The Last Crusader Kingdom

by Helena P. Schrader

  “I don’t take orders from you, Gauvain!” John bristled. “I’ll—”

  “Sir Gauvain, to you!” the younger Cheneché snarled, cuffing John for good measure. “Now get moving before I teach you your manners!”

  “Manners you obviously never learned yourself!” Toron admonished, grabbing the younger Cheneché by the arm and pulling him back. “Do you think raping little girls gives you the right to treat other men the same way the infamous Châtillon did?”

  “Well, at least I’m known for raping girls, not bending my ass for other men!” Cheneché shot back.

  Toron blanched and John gasped.

  “What? Didn’t you know?” Cheneché sneered in John’s direction. “Why do you think your sister dumped Toron at the first opportunity? She wanted a real man in her bed, not a sodomite!”

  “We sent you for refreshments, Gauvain—not to stand about insulting the only baron on the island!” The growl came from the older Cheneché, and at once both Sir Gauvain and John fled in the direction of the kitchens, leaving Humphrey to face the other men alone.

  Stiffly, Humphrey walked into the council chamber overheated by the tempers simmering in the men around him. He wished he could convince himself that they hadn’t all heard what young Sir Gauvain had just said, but in his heart he knew that, whether they’d heard the remark or not, they agreed with it.

  And then his eyes met those of Guy de Lusignan, and he saw profound and unexpected sympathy in the former king’s eyes. Guy, too, had lost the woman he’d loved, and he’d lost the respect of his vassals and his men. Guy de Lusignan knew what it was like to be scorned and despised by one’s peers.

  “It’s good to see you,” Guy greeted Toron verbally, indicating a vacant chair. Guy would never forget that it was Toron’s defection from the High Court to do homage to Sibylla after she’d been crowned without their consent that had prevented the Count of Tripoli and Ibelin from crowning Isabella as a rival queen. It would have come to civil war in 1186 if it hadn’t been for young Toron. Without Toron’s “betrayal” of his wife and father-in-law, Guy knew he might never have been king at all. Guy remembered that, and it was more important to him than whether Humphrey preferred boys to girls. “I need your loyal counsel,” he told Toron with a tired, but sincere, smile.

  Toron smiled back, weary but thankful, and took his place at the table. Ibelin had never forgiven him for betraying the barons in 1186. He even blamed Humphrey for the catastrophe of Hattin, arguing that if Humphrey hadn’t “gone crawling on his belly” to Sibylla and Guy, the barons could have prevented Guy from becoming king. And, so Ibelin’s reasoning went, if Guy had not been king, he would not have led the feudal army to defeat. Another king, Ibelin contended, would have listened to his advisers; another king would not have fallen into Saladin’s trap; another king would not have lost the battle and so would not have lost the Kingdom. . . .

  Humphrey and Guy were both burdened with the guilt for that catastrophe, Humphrey reflected, like two oxen yoked to a plow. They strained together to move forward, but the plow caught in the earth, held back by the bloody mud of a defeat no one could—or should—ever forgive.

  Chapter Five

  Of Beggars and Kings

  Nicosia, Cyprus

  October 1193

  SIX MONTHS ON THE ISLAND HAD dramatically improved John’s command of Greek. A lifetime of classroom lessons, so long stored away in his brain like dusty volumes in a forgotten trunk, had been unlocked by the sounds around him. Growing understanding had slowly been transformed from hesitant into more fluent speech. With the confidence that he could understand what was happening around him (and ask his way if necessary) had also come increasing curiosity about his new world.

  When John realized that just by changing into a different set of clothes he could also blend in with the native population, he had started exploring Nicosia from the ground up—enjoying the utter freedom of anonymity. When John slipped out of the khan in his Greek clothes, he left John d’Ibelin behind, and with him the burden of being the son of the savior of Jerusalem and a paragon of chivalry.

  Not that John transformed himself into something despicable or dishonorable. John had not grown into a taste for loose women and had no natural proclivity to alcoholism. Because he was alone on his adventures, he was also not in a position to be led astray. His only companion was Barry, who clung to him as loyally as a shadow, ever ready to share a meal—or an adventure.

