WIth You, I'll Be Only Sibylla

Sibylla was in a dream, or so she felt. For the first time in after her marriage to Guy, she found herself dreaming about a man. And it was not her husband.

The reins were loose in her hands, and she let her horse plod on. The animal knew its way back to the royal stables. In the meantime, she was happy to just savour the freedom of being out of the palace. The air was filled with the scent of spices, with the underlying taint of sweat and waste. In a sense, it was like the Kingdom itself. On the surface, everything seemed holy and perfect. They were the bulwark against the Saracens. They were God’s chosen people, dedicating their lives to fighting for Him and defending Christendom. But then, were they really fighting for God?

Sibylla was sure that some of them did believe that they were fighting for Christ, but there were others, namely her husband and his faction, who saw the Holy Land as a place to plunder. That brought her to another question. Why was Godfrey’s son here? To her surprise, she didn’t really care about the answer. What really mattered was that he was here, in Jerusalem.

The princess passed the goldsmith’s shop. Her spirits were high today. She gently pulled on the reins and stopped her horse, and then she jumped off, as nimble as any Saracen horseman, and strode inside. The goldsmith knew her by sight. He rapidly bowed and greeted her, and then hurried to show her his best wares. She was only half listening to him. Her eyes were fixed on a simple ring; a gold band, with a ruby the colour of rich red wine from the vineyards of southern France. Gold and maroon, the colours of Ibelin.

She picked up the ring, and examined it. The work was basic, if a bit rough, but it had its own rustic charm. Her expert eye could see that the ruby was a high quality stone. It was simply not well cut. ‘Just like the young baron,’ she thought. The stone was natural, and she liked it the way it was.

The goldsmith had fallen silent. Why was the princess interested in that ring, of all the pieces he had? Even the Italian merchants had scorned it. Sibylla tried it on, slipping it on each of her fingers. Finally, she put the ring on the ring finger of her left hand, where she wore the ring from her second marriage. It fit perfectly. Smiling, Sibylla took off the wedding band and replaced it with that rustic gold ring. She examined her hand, and looked pleased by what she saw.

“I’ll take it,” she said.

Dumbstruck, the goldsmith hurriedly named a price. As usual, it was far too high, but Sibylla didn’t bother to bargain. She simply handed him the money and then left in a flurry of brightly coloured silks and jewellery with intricate designs.


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When Guy saw Sibylla that evening, he was stunned by how beautiful she was, in her dress of white silk and her turban of bleached muslin. Henna had been expertly applied to her hands, and the kohl accented her large almond shaped eyes. The princess was a true sultry seductress of the east. The Poitevin lord felt his blood rushing to his nether parts. It seemed that she’d taken extra care to make herself beautiful that evening, but for what?

“Is it a special occasion, my lady wife?” he asked.

Sibylla smiled at him. She seemed happier than usual too. “What makes you think that, my lord?” she asked.

“Perhaps it is just me,” said Guy, taking a step towards her and trying to wrap an arm around her waist. “You look absolutely ravishing tonight.”

Sibylla gently but firmly pushed him away. “No, my lord,” she said. ”Come, we must not keep my brother’s subjects waiting.”

As the princess laid her hand on her husband’s arm, she wondered whether the rustic young baron whom she’d met that morning would be there. She hoped that he would. It would be good to see him again. Sibylla had to admit that she hadn’t been at all polite.

“The princess Sibylla of Jerusalem, and her husband, Guy de Lusignan!” announced the herald. Sibylla strode in proudly through the ambulatories. The nobles had all risen to their feet and only sat down again when she had seated herself at the head of the table, with her husband at the left and Raymond of Tiberias at the right.

Beside Tiberias, was Balian of Ibelin, still looking as rustic and out of place as a peasant amongst noblemen, but the look of surprise on his face was endearing. She flashed him a smile. He returned it with the slightest upturning of the corners of his mouth. She noted that there was fathomless sorrow in his brown eyes. Why had she not seen it this morning?

“Have you found any knights in France?” Tiberias asked of Guy as a way of making polite dinner conversation.

“Fifty,” Guy boasted, helping himself to succulent roast pheasant. He downed a mouthful of wine.

“And they’ve sworn allegiance to the King?” asked the marshal.

“Of course, Tiberias,” drawled Guy, rolling his eyes. “Obviously.” The marshal pressed his lips together. God, no one could accuse him of not trying to mend the schism between him and Guy. But the man just refused to be civil.

The Poitevin lord’s gaze fell on the young man sitting beside the marshal. Balian was minding his own business and concentrating on his food. Sibylla noticed that he had not uttered a single sound. Why was Guy so interested in him?

“You sit at my table?” said Guy, his voice dripping with contempt. Sibylla tensed. Guy was lusting for a fight, and this new baron was easy prey, or so he thought.

Balian looked up. He’d schooled his face into a mask. “Is it not the King’s table?” he asked in that beautiful husky voice of his, with its charming northern accent. The young man showed no inclination to fulfil Guy’s wishes for confrontation. Sibylla was very much impressed. Guy usually drove the most patient of men to fury. With that simple words, he’d corrected Guy’s mistake and shown him his arrogance.

