John had a hard time sleeping. He kept going over in his head all the arguments for at least meeting with Father Andronikos again. If the priest failed to deliver men that the Hospitallers could identify as part of the mob, they could still opt for retribution, John thought. He was acutely conscious that the lives—or at least the welfare—of many souls depended on what he did or said. He wished he could have turned this over to his father and let his father do the talking from now on. He was certain that his father could have talked Guy into negotiating; John was not so certain about his own or Lord Aimery’s ability to do the same.
Since he wasn’t sleeping anyway, John rose early, washed and dressed, and then took a brush to Lord Aimery’s suede boots and even scrubbed his chain mail. By the time Lord Aimery finally woke up, everything was waiting for him. After helping him dress, John went out for fresh bread, while Lord Aimery got a shave from the khan barber. Fortified with breakfast, they at last crossed the street to the royal palace. They were admitted immediately by the guards and proceeded to Guy’s apartments, only to find Dick de Camville guarding the door to the inner chamber against a room full of audience-seekers. Humphrey de Toron was here, as were both the elder and younger Cheneché, Bethsan, Barlais, and the Venetian bailli.
“Well, if it isn’t Lord Aimery!” Cheneché called out as they stopped just inside the door, both surprised and irritated by the sight of the others. “Let’s see if he’ll see you. He hasn’t been willing to see any of us for days.”
“Why is that?”
Cheneché shrugged eloquently, and Bethsan grumbled, “If we knew the answer to that, we probably wouldn’t be here.”
Lord Aimery turned to his brother’s squire. “Tell my brother I’m here,” he ordered.
“Yes, my lord.” Dick bobbed his head respectfully and disappeared through the door between the outer and inner chambers.
Toron left the window seat and came across the room to speak to John in a low voice. “Did you find out anything about the attack on Kolossi?”
“Yes, we were able to talk to the victims, and I found a priest who said he’d deliver the perpetrators if we promised not to take action against the innocent.” John spoke in an excited rush, but with his voice pitched so only Toron could hear him.
Toron looked startled at his news, but pleased, too. He smiled faintly and seemed on the brink of asking something when Dick returned and announced, “He’ll see you, my lord.”
“What?” Cheneché sat up sharply and exchanged a startled look with his son, while the Venetian looked outright offended.
Lord Aimery strode between them with John clinging to his heels, much as Barry clung to his most of the time, but Dick shook his head at John. “He said his brother. Just his brother.”
Deflated, John stopped in his tracks and watched as Lord Aimery disappeared into the room beyond. Dick closed the door firmly behind him and resumed his guard-dog stance.
Beyond the door, Aimery found himself facing his brother Guy. His first thought was that Guy was looking worse than ever. He’d lost weight, and the skin of his face and neck sagged like an old man’s. His eyes were sunken in sockets lined with blue. “Well?” Guy asked anxiously. “What did you find out?”
Aimery was taken aback by his brother’s intense interest in this case. After all, it wasn’t the first time the rebels had attacked. Then again, it was the first instance of violence on the south coast, and also the first time the insurgents had struck at one of the militant orders rather than just merchants and isolated knights. Glad of his brother’s interest, Aimery responded readily, “We were able to talk with the Hospitallers, and John spoke to some of the locals as well. The men behind the attack first lured the Hospitaller knights away with a decoy, a request for assistance from a Venetian ship, and attacked at dusk after the workers had left the factories. They looted and—”
“But who were they?” Guy interrupted him anxiously. “And where are they now? They all got away, didn’t they? They could be anywhere! Anywhere! Even here in Nicosia! Indeed, right here in this palace!” Guy’s eyes were burning with fear—no, Aimery revised his assessment, with sheer panic.
He tried to counter the panic with a dismissive, “Of course they’re not here in the palace!”
“YOU ALWAYS THINK YOU KNOW BEST!” Guy shouted, springing to his feet. His voice was so loud and furious that Aimery drew back slightly.