  Today John was looking for firewood. The nights were chilly, and as the frequency of the rain showers increased, the air turned damp as well. The khan provided each resident with an allotment of wood, but it was far too little, in Lord Aimery’s opinion. John wanted to surprise him with a big stack of wood to get them through the next few days. Having no illusions about how much wood he could personally carry, he borrowed a donkey and panniers from the khan and headed toward the outskirts of town where the potters had their kilns. Kilns consume an enormous amount of firewood, and John reckoned he would either encounter one of the suppliers or be able to purchase directly from the kiln enough wood for their modest needs.

  Unfortunately, the potters occupied land northeast of Nicosia, so it was a bit of a hike, and John opted to cut through the cattle market and past the slaughterhouse beyond. It was a good place to find a bone or two for Barry, although he disliked the number of beggars that prowled around on the lookout for edible refuse. As always, the beggars clustered near the stinking bins behind the abattoir, and stray dogs licked the blood seeping out of them. Barry lifted his ears and wagged his tail in anticipation, but John braced himself for the smell and tried to hold his breath as he scanned the fresh heaps of bones for the best pieces. He rapidly chose one, handed it off to Barry, and then took a second for later, stashing it into a sack he had over his shoulder. Then he turned away and put a dozen steps’ distance between himself and the bins before letting out his breath.

  He found his path was blocked by a young beggar with a bad bruise on the side of his face. John had seen him here several times over the last couple of months, but without the bruise. Evidently he’d run into some kind of trouble. Although he was smaller than John, John guessed they were about the same age. Unlike the younger children, who worked as a pack and had to surrender all their earnings to the adults, this youth usually worked alone.

  “I’ve made a collar for the dog,” the beggar announced, holding out a collar made of woven straw with a crude buckle carved from bone. “You can have it for just five obols,” he told John.

  John looked down at Barry. The faithful dog did not need a collar; he followed John everywhere without it. On the other hand, John’s mother had taught him that it was better to reward industry than sloth. She always made a point of offering alms to the working poor, or institutions that cared for those not yet or no longer able to work, rather than beggars. She had warned him never to give to children who begged because, she claimed, they only grew up thinking everyone else owed them their livelihood and became thieves and pickpockets. This boy, however, was clearly trying to earn his keep.

  Seeing his hesitation, the boy pulled another object out of his pocket. “Or what about a comb?” he asked, offering a comb likewise carved from cattle bone. “It will cost you ten obols.”

  “That’s too much,” John protested. The money his father had given him was long since used up (except for the cost of the passage home, still sewn in his boot), and he had to make do with the allowance that Lord Aimery gave him. “Besides,” he added, “I have to get firewood, and I don’t know how much it will cost. Maybe another day.”

  “I’ll help you with the firewood,” the boy offered. “I know a place you can get it cheap.”

  “I was going to the potters,” John explained.

  “They’ll charge you double,” the beggar dismissed the idea. “I know a man who resells wood from damaged structures. There is always some waste he doesn’t care about.”

  John weighed whether or not to trust the youth, and
decided to go ahead. After all, he had Barry with him and his dagger. “OK.”

  The beggar smiled, stuffed the collar and comb back in his pockets, and indicated the way. John fell in beside him with the donkey and Barry trailing. “What’s your name?” he asked the beggar.

  “Lakis. And yours?”

  “Janis. How did you get that bruise?”

  “That bastard Niki tried to take my earnings from me,” Lakis told him bitterly.

  “Did he succeed?”

  “Sort of. I had some coins hidden.”

  “Why do you hang around the slaughterhouse? I’ll bet you could get work somewhere in the city,” John suggested, trying to implement his mother’s policy of encouraging work.

  “Where?” Lakis asked back hopefully.

  John was embarrassed to have to shrug and admit he didn’t know. “Didn’t you learn a trade?” he asked instead.

  “My Dad was a miller,” Lakis declared, his lip a grim line, and he refused to meet John’s eye.

