Disclaimer: All characters of Kingdom of Heaven belong to 20th Century Fox. The historical characters aren't really mine either.

Chapter 9: The Doukas

Stefanie wanted a sword. She'd always wanted one, for her whole life. Swords were powerful and beautiful and she wanted to be just like her Papa and her Grandpere and Uncle Baudouin. For now, she'd tucked one of Nurse's knitting needles into her belt – made from Maman's scarf – and pretended that she had a sword. She was sure she would get one soon. Papa had said he'd make her one, hadn't he?

Her stomach was growly this morning as she listened to Maman read from her Bible. It was a very pretty book that Stefanie wasn't allowed to touch, with a deep green leather cover with some gold on it. She could see beta and lambda on the cover. At night, when everyone thought she was asleep, she would sometimes sneak into the sitting room and hide behind a chair, watching Maman teach Papa how to read in Maman's language from the pretty green bible, which was different from the other one that Grandpere had. Papa pointed at the words slowly like Stefanie did whenever Maman tried to teach her to read.

"The scraps filled five baskets," Maria was saying. This story was just making her tummy growlier. She wanted some bread and fish too. Too bad Jesus didn't make any for her.

"Maman, does that mean if we pray very hard, we'll get whatever we want?" she asked.

Maria closed the book and smoothed her hand over the cover. There was a pretty ring on each of her fingers. "Come here, my sweet," she said, extending a hand to Stefanie, who cautiously approached her, aware of the fact that her fingers were sticky because she'd stolen a piece of baklava from the kitchen this morning when she wasn't supposed to, and she'd forgotten to wash her hands afterwards.

Maria didn't seem to notice, which was a Very Good Thing. Maman usually noticed everything and she really didn't like Stefanie eating sweets before meals because she wouldn't eat her meals afterwards. Which was silly because Stefanie always ate everything. Papa never minded and sometimes even brought her sweets from the market.

"I'm going to tell you something very important," Maria said to Stefanie. "Something that my Papa told me when I was little like you." Stefanie tried to imagine little Maman. In her mind, she still had the same face but she just wore little girl clothes.

"God helps those who help themselves," her Maman said. "And if you really want something, you have to get it yourself because nobody else is going to give it to you. Do you understand?"

"But God and Jesus always give people stuff in the Bible when they ask for it."

"God and Jesus aren't here anymore. That confused Stefanie because the priest said God was everywhere. Perhaps she would ask Brother John. Brother John knew everything.

"Maman?" she said.

"Yes, darling?"

"I'm hungry."

Maria sighed. "Stefanie Ekaterina Ibelina," she said, "how long has it been since you ate that piece of baklava that Cook left especially for your father?"

Oh, so she had noticed.

"A while," said Stefanie.

"I suppose it's almost time for lunch," said Maria. "But you must stop stealing food like a common street urchin. People might start to say we aren't feeding you enough."

The easy answer was to feed her more, Stefanie wanted to say, but a panicked shout from the courtyard distracted both of them. Immediately, she clutched her mother's hand and pressed close to her.

She was going to hurt whoever had hurt her Papa.

Balian let the endless stream of excited babble wash over him, soaking it in like the warmth of the sun. Golden heads of wheat rippled in the wind, heavy with seed. Baldwin was beyond excited that morning when his mother had at last conceded that the winds were mild enough for him to go riding on his new pony, a gift from his uncle the king, which Balian had chosen himself from a shipment of horses from the north east. Amongst the high spirited, flimsy-legged and excitable animals that the Arabs favoured, he'd found this sturdy, steady beast, born to traverse through rain, snow, or sandstorm.

Baldwin had dubbed her Lady Slush, for she was the colour of snow that had been left on the ground too long and was beginning to melt. "She will be a fine steed, and a better friend," Balian had told him as he'd taught the little boy to feed her a carrot without getting his fingers bitten.

