Rebels Against Tyranny: Civil War in the Crusader States

The shouting, however, had aroused Captain di Domenico as well. Before Balian could say a word, he told Julio to stand down. Together Balian and Domenico converged on the gangway, while Philip de Novare helped the woman onto the other end of the precarious bridge between ship and shore.

“What is this all about, sir?” Domenico demanded in a low but hostile tone.

“I have rescued a damsel in distress,” Novare declared, grinning as he spread his arms dramatically. “The lady was assaulted by drunken sailors, and I—”

“No lady walks around a port at this time of night!” Domenico snapped. “Just because you’re too drunk to know the difference between a whore and a—”

“I am Eschiva de Montbéliard,” a frail, female voice interrupted him. “I was a lady to Queen Yolanda, and I beg you to let me speak with my cousin of Ibelin.”

Before Domenico could answer, Balian laid a restraining hand on the captain’s arm and murmured. “Let her come on board, Maurizio. If she is who she says she is, she is the sister of the baillie of Jerusalem, cousin of King Henry of Cyprus, and indeed my cousin. If she’s not, we’ll have no trouble putting her back ashore.” Then moving past the captain, he offered his hand to the young woman to help her down from the gangway onto the deck.

The hand offered him was small and trembling so violently that Balian felt a surge of protectiveness rush through his veins despite his skepticism about her identity. He instinctively closed his own hand over hers in a gesture that was sincere yet more intimate than would normally have been considered polite—presuming she was who she said she was. The woman had averted her eyes in apparent embarrassment, but he could still see the smooth curve of her cheek and her neck. Whoever she was, she was young, and her teeth were chattering. In this heat, that could only come from deep shock. The whiff of vomit and blood drew his attention to her skirts, and although it was too dark to distinguish either substance, the smells and soils were obvious. Something terrible must just have occurred.

Novare, meanwhile, had swung himself onto the railing and jumped down nimbly in Balian’s path with a large leather bag in one hand. He grinned. “I’m not exaggerating, Bal! She was surrounded by five sailors who had—”

“You can tell me later, Philip,” Balian cut him off. The girl was clinging to his hand as if he were a lifeline. Her hand did not hurt his. He was used to controlling full-blooded stallions, sword, and lance. Yet her grip expressed desperation; it was an inarticulate but powerful plea that overwhelmed him. Never in his short life had anyone looked to him for help with such intensity as this strange young woman—whether she was his cousin or not. It made him feel mature, strong, and important. He realized that he had the power to help—or not. The thought was more intoxicating than wine. “My lady, let me take you below,” he suggested, offering her his elbow.

“Are you my cousin? The son of Philip d’Ibelin?” The girl asked in an almost inaudible voice. Although she did not take his arm, she turned her face to him at last. Her eyes were huge in her pale face and her cheek streaked with tear stains.

Balian bowed to her, “Philip d’Ibelin was my uncle, Mademoiselle. I am Sir Balian d’Ibelin, son and heir to the Lord of Beirut.”

“Oh!” She caught her breath, then in a rush, she put into words what her hand had already told him. “My lord, even if we are not first cousins, I beg your assistance. I am in need of—your protection.”

“It is yours, Mademoiselle,” Balian answered without hesitation, adding just as thoughtlessly. “Whatever your distress, I promise upon my life and soul that I will help you.”

“Ha! You’re stealing my lines!” Novare protested.

Balian ignored his friend and again offered his arm to Lady Eschiva. This time she took it and let him lead her to aft. Balian led her directly from the main deck into the galley and through it to the salon beyond. Here he gestured for her to sit on the wooden bench that surrounded the fixed table before he ducked back into the galley. He found the cook already there, roused by the commotion. The cook gestured for Balian to go back to the salon, adding, “I’ll bring wine and water.”

Balian returned to the salon to find Captain di Domenico standing at the foot of the ladder, and Novare sitting opposite Lady Eschiva grinning inanely as he clutched her large leather bag on his lap.

Maurizio di Domenico was a weathered and experienced captain of the ripe old age of 31. He had been going to sea since the age of six, his skin was leathery, his body wiry, his face rugged and his eyes sharp. They shifted from Lady Eschiva to Sir Balian to Sir Philip and back again. Then without another word, he started lighting lanterns, first the one that hung over the table in the salon, then others, which he placed at each end of the table.

The light revealed the face of a pale young woman with patches of acne on her face, tear stains, and trembling hands. But they were manicured hands, and by the light of the lanterns, it was obvious that her cloak was of very fine cotton and beautifully stitched, her veils silk, and the brooch at her neck worth a small fortune by itself. Domenico shook his head in incomprehension and muttered. “What were you doing alone in a port like Andria in the middle of the night, Mademoiselle? Surely you know how dangerous it is?”

Balian had seen all that Domenico had, and more. Obviously, something terrible had driven this gentle maiden out in the middle of the night. “That’s enough, Maurizio,” Balian admonished, adding, “Leave us.”

Domenico shook his head and then grabbed the handrails and pulled himself up the ladder in a fluid motion.

The door from the galley banged open and the cook pushed his way into the salon. “The wine and water, my lord,” he announced, clunking them down on the table with a curious glance at Lady Eschiva before withdrawing.

Balian called after him, “Bring cups!”

The door opened again, and four pottery mugs, the cheap kind that can easily be replaced, were plunked down on the table.

Balian reached forward, and filled a glass halfway, paused, and asked Lady Eschiva, “Straight or cut with water?”

“Pure, please.”

Balian obliged.

Lady Eschiva took the mug in both hands and brought it to her lips to sip very carefully. She was still trembling, but not as severely as before, more in spasms. After a few swallows, she set the mug down and looked at Balian to whisper, “The captain is right. I—I underestimated the danger, and...” she shifted her gaze to Philip of Novare, “I am unspeakably grateful to you, Monsieur.” The sincerity in her eyes and voice was patent, and Balian was jealous of his friend. If only he had not kept his promise to his father, he might have been the one to rescue her from the sailors!

Novare set her leather bag aside so he could jump up and bow more dramatically as he assured her, “The pleasure was entirely mine, Mademoiselle. Rarely have I had the opportunity to put my sword to better purpose.”

Balian stiffened. “You didn’t actually kill anyone did you, Novare?”

“I believe I did,” Philip answered with a look of surprised satisfaction on his face. “They were not paying attention to anything but their poor victim, so I was able to get in two clean thrusts. I’m sure I gutted the first man, and the second—”

“Two men?” Balian gasped, stiffening with alarm. This was what came of hanging out in seaside taverns! Just as his father had warned him. “Were they alone?”

“No, no! I told you. There were five altogether, but the other three fled when they saw the blade of my sword.”

“Jesu!” Balian exclaimed. It was very dangerous to kill men like this, not in battle or judicial combat but in the dark, in anger. It would be Sir Philip and Lady Eschiva’s word against that of the sailors. And the Emperor was already ill-disposed to the Ibelins—not to mention what Barlais and Cheneché would make of it, given the chance. The Emperor could easily use this as an excuse to arrest them, at the very least impound the ship, and demand an inquiry. They could be trapped here for days, weeks, months, subject to less than certain justice.

Yet, he could hardly fault Novare for coming to the rescue of a lady, his cousin, this fragile and frightened maiden! He would certainly have done so himself. Indeed, he wished he had done so.

Still, they were in trouble. He jumped up and called up the ladder. “Maurizio? Sir Philip just killed two sailors. You better increase the watch. Or better still, prepare to put to sea.”

A growl answered him.