“Guy, calm down,” Aimery urged in a soft voice to get his brother to lower his. Guy glared at him, breathing hard, the panic still in his unsettled eyes. “Listen to me,” Aimery continued as calmly as possible, although his pulse was racing at the obvious irrationality of his brother’s reaction. His mind was racing, too, trying to figure out what had so unnerved Guy that he would be in a state of panic about this comparatively minor incident. “Listen to me,” Aimery repeated, as Guy’s eyes darted around the room as if expecting assassins to spring out from behind the furnishings. “The leader of the mob was a young Greek monk.”
“A monk? You mean we can’t even trust their monks? Where are we? Are we both dead and in hell? Does the devil have monks in his service?” Guy asked the question as if he seriously meant it.
“You’re not dead, Guy, and I seriously doubt the devil has monks, but evil men have been known to wear clerical robes often enough. The point is: there are no Greek monks here. You’re perfectly safe. You’re well guarded. As I was saying, these men first lured the knights away from Kolossi. They are afraid to fight us face to face.”
“All the more reason that they will send an assassin!” Guy answered, spinning around as if he had heard something behind him. “Or poison! They could use poison!”
“Guy, listen to me,” Aimery tried again. “There’s nothing to fear. These are cowardly rabble-rousers, not assassins. They tied a helpless priest to a mule. They aren’t going to attack you. They wouldn’t dare.”
“How can you be so sure?” Guy countered sharply, his eyes narrowing. “You always think you know best, but you told me to come here. You told me Cyprus was beautiful—and bountiful. You lied to me, Aimery.”
Aimery gazed at his brother, speechless: it was true, he had urged Guy to come. He had indeed called Cyprus beautiful and bountiful. He still thought it was, but what did his brother know of it, since he hardly ever left these rooms? And slowly, day by day, it was going up in smoke, slipping from their fingers.
“Leave me,” Guy ordered abruptly, sinking down into a chair, his shoulders sagging.
“Don’t you want—”
“No, it doesn’t matter,” Guy declared as if he were talking about a spilt glass of wine. He wiggled his fingers in a belittling gesture for Aimery to go. “I know you lied, but I suppose you meant well. It doesn’t matter anymore. Leave me. I’m tired.”
“Do you wish to speak to any of the others?” Aimery asked as he withdrew toward the door.
“What others?” Guy asked listlessly.
Aimery looked sideways at the door and then back at his brother. “There’s an anteroom full of men waiting to see you, Guy. The Chenechés, Barlais, Toron, Bethsan, the bailli—”
“Oh, them. Yes. I’d forgotten. No. I don’t want to see them. Just leave me alone. No! Send Dick in. I need to see the boy!”
“All right, Guy. I’ll send Dick in to you,” Aimery answered evenly. Then he turned and exited the chamber with a rising sense of panic—not because his brother’s panic was contagious, but because his brother appeared to be going mad.
“My lord?” Dick asked as the door clunked shut behind him, dampening the sound of the others as they pounced on Aimery to ask what had happened. Guy beckoned his squire closer, and Dick approached warily. In the last few months Guy had struck him more than once, always without warning—much less cause. As a result, he treated his lord with the same caution he would use with a bull or a mean-tempered horse.
Only when Dick was directly beside him did Guy speak in a whisper. “I’m out of medicine. I need more. Go at once.”
> “But the doctor said—”
Guy lashed out. Despite his deteriorating health, he had been a fighting man for thirty years, and his balled fist could still deliver a substantial blow. He also knew where to aim, and his punch landed firmly in Dick’s gut. The squire doubled over in pain, and Guy hissed at him. “Don’t talk back to me, you miserable milksop! I said I need more medicine! Get it now or I’ll have you flogged for your rudeness!”
Biting down on his lip and trying to hold back tears of pain and indignation, Dick turned away. He did not right himself until he reached the door. There he took a moment to collect himself, pulled the door open, and slipped out.
Chapter Eight
Disinherited
Acre, Kingdom of Jerusalem
June 1194
“IS MY MOTHER HERE YET?” THE Queen asked breathlessly as the contraction eased.