The prince bounced in the saddle the entire time as Balian led the pony along the dirt path between the fields. Jerusalem shone behind them. "Can we gallop?" the boy asked.

"Not until you have learned to walk," Balian replied.

"Aw, come on!"

Lady Slush paid him little heed, simply flicking her ears back and forth to catch some of the conversation. Her eyes were half closed.

Baldwin sulked for a breath, then decided that it wasn't for him. "Are there dragons in England?"

"I don't think so," said Balian cautiously. He wasn't entirely sure. Nobody had ever seen a real dragon, but that was not to say they were not real. They were just something that a blacksmith from France didn't think about very much. Starvation had always been a much greater threat.

"St George killed a dragon, though, so they have to have them in England for him to kill," Baldwin continued, not letting Balian's scepticism dampen his enthusiasm. "When I grow up, I'm going to slay dragons and rescue maidens, although I won't kiss them because girls are prissy and picky and annoying. When can Stefanie come play?"

The arrow came out of nowhere, striking one of the guards behind them in the neck. The man fell with a gurgle. Suddenly the air was filled with the whistling of arrows. The pony reared and if Balian hadn't caught Baldwin, he would have been thrown onto the hard ground. He set the boy down and drew his sword in one move. "Stay behind me!" he shouted.

Men burst out from the wheat, their heads and faces covered so only their eyes showed. Balian cursed the fact that he had not thought it necessary to don his armour this morning. Baldwin gave a whimper of fear. Balian parried an arrow with his blade. It struck the metal with a clang. They were surrounded. He could not see who they were but it was obvious what they wanted, and it wasn't money.

Pain exploded in his side. He gave a cry. An arrow had gone right through him. It was a flesh wound, nothing more, but it would hinder him. He slashed out at a man who thought him weakened, cleaving his face in half. Blood bubbled up through the gaping wound as he fell, dead before he even hit the ground. He had to clear a path. The guards didn't need to be told to protect the prince. They knew their duty.

But there were too many attackers and too few of them. More arrows flew, taking down more men. He tried to keep himself between the men and the boy, but they were trapped on all sides. The pony stood pawing the ground, snorting in agitation. She wanted to run, but her training had taught her not to. Man and beast came to an understanding. He dropped his sword, grabbed her halter, and threw Baldwin into the saddle so hard that the boy's teeth clacked together in his head. Then he charged into the circle of men, throwing himself at them to force a gap. The pony didn't need to be told what to do. It was instinct. She took off, with Baldwin clinging to her back for dear life.

"Hold them!" Balian shouted at what remained of his men. He glanced behind in the direction that Baldwin had headed in, praying that he would make it to the city gates.

The pony suddenly came to a halt. More men had burst out from hiding and were closing in on the boy.

He forgot all about formations, about not turning his back on the enemy. He cut down the two who had thought to take advantage of his distraction and then ran as he had never run before. His feet barely touched the ground. Yet he was not fast enough. The pony was snorting and rearing, but she was just a beast and they had arrows and swords.

He threw himself at the men, sending the one who had been about to grab Baldwin far into the wheat field. Agony jolted up his side and he almost blacked out from the pain. The pony had endured all that it could. Instinct overtook training and she threw Baldwin to the ground before bucking and kicking her way through.

Something slammed into his back, making him stagger forward and onto one knee. He felt the impact before he felt the pain, tasted blood at the back of his throat. An arrow had pierced him from behind. The pain was almost blinding. He could feel its cold metal tip inside him, scraping against bone whenever he moved. His body wanted to lose itself to the blackness that threatened at the edges of his vision. His limbs were heavy. Too heavy. Struggling to hold onto the last threads of consciousness, he tried to raise his head, to stand. He couldn't fall yet. He had to keep fighting. For Baldwin. For the prince.

For his son.

His gaze met the boy's. Tears streaked his beloved face. Balian etched every detail into his mind, even as the world began to fade.

"Run," he whispered. He didn't have the strength to say more. His grip on his sword tightened.

