It seemed fitting that coronation should take place in the majestic city of Acre. Henry was therefore instructed to go and make arrangements.
However, the paths of men deviate from that of Almighty God. Conrad’s wife, Isabella, decided one afternoon to visit the baths. At suppertime Conrad went to meet his wife but was told she wished to enjoy the bath a little longer. So he thought he would go and dine with Bishop Milo. When he got to the archbishopric he learned that the bishop had finished eating. Conrad turned homeward. Outside the gate by the exchange where the street narrows he came upon two men seated, one at either side. As he rode between them one held up a letter for him to read and when he leaned down to accept it a knife was thrust deep into his body. The second villain now leapt on the croup of his mount to stab him in the back. Marquis Conrad fell from his horse and rolled dying on the stones. Many people came running. They carried him to his palace. There he made confession and spoke privily with the marquise whose eyes were wet with tears, after which he gave up the ghost and was buried at the Hospital. As to the murderers, one being straightway slain, the other ran into a church for sanctuary but was caught and dragged through the streets until his black spirit fled groaning.
Some whispered that King Richard had brought about Conrad’s death, a malevolent falsehood wrought by envious men seeking to augment themselves, hoping to diminish the luster of what they could not eclipse, such being the propensity of subordinates. In fact, when messengers from Tyre brought news of Conrad’s death the king remained a long time quiet, very thoughtful.
Conrad de Montferrat was slain upon orders of the Old Man. Old Man of the Musse as some would call him. How he stood to profit is much debated. Like a peasant sowing grain in expectation of future harvest mayhap this lord of Assassins sowed turbulence and disorder. The truth is not known. Chronicles relate that a member of his brotherhood coming by ship from Saltelaya had been forced by high waves to put in at Tyre. Marquis Conrad arrested him, stole his money and took his life. The Old Man sent envoys demanding that the brotherhood be compensated, but the marquis would not. Next came a votary named Erwis to ask again, but Conrad, who was proud, threatened to drown Erwis in the harbor. This brought Assassins. They took up lodging and made themselves agreeable by pretending to be Christian while awaiting the moment.
Nor was Saladin himself exempt. More than once he narrowly escaped the brotherhood. In order to rid himself of these people he laid siege to their castle in the Nosairi mountains. And there on a hillside, as though prepared to enjoy the spectacle, sat the Old Man. Saladin directed a company of soldiers to go and capture him. But when these soldiers approached they began to feel weak, their legs would scarcely move, which horrified them, so they turned and fled, gathering strength as they ran. That night Saladin posted guards with torches around his tent and sprinkled ashes before the entrance, after which he lapsed into a troubled sleep. He awoke to find a shadowy figure gliding out of the tent. Now on his bed lay a dagger of the sort Assassins use, a poisoned cake, and a sheet of parchment with mysterious verse. He cried out to the guards, who swore they had seen nothing. Nor were there any footprints among the ashes. Next morning Saladin hurriedly returned to Damascus.
Such are the Assassins, those who tricked Conrad de Montferrat by offering him a letter to read, tumbled him bloody and dying on the streets of Tyre.
Those not witness to events have devised an egregious lie. They claim the marquis was brought into the presence of Saladin with hands roped behind his back, for Saladin wished to meet this famous lord. Ah! Marquis! Marquis! Saladin cried softly. Where are those thousand knights you would bring against me? By Mahomet, has not your covetous nature betrayed you? If not, you shall have your stomach full this day! Whereupon he ordered molten gold and silver poured down Conrad’s throat.
Such tales are false. Assassins took his life by order of the Old Man on the twenty-eighth day of April in our year of grace 1192.
Conrad was by all accounts a mighty man of war. And it may be argued that he proved himself no less so among the ladies, for when he married Isabella he had already two wives, both young and fair. One at Constantinople, the second in his native country, which was Piedmont. Nonetheless, defying God and reason, Bishop Milo married him to Isabella. Much did the archbishop of Canterbury murmur at this espousal, at threefold adultery, pronouncing the sentence of excommunication. Also, the pontiff at Rome disapproved. Many questioned if the Lord were present at such a wedding. I have heard that Conrad tampered with clerics by way of specious argument and gifts, sounding the effect of largesse, which happens enough. We, too, have seen the corrupt empowered.
Anon this steward of God’s ministry, Bishop Milo, journeyed to Assisi where Saint Francis was born. While he was there some affliction lifted a monstrous swelling on his back from rump to shoulder. They say it gaped open as though struck by a cleaver. He lingered five days in agony before giving up the ghost, whereupon those who served him made havoc of all he owned. Thus does it fare with those who slight their calling.
Conrad being untimely dead, the Holy Land felt shaken. Grief superseded joy.
The lords of Tyre thought King Richard’s nephew Henry should marry Isabella. Young Henry did not object
