate accessory, she thought with a smile.

  Amalric returned as the city’s church bells were chiming for Vespers. He strode into the chamber, glanced at the women, and said, “Out.” As they fled, Agnes’s eyebrows rose. Even for Amalric, who was taciturn on his best days, that was unusually rude.

  Agnes got to her feet, studying him with a puzzled frown. For a man who’d just been given a crown, he did not look very happy. “How did the High Court session go? Is it settled?”

  “Yes, it is settled.” He moved restlessly around the chamber, like a man in unfamiliar surroundings, and he’d yet to meet her gaze. “It did not go as I expected.”

  Agnes had rarely seen him so tense. “Surely they chose you as the next king?”

  “They agreed to recognize my claim to the crown.” He paused and then raised his head, looking her in the face for the first time since entering the chamber. “But they would only do so if I end our marriage, for they will not accept you as queen.”

  Agnes stared at him in disbelief. “You . . . you are not serious?”

  Amalric had been seething since his confrontation with the High Court, and it was a relief now to have a target for that rage. “You think I would jest about this? The patriarch insisted our marriage is invalid because we are related within the forbidden fourth degree. He even raised your plight troth with d’Ibelin again. And the barons backed him up. I could tell the whoresons were enjoying it, too, getting to play kingmaker!”

  Agnes was desperately trying to make sense of this. “The Church often gives dispensations for consanguinity. Why could the papal legate not issue one for us?”

  “You think I did not point that out? The legate refused to consider it. He agreed with the patriarch that we’d been living in sin and I could not be crowned until I put you aside.”

  Agnes’s body was reacting as if she’d taken a physical blow, her breath quickening, her knees going weak. But her brain was still numbed, still struggling to comprehend. “Why?”

  Amalric shook his head impatiently. “They all acted as if their motives were as pure as newly fallen snow, that they cared only to make right this grievous wrong. But I know better. Our bishops were punishing me for defying the patriarch by marrying you. And the barons wanted to assert their authority over me, to show me that I owed my kingship to them.” He gave Agnes a look that was oddly accusatory, as if their predicament were somehow her fault. “Baudouin d’Ibelin was amongst the most vocal; clearly he still bears a grudge against me for claiming his brother’s bride. Christ Jesus, that was nigh on six years ago!”

  “And . . . and you agreed, Amalric?” She sounded so stunned that he flushed, his hands clenching into fists. She’d later realize that much of his anger was defensive, that he was ashamed of yielding to the High Court’s demands. Now she was aware only of her own anger, her own pain, and her searing sense of betrayal. “How could you? By denying the legality of our marriage, you made your own children bastards!”

  “No,” he said sharply, “I would never let that happen. I insisted upon a papal dispensation, recognizing their legitimacy even if the marriage itself is invalid.”

  “I see. You found the backbone to defend your son and daughter, but not your wife!”

  “I had no choice. They told me that if I did not agree to their terms, they would offer the crown to my cousin Raymond, the Count of Tripoli.”

  “You owed me better than this, Amalric!”

  He gave a shrug and then the brutal truth. “You are not worth a crown, Agnes.”

  She flinched and then said, very low, “God will punish you for this.”

  He shrugged again. “You can continue to call yourself the Countess of Jaffa.”

  “How generous,” she jeered. “Are you going to give me Jaffa as my dower?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That is not unreasonable,” she said, gritting her teeth to keep from shrieking. “Your brother’s widow was given Acre as her dower.”

  “She is a Greek princess.”

  His matter-of-fact tone was the ultimate insult. She felt so much hatred that she feared she might choke on it. “Will it not shame you, my lord king, to have your former wife begging for her bread by the side of the road?”

  He was stung by her sarcasm. “The children will remain with me, of course.”

  “No!”

  “Surely you’d have expected that. Sons are never left in their mothers’ care for long.”

  “They are until age seven. Baldwin is not yet two!” When he did not bother to argue, she realized there was no hope. “And Sybilla? You cannot take them both away from me!”

  “Do not play the bereft mother, Agnes. I am willing for you to see the children.”

  If you cooperate, if you do as you’re told. The threat was an unspoken one, for it did not need to be put into words. Agnes had begun to tremble. She sank down on the edge of the bed, her face blanched. She looked so devastated that Amalric found himself wanting to tell her that he was sorry, that this was not his fault. He said nothing, for if she knew he felt guilty, she’d use that knowledge to coax him into letting her have Sybilla. It was not a risk he was willing to take; he feared she’d pour poison into the little girl’s ear, turning her against him.

  “I have also asked the papal legate for a dispensation absolving you of any moral blame for entering into an invalid marriage,” he said at last, and Agnes raised her head to stare at him.

  “How magnanimous of you, Amalric! And what a short memory you have. Have you truly forgotten that you coerced my consent?”

  “That is nonsense! You were as eager as I for the match, for you saw that I could offer you much more than d’Ibelin.” No longer feeling pity for her plight, he started for the door.