The boy knew he should do as he was told, but he couldn't move. Balian pushed himself back up again. He was like the bear that he had seen once in the streets, tied up and angry and hurt, while large dogs with sharp white teeth and strings of drool had snapped at it.

Tears blurred Baldwin's sight. He was so frightened he couldn't move. He knew what was going to happen. They were going to kill Lord Balian. They were going to play with him like the dogs had played with the bear, and then they were going to kill him. And then they'd get Baldwin too. He just didn't understand why.

One of the bad men suddenly fell back with an arrow in his eye. The rest looked up. Baldwin looked up too. Knights! The bad men started running away. The knights chased after them. It was only then that the little prince realized, with shame, that his trousers were wet.

Balian's sword fell to the ground. He crumpled, like all his strength had left him. Baldwin tripped as he ran to him, shouting his name. Strong hands picked him up and he screamed and struggled until he lost all his breath.

"It's all right, child," said the voice. It was a strange voice with a strange way of saying words, but it was strong and calming and kind. He looked up at the man, who wore strange armour. He had a dark beard with silver in it, and a lined face. His helmet hid most of his head but he saw there was a long red plume on the top. He'd never seen anything like it before. "You're safe now. What's your name? Where are your parents?"

The boy knew his name but saying it right now seemed so hard. He managed to hiccough it, and tell them that his mother's name was Sibylla and his father's name was Guy.

A hush fell over them as soon as they set foot inside the Hospitallers' vast headquarters. Stefanie clutched Maria's hand tightly and ran to keep up with her. She'd wanted to leave her daughter at home. A hospital was no place for a child. Stefanie had refused to let go. A messenger had been dispatched to Godfrey, who was in Mirabel at present, informing him of the news. If he wanted to see his son, he needed to get here at once.

Vaulted arches loomed overhead, while curtains had been drawn over the windows to block out the harshest of the light from the recovering patients. It smelled of healing and of death. Brother John was waiting for them. In all the time Maria had known him, he always had a smile. Not this time.

"Where is he?" she demanded. Brother John led them to a small private chamber that faced the light of the setting sun.

"The arrows went deep," said John gravely. "We have done all that we could."

Maria slowly approached her husband's bedside, holding back her daughter. Stefanie started whimpering at the sight of her father's pale, wan face and closed eyes. His breath was so shallow they could barely detect it. She wished she could spare the little girl the sight, but it was her right, too, to see her father and tell him goodbye, if this really was goodbye. She said nothing as she placed her hand on his. What words were there to say? There was an alien ache inside her breast such as she had not felt since she had left Cyprus. She told herself it was not love, merely regret. He was too young. His son was not even a year old yet. He deserved a chance to watch his children grow up, and Ioannes and Stefanie deserved a father.

"Papa?" Stefanie tugged his hand. "Papa, wake up! Maman, why won't he wake up? I want him to wake up!" She turned her tear-stained face up to Maria. She had no good answers for her. All the platitudes, she would leave to the priests. She gathered her daughter into her arms and held her close. Stefanie buried her snotty, teary face into her neck and began sobbing so hard that her entire little body shook.

"What happened?" she asked John. "Who did this?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. They were ambushed while riding with Prince Baldwin." Maria looked up, stunned. The boy…

"The prince is shaken, but he is unharmed," said John. "Someone wanted him dead. If not for your kinsman, they might very well have succeeded."

A man stepped out from the shadows, dressed in the armour of the empire. He had his helmet under his arm, and his salt and pepper hair had been pressed flat against his head by its weight.

"I regret that we should meet under such inauspicious circumstances, my dear cousin," he said.

"Cousin Nikophoros?" Maria could not have been more surprised if her uncle Manuel had come himself. "What are you doing here?"

"God's work, it would seem," said the Strategos Nikophoros Doukas, Doux of Thessalonike. "Your husband is fortunate that we were in the area at the time. We brought him here before we even knew who he was."

