“I can’t blame my uncle of England!” Henri declared decisively. “Philip betrayed him in every way! He intrigued against him while he was still here with us, and would have put the crown of England on that spider John! You’d know just how ridiculous that idea is if you’d ever met my cousin John!” Henri assured Ibelin. “And while Philip was not to blame for Richard’s capture per se, he offered to pay more than any ransom my grandmother raised to free Richard, for the Holy Roman Emperor to turn Richard over to him! I shudder to think what he would have done to Richard once he had him in his power. Chains would have been the least of it! There are times,” Champagne admitted, “when I am ashamed to be related to Philip Capet. He is a weasel. A man without a shred of honor.”
“I so wanted to like him,” Ibelin reflected. “He was the first of the Western monarchs to come to our aid, and I wanted him to be, well, like Richard of England was.”
Henri snorted. “They couldn’t be more different, could they? I think, sometimes—” Henri cut himself short and his head came up sharply. “What was that? Didn’t you hear it? I think it was the cry of an infant!” Champagne jumped to his feet and rushed to the door to stick his head out. Ibelin waited patiently.
“There it is again!” Champagne exclaimed. “No! Christ! It’s sobbing, wailing!”
Ibelin calmly got to his feet and joined Champagne at the door to the hall, his ears cocked. From here it sounded as if the shouts and screams of pain that had punctuated the entire afternoon had been replaced by the wailing of a woman in grief.
“The child’s dead! Or Isabella herself!” Champagne concluded, his face blanched in horror.
But then another wail pierced the air, clearly an infant crying loudly and indignantly. “Isabella!” Champagne concluded. “She’s died giving birth—”
“I think not,” Ibelin countered, taking Champagne by the arm and guiding him back into the room.
“But if the child’s healthy—and he sounded healthy—why else would they be weeping and lamenting?”
“Did you ever consider the possibility that this child might be a girl?” Ibelin asked.
Champagne looked at him blankly.
“The Dowager Queen gave King Amalric a daughter, and then our first child was also a daughter. Isabella might well take after her.”
“A daughter?” Champagne asked back, still looking rather dazed. “Why would they lament the birth of a daughter? It can’t be that. Something must have gone wrong!”
Ibelin was relieved by Champagne’s response, and suggested, “Let’s go to your wife’s apartments and see what we can find out.”
Champagne nodded, grateful to have company, as the sound of hysterical weeping grew louder the closer they got to the Queen’s chamber. Then suddenly the Dowager Queen was standing in their way, smiling broadly. “I was just coming to see you, my lord,” she addressed Champagne. “Your wife has been safely delivered of a lovely little girl.”
“Is she all right? Is Bella all right? Why is she or someone else crying so piteously? What’s wrong?” Champagne demanded.
Maria Zoë rested her hand reassuringly on Champagne’s arm. “I promise you, my lord, there is no cause for alarm. Bella is only disappointed she did not give you a son. Give us a few moments to clean things up, and then come see her and your daughter. Meanwhile, I will tell Bella that you are very pleased with your little girl. Did you have a name in mind? Bella insisted there was no need, but I’m sure you had more foresight.” There was a hint in those words that Champagne instantly understood. If he showed himself ready with a name, Isabella would believe he was not so disappointed.
“Marguerite,” he told her instantly. “I had a sister Marguerite.”
“It is a lovely name, my lord. We favored it ourselves. I’m sure Isabella will be delighted with it.” She bowed her head slightly and then withdrew, leaving Champagne with her husband.
Maria Zoë and Eschiva left Isabella sleeping contentedly in a fresh, clean bed, with the cradle of little Marguerite in easy reach, and Champagne sitting on her other side holding her hand. Together they found Balian in the hall, and Maria Zoë suggested, “I could use some fresh sea air. What do you say we go down to the harbor? Do you feel up to a little walk, Eschiva?”