  Seeing that he was about to walk out of their bedchamber, out of her life, Agnes panicked. “For the love of God, how can you abandon me like this? What am I supposed to do?”

  He halted, his hand on the door latch. “Hugh d’Ibelin did not marry after paying his ransom and regaining his freedom. Mayhap he’ll take you back.”

  Agnes would later be thankful she’d had no weapon close at hand, for she did not doubt she’d have used it. She wanted to claw him till he bled, to kick and bite and scratch, to curse him and the patriarch and the papal legate and the High Court and God, to make them all pay for doing this to her. But Amalric had not waited for her response and the door was already closing.

  Lurching to her feet, she reached for the table to steady herself. It was set for a private celebration of Amalric’s kingship. There were two goblets of the red glass for which Acre was famed, a flagon of his favorite wine, a plate laden with wa
fers, and a silver bowl of almonds and dried fruit. She cleared the table with a wild sweep of her arm. Her gaze fell then on his new tunic, hanging on a wall pole. Snatching up the fruit knife, she slashed at it until the garment hung in tatters. A book of his was the next to feel her wrath, flung into the smoldering hearth.

  She was panting by now. She still held the knife and she stumbled toward the bed she’d shared with Amalric. After shredding the coverlet, she turned to the pillows, stabbing so fiercely that she was inhaling a cloud of escaping feathers as she plunged the blade into the mattress.

  “My lady!”

  Agnes paused, knife upraised, to see two of her ladies in the doorway. They had yet to move, staring at her in horror. If they were so distraught over the wreckage of her bedchamber, how would they react to the wreckage of her life? At that, she began to laugh, laughter so shrill and brittle that, even to her own ears, it sounded like the laughter of a madwoman.

  CHAPTER 1

  April 1172

  Jerusalem, Outremer

  It was a great destiny to be a queen, but it was not an easy one. Maria Comnena had been only thirteen when she was wed to the King of Jerusalem, a man almost twenty years older than she, a man who spoke not a word of her Greek while she spoke not a word of his native French. Even religion had not been a bond between them, for he followed the Latin Church of Rome and she had been raised in the Greek Orthodox faith. And she soon discovered that her husband’s past was inextricably entwined with her present, for Amalric had two young children and a former wife, a woman very beautiful and very bitter.

  Her new kingdom was not a welcoming one. Known as Outremer, French for “the land beyond the sea,” it was a country cursed with pestilent fevers and the constant shadow of war. Nor were her husband’s subjects enthusiastic about the marriage; she’d soon discovered that the Franks scorned Greeks as untrustworthy and effeminate and were suspicious of this new alliance with the Greek empire. It was, in every respect, an alien world to her, and she’d been desperately homesick, missing her family and the familiar splendor of Constantinople, which made Jerusalem and Acre and Tyre seem like paltry villages. Looking back now, Maria was embarrassed to remember how often she’d cried herself to sleep in those first weeks of her marriage.

  But she was a Greek princess, great-niece to the Emperor Manuel Comnenus, and she was determined not to bring shame upon the Greek Royal House. She set about learning French. She spent hours memorizing the names of the bishops and barons of Outremer. She hid her shock at the sight of clean-shaven lords; beards were a cherished symbol of masculinity in her old life. She adopted the Frankish fashions, wearing her hair in two long braids and not always veiling her face when she ventured out in public, as highborn ladies of the Greek empire did.

  And she did her best to please her new husband. Her mother had warned her that Amalric would not be the easiest of men to live with. He was courageous, strong-willed, and intelligent, and men believed him to be a good king. He inspired respect, not affection, for there was a coldness about him that kept others at arm’s length. He was reserved and often aloof, a man of few words who was sensitive about his slight stammer. But Maria had not expected to find love in marriage, or even companionship, asking only that her husband show her the honor due her rank. She’d learned at an early age that theirs was a world in which men set the rules and women had to play by them—even queens.

  In her infrequent letters back home, she’d assured her parents that Amalric treated her well, and that was not a lie. While he was unfaithful, he did not flaunt his concubines at court. He’d not consummated their marriage until she was fourteen, and at first, she’d been worried that he found her unattractive, for Greek brides of twelve were deemed old enough to share their husbands’ beds. But it seemed that was not the custom among the Franks, who believed pregnancies to be dangerous for half-grown girls. When Amalric did claim his marital rights, Maria did not enjoy it and she sensed he did not enjoy it much, either, merely doing his duty to get her with child. He’d not reproached her, though, for failing to get pregnant straightaway and she’d been grateful for that. In public, he was unfailingly courteous, in private, preoccupied and distant. They never quarreled, rarely spoke at all. The truth was that even after more than four years of marriage, they were still two strangers who sometimes shared a bed.