"His fortune is yet undetermined, cousin, but I am glad that you are here, for whatever reason." She immediately became a princess of the empire again, remembering her manners, the customs of hospitality. Stefanie was still hiccoughing, but she had pulled up her head and was regarding Nikophoros with much wariness.

"Alexios," called Nikophoros. A tousle-haired youth peered around the door. Had he been waiting outside all this time? In her distress, Maria had hardly noticed him.

"This is my second son," said Nikophoros. "Alexios, perhaps you could take your little cousin…"

"Stefanie Ekaterina," supplied Maria.

"Perhaps you could take Stefanie Ekaterina somewhere a little more pleasant? I have matters that I must discuss with the Lady Maria."

Stefanie shook her head so hard her curls flew back and forth. "I'm staying here," she said, folding her arms and sticking out her bottom lip. At any moment, she could break into a screaming fit. Maria didn't think she could bear it if she did. Please, please…

Alexios knelt so he was looking up at the little girl. She, in turn, glared down at him with all the wrath that a three year old could muster. "You must be very worried for your Papa," he said. Stefanie looked at him as if he were something that had crawled out of the sewers. Which was no bad thing, as Stefanie had an unhealthy fondness for things that lived in dank, dark holes; a passion that Balian had unhelpfully indulged by taking her hunting for tadpoles and lizards. "I would be very frightened if that were my papa."

"I want him to wake up," said Stefanie. "I'm staying here."

"I understand," said Alexios, "and I think you're very brave." Stefanie sat up a little straighter. The girl had always loved praise. "Tell you what, why don't we go and pray for him to wake up soon?"

"It won't work," said Stefanie. "God's not here anymore."

Of all the places she could have said that…

"Maybe," said Alexios. "But maybe He's home in His house."

"And where's that?"

"The church, of course, little one."

Stefanie glanced at her mother, who nodded. Reluctantly, she climbed down to the floor, still glancing from her father to Alexios and then back at her father, before consenting to let the youth take her hand and lead her away.

Maria turned back to the prone form of her husband. She remembered the first time she'd seen him, this grieving, naive young blacksmith from France, so out of place at the king's table, and so hopelessly in love with Sibylla that he had been ready to lay down his life for her. Now he might still sacrifice his life for her son. It was just the sort of thing that he would do.

"What is so urgent that it cannot wait for another time, Nikophoros?" she asked.

"I apologize for the timing, but there are some things that cannot wait," said the Strategos. He pulled up a chair and sat down. "I've come about the succession."

She almost lost her temper with him. "My husband is dying and you come to talk to me about the succession?"

"Your husband may be dying, Cousin, but the Basileus may also be dying soon. Manuel is not young and his son is but a babe in arms. When he dies, there will be a crisis of succession. Your uncle Andronikos is poised to swoop in and take the throne for himself. He has the claim and the men. It will be the end of the world as we know it if he does."

"And what do you want me to do about it, all the way out here in Jerusalem?" asked Maria.

"You're a Comnena. You have as much right to that throne as anybody."

"I really don't have the mood right now, Cousin."

"Would you be in the mood if I tell you there is a physician who might be able to help?"

She looked up.

"I seem to recall that, in the days when your first husband's brother was king, he was injured on a hunt — gored by an antelope. They all thought he was going to die, until this surgeon came long. Is that correct?"

"Benjamin Bar Yakov," said Brother John. "I remember the story. But it has been years. He is most likely dead by now."

"But he might not be," said Maria. "If there is a chance, we have to try. Where does this Benjamin Bar Yakov live?"

"In the Jewish quarter, most likely. If he is still alive,someone will know of him there," said the Hospitaller. He left the room just as Godfrey barged in, dusty and haggard.

"Where is he?" he demanded. "Where is my son?"

When he saw Balian, he sank to his knees beside the bed and bowed his head over it. His shoulders sagged and he let out a ragged breath. Whatever Nikophoros had been about to say to her next, he swallowed it.

