Chapter 1
January 1212
Jean’s silks itched. This eastern finery did not suit him. He was made to be a soldier, a knight, put on this earth to do the duty of his liege and his god. He could administer a land well enough, and had looked out for his interests at the County of Champaign’s Court. But the games of these snakes were beyond him. And yet here he was, a king. He needed to act the part, or Ibelin would gladly take everything from him.
At the other end sat the Chancellor Jean of Ibelin, the Count of Beirut, who had inherited all the Greek decadence of his mother and none of his father’s valor.
On the left side of the table sat the marshal Baron Yves of Monsinguard, a native of the County of Jaffa-Askelon, and one of the few native nobles Jean felt he could trust.
And Guerin, the Royal Advisor and Grandmaster of the Knights Hospitaller, who seemed ready to pop a blood vessel. The two Holy Orders were the crown's most powerful vassals by far. And the most used to getting their way.
Ibelin spoke first. “I believe we should begin with the matter of our oaths to little Queen Isabella. We would have taken them earlier, but alas she was indisposed. I know from the experience of my own beloved brood that small children are prone to wander. Though I confess, none of them ever went as far as Jaffa.”
“Your girl is quite the persuasive one. Convincing the two Princesses to follow her on her little adventure.” The Count of Sidon smiled with a grin like of a knife’s edge.
“Let’s be blunt here. Your man Montfaucon stole away with your newborn daughter and abducted the princesses, stealing them away in the dead of a night before Queen Maria’s body had even gone cold.” Guillaume said, cutting to the heart of the matter.
At this, the Hospitler grandmaster leaped from his chair. “You Ser were given the sacred trust of his holiness Pope Innocent and you violated it. The Kingdom of Jerusalem has rarely proved worthy of the services of my order but this is an outrage we can sacare believe.”
“Where is your uncle now?”, Ibelin asked.
“Yes where is the man, I would have justice done”, said grandmaster Guerin.
Jean had to swallow his pride to keep himself from spitting on their so-called “justice.” His uncle was a good man who had long suffered the idiocy of these lords of Outaremier.
“Your lordships, my uncle is dead. He passed not long after I returned from Egypt, from where it had proved difficult to keep abreast of developments.” Jean stood the council down with the gaze of a man aiming a tourney lance.
“A venture that I warned you would fail”, Ibelin announced arrogantly to the council.
“Well not all of us can be blessed with your...prudence, my count of Beirut.” He let the implication hang in the air. Better to be a fool than a craven. Any true knight would agree.
“Regardless, the Egyptian raid cost the crown most of its finances. My order certainly won’t be providing any more coin. And I assume the Templars will follow suit.”
The Templar grandmaster turned to his colleague. “I wouldn’t go that far. Good, ser. I will continue to enforce the collection of taxes in the crownlands. Although given the regent’s spending habits I don’t think it will be wise to lend the crown any more money from our treasuries.”
“Is it the crown your orders have a problem with my good Knights or merely the regent?” What is Iblin playing at? Jean knew of course, but he had no idea how to counter it.
“I hardly see the difference”, said the young Templar.
“Oh but there is a great difference. Isabelle is by the grace of god her mother’s rightful heir. However Jean of Brienne is a mere regent, a servant of the High Court. If we feel he is not fulfilling his duties to us or to little Isabelle, there is nothing to say he cannot be replaced.”
Jean was not a wrathful man but this was too much to stomach. He leapt to his feet. “Lord Iblin. If you were a man I would cut you down for that. Luckily for you the Knights of Champagne are ill disposed to dishonor their blades with Craven’s blood. And we have enough honor to warn a man when he is about to ride off a cliff. You sir are edging perilously close to treason. Let me remind you I was crowned King in Tyre the same day as Maria.” How splendid she had looked with the sunlight reflected off her crown. Then Al Afdal, the son of the Sultan of Egypt had led his riders to ravage the countryside outside of Tyre and Jean had ridden forth to defend his new Kingdom. It had been a glorious day. And then it had been all downhill.
“Your claim to the throne died when my poor niece took her last breath. You ruled by the right of your wife, and now that right is gone.” Iblin snapped.
“Lord Iblin, you go too far. Surely the girl’s father will have her best interests in mind?”, said Constable Yves.
“I can only assume you mean to nominate yourself for regent. My order would not back you in such circumstances, nor, I suspect, would our brothers of the Hospital. Talk all you want about your High Court, but the reality is that our orders are the power in this Kingdom”, said the Templar commander gesturing to his counterpart.