Eschiva nodded vigorously. Like Maria Zoë herself, she had had more than enough of the stale, sweat- and blood-drenched air of the birthing chamber. She wanted to clear her head of the sounds and sights as well as the smells. It would all start again too soon, but for now some fresh air and chilled wine would do her good. “We should celebrate little Marguerite’s birth,” she told her aunt and uncle as they left the palace. “At the very least, we ought to light a candle for her and for Isabella. St. Sebastian is not far away,” Eschiva suggested; she had fond memories of this little monastery nestled near the port, because she and Aimery had once enjoyed an unexpected and blissful night together there.
Balian remembered it as the house where Beatrice and Constance’s father had sought refuge and faith, when they were in captivity and he had lost all hope of them ever coming home. He noted, “They serve very good wine and simple but good food.”
“We might as well stay there rather than at the palace,” Maria Zoë concluded; “neither Henri nor Isabella will be entertaining for a bit.”
“I’m agreeable,” Balian assured the women, and turned to give instructions for his squire Georgios to return to the palace for the horses and their luggage, and to tell Beatrice (who was staying with her sister) where to find them in the morning. “Tell her we’ll want to leave no later than terce,” Maria Zoë added. Georgios nodded and departed.
They agreed to walk along the harbor front first, enjoying the cooling breeze off the water and a spectacular sunset that turned the horizon a vivid orange. The port, as always, was bustling with ships loading and offloading, street vendors catering to the newly arrived sailors desperate for fresh fruits and women, and customs officials and shipping agents intent on getting their due. With the truce now eighteen months old, trade had built up steadily. Furthermore, with fewer ports in Frankish hands, more trade passed through Acre than ever before. Although ships from the Italian communes—Pisa, Venice, and Genoa—dominated the harbor, there were a pair of Egyptian coastal dhows offloading on the backside of the mole, and a large buss hailing from Marseilles hogging much of the main quay, while a Sicilian round ship was demanding access through the chain. All these larger ships almost obscured a low-lying galley, but Ibelin spotted and recognized the Norse snecka. “Look, isn’t that the Storm Bird?” He pointed.
The ship was painted black with red trim. She sat low to the water and boasted twenty banks of oars. She stood out from the other galleys because she carried a large square sail rather than the more popular lateen rigs of the Mediterranean. Furthermore, the bird on her raised prow—with spread wings, open beak, and blood-red eyes—was familiar.
“It does look like her,” Maria Zoë agreed, following her husband’s finger. “I thought Master Magnussen had left the Holy Land for good.”
“That’s what he said, but unless he’s dead or has sold the Storm Bird, he must have changed his mind.”
The trio changed direction and headed over to the snecka, which seven years earlier had been the first ship to successfully run the Saracen blockade of Tyre, bringing a shipload of Norsemen eager to regain the Holy Land. The captain and Ibelin had worked closely together thereafter. Ibelin regularly used the ship when the land route was impassable or too slow.
The Norse ship lay neatly tied up at the quay, but there was no sign of her captain, or indeed any of the crew except an unfamiliar boy. Ibelin asked the latter when the ship had arrived and from where.
“We left Limassol last night,” the boy readily told them.
“Do you know where Master Magnussen is?” Ibelin asked next, but the boy only shook his head.
“Let’s go back to St. Sebastian,” Eschiva suggested; “you can send Georgios to ask after Magnussen later.”
; Her companions agreed, and they retraced their steps to the little monastery, knocking at the door with the brass ring hanging from a lion’s head.
The brother that opened for them looked astonished. “My lord d’Ibelin!” he recognized Balian at once. “How did you get word so soon? We hadn’t even—”
Beyond him in the courtyard there was a bustle of activity punctuated by the barking of a dog. “That’s John’s dog!” Maria Zoë exclaimed, recognizing Barry. “John must be back again!”
Eschiva pushed through the door that the monk was holding open for them, asking even as she searched the courtyard with her own eyes, “And my lord husband, Lord Aimery de Lusignan? Is he—Aimery!” She started running forward as fast as her heavy, unbalanced body allowed.
Aimery had been bending over going through one of his saddlebags when he heard the sound of his wife’s voice. He straightened and spun about to face her.
