Jack Hight: Kingdom

Philip had stepped back into his room and was sitting on the bed as he pulled on fitted linen hose. ‘I was told by Lady Agnes that I would not have an audience with the King until tomorrow.’

‘She was mistaken.’

Philip pulled a tunic of blue velvet over his head and cinched it about his waist with a leather belt. He slipped his feet into pointed leather shoes and stood to smooth back his long hair. ‘Take me to him.’

Baldwin’s chambers were in the same wing as Philip’s, no more than fifty paces away, but John led them on a circuitous path that took them down into the kitchen and then up the servants’ stairs and into the king’s chambers though a back door. Baldwin sat waiting in his chair by the fire.

Philip bowed. ‘Cousin.’

Baldwin looked past him to John. ‘Were you seen?’

‘No, sire.’

Baldwin turned to Philip. ‘Sit.’ He gestured to the chair across from him.

Philip sat and crossed his legs casually, his elbow resting on the arm of the chair. ‘You wished to speak with me of your sister, Sibylla?’

‘Unfortunately, I cannot offer her to you.’

Philip’s relaxed posture vanished. He gripped the arms of the chair. ‘But your man said-’

‘I know what John said. He asked you here to speak of Sibylla, and we are speaking of her. Her husband died less than two months ago. It is too soon for her to marry again.’

‘Then we have nothing to discuss.’ Philip started to rise, but John put a hand on his shoulder and forced him back down.

Baldwin leaned forward. ‘On the contrary, we have a great deal to discuss. You have come to the Kingdom to go on crusade. I am asking you not to.’

‘But that is preposterous! I have brought hundreds of men at great cost.’

‘And you could not have come at a worse time. The Kingdom is in no position to go to war. Our peace with the Saracens is all that protects us.’

‘That is not what Reynald de Chatillon says.’

‘Reynald is a fool.’

Philip’s eyes narrowed. ‘He is your regent.’

‘Yes, and now we have reached the crux of the matter. John, bring our guest some wine.’

John went to a table by the window and returned with two cups that had already been poured. Philip took a sip, nodded in satisfaction, and took a long drink. Baldwin examined his cup before setting it aside. ‘I wish to offer you the regency, Philip.’

‘What?’ Philip blinked in surprise.

‘You would serve as co-ruler until I die. Afterwards, you will rule alone until my heir comes of age.’

‘But what of my lands in Flanders?’

‘I am offering you a kingdom, Philip. If you accept, you will be given Jaffa and Ascalon. That will solidify your standing here in the Holy Land.’

Philip sat speechless, staring at his cup of wine. Finally he looked up. ‘And the barons of the Kingdom will accept this?’

‘They can hardly refuse. You are a powerful lord and my closest male relative. And I am their king. If I tell them to support you, they will do so.’

‘And in return?’

‘You will abandon your crusade.’ Philip opened his mouth to protest, and Baldwin raised a hand to silence him. ‘You may fight, only not now. Wait until the advantage lies with us.’

Philip took another drink of wine. He shook his head. ‘Why offer me the regency? You have only just met me.’

‘I have told you my reasons.’

‘Surely the Saracens are not so great a threat as you suggest. Reynald tells me the Kingdom still has thousands of sergeants and hundreds of knights. Jerusalem itself was conquered with fewer men.’

‘The Saracens were not united then as they are now.’

‘And if I refuse?’

‘Then you must leave Jerusalem. You will not use my lands to launch your attack.’

‘I could still attack from Tripoli or Antioch.’

‘You could.’

Philip ran a hand through his hair as he considered the situation. ‘I swore an oath, Baldwin. I have come to fight, and many of your men have already pledged their support. The Templars and Hospitallers are with me. Reynald has offered a hundred knights. I do not need your permission to go to war.’

‘No, you do not. But I urge you to do as I ask. You are new to these lands, Philip. I have lived here all my life. I know what the costs of an attack on the Saracens would be.’

Philip moved to take another sip of wine, realized his cup was empty, and set it aside. ‘When must I decide?’

‘Now.’

‘Then my answer is no.’

‘I beg you to reconsider.’ Baldwin leaned forward and grasped Philip’s wrist.

The count looked down at Baldwin’s sore-covered hand and flinched. He pulled his hand away. ‘My home is in Flanders, not here. I have come to fight for God. Afterwards I will return home.’ He rose.

The calm that Baldwin had maintained now broke. ‘But you are dooming the Kingdom!’

‘No, Cousin, I am saving it. You said yourself that the Kingdom is weak and the Saracens strong. You need me to redress the balance. I will march north and I will not stop until I have taken Aleppo.’

Baldwin studied his cousin for a moment; then his shoulders slumped and he looked away to the fire. ‘You will leave Jerusalem before week’s end,’ he told Philip. ‘John, take him away.’

OCTOBER 1177: CAIRO

Yusuf’s forehead creased as he stared at the scrap of paper in his hand. He squinted as he re-examined the minuscule script used in the pigeon post. He shook his head in disbelief. He had read it correctly.

‘The peace has been broken, Brother,’ Selim said. ‘An army from the Kingdom has laid siege to Hama.’

Yusuf set the paper aside and looked to the men standing before him in the audience chamber. They were his most trusted councillors: Selim, Imad ad-Din, al-Fadil, Ubadah and Qaraqush. ‘Has Baldwin taken leave of his senses?’ Yusuf asked of no one in particular. ‘He must know he cannot win.’

‘It is not Baldwin who leads the attack,’ Imad ad-Din responded, ‘but a crusader from the West; Philip, the Count of Flanders, wherever that may be.’

‘I do not give two straws where he is from,’ Yusuf snapped. ‘We had a treaty with Jerusalem.’

‘The treaty does allow for a suspension of the peace in the event of a crusade,’ Imad ad-Din pointed out.

Ubadah stepped forward. ‘It does matter who or why, Uncle. This is our chance! This Philip has taken most of the knights of the Kingdom with him to the north.’

Selim nodded. ‘Jerusalem is practically undefended. Allah has given us a clear path to the Holy Sanctuary. You will be the conqueror of Jerusalem, the saviour of our people!’

Yusuf rose and went to the window. He could see the white walls of the new citadel rising on the hills south of the city. The citadel was to be the new seat of his government, the heart of a flourishing kingdom. It was only one of many projects he had begun. He had dug new wells in Cairo and begun a bridge across the Nile at Giza. Further north, his men were at work on dams in the Nile delta. The port of Alexandria was being dredged. He had built new madrasas for learning in cities across Syria and expanded the courts to ensure swift justice. And he had posted men to secure the caravan routes from bandits so that trade could flourish. Peace had been good to his people, much better than the years of victories bought with blood and taxes. War would threaten all of it.

Yet what choice did he have? The Franks had attacked, and it was his duty as king to defend his lands. ‘The damned fools,’ he muttered. If they wanted war, then he would bring it to them. When he was done, the Franks would never spurn peace again. His decision made, Yusuf straightened and spoke with authority. ‘Qaraqush, gather the army, and send to my brother in Damascus for more men. We will set out at once for the Kingdom and meet Turan’s men at Ascalon. Allah willing, Jerusalem will be ours before the new year. If the Franks do not then beg for peace, I shall drive them into the sea.’