“The regent may be a proud fool, but he is a proud fool with the backing of his holiness Pope Innocent. It would be against god and right for our orders to go against his will. Word should be sent to Rome. Only when Pope Innocent gives his input will we know what to do.” Jean did not like being called a fool, even by a man of god like the Grandmaster of the Hospitlers. He was about to give him a piece of his mind when the Chancoler spoke up.
“I would like to remind you sirs that we are a sovereign Kingdom one in which the written law and custom of the nobility determines policy not the bullying of a gang of up jumped monks.”
Gurien leapt to his feet and pounded the table with his fist. This time Iblin shrank away, tumbling from his chair.
“A gang of up jumped monks are we? Well then if this pathetic sin drenched rag wants to govern its own affairs without our interference than so be it. What would you be without us? A smattering of scattered cities clinging to the coast like a to her mother’s skirts? I wonder how your Saracen friends would react to knowing the Kingdom’s best warriors and chief financiers have left it to rot?”
Jean was not the best statesmen, but he could tell when a room was getting violent. It would do them no good to hack each other to pieces in this room while the Saracen realms gathered outside, even if it was tempting. “My Lords, it does us no good to quarrel like this. Mayhaps we should adjourn this meeting and convene again when calmer heads have prevailed.” Jean hoped he had conveyed the point that however much he claimed magnanimity, they were his lords.
There was a pregnant pause, interrupted by a cough from the spymaster. “Your Grace may wish to adjourn this council meeting and that is all very well and good but first I feel I must convey to you some disturbing developments.”
“I think I know what this is, my own sources informed me.” The Chancellor's family was known to have many heathen contacts, the man whose father negotiated with Saladin could be a valuable friend to enterprising Latin merchants when it came to obtaining trade rights in the Sultanate of Egypt, or vis versa.
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“Well did your sources also inform you that intrigue is the spymaster’s prerogative?” The Count of Sidon shot back at his counterpart.
“And do reports of yet more heathens trying to kill us concern you, my lord?” Jean asked.
Iblin smiled, probably at his own wits.
“The world contains many varieties of plants and animals, and it contains all sorts of heathens. And like the beasts of the world, they don’t necessarily get along.”
This was one of those days where Jean wondered if King Phillipe hadn’t sent him off to marry the Queen of Jerusalem as some sort of bad joke, he King had never cared much for the Holy Land. When Alphonse had suggested such a thing he’d told him to mind his place. The House of Brienne were amongst the most illustrious families in Champaign. His mother, God rest her soul was the daughter of the Count of Montbeliard. His father had loyally served Count Henri of Champaign and died for him on the Third Crusade. His brother had wed a Princess of Sicily. When he had died fighting on her behalf she and his child had remained in Sicily. It was Jean who had ruled the barony. He was capable, and his blood was more than worthy of being a king. Who was Alphonse, the son of a mere blacksmith to tell him otherwise?
He took his supper in his chambers, with only Alphonse and Savary. Of the 300 or so knights who had accompanied him to the holy land only these two reminend. He knew that his lords would use the fact that he declined to dine with them in favor of two lowborns against him, but he was beyond caring. Jean needed time to decompress. And plan.
“It went well I take it?” Savary said with his typical sarcasm.
Jean smiled. “Well they didn’t stab me to death as soon as I stepped through the door.”
“That’s better than I was expecting.”, said Alphonse.
“Ibelin did move against me, though the others checked him. Not out of any love of me mind you. As it stands I am protected only by the paper shield of Papal authority.”
Alphonse put his hand to his beard. “I’m normally one for caution but I think we can trust Ibelin. I hunted with him shortly after we disembarked in Acre. He’s an odd man but I believe underneath he has a true and loyal heart. The others I am not so sure about.”
“I still think we should have killed them all at the wedding feast”, Savary said as he held his dinner knife in a display Jean supposed was intended to be menacing.
Jean chuckled. “I was tempted. But no it wouldn’t have worked, and besides it would have been dishonorable.”
“If you're so worried about your honor why you needn’t have even gotten your sword dirty. Just wait until the band stopped and then bring the Genoese crossbowmen above the benches and then tell them to let loose.” Savary arranged his hands in a parody of a crossbow and made shooting sounds to bring the point home. .
Jean laughed and even Alphonse, who was not always fond of the cruel knights antics ,cracked a smile. “A magnificent performance, good sir. Mayhpas you will reprise it if things do not go our way.”