At once one of her women ordered another to go and see if there was any sign of the Dowager Queen, while another patted the Queen’s arm and told her to relax.
“How can I relax?” Isabella shot back irritably, and then gave a cry of pain as the next contraction overwhelmed her.
“Everything’s fine,” the midwife assured her with professional calm from her position squatting in front of the birthing stool and looking up the Queen’s skirts.
“Why doesn’t the baby come?” Isabella wailed back at her. She’d been in labor for what seemed like eternity. She was exhausted, drenched in sweat, stinking, and miserable, and the spasms of excruciating pain would not end until it was over. She was sure it had not hurt this much or lasted this long when she gave birth to little Maria. For a son, of course, it would be worth it. She so wanted to give Henri a son, an heir, the start of the Champagne dynasty on the throne of Jerusalem, but first she had to survive this ordeal and the baby had to be born alive, and—the pain obliterated all thoughts as she screamed.
In the courtyard, Maria Zoë and Balian looked up toward the window from which the scream escaped, a long, distant wail that seemed frail and weak by the time it drifted down to them. Eschiva put their thoughts into words. “Poor Bella!” she exclaimed, and at once began to clamber down from the horse litter without waiting for assistance from anyone. Eschiva was herself seven months pregnant, and Maria Zoë had tried to dissuade her from making the trip from Caymont at all. Eschiva, however, insisted, because she remembered how emotionally fragile Isabella had been at her last lying-in.
“I’ll see if I can find Champagne,” Balian told his wife. “I expect he’s suffering nearly as much as Bella is, and he’ll either want distraction or be ready to kill anyone who comes near him. If he’s in the latter mood, I’ll retreat to the hall.”
“What were you like in these circumstances?” Maria Zoë asked curiously.
“I generally wanted to kill someone.”
“Charming.”
“Just concern for you, my love.” He bent and brushed his lips to her forehead.
Maria Zoë, trailed by Eschiva and Beatrice, made her way up the stairs and through the familiar corridors of the palace of Acre to the royal apartments. She had occupied these herself as Queen of Jerusalem twenty years ago. Isabella had herself been born in the very chamber where she now labored.
As they approached the Queen’s apartments, Beatrice’s sister came out, and catching sight of her sister, ran forward to embrace her. “I was hoping you’d come!” Constance exclaimed. “I’m having such a terrible time with Anne. You have to talk to her. Maybe she’ll listen to you.” Constance, like Beatrice, had been in Saracen captivity for five years, and her daughter Anne had been circumcised and sold to a man she abhorred at the age of eleven. The scars left on her body and psyche had been evident the moment she was freed.
“Of course I’ll talk to her,” Beatrice assured her sister. While Eschiva and Maria Zoë continued to the birthing chamber, the Auber sisters slipped down the corridor to have a private chat and reunion.
Isabella lifted her head at the sound of the door opening. Seeing her mother, she exclaimed in a voice that expressed both relief and exasperation, “Mama! What took you so long?”
Maria Zoë went to her daughter and took her hand from one of her waiting women, who at once withdrew. She smiled down at her eldest daughter. “So, you held back just so I could be here, did you?”
Isabella started to protest, and then realized her mother was teasing her and didn’t know how to react. Her mother took advantage of her confusion to continue, “We took longer to get here because Eschiva wanted to come, too, and couldn’t ride in her condition. I hope you appreciate Eschiva coming all this way in her condition to be with you. Your stepfather and I tried to dissuade her—”
Isabella’s eyes shifted to Eschiva as she exclaimed, “Oh, I am grateful, Eschiva! I can’t say how grateful I am. I swear I’ll be with you when your time comes, no matter what.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise, Bella,” Eschiva told her with a smile, moving around the midwife to take her other hand, which she squeezed as she looked sympathetically down at her childhood friend. Although her tone was light, Eschiva knew she was going to need all the support she could get when her time came. Much as she wanted more children, she still had a deathly fear of childbirth.
“Now that that’s settled,” Maria Zoë continued matter-of-factly, “tell me what names you’ve selected,” she ordered her daughter. “Henri, I presume, if it’s a boy, but what does your lord husband want to name a daughter?”