  John understood the use of the past tense, and concluded that something terrible had happened to Lakis’ father. After a few minutes of trudging along in silence, John decided to reopen the conversation by asking, “May I see the collar again?”

  Lakis brightened up at once, and pulled it out of his pocket. John examined it carefully. The straw collar was only crudely woven, uneven, and not very strong, but the buckle was cleverly made. “You’re good with carving,” John told Lakis. “Where did you learn?”

  “After I went to live with my uncle (he’s a butcher in Karpasia), I met this man, a refugee from Jerusalem, who used to collect the bones from behind the butchery so he could carve them into things for sale. He taught me how to make things, but my aunt hated him. She always chased him away whenever she saw him and forbade me from visiting him. She said he was evil, a Musselman.”

  “Had he been a slave?” John asked, suspecting this was one of the released captives trying to start his life over again but tainted by six years in Saracen slavery.

  “Yes,” Lakis admitted. “He’d learned to carve from the Saracens, only they had ivory rather than bone, he said. He spoke Arabic, but he assured me he was a good Christian.” Lakis sounded uncertain.

  “Of course he was,” John defended the unknown man. “Many of our—” John had just been about to say “vassals,” only to realize that would betray that he wasn’t the Greek servant boy he pretended to be.

  “What?” Lakis asked.

  “Nothing. What happened? I mean, did you disobey your aunt and see the man anyway?”

  “Yes, until she caught me and had my uncle beat me. It was terrible, and I hated it there, anyway. I don’t want to be a butcher, and my cousins will inherit anyway, so what’s the point?”

  “You should apprentice to a carver—someone who makes book covers or the like,” John decided enthusiastically, thinking of the magnificent carved ivory cover of one of his mother’s books.

  “Book covers?” Lakis asked in a skeptical tone.

  John suspected he’d given himself away again. “Or combs or whatever,” he added with a dismissive gesture.

  “What’s your trade?” Lakis countered.

  “Me?” John shrugged. “I’m just a servant. How far is it to this place with the firewood?”

  Lakis returned his attention to their goal and led them to a noisy workshop in a back alley, squeezed in behind an iron-worker’s forge and a candlestick maker. In the courtyard, wood had been heaped up in a messy pile. Most of it was charred in places. Much of it was broken and splintered. Large, twisted nails reached out of the beams in awkward places, ready to tear open a man’s hand. Behind the pile of wood were some workbenches and vises where a couple of young men sawed away damaged portions of the wood to rescue the still-sound portions. The good wood was stacked along the far wall by length, while the rubbish landed in a second, smaller heap. Lakis pointed to the latter, and John nodded. Partially charred wood made excellent kindling. “Do you know the proprietor?” John asked Lakis. “Can you ask him what he wants for the wood?”

  Lakis nodded, adding, “Go around the corner. If he sees you with the donkey, he’ll charge you more.”

  John dutifully removed himself and waited until Lakis returned with an armload of wood. He dumped it on the street and went to get more while John loaded the wood into the panniers on the donkey. After Lakis had made five trips, they had all they could load on the donkey, and John asked how much he owed. “Ten obols,” Lakis declared, holding out his hand.

  John suspected the wood was free and that Lakis was simply taking what he’d refused to pay for the comb, but he didn’t mind. He wanted the firewood, not the comb. Having paid Lakis, he turned the donkey around to start back across town to the khan.

  “Where do you live?” Lakis asked.

  “Other side of town,” John answered vaguely.

  “The nice side of town,” Lakis observed.

  John shrugged, and they continued in silence for a few more minutes.

  “Are you sure you don’t want the collar?” Lakis asked a little plaintively. “It’s only five obols.”

  “Maybe another day,” John demurred, and they parted.

  After that, John saw Lakis at various places. He diligently tried to peddle his bone objects—combs, hairpins, buttons, and the like—at the daily markets. He also made a couple of crosses that he tried to sell on the steps of St. Sophia. John always greeted him and they would exchange a nod and a smile, but it wasn’t until the lion tamer came to town that they spoke again.