Savary bowed. “ It would be our honor, my Lord of Jerusalem.”
Alphonse and Savary were both the parts of war they didn’t sing songs about. But they had been with him in one way or another ever since Jean had run away from the church career his father had planned for him.
Alphonse was the rough and ready sergeant, always on hand with a stern word to jolt the rabble into action. The tactical mind behind an ambush. A man who if told to hold, would hold with every ounce of strength until he was told otherwise by his commander.
Savary was what all true knights feared becoming. He could go forth with fire and sword and lead a company to raise a whole barony before nightfall, sparing not even the churches. When you looked him in the eye, you saw a man damned to hell, and more importantly, a man who did not care that he was damned to hell.
It made people uncomfortable, women especially, not that Jean could blame them. One of the few demands Maria had made of him in their short marriage was that Savary was not to be allowed anywhere near her or her sisters and their ladies. Jean had consented, and Savary had complied, though he had asked if Jean wanted him to sleep in the stables like a loyal dog.
He thought of the kiss she had given him. The warm smile she always greeted him with. The beat of her heart. Why did all these things matter so much to him? Queen Maria of Monferat had died doing her duty after they had been man and wife for hardly a year, and had spent even less time together.
“We all mourn for the Queen '', said Alphonse, it was no use trying to hide his melancholy from his men, they knew him too well.
“Aye, it seems a crime to pluck a rose so sweet in her prime. And for only a girl at that. We are both with you, as we always have been, through thick and thin.”
If only it had been a son. The physicians had been sure of it, though Maria as was her custom gave no opinion save her obvious joy at being with child. Maria would have been a wonderful mother. The way she had been with her younger sisters, and his Uncle Garuntheir’s children, it reminded him of his own mother. She was dead too, and like with Maria, Jean hadn’t been there with her in her final moments.
“There's no use to any of us questioning the will of god. I am now a widower and my daughter Isabelle is by the grace of god Queen of Jerusalem and I am her regent. I just need to figure out how to make them all fall into line.”
January 1212
Jean’s silks itched. This eastern finery did not suit him. He was made to be a soldier, a knight, put on this earth to do the duty of his liege and his god. He could administer a land well enough, and had looked out for his interests at the County of Champaign’s Court. But the games of these snakes were beyond him. And yet here he was, a king. He needed to act the part, or Ibelin would gladly take everything from him.
Jean was at the head of the council table.
At the other end sat the Chancellor Jean of Ibelin, the Count of Beirut, who had inherited all the Greek decadence of his mother and none of his father’s valor.
On the left side of the table sat the marshal Baron Yves of Monsinguard, a native of the County of Jaffa-Askelon, and one of the few native nobles Jean felt he could trust.
He was much less certain about the man who sat next to the Baron. Spymaster Balian Greneir, The Count of Sidon. A cruel man, but an effective soldier and a skilled spymaster. He could be Jean’s salvation or his undoing.
But the real powers were seated on the other side of the table. Seneschal Guillaume, the absurdly young grandmaster of the Knights Templar
And Guerin, the Royal Advisor and Grandmaster of the Knights Hospitaller, who seemed ready to pop a blood vessel. The two Holy Orders were the crown's most powerful vassals by far. And the most used to getting their way.
The meeting began with a prayer from the Bishop of Radwan.
Ibelin spoke first. “I believe we should begin with the matter of our oaths to little Queen Isabella. We would have taken them earlier, but alas she was indisposed. I know from the experience of my own beloved brood that small children are prone to wander. Though I confess, none of them ever went as far as Jaffa.”
“Your girl is quite the persuasive one. Convincing the two Princesses to follow her on her little adventure.” The Count of Sidon smiled with a grin like of a knife’s edge.
“Let’s be blunt here. Your man Montfaucon stole away with your newborn daughter and abducted the princesses, stealing them away in the dead of a night before Queen Maria’s body had even gone cold.” Guillaume said, cutting to the heart of the matter.
At this, the Hospitler grandmaster leaped from his chair. “You Ser were given the sacred trust of his holiness Pope Innocent and you violated it. The Kingdom of Jerusalem has rarely proved worthy of the services of my order but this is an outrage we can sacare believe.”
“Where is your uncle now?”, Ibelin asked.
“Yes where is the man, I would have justice done”, said grandmaster Guerin.
Jean had to swallow his pride to keep himself from spitting on their so-called “justice.” His uncle was a good man who had long suffered the idiocy of these lords of Outaremier.