"Think about what I've told you, Cousin," he said. "You are Roman. You always will be. Never forget that." With that, he left. Moments later, Alexios delivered a slightly calmer Stefanie back to her mother and left with a courtly, practised bow.

Stefanie went to her grandfather and put her little arms around his broad shoulders. Godfrey hugged the girl to him roughly and kissed her dirty curls. His shoulders shook. Maria had not know that a man like Godfrey could weep and it unsettled her to see him do it.

"It's going to be all right, Grandpere," Stefanie murmured. "We lit candles for Papa. Alexios said they'll help him see the way home. Alexios knows lots. Papa will be all right. You'll see. And then we'll kill everyone who hurt him."

—

Hospitals had always been places of death in Sibylla's mind. Her father had died here. And her first husband. She gripped Baldwin's hand tightly, not ever willing to let the boy go. Grief had numbed her mind. She knew she shouldn't intrude, that it was time for his family. But it was their son he had tried to save. She needed to see him. In her mind, she could still see Baldwin, covered in blood and his own urine. She had been hysterical, thinking that he had been hurt, only to find out that it had been Balian's blood that had baptized him from head to toe.

The knights of the Hospital bowed to her as she passed them, mere shadows in the dusk. She paid them no heed except to ask where Balian was. Images of their life before flashed through her mind. They did not seem to belong to her, but to someone else. How happy they had been, enraptured with one another, in a little paradise of their own making. What wouldn't she give to have those days back again. Those days of peace when it seemed they were the only woman and man in the world, when death could not touch them.

She stopped at the door, pulled back into harsh, cruel, reality. What was she doing here? She justified it by telling herself she was here to thank the man who had saved her son's life. She looked down at Baldwin and squeezed his hand tightly. His dark eyes were wide with fear that he should not have to know.

"Have faith, mon cher," she whispered to him. "Balian is strong and stubborn. He will be all right. All we can do now is pray." She wished she could believe herself.

The door opened into a corridor veiled with curtains. She pushed these aside, one by one, each one an ordeal for she did not want to face what lay within. Seeing him would doubtless confirm the worst of her fears. Why sequester him somewhere like this if they didn't expect the worst? Yet the urge to be near him was strong. She could not bear the thought of not being able to send him off. No matter who he was married to, Balian would always be hers.

Maria looked up when she came in. The kohl around her eyes was smudged, as if she had been weeping. Godfrey knelt by the bed, looking twenty years older, while Balian's little daughter was fast asleep, curled up at the foot of his bed like a little dog. His baby son wasn't there, she noted. Places of death were not for babes. Guilt suddenly assailed her. She had been so obsessed with her own grief that she had forgotten what these little ones were about to lose. They would never understand why, except that their father had loved another little boy enough to die for him, leaving them behind. She could only imagine how bitter that would taste.

At the sight of Balian's prone form, Baldwin promptly burst into tears.

"Hush, darling," said Sibylla, immediately kneeling and holding him close. The trauma of the day was still fresh in his mind. "We must be brave, for Lord Balian's sake. Come, we will sit here and pray for him." She led him to the chair beside Maria and hoisted him onto her lap, even though he was getting too big for it.

"They are searching for a physician," said Maria. Her voice was barely a whisper, so unlike the strong, ambitious woman that Sibylla knew her to be. "The one who healed your uncle after his hunting accident. There is little hope, except a fool's hope." She fiddled with her hands in her lap, not sure what to do with them.

"Don't say that," said Sibylla more sharply than she had intended. But the thought that this could be the end…

No, she knew Balian better than that. She had thought him dead many times but he had come through. He was strong. There should be many more years ahead. He was supposed to teach Baldwin how to fight and watch him grow up to be a man and a king.

"What is the physician's name?" she asked.

Maria told her. The next morning, they found Benjamin Bar Yakov, buried in the Jewish cemetery, five years dead.