  The lion tamer had taught two aging lions tricks, and he gave a performance every night on the field where the monthly horse market was held. It cost two obols to get in and was immensely popular; even King Guy went with his brother and household knights. John, however, had been stuck looking after the horses and Barry, who had made a frightful fuss, barking incessantly. So the next day he asked Lord Aimery’s permission to go back on his own. While Lord Aimery agreed in principle, they first had to make a trip to Paphos for King Guy, and by the time they returned to Nicosia, the show had been in town almost a week and the crowds were thinning. John spotted Lakis and waved to him.

  Lakis made his way around to John, and they stood at the railing side by side as if they were old friends.

  “Have you ever seen lions before, Janis?” Lakis asked as they waited.

  John shook his head. “My father said that when he was young there used to be wild lions around, and the old king hunted them sometimes.”

  “The old king?” Lakis asked puzzled. “You mean Isaac Comnenus?”

  John bit his lip; he’d slipped up again. “Yes,” he said to cover his blunder.

  To his surprise, Lakis seemed to believe him. He looked back at the improvised arena and nodded. “The brothers of Antiphonitis say there are still lions up in Trodos. The Romans used to capture them from here for their games in Rome.”

  “Really?” John asked, astonished.

  Lakis looked over his shoulder at his companion with a frown of concentration, “Where are you from, Janis?”

  “Here,” John insisted. “Nicosia.”

  The look that Lakis gave him was full of doubt, but he was rescued by the arrival of the aging and less-than-impressive lions.

  After the show was over, John, being famished as usual, suggested they get a pocket of flatbread stuffed with fatty lamb sold by a street vendor. Lakis shook his head vigorously, and John surmised he wasn’t making much money with his street sales, so he said (somewhat grandiosely), “Oh, this one’s on me,” and pulled out his purse.

  Lakis’ eyes widened a little at the sight of the comfortably bulky purse, but he didn’t say no. By the way he devoured the meal, John concluded that Lakis was a lot hungrier than he was himself. As Lakis finished his meal with a sigh of satisfaction, John took advantage of their now stronger friendship to ask, “What happened to your father, Lakis?”

  “He’s dead,” Lakis answered, his face closing.

&nbs
p; Lakis nodded grimly. “And your mother too? Was it an accident?” John asked, sensing that there was some terrible story behind Lakis’ condition. The son of a miller and nephew of a butcher wasn’t a street urchin by birth.

  “No, they killed them,” Lakis croaked out, that grim expression returning to his face.

  “Who?” John asked innocently.

  “The Franks, of course! Who else? Lusignan’s Wolves! Brie!” Lakis lashed out, and John felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “Don’t you realize what is happening here?” Lakis asked in disbelief. “Where do you think all those charred beams came from? They’re the broken bits of burned-down houses and mills!”

  “They burned your father’s mill?” John asked in horror.

  “With my parents and sisters still inside!” Lakis screamed it out because it had been pent up inside him for too long. Then he turned and ran away into the afternoon crowd. John tried to follow, but Lakis was lost to him.

  John went over in his mind all the things they’d heard from the Pisans and men-at-arms and, indeed, from King Guy himself. John didn’t doubt that what Lakis said was true. His problem was not understanding how his own cousin could be responsible—and not knowing what he could or should do to make it up to Lakis. How do you compensate a youth for his parents? His sisters? His inheritance? His future? Lakis wasn’t like Barry. He couldn’t just be adopted, could he? John looked down at Barry, and hugged him firmly in a gesture really meant for Lakis.

  As he helped Lord Aimery out of his clothes that night and prepared to brush them out and fold them for the next day, John kept stopping, completely distracted by his thoughts.

  “Just spit it out, John! What’s troubling you?”

  John looked up at his lord with a sigh of relief to have been given an invitation. “My lord, I met a boy my own age at the lion show today, and—and,” it spilled out in a rush, “he said his parents had both been burned alive in their own mill by my cousin Henri.”