John sensed that this was a much worse problem than he could handle. Eschiva sounded so afraid of Lord Aimery—and he didn’t understand that, because in his experience Lord Aimery could be caustic, sarcastic, and short-tempered, but never unkind, cruel, or unjust. It didn’t help that Lord Aimery was due by nightfall and the sun was already very low in the sky.
As if reading his thoughts, Eschiva drew a deep breath and sat up straighter. “Find Anne, will you, John? I need to fix myself up for Aimery. And then see if you can explain to someone in the kitchens that we need to make a proper meal. They don’t understand me.” Her frustration was reflected in her voice.
John nodded. “Yes, of course, I can take care of that, but—” John couldn’t just carry on as if Eschiva were fine. She obviously wasn’t; whether it was physical or just in her head didn’t matter.
“Aimery mustn’t know I’m so worried, John,” Eschiva insisted, sensing his hesitation. “Promise you won’t tell him.”
John frowned. He thought Lord Aimery ought to know.
“Please!” Eschiva begged. “I couldn’t bear it if he sent me away!”
John was rescued by the sound of horses, men, and Barry’s barking as he ran joyfully down the corridor to greet his second master; Lord Aimery had just arrived in the street out front. John immediately announced, “I’ll go down to the kitchens and send Anne to you—she’s just out here!” Then he ducked out of the room without making any promises.
John intercepted Aimery on the stairs as he came pounding up them eagerly. Aimery had been more successful than expected, and he looked forward to telling Eschiva all about it.
“My lord!” John put himself in Aimery’s way.
“John, go down and check on the horses; I don’t trust the grooms here. And find out what’s for dinner; I’m starved. Bring some wine back with you.”
“Yes, my lord, but first—”
Aimery had started up the stairs again, and he turned his head to scowl back at his squire.
John stood his ground. “My lord, Lady Eschiva is not well. She asked me to fetch a physician, but she doesn’t want you to know—because, you see, she’s afraid something is wrong with her baby.”
Aimery froze. His breath froze in his chest. All thought froze in his head. He stared at John.
“My lord, I think I should go for my mother. I think it would be better if she were here.”
“Your mother? The Dowager Queen?” Aimery asked, still dazed by John’s blunt announcement. Part of him was thinking: I knew this would happen. I warned her not to come. And part of him was feeling overwhelmed by guilt for not having insisted that she remain in Caymont. Another part was just denying everything, saying she’d been fine when he left ten days ago.
John was still talking, trying to explain his thinking, but it was difficult because it had less to do with thought than instinct. He understood the fear he’d seen in Eschiva’s eyes, and he also knew he couldn’t put what he’d seen into words on a piece of parchment. “I was thinking, my lord,” he stammered out, “that if I went to my mother and told her personally—”
“Look, John, if you want to go home, just tell me! You don’t have to make up excuses!” Aimery snapped, trying to convince himself that John had made up everything about his wife feeling ill as an excuse to go home.
“I don’t want to go home,” John countered, with a stubborn expression Aimery had come to know well in the last eighteen months. “Well, not to stay,” John modified his statement, adding, “I mean it, my lord. I think my mother should come. She speaks Greek. She’s a Comnena. And Eschiva trusts her.”
Aimery looked into his squire’s eyes and saw nothing but sincerity in them. John genuinely cared about Eschiva, and he wasn’t making this up.
“We were going to seek out Richard of Camville next,” John spoke up, trying to anticipate Aimery’s next objection. “You could ask Dick to serve as your squire while I go to Caymont. You could use two squires, anyway, and there’s nothing wrong with Dick.” John defended his friend, knowing that only Guy’s treatment had made him seem so timid.
Aimery nodded absently. He wasn’t worried about himself. He was worried about Eschiva. “Do you really think your mother would come?”
“Yes,” John insisted, knowing he was overstating his own confidence. But his mother loved Eschiva almost as much as she loved her own children. Surely if she knew Eschiva was so afraid . . .