“Your lordships, my uncle is dead. He passed not long after I returned from Egypt, from where it had proved difficult to keep abreast of developments.” Jean stood the council down with the gaze of a man aiming a tourney lance.
“A venture that I warned you would fail”, Ibelin announced arrogantly to the council.
“Well not all of us can be blessed with your...prudence, my count of Beirut.” He let the implication hang in the air. Better to be a fool than a craven. Any true knight would agree.
“Regardless, the Egyptian raid cost the crown most of its finances. My order certainly won’t be providing any more coin. And I assume the Templars will follow suit.”
The Templar grandmaster turned to his colleague. “I wouldn’t go that far. Good, ser. I will continue to enforce the collection of taxes in the crownlands. Although given the regent’s spending habits I don’t think it will be wise to lend the crown any more money from our treasuries.”
“Is it the crown your orders have a problem with my good Knights or merely the regent?” What is Iblin playing at? Jean knew of course, but he had no idea how to counter it.
“I hardly see the difference”, said the young Templar.
“Oh but there is a great difference. Isabelle is by the grace of god her mother’s rightful heir. However Jean of Brienne is a mere regent, a servant of the High Court. If we feel he is not fulfilling his duties to us or to little Isabelle, there is nothing to say he cannot be replaced.”
Jean was not a wrathful man but this was too much to stomach. He leapt to his feet. “Lord Iblin. If you were a man I would cut you down for that. Luckily for you the Knights of Champagne are ill disposed to dishonor their blades with Craven’s blood. And we have enough honor to warn a man when he is about to ride off a cliff. You sir are edging perilously close to treason. Let me remind you I was crowned King in Tyre the same day as Maria.” How splendid she had looked with the sunlight reflected off her crown. Then Al Afdal, the son of the Sultan of Egypt had led his riders to ravage the countryside outside of Tyre and Jean had ridden forth to defend his new Kingdom. It had been a glorious day. And then it had been all downhill.
“Your claim to the throne died when my poor niece took her last breath. You ruled by the right of your wife, and now that right is gone.” Iblin snapped.
“Lord Iblin, you go too far. Surely the girl’s father will have her best interests in mind?”, said Constable Yves.
“I can only assume you mean to nominate yourself for regent. My order would not back you in such circumstances, nor, I suspect, would our brothers of the Hospital. Talk all you want about your High Court, but the reality is that our orders are the power in this Kingdom”, said the Templar commander gesturing to his counterpart.
“The regent may be a proud fool, but he is a proud fool with the backing of his holiness Pope Innocent. It would be against god and right for our orders to go against his will. Word should be sent to Rome. Only when Pope Innocent gives his input will we know what to do.” Jean did not like being called a fool, even by a man of god like the Grandmaster of the Hospitlers. He was about to give him a piece of his mind when the Chancoler spoke up.
“I would like to remind you sirs that we are a sovereign Kingdom one in which the written law and custom of the nobility determines policy not the bullying of a gang of up jumped monks.”
Gurien leapt to his feet and pounded the table with his fist. This time Iblin shrank away, tumbling from his chair.
“A gang of up jumped monks are we? Well then if this pathetic sin drenched rag wants to govern its own affairs without our interference than so be it. What would you be without us? A smattering of scattered cities clinging to the coast like a to her mother’s skirts? I wonder how your Saracen friends would react to knowing the Kingdom’s best warriors and chief financiers have left it to rot?”
Jean was not the best statesmen, but he could tell when a room was getting violent. It would do them no good to hack each other to pieces in this room while the Saracen realms gathered outside, even if it was tempting. “My Lords, it does us no good to quarrel like this. Mayhaps we should adjourn this meeting and convene again when calmer heads have prevailed.” Jean hoped he had conveyed the point that however much he claimed magnanimity, they were his lords.
There was a pregnant pause, interrupted by a cough from the spymaster. “Your Grace may wish to adjourn this council meeting and that is all very well and good but first I feel I must convey to you some disturbing developments.”
“I think I know what this is, my own sources informed me.” The Chancellor's family was known to have many heathen contacts, the man whose father negotiated with Saladin could be a valuable friend to enterprising Latin merchants when it came to obtaining trade rights in the Sultanate of Egypt, or vis versa.
“Well did your sources also inform you that intrigue is the spymaster’s prerogative?” The Count of Sidon shot back at his counterpart.
“And do reports of yet more heathens trying to kill us concern you, my lord?” Jean asked.
