A Game of Chess
Disclaimer:I do not own anything from the film. Not even the French lullaby.
Chapter 8: A Proof of Love
Yusuf stayed with the odd company for two days before deciding that he would be better placed in Jerusalem, now that Balian was mostly out of danger. John would manage well enough, especially since he had Imad and Almaric to help him with his not-so-patient patient. The man in question was already insisting he was fine —although he was far from hale— and that they should continue on to Tripoli, since it was dangerous to be so close to Jerusalem when everyone was hunting for them.
"Balian, calm down," said Imad. "Have I ever told you about the lamp's shadow?"
"The lamp's shadow?" said Balian. "What has that got to do with anything?"
Imad smiled. "Well, one night, a man was lighting a lamp. The light reached every corner of his room, save for one little patch, and that was directly under the lamp."
"And?"
"The point is, Balian, the closer we are to danger, the further we are from harm. Guy will not believe that you are hiding so close to Jerusalem and he will not think to search here."
Balian sighed and eased himself back onto the straw-stuffed mattress. "Are you sure?" he said.
"I have to be," said Imad. 'If not,' he thought 'you won't give up pestering us until we give in, and you are definitely not ready to travel, despite everything that you say, my rash young Frankish friend.'
"You know what, Imad?" said Balian. "You're not making much sense to me."
"I shouldn't be making much sense," said Imad. "Now you get some rest. Once John says you're better, we can go to Tripoli."
"You sound like a mother," grumbled Balian.
"If you weren't so badly hurt, my brash Frankish friend, you would've had to pay dearly for that comment."
Everyone in Jerusalem was nervous. The tense atmosphere of the struggles of the Crusader court weighed down on the city. What was to become of them? Dissension within the state made it weak. The Latin Kingdom was crumbling from within, as it had been doing for years. How could a little boy of seven and his young mother hold it together? Sibylla, after all, was a woman, and did not have the same level of intellect as a man.
And there were rumours that the young king was a leper, just like his uncle. If the king died, the kingdom would fall into utter chaos. They all knew how the court was split into two factions —the Doves and the Hawks. Raymond of Tiberias was no friend of Guy de Lusignan's. If the king did die, they would begin fighting for power. No one wanted a civil war.
Yusuf absorbed the information and sent it back in code to Damascus. Imad might not be there, but there were others who could pass this onto the Sultan. All the while, he worked as a physician. It was a good job to be doing if one was a spy. Patients tended to talk.
Sibylla paced in her rooms, wringing her hands. Was it leprosy? Surely it couldn't be. Her little boy was healthy, and God could not possibly be so cruel to her. What had she done? All right, she had committed adultery and then signed the death warrant of a man whom God most certainly loved. There was only one way to find out. "Youmna," she called. "Fetch me the best Saracen physician in Jerusalem."
To say Yusuf was surprised when the princess's maid summoned him to see to the young king was an understatement. "I'll be ready shortly," he told the maid. As he packed his things, he wondered what the princess would ask of him. He already had some idea, for he had heard the rumours about the young king. He called for his assistant, an amateur puppeteer by the name of Abdullah, who had no idea who exactly he was working for.
The maid led Yusuf and Abdullah through the maze of corridors which formed the palace. Yusuf memorized every turn. One never knew when a little extra information could be useful. The patterns and reliefs on the walls were intricate, and the spy could see eastern styles being incorporated with western art. 'If only people could mingle with one another like that and create a harmonious result,' he thought. The corridors were dark, lit by smoky torches. It was so silent, and the servants moved as if they were ghosts and spectres.
"In here," said the maid, indicating a door with painted patterns. She knocked on the door, and it was opened from the inside. Yusuf bowed to the woman whom he presumed to be the princess. She nodded at him.
"Close the door, Youmna, and make sure no one comes in," she said.
Sibylla waved the physician over to the bed where little Baldwin lay, with curiosity in his eyes. "What are they doing here, Mama?" he asked.
"Shh, darling," said Sibylla, fighting to keep her voice from trembling. "They are going to play a little game with us."
Abdullah got out his little hand puppet with a wooden head. The little king immediately grinned and paid no more attention to Yusuf.