“Oh, I told him not to worry about that. I assured him it was going to be a boy,” Isabella declared.
“Hmm. I’m not sure that was wise, sweetheart, but what’s done is done. I guess we’ll just have to think up something for ourselves—just in case. What names do you recommend, Eschiva?”
The midwife glanced up at the Dowager Queen with a faint smile and shook her head in bemusement. She had been dismissive of the Queen’s demands for her mother, thinking she had enough assistance with four ladies and an experienced midwife such as herself. Now that the Dowager was here, however, she understood: the Dowager distracted Isabella with a sovereignty that could not be dismissed. Queen Maria simply commanded attention, even from another Queen.
The Count of Champagne was actively seeking distraction, with little success. His household knights, bachelors who had come with him from Champagne, tried to interest him in a game of dice, but after only a short interval Champagne threw the dice down and, with uncharacteristic harshness, told them that it was “heartless” to dice while his wife struggled for her life. They took the hint and withdrew.
Next the Chancellor attempted to interest Champagne in the business of his realm, only to realize that Champagne wasn’t listening to a word he said. Rapidly recognizing that any decision Champagne made under the circumstances was likely to be a poor one, the Chancellor Archbishop somberly suggested that Champagne retire to the chapel and pray for the well-being of his wife and child. “Prayers are needed regardless of whether they live or die, after all,” the celibate churchman pointed out with great sincerity.
“Get out of my sight!” the usually soft-spoken count shouted. “Out! Out!” Champagne seemed on the verge of throwing something at him.
The shocked chancellor beat a hasty retreat, leaving all the documents lying on the desk, and feeling most unjustly mistreated. As he scuttled down the hall, he nearly collided with a man coming the other way, and was taken aback to find himself confronted by a tall man in chain mail. The figure looming out of the darkness made him catch his breath, and then a voice assured him, “No need for alarm, my lord archbishop. It’s just me. Ibelin.”
“Praise to the Father and Son! Then your lady wife is also here to be with her daughter?”
“She is. How is my lord of Champagne taking things?”
“Badly,” the archbishop summarized sourly.
Ibelin just laughed. “I’ll brave it.” He continued past the archbishop and knocked while opening the door.
Champagne spun aroun
d with an expression on his face that suggested he was preparing to throw whoever it was out. At the sight of Ibelin, his expression changed to relief. “Thank God! They tell me Isabella has been asking for her mother every few minutes, although for the life of me I can’t think what difference it could make. Your lady could hardly have had her mother with her during the birth of her children, did she? I know my mother didn’t, seeing as my grandmother was very much persona non grata in the house!” Ibelin recognized Champagne’s need to let out his thoughts, so he simply helped himself to a chair, then removed his leather riding gloves and ran a hand through his tangled hair.
“You look very hot and dusty,” Champagne noticed at last. “Shall I send for something?”
“Sherbet would be very welcome. How long has Isabella been in labor?”
“Almost a whole day now. Did your wife take this long?”
“Longer with Helvis, less with John and Meg. Philip was the hardest birth, as I remember. Or maybe it was just the weather. He came in a dreadful storm, and I had nowhere to escape to.”
“So you didn’t stay near?” Champagne asked.
“Near enough, but I admit I was cowardly enough to prefer the stables or the tiltyard to sitting where I could hear every scream.”
Champagne took a breath and then shook his head. “I can’t. I just can’t. I’m terrified that if I’m not within hearing, she might call for me and I wouldn’t be there. At least when she was brought to childbed with little Marie, I could spend the time cursing Montferrat! Now I have no one to blame but myself!”
Ibelin laughed. At moments like this he both liked the young man who was his king and understood why Isabella was head over heels in love with him. With sympathy, he gently kept Champagne talking about things he cared about, first asking after little Marie, and then turning the conversation to the County of Champagne, asking what Henri had heard from his brother. Eventually, as the sun sank down to pour through the windows, they talked about the full-scale war that had broken out between Henri’s two uncles, the Kings of England and France.
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