Aimery turned away from John to look up the stairs, and at that moment Eschiva emerged from the shadows of the gallery. She had put on one of her best gowns and a silk scarf the color of coral. It was usually one of her most flattering scarves, but (warned by John) Aimery saw the pallor of her cheeks and the dark circles under her eyes. His heart twisted in his chest. Eschiva had a terror of childbirth. She should not have to face it here among strangers, no matter what she had said to him in Acre a month ago.
Aimery smiled and continued up the steps to take his wife gently in his arms, very conscious of the belly between them. He bent and brushed his lips on her forehead, and then stood back to smile at her. “Thornton’s with us, sweetheart. He agrees the King of England has no more interest in Cyprus. Tomorrow John and I will go to Camville—”
“So soon?” Eschiva seemed to stagger, almost fall.
Aimery caught her firmly. “We must go as soon as possible so Dick can serve me while John goes to Caymont.”
Eschiva looked over at John, bewildered, hurt, and reproachful. “You’re leaving us? But—”
“Only to get my mother,” John assured her. “I’ll bring her back in time to be with you.”
“Tante Marie?” Eschiva’s face brightened at once, “Do you think she’d come, John?”
The hope that lit up Eschiva’s eyes was enough to shatter the last doubts Aimery had about this scheme. If the mere mention of Maria Zoë was enough to bring some color back to Eschiva’s cheeks, then her presence would surely be enough to help her through the coming ordeal. He glanced back at John with a wink and a smile, and John grinned with relief.
Chapter Ten
Call of Kin
Caymont
Early August 1194
MARIA ZOË’S DREAM TURNED ABRUPTLY ALARMING. The banal, wandering plot, having something to do with planting carob trees that were yielding figs, suddenly became threatening. An ill-defined “evil” was trying to climb over the wall of her garden, causing the dogs to crawl away on their bellies rather than bark. A bloody hand took hold of the top of the wall—
Maria Zoë shook herself awake so sharply that she almost woke Balian. Then she lay in the dark, listening to the beating of her heart and trying to calm herself. It was just another nightmare. She’d had many since coming to Caymont. The dead were not at rest. Somewhere, she was certain, the remains of Christians still lay in unconsecrated ground. Until they were properly buried and Masses could be said for their souls—
She sat bolt upright in bed, realizing that she was wide awake and that the barking and shouting were real. “Balian! There’s something going on!”
Balian groaned, stirred, and then tensed, hearing what she had heard. “There’s someone at the gate,” he concluded.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Maria Zoë protested.
Balian, who had been sleeping on his belly, pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed in an easy, fluid motion. Naked, he stepped down from the bed platform and crossed to the window. He opened the shutter and peered out into the night, but could see nothing. This window did not give a clear view of the courtyard gate anyway, but the night was dark. “No torches,” he announced. “I’ll go see what it’s about.” He turned back into the room and started pulling on his shirt and braies.
Maria Zoë slipped out of bed. Unlike her husband, she did not sleep naked. In her nightgown she went to the door and, opening it, called into the anteroom to her husband’s squire. “Georgios! Come help my lord dress.”
Georgios dutifully roused himself from his st
raw pallet and stumbled into the chamber to help Balian into his hose and gambeson. He hadn’t quite finished before a loud pounding at the outer door interrupted them. An excited voice shouted through the wood: “My lord! Lord John is here!”
“John?” Maria Zoë asked, and crossed the anteroom with hurried steps to open the outer door herself.
A young sergeant stood on the landing. He hadn’t expected to be confronted by the Dowager Queen of Jerusalem wearing nothing but her nightgown, and he flushed in embarrassment as he stammered, “Uh, yes, my lady, Lord John is here.”
Balian came up behind his wife, buckling on his sword. “Alone?”
The sergeant gratefully directed his gaze at his lord. “Except for his dog and his lame horse. He said something about being thrown. . . .”