Iblin smiled, probably at his own wits.
“The world contains many varieties of plants and animals, and it contains all sorts of heathens. And like the beasts of the world, they don’t necessarily get along.”
This was one of those days where Jean wondered if King Phillipe hadn’t sent him off to marry the Queen of Jerusalem as some sort of bad joke, he King had never cared much for the Holy Land. When Alphonse had suggested such a thing he’d told him to mind his place. The House of Brienne were amongst the most illustrious families in Champaign. His mother, God rest her soul was the daughter of the Count of Montbeliard. His father had loyally served Count Henri of Champaign and died for him on the Third Crusade. His brother had wed a Princess of Sicily. When he had died fighting on her behalf she and his child had remained in Sicily. It was Jean who had ruled the barony. He was capable, and his blood was more than worthy of being a king. Who was Alphonse, the son of a mere blacksmith to tell him otherwise?
He took his supper in his chambers, with only Alphonse and Savary. Of the 300 or so knights who had accompanied him to the holy land only these two reminend. He knew that his lords would use the fact that he declined to dine with them in favor of two lowborns against him, but he was beyond caring. Jean needed time to decompress. And plan.
“It went well I take it?” Savary said with his typical sarcasm.
Jean smiled. “Well they didn’t stab me to death as soon as I stepped through the door.”
“That’s better than I was expecting.”, said Alphonse.
“Ibelin did move against me, though the others checked him. Not out of any love of me mind you. As it stands I am protected only by the paper shield of Papal authority.”
Alphonse put his hand to his beard. “I’m normally one for caution but I think we can trust Ibelin. I hunted with him shortly after we disembarked in Acre. He’s an odd man but I believe underneath he has a true and loyal heart. The others I am not so sure about.”
“I still think we should have killed them all at the wedding feast”, Savary said as he held his dinner knife in a display Jean supposed was intended to be menacing.
Jean chuckled. “I was tempted. But no it wouldn’t have worked, and besides it would have been dishonorable.”
“If you're so worried about your honor why you needn’t have even gotten your sword dirty. Just wait until the band stopped and then bring the Genoese crossbowmen above the benches and then tell them to let loose.” Savary arranged his hands in a parody of a crossbow and made shooting sounds to bring the point home. .
Jean laughed and even Alphonse, who was not always fond of the cruel knights antics ,cracked a smile. “A magnificent performance, good sir. Mayhpas you will reprise it if things do not go our way.”
Savary bowed. “ It would be our honor, my Lord of Jerusalem.”
Alphonse and Savary were both the parts of war they didn’t sing songs about. But they had been with him in one way or another ever since Jean had run away from the church career his father had planned for him.
Alphonse was the rough and ready sergeant, always on hand with a stern word to jolt the rabble into action. The tactical mind behind an ambush. A man who if told to hold, would hold with every ounce of strength until he was told otherwise by his commander.
Savary was what all true knights feared becoming. He could go forth with fire and sword and lead a company to raise a whole barony before nightfall, sparing not even the churches. When you looked him in the eye, you saw a man damned to hell, and more importantly, a man who did not care that he was damned to hell.
It made people uncomfortable, women especially, not that Jean could blame them. One of the few demands Maria had made of him in their short marriage was that Savary was not to be allowed anywhere near her or her sisters and their ladies. Jean had consented, and Savary had complied, though he had asked if Jean wanted him to sleep in the stables like a loyal dog.
He thought of the kiss she had given him. The warm smile she always greeted him with. The beat of her heart. Why did all these things matter so much to him? Queen Maria of Monferat had died doing her duty after they had been man and wife for hardly a year, and had spent even less time together.
“We all mourn for the Queen '', said Alphonse, it was no use trying to hide his melancholy from his men, they knew him too well.
“Aye, it seems a crime to pluck a rose so sweet in her prime. And for only a girl at that. We are both with you, as we always have been, through thick and thin.”
If only it had been a son. The physicians had been sure of it, though Maria as was her custom gave no opinion save her obvious joy at being with child. Maria would have been a wonderful mother. The way she had been with her younger sisters, and his Uncle Garuntheir’s children, it reminded him of his own mother. She was dead too, and like with Maria, Jean hadn’t been there with her in her final moments.
“There's no use to any of us questioning the will of god. I am now a widower and my daughter Isabelle is by the grace of god Queen of Jerusalem and I am her regent. I just need to figure out how to make them all fall into line.”
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