“Is it?” said Guy, looking around for support. How dare he, this peasant bastard son of Godfrey? No one spoke up. They all knew who was right and who was not. “I have not seen a king at it for some years.” That did not seem to be the right thing to say, for Sibylla tensed, and her eyes took on a murderous gleam. He abruptly stood. “I cannot eat,” he said. “I am finicky about company. In France, this could not inherit.” The Poitevin lord could not bring himself to acknowledge Godfrey’s spawn as a man. “Here, there are no civilized rules.”

All attention was focused on Guy now. He liked that. He’d seen how Balian had been looking at Sibylla, and the way she’d smiled at him. The princess’ husband didn’t like that at all. “I have business in the east,” he announced as he stepped behind Sibylla and began to stroke her neck in full view of all the noblemen with small suggestive gestures, dangling her in front of Balian like bait. ”My wife does not lament my absence,” he said. “That is either the best of wives, or the very very worst.” Let that be a warning to the bastard blacksmith from France. Sibylla was his wife, and his alone.

He threw his empty cup to one of the attendants, and strode away without looking back. Sibylla watched him go, wondering for the umpteenth time what she had seen in him when she’d agreed to marry him. Awkward silence reigned over the table. The noblemen were glancing at her, and then at Balian. It was Tiberias who broke the tension. “To the very best of wives,” he said, raising his cup. The princess could sense the smile in his eyes.

“God bless Jerusalem,” she said in Arabic, raising her cup in return. Guy hated Arabs. Speaking their language was one way of spiting him, even if it was rather petty and ineffectual.

“Hear!” said Tiberias. “God bless Jerusalem!” This was translated back into the language of the Franks for the benefit of the newcomer. The meal resumed, just as a servant came over to Tiberias and whispered something into his ear. The marshal nodded.

“The King would see Godfrey’s son,” he said, starting to get out of his seat. Sibylla quickly laid a hand on his arm.

“I’ll take him,” she said. Time alone with this intriguing man from France, at last. The skies were beginning to darken. The dying rays from the sun cast a golden glow over the city. Sibylla led Balian through the dark torch-lit corridors of the palace.

“This morning, I spoke without knowing who you were,” said Balian. She supposed that was his way of explaining his rudeness. He needn’t have bothered. She liked him the way he was, blunt and honest.

“I knew who you were,” she admitted with a smile. “It’s unmistakable. I loved your father.” She glanced at him. He seemed so emotionless, but she knew better. Under that mask was a man filled with sorrow. Why did men think that hiding their feelings was a sign of strength? “And now, I shall love you.”

That made him look at her, rather alarmed by this blatant declaration. She simply smiled some more and walked on.

“When did you arrive in Jerusalem?” she asked him, as if nothing had happened.

“Just yesterday,” he replied.

“And your family? Are they here as well?”

Balian looked down at the floor. “My wife is dead,” he said quietly. So that was why he was so sorrowful.

“You must be found another,” said Sibylla. “Every fief needs a woman’s touch.”

The young baron seemed uncomfortable about where this conversation was going. Instead of answering, he gave a small nod and focused on walking again. Sibylla felt herself growing frustrated with him. She just wanted him to talk. Was that so much to ask? She didn’t need the flattering praises which noblemen usually uttered, although it would be interesting to see how this man would give her flattering comments. She just wanted a response from him.

He stayed silent, and Sibylla reached the end of her patience. “Do you fear being with me?” she demanded. That was how it felt. Balian seemed rather tense, as if he was holding something back.

“No,” he said simply, and then stepping in front of her, he turned to face her with a small grin on his lips. “And yes.” Sibylla laughed. So he did have a sense of humour after all. She knew exactly what he was talking about. As a woman, she really wasn’t frightening at all, being rather small and delicate. But as a princess, with the welfare of a kingdom to think of, she could be as ruthless as any tyrannical Roman emperor. She knew that she would not hesitate to kill if that was what it took to protect her family and her kingdom.

“A woman in my place has two faces,” she admitted. “One for the world, and one which she wears in private.” She paused for a while. “With you, I’ll be only Sibylla.” There, she’d said it. It was an open invitation. Let him interpret it any way he would.

He seemed to be about to answer, but a shape in the doorway caught their attention. Sibylla saw a servant who’d been following them quickly step back into the shadows. Dear old Raymond. He loved her like his own daughter, but he didn’t trust her, not at all. She’d been tricking him ever since she had been seven. “Tiberias thinks me unpredictable,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper to Balian. Then she grinned. “I am unpredictable.” It was a jest, but it was also the truth, and a warning. Sibylla was Balian’s ally now, but being her ally wasn’t such a good thing. As princess, she lived in the centre of corrupt courtly intrigues. One wrong step, and blood would be shed. The last thing she wanted was for this innocent young man from France to be hurt.

She didn’t know why she was so drawn to him. Perhaps it was his stoic manner in the face of insult and humiliation. Perhaps it was his rustic French charm. She didn’t simply want him. She needed him. For years, she’d lived in darkness and doubt. Had God sent her this angel to lead her into the light?


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