Yusuf picked up the child's foot and took out a needle. Slowly, he pressed the tip into the child's flesh. Blood oozed down. The child did not even flinch. He tried it again. Still no reaction. The princess' worst fear had come true. He looked at Sibylla and nodded once, slowly.
She felt light-headed, even though despair weighted her heart down. She would've fallen if she hadn't been standing so close to the wall. No. Why? Why her boy? She'd given up so much for her son. She'd even sacrificed her knight so that her son might have a long and peaceful reign. And now, all those sacrifices had been rendered futile.
Baldwin, happily unaware of what was wrong with him, laughed at Abdullah's puppet.
The journey to Tripoli was decidedly uneventful after everything that had happened over the past few months. Balian deemed himself capable of riding, despite the splinted fingers, but John was not persuaded so the wounded man found himself sitting in a wagon and sulking. In fact, he was very worried about Sibylla. He knew she blamed herself for his demise. And now she was alone in the den of wolves.
Tripoli was yet another destination for pilgrims. Humphrey de Toron welcomed them personally. He was not a large man, as Godfrey had been, and he seemed more like a well-fed peasant than a lord, but for someone who could keep a city like this under control, Balian felt that under his facade lay a shrewd political mind.
"Balian of Ibelin!" he said with a raucous laugh. "Such a young man, and yet you have made such an impact on this kingdom. I don't know whether your father would be proud or horrified."
"Knowing Godfrey, probably both," said John. "Humphrey, it's good to see you, old friend."
"I have Raymond's house prepared," said Humphrey. He ran a hand through his thinning dark blonde hair. "That old fox hasn't even lived in it."
"Well, he has been rather busy during these past few years," said John. "Being the Marshal isn't easy, especially with men like Guy on the prowl."
Tiberias' house was situated close to the Cathedral. It was a nondescript little villa, much like Balian's own. There was a little marble fountain in the courtyard. The stone was yellow, and smooth. He recognized the artwork as being that of the Saracens. The water spewing out of its top made a musical noise; one which was seldom heard in the Holy Land, where it was usually dry. The sound brought back the memories of digging wells in Ibelin and setting out an irrigation system. He'd been so happy then. How far he'd fallen since that time, when he'd been in his element. There was some regret. What had he achieved? What was his purpose in the Holy Land? Surely God had not sent him here to hide? Death would've been better.
Sibylla watched her son play with his pewter soldiers and knight. The sky was growing dark with gathering storm clouds. "What battle are you fighting?" she asked the child.
"The one that you told me about," replied the boy "at Ke...Ke..."
"Kerak?"
"Uh huh. Kerak." He picked up the pewter knight. "He's just like Lord Balian. He's a true knight."
"You know of Lord Balian?" said Sibylla, and then she remembered. Balian had told her that he'd met Baldwin.
Baldwin nodded. "He kicked over the knight, and broke it, but then he fixed it." He looked at his mother with serious eyes. "I like him, Mama."
He was so innocent and so solemn that love for her little boy overwhelmed Sibylla. She took the child into her arms and kissed him on both cheeks. "I like him too," she confessed. "I like him a lot."
"Do you love him?" asked Baldwin. Sibylla held him closer.
"Yes," she whispered. "I do."
"Are you going to marry him?" From Baldwin's knowledge, if a woman loved a man, she usually married him. He wouldn't mind having Lord Balian as a father. And then he could have baby brothers and sisters. The boy wondered where babies came from.
"I can't," said Sibylla.
"Why not?" asked Baldwin.
"You ask too many questions, little one," replied his mother, kissing the top of his head. He snuggled up to her.
"Tell me a story," he demanded.
"Do you remember the story of Louan?" asked Sibylla.
Baldwin shook his head. "No," he said. "Was Louan a knight?" He was fascinated by knights at the moment. Uncle Guy and Lord Reynald were supposedly knights, but he felt that they weren't what knights were supposed to be.
"Well," began Sibylla. "Louan was a knight, and he served a great lord in France. He had a wife, and a baby boy, and he was the most famous and handsome knight in all the land."
"Did he fight the Saracens?" asked Baldwin.
"There aren't any Saracens in France, darling," said Sibylla, stroking his hair. Baldwin liked it when she did that. He liked listening to the sound of her voice resonating in her chest, and the feel of her arms around him. She made him feel safe. "But, there were dragons, and they terrorized the villagers. Louan was a great knight because he rode from village to village, slaying dragons whenever they appeared. Everyone said he was blessed by God, because he was like an angel."