“I wasn’t thrown,” John’s voice protested out of the darkness of the stairwell. “Centurion shied and landed on uneven ground. He lost his footing, and we both went down.” With a nod to his lord and lady, the sergeant made way for the heir of the house. John emerged, limping. His parents backed up into the chamber, taking in the caked mud on his shoulder, hip, and down the side of his leg. The side of his face was bruised, too, and his hose badly torn and bloody at the knee. “I would have made it before sundown if that hadn’t happened, but Centurion came up so lame I couldn’t ride. I think he’s torn a tendon, or maybe it’s a twisted pastern. He won’t put any weight on his right foreleg—”
“We’ll look after Centurion in due time,” his father interrupted. “First, sit down and tell us what you’re doing here.” He took hold of his son’s arm and pulled him into the anteroom, guiding him toward one of the chests.
Maria Zoë sent Georgios for water and vinegar to wash John up, while John continued talking about the accident. “Everything had gone so well until then,” he explained, as if someone were accusing him of being irresponsible. “I didn’t even get cheated by the Genoese, because Haakon told me what to watch for, and what the going rates for passage are. The Genoese galley couldn’t sail anywhere near as close to the wind as the Storm Bird,” he added, showing off his newly learned seamanship, “but we still would have made Acre in two days if we hadn’t been forced to run from a Pisan corsair that hove into sight just ten nautical miles off Bodrum. We ran before the wind to get away from her, and had to beat back to windward after we’d shaken her off. It was quite rough, too. I think Centurion didn’t have his land legs yet. I mean, it’s not like him—”
“John.” His father’s voice was soft, but firm and commanding. “Why are you here?”
Rather than answering his father, John turned to look at his mother. “It’s because of Eschiva,” he said earnestly. “She’s—she’s frightened. The doctor said everything was all right, but she—she just doesn’t trust him. Or, I don’t mean she doesn’t trust him, it’s just that she’s alone, among strangers.” The words were tumbling out in an excited rush. “Lord Aimery and I have been away a lot. We had to go to all the Frankish lords to put our case to them” (his mother noted that he called it “our” case, identifying with Aimery de Lusignan), “and they are scattered across the island. Eschiva was alone—you can’t count Anne. She’s more frightened than a sparrow and hardly ever says a word. Sometimes I get the feeling she’s not right in the head.” Maria Zoë sometimes had that feeling, too, but who could blame her after what she’d been through? She nodded.
John continued. “But no matter what the doctor says, Eschiva’s convinced there’s something wrong with the child, and—”
“Did she say what exactly?” his mother interrupted him.
John shrugged uncomfortably. “No, not really. Something about the baby not kicking enough, I think. But that’s not the point”—his mother raised her eyebrows, but he didn’t notice and forged ahead breathlessly—“it’s just that she’s frightened. I don’t think it’s anything specific. She’s just, you know, frightened. It’s all so strange. The doctor recommended a midwife, but the woman’s French is terrible. I tried to get one of the Italian women to come, but most of the Italians leave their wives in their home cities. Or, I guess, they used to have them with them, at least some of the time, but because of the growing unrest they’ve sent them home. They don’t feel safe anymore, they say, and—”
“We can talk about that later,” his father interceded again, with a glance at his wife. “Right now we need to hear more about Eschiva.”
John took a deep breath. “There’s really nothing more to tell, except that she’s having these dizzy spells and doesn’t feel well, and nobody speaks French, you see, so she can’t talk to anyone. I’m not sure there’s anything really wrong, but she’s lonely and frightened, and . . . ” John hesitated, but then continued with the utter sincerity of youth, “She couldn’t bring herself to say it, Mama, but she desperately wants you to come and be with her when her time comes. She’s ashamed to ask, because she insisted on going to Cyprus in the first place. Lord Aimery wanted her to stay until she was safely delivered, but she wanted to be with him, and now she’s ashamed to admit she made a mistake. She didn’t ask me to come get you, but when I said I would—you should have seen her face! She was so relieved, Mama. She needs you to be with her—more than Isabella ever did.” John put all his heart into his case, the images of Eschiva still vivid in his mind’s eye.