Eschiva was halfway to him when she registered his face, and her steps faltered. There was no answering smile, no open arms. Her husband looked like he had turned to stone, a middle-aged man with deep lines in his face and gray in his hair. “Aimery?” Eschiva asked, frightened. “Aimery? What is it?”
Aimery turned his back on her and plunged into the shadow of the church porch. Eschiva gave a cry of pain, and her knees started to give way under her. Aimery had rejected her. He was discarding her, just as her father had discarded her mother. He was—Eschiva felt dizzy with confusion and hurt, and Maria Zoë only barely caught her elbow in time to stop her from crumpling up onto the stones.
But on her other side and coming from the other direction, John bounded forward to embrace his father, flushed and breathless. Then he stood back to announce, “Guy’s dead! He’s been sick for over a year, but he tried to hide it. His insides rotted. He was in terrible pain toward the end, and then even the opium didn’t help anymore.”
“But what are you doing here?” Balian asked frowning. “If Guy’s dead, Aimery—”
“That’s just it! On his deathbed, Guy named his brother Geoffrey his heir!”
“Holy Mother of God!” Maria Zoë gasped, tightening her hold on Eschiva, who was swaying in her distress.
Her husband was more explicit. “Idiot. Absolute idiot! Right to his dying breath: an idiot! Not to mention a thankless bastard.”
“Lord Aimery couldn’t bear to stay a moment longer,” John explained breathlessly. “I hardly had time to pack our things, and we headed for the coast. And you wouldn’t believe it! Just as we reached Larnaka, we spotted the Storm Bird lying alongside. I jumped on board and told Master Magnussen what had happened. He didn’t even bat an eye. He just ordered his men to lay down a plank for our horses and then put out to sea again. He hasn’t changed at all,” John added in obvious enthusiasm. For John, the excitement of all that had happened in the last forty-eight hours still obscured the implications.
Balian clapped a hand on John’s shoulder, both in pride and to calm him down a bit. His eyes had already shifted to the darkness of the church porch where Aimery had disappeared, but his expression was impenetrable.
“I must go to him,” Eschiva said at last, pulling herself together.
Maria Zoë nodded, but also tightened her hold around Eschiva’s waist and started forward with her.
“We were on our way to Caymont,” John continued explaining to his father behind them. “We had no idea you were in Acre. Is the High Court in session?”
“No, Isabella just gave birth. She sent for your mother,” Balian answered his son.
“Is Bella all right?” John asked anxiously.
“Yes, she’s fine. She had a second little girl.”
“Oh!” John sounded more disappointed than the father had been. “But we need an heir for Jerusalem.”
“There’s plenty of time for that,” Balian answered.
Ahead of him, the two women disappeared into the church. As their eyes adjusted, Eschiva registered that Aimery was not in the church, but that the door opening to the cloisters was open. She nodded in that direction, and they crossed the church to step down a couple of steps into the arcade of the cloister. Here Eschiva’s eyes found Aimery. He was on a stone bench with his head in his hands. She nodded to Maria Zoë. “I’ll be fine. Let me go on alone.”
Maria Zoë reluctantly let her go, and stood watching as Eschiva bravely made her way around the cloisters to the bench, sat down beside her broken husband, and put an arm over his shoulders.
Aimery gasped out without even lifting his head: “I’ve failed you, Eschiva. You and the children. I’ve failed completely. I have absolutely nothing. Our child,” he glanced at her distended belly, “conceived in so much hope, will be born in poverty.”
Eschiva didn’t have an answer. All she could do was hold him closer to her. Just as long as he wasn’t divorcing her, she kept thinking, just as long as he wasn’t setting her aside, turning her out like her father had discarded her mother. “We are still together, Aimery,” she squeaked out, so shaken by the way he’d turned his back on her that it came out more like a question.
Aimery sat up straighter and looked into her frightened face. “Eschiva? I’m sorry!” He opened his arms and pulled her into them, clinging to her as much for his own comfort as for hers.