"Like Gabriel and Uriel and Raphael and Michael?"
"Yes, just like them, except Louan was a man, not really an angel."
"What happened?"
"While he was away, the plague came upon the castle where he lived with his wife and son. The baby died first, and then his wife. The lord, jealous of Louan's fame, buried them in unnamed graves out of spite, far from hallowed grounds. When Louan returned, he found his wife and child gone. You see, he loved them very much and when he discovered what had happened to them, he almost went mad. Weeping, he rushed outside. It was raining. Even the heavens were weeping. The rain mingled with his tears. He dropped onto his knees. 'Why?' he cried. 'Why me? What have I ever done wrong?' No one answered him. It was then that he decided that God didn't exist."
"That's horrible," whispered Baldwin. "Why didn't Jesus come down and tell him that he was wrong?"
"God doesn't do that," said Sibylla. "If God had to prove himself to everyone, then faith wouldn't exist."
'God,' she thought. 'If you do exist, heal my son. He is innocent. If you must punish me, then do whatever you will with me.'
Baldwin looked up. Why had his mother stopped talking? "Go on," he said.
"The people started shunning him, and said that he was cursed. They said it so much that he locked himself inside his house and did not come out at all. One day, Louan disappeared. He'd gone east, to the mysterious lands beyond Rome."
"Did he come here to fight the Saracens?"
"No, he went further, to where the pagan gods of old still existed. He found himself on the highest mountain in the world. There was no one there. It was as close to Heaven as he could get. It was totally silent. He sat there, and wept, and he was so lonely, that he called upon all the gods."
"Why?"
"Because he was desperate for a proof of love. He wanted to know if there was someone who loved him still, and didn't think he was cursed."
She told him how Louan found love again, and regained his faith, making up details as she went along. Into this story she incorporated Balian's own story and hers, and all her dreams—the ones which would never come true. "And so, Louan married the princess and became the king. They ruled the kingdom together and had many sons and daughters, and they all lived happily ever after."
"That's good," said Baldwin. "I would hate it if Louan was sad forever." He yawned.
"You are sleepy, darling," said Sibylla. "Do you want to have a nap?"
Baldwin nodded. Sibylla held him as she settled down onto the couch. He leaned against her. His breathing became deep and even. "Dites-moi, ma mere, ma mere, ce que j'entends, cogner ici," she sang softly. "Ma fille, c'est le charpentier, qui raccommode..." (1)
Still singing, she removed the stopper from a bottle of ivory, and tipped some milky liquid into her son's ear. 'Forgive me, darling,' she thought. 'I can't let you suffer the way your uncle did. I had to do this, as a proof of love.'
She continued to sing. "...ma fille, c'est la procession, qui fait..." Her voice faded away as Baldwin's breathing became fainter and fainter, then stopped altogether. She continued to mouth the words, pretending to herself that her son was still asleep, and healthy. But she knew.
In the courtyard, the knight stood alone on the hard ground, just as she did in the political arena. Rain pelted down on the little pewter figure. The heavens had started to weep too.
Imad had had to return to Damascus. There was work that needed to be done. He hadn't told Balian, but the Sultan was planning to retake Jerusalem, now that the Latin Kingdom no longer had a strong leader. As spymaster and the Sultan's adviser, he had a big part to play.
He'd just gotten back to Damascus when he learnt that the boy-king of Jerusalem was dead. A report from Yusuf lay on his desk, telling him that the boy had been leprous. 'Still, that was too quick,' he thought. It had taken Baldwin IV years to die of leprosy.
The Sultan was asking him about the situation in Jerusalem when a messenger rushed in, covered in dust and blood and soot. "Sai'idi!" he cried. "Your sister's caravan has been raided, by Reynald de Chatîllon!"
Both Salah-al-Din and Imad stood abruptly. 'I will have your head on a stake, Reynald de Chatîllon,' he promised. "Send out emissaries," he said. "It is time to put some pressure on our Christian neighbours, who have not acted like Christians or neighbours."
A/N: The next chapter will be the last chapter, I think.
(1) 'Tell me, my mother, my mother, what is it that I hear, knocking here? My girl, it's the carpenter, who's fixing...'