Before his mother could answer, Georgios returned with a large pitcher of water, a bottle of vinegar, and gauze. Maria Zoë thanked him and told her son to take off his hose so she could get a look at his knee.
“I’ll go check on Centurion,” Balian announced, hauling himself to his feet and leaving his wife to look to his son’s injuries.
John’s knee was scraped, cut, and badly swollen. After washing as much of the dirt and sand out of it as possible, Maria Zoë started to apply the vinegar to clean it more deeply, but John’s yelps and squirms induced her to send Georgios for wine, which she could lace with a pinch of ground henbane.
By the time John had been sedated, his wounds cleaned and bandaged, and he had been put to bed, the dawn was breaking. There was no point in going back to her own bed; Maria Zoë knew she would not be able to sleep. Not wanting to wake Beatrice so early, she sponged herself down with some of the water brought for John, changed into a day gown, re-braided her hair, and covered it with a pale-blue silk scarf. Then she took a shawl against the morning chill, and made her way down to the rooftop terrace to await the sunrise.
It was here Balian found her, facing east as the sun rose over the distant mountains and flooded the valley with a pale, hazy light. He came up behind her, and before he could speak she turned to tell him she must go to Eschiva.
She didn’t get a word out. He put his finger to her lips, and asked her instead, “Do you remember when I came to you in Jerusalem? The Patriarch, the burgesses, the sisters of St. Anne, the brothers of the Hospital, the common people in the streets, Syrian, Armenian, and Frank alike—they all expected me to stay. But defense was futile, so staying meant condemning us all to death. Or so I thought at the time. I went to the Holy Sepulcher, down into the tomb itself, and I lay there beside where our Savior’s corpse had been stretched out after his crucifixion. I tried not to think at all. I emptied my mind of all thought and will. And after a time, I don’t know how long, I knew I had to stay even if it was futile.
“We now know that it wasn’t futile—that God had a plan—but at the time I could not know that. I dreaded telling you that I had chosen to sacrifice you and our four little children to something I could not even define. Was it duty? Was it symbolism? Was it the will of God? I just knew I had to stay—but didn’t have the words to explain myself.
“But I didn’t have to, because you understood. You didn’t even ask for an explanation. All you said was: ‘I know.’” He paused, remembering that moment seven years earlier, savoring the memory. Then he continued, “Well, I know now, too. You have to go to Eschiva. Sooner rather than later; the fall storms could start any day. The only thing I’m unsure a
bout is whether I should let you go alone or come with you.”
“Would you?” Maria Zoë looked up at him so hopefully that it made him laugh.
“You want me to come?”
“Yes, I do! Don’t tell John, but I don’t entirely feel he’s a match for pirates, assassins, or thieves just yet. But mostly, I just hate being separated. I’ve become accustomed to having you around me these last two years. I like it. But can you leave things here?” she asked anxiously.
“I will need to make arrangements, and they will delay your departure.”
“How much?”
“Two to three days.”
“That’s nothing,” she exclaimed with relief, adding happily, “John’s in no state to ride today or tomorrow as it is. Besides, I don’t think Eschiva is due for another three to four weeks. We should still be able to make it in good time. Didn’t John say he made the crossing with Magnussen in under twenty-four hours?” She was excited, pleased to think she could go to Eschiva without being separated from Balian. After a moment, however, she paused her racing thoughts, cocked her head, and asked, “Why do you want to come? It’s not just to be with me, is it?”
He laughed, bent and kissed her, and then admitted, “No, not entirely. I’m curious. First Aimery and now John have fallen in love with the place. And . . . ” his voice faded out.
“What?”
He took a deep breath and looked out from the terrace across the walled garden to the paddocks beyond. They were brown and barren at this time of year, places where the horses could move freely and get fresh air but not graze. Beyond them the domain fields started, plowed but not planted, waiting for the first rains. His eyes swept north toward the river, the sugar-cane fields, and the mill amid its cluster of low, plaster-covered houses, and he sighed. Rather than putting his feelings into words, he asked, “Are you happy here? Does it feel like home?”
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