At the far side of the cloisters, John and Balian joined Maria Zoë. Balian waited respectfully for Aimery and Eschiva to finish kissing, but then he started to make his way toward them.
“Balian.” Maria Zoë reached out a hand to stop him, thinking that Aimery and Eschiva needed a little more time.
Already the sound of Balian’s boots on the flagstones had caught Aimery’s attention, and he drew back and sat up straighter. His entire body and face were taut with wary anticipation.
John and Maria Zoë fell in behind Balian, sensing that he must have something important to say.
Balian came to a stop in front of Aimery and Eschiva, and the older man looked up at him grimly, unsure what he should say. Part of him wanted to blame Ibelin for sending him to Cyprus in the first place. He should have stayed and defended his innocence before the High Court. He should never have resigned as Constable. He should—
“Look, Aimery, your idiot brother may have named Geoffrey his heir, but I wouldn’t bet on his chances of ever claiming that inheritance.”
“Why not?” Aimery snapped back, frowning. “What do you mean?”
“Do you honestly think that the men who have spent the better part of two years fighting to gain control of Cyprus are about to relinquish their gains—or claims—to someone who hasn’t been risking his hide with them? My nephew Henri, you can be damned sure, wouldn’t dream of such a thing, not even in a nightmare.”
Aimery’s eyes narrowed, and he slowly withdrew his arm from Eschiva to sit tensely focused on Ibelin. “What are you saying?”
“How many times in the history of this Kingdom have men from the West been the ‘rightful’ heir, only to lose out to men already here? The precedent was set from the very start with the election of Baldwin I. Now is no different. My nephew, Toron, Cheneché, Bethsan, even Barlais—they know you, they trust you, and they respect you. If you want them to recognize you as Guy’s heir, do what Guy, in his stubborn idiocy, wouldn’t do: give them each enough land so they can feel richly rewarded, and keep enough for yourself to win new vassals. This city and Tyre are flooded with men who have lost everything. If you promise them something, anything, just a foothold, they will flood to your banner. They will practically swim across to Cyprus for the chance of a new beginning.” Maria Zoë found herself wondering if her husband was speaking of himself.
Balian continued, “You’ve been a loyal brother, Aimery. Again and again. You backed Guy against your better judgment. You stayed by him on the Horns of Hattin, when you could have broken out with Tripoli or me. You went into captivity with him. You joined him at the siege of Acre. You supported him against Montferrat. And what did he ever give you in return? Nothing. Not one miserable thin
g. Why, in the name of our ever-loving Christ, should you respect his last wishes?”
“You sincerely think your nephew would back me?”
“For a barony? Henri would back John’s dog!”
Suddenly they were all laughing, and although Aimery growled, “I’m not sure that’s much of a compliment,” his shoulders had squared, and Eschiva could feel the energy surging through his muscles again.
“Let’s discuss this over dinner and wine,” Maria Zoë suggested practically, with an eye on Eschiva.
The little monastery of St. Sebastian only had two guest chambers and most guests took their meals with the brothers in the refectory, but Ibelin asked for wine and food to be brought to his chamber, and John lugged the small table and both chairs from Aimery and Eschiva’s chamber to his father’s, then pulled up a chest for himself. The decision, however, had been made in the cloisters; all that remained was to discuss was details. Georgios quickly sent back to the Storm Bird to bring Magnussen as soon as he appeared, and Ibelin had the monks bring them papyrus, so Aimery and John could give him a better picture of the island, the situation, and what was at stake.
“There’s a very long, narrow peninsula that extends to the east at the end of the Pentadaktylos range. Then along the south coast are three large bays, each with a small port: Famagusta furthest east, then Larnaka, and finally Limassol—the only port that can be called anything more than a fishing village. The west of the island curves around to the north, with a small but ancient town facing due west, Paphos. Then there’s a fairly sharp peninsula and two bays that face northwest, but are practically uninhabited because of the Troodos mountain range that sits here.” Aimery thumped his hand over the western third of his self-drawn map.
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