  * * *

  Easter was the most sacred of holy days for both the Latin and the Greek Orthodox Churches. It was also a social occasion and Amalric’s lords and their ladies had already begun to arrive in Jerusalem, not wanting to miss the lavish festivities of the king’s Easter court. For Maria, these royal revelries were a mixed blessing. She enjoyed the feasting and entertainment, but not the inevitable appearances of Amalric’s onetime wife.

  She’d not expected that Agnes de Courtenay would continue to play a role in their lives. Fairly or not, scandal attached itself to a repudiated wife and she’d assumed that Agnes must have withdrawn to a nunnery as such women usually did. Instead, Agnes had promptly remarried, taking as her new husband Hugh d’Ibelin, who’d once been her betrothed, and as Hugh’s wife, she had to be made welcome at court, however little Amalric or Maria liked it. When Hugh died unexpectedly on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela three years ago, Maria had naïvely hoped that Agnes would retreat into the sequestered shadow world of widowhood. To the contrary, she’d soon found another highborn husband, the Lord of Sidon, and continued to haunt the royal court with her prickly presence, reminding one and all without saying a word of her checkered history with Maria’s husband.

  As always, there was a stir as Agnes entered the great hall, heads turning in her direction. She paused dramatically in the doorway—to make sure that she was the center of attention, Maria thought sourly. Amalric avoided Agnes whenever he could and he’d put in a perfunctory appearance earlier, then disappeared. In his absence, Maria knew she’d be the other woman’s quarry, and she was not surprised when Agnes began to move in her direction, as nonchalantly as a lioness stalking a herd of grazing deer. At first, she’d wondered why Agnes hated her so much, finally realizing it was because she had what Agnes so desperately wanted—not the gold band on her finger, but the jeweled crown that had been placed upon Maria’s head on the day of her coronation.

  She watched Agnes approach. Maria was not yet eighteen and Agnes must be nigh on twenty years older, her youth long gone, but Maria knew she would never be the beauty that Agnes once was. Agnes could make her feel awkward and inadequate merely by arching a delicately plucked brow. No matter how often Maria had reminded herself that she was the Queen of Jerusalem, she’d been acutely uncomfortable in the older woman’s presence, tensing whenever that cool sapphire-blue gaze took her measure, knowing she’d been judged and found wanting.

  But she was no longer intimidated by this worldly, elegant enemy. Turning to one of her attendants, she said, “Let me hold her,” and as soon as the baby was lifted from her cradle and placed in her arms, she felt it again—a surge of such happiness that it was as if God Himself were smiling over her shoulder, sharing her joy. When the midwife had declared that she’d birthed a girl, she’d felt a stab of guilt, fearing that she’d failed Amalric by not giving him a son. Yet once she held her daughter for the first time, all else was forgotten. She’d not known she was capable of a love so intense, so overwhelming; she spent hours watching the baby sleep, listening to her breathing, marveling at the softness of her skin, the silky feel of her hair. That past week, Isabella had smiled for the first time and Maria did not doubt that this was a memory she’d cherish till the end of her days. Why had no one told her that motherhood was so life changing?

  But it was only after Isabella’s birth that she fully comprehended how much Agnes de Courtenay had taken from her. When Amalric told her that his two children with Agnes would come before any child of hers in the line of succession, it had seemed a remote concern to a thirteen-year-old girl with more immediate worries of her own.
Now, though, as she looked down lovingly into the small, petal face upturned to hers, she felt a resentful rage that her beautiful daughter would never be a queen, cheated of her rightful destiny because Amalric had been foolish enough to wed that hateful, unworthy woman.

  Agnes’s curtsy was so grudgingly given that those watching smothered smiles and edged closer; interactions between the two women were morbidly entertaining to many. Their exchange of greetings was edged in ice, followed by silence as Maria waited for the customary congratulations due a new mother. When she saw it was not coming, she made an effort at courtesy, acutely aware of their audience. “Your lord husband is not with you?”

  “Oh, he is around somewhere,” Agnes said with a graceful wave of her hand. “I see your husband is missing, too. Mayhap we should send out lymer hounds to track them down.”

  Isabella began to squirm then, and Maria lowered her head to brush a kiss against that smooth little cheek. To some, it might have been a touching tableau of young motherhood; to Agnes, it was an intolerable reminder of all she’d lost—her crown and her children.

  “I’d heard that you gave birth to a daughter. I hope you and Amalric were not too disappointed?”

  Maria’s head came up sharply. “I am young. God willing, we will be blessed with many sons in the years to come.”

  Agnes’s smile faded. “May I see her?” she asked, poisonously polite, and before Maria could respond, she leaned over to study the child.

  “Oh, my,” she murmured, sounding surprised. “She does not look at all like Amalric, does she? Dark as a Saracen, she is.” Her smile came back then, for as soon as she saw Maria’s face, she knew she’d drawn blood. “But a sweet child, I am sure,” she added dismissively, and turned away, sure that she’d gotten the last word.