The Last Crusader Kingdom

by Helena P. Schrader

  Katzouroubis squeezed her hand and smiled at her. “Sometimes, Madame, it is only when we are facing a new crisis that we go back into our inner souls and discover ourselves. Your son, perhaps, blamed you for something?” He raised his eyebrows a fraction, and Beatrice caught her breath. “I’m not saying you were to blame, Madame,” the doctor continued—“in fact, I’m almost certain you weren’t—but is it possible that something you did made him so angry that he hated you? It was surely hate that made him call you the worst name he could think of. All I did was remind him of the essentials: whatever you did, you are still his mother, and every religion in the world calls on children to honor their parents. That is not a monopoly of Christianity. His conversion to Islam in slavery—I presume that’s what it was?” Beatrice nodded. “Could it have been his way of punishing you for not protecting him from that very fate? But you see Islam, too, teaches sons to respect and honor their mothers above all other women. By reminding him of that, I yanked away his crutch—and his weapon. I simply showed him that he cannot use Islam to punish you, because Islam demands that he honor you. Now, try to get some rest, Madame. I’ll come again tomorrow to check up on him.”

  But Beatrice couldn’t possibly rest. What the doctor said made sense, and it filled her with hope. It wasn’t the Mamlukes who had turned Jos against her—or rather, they had succeeded only because he was already filled with fury because she had “let” him be taken from her. She had not wanted to. She had been as helpless as he—but to a six-year-old, who had seen her as all-powerful until then, it must have felt like betrayal or abandonment. And now? She had to rebuild his trust by explaining the reality of her own weakness. For the first time since she had been confronted by Jos’s conversion and hostility, she began to hope that she could win him back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  An Eye for an Eye . . .

  Nicosia

  Late January 1195

  ACROWD HAD GATHERED IN THE street before the palace. Angry voices were raised and fists were being shaken. “What are they shouting?” Dick asked John anxiously. The two squires waited by the gate to admit the knights who pushed their way through the crowd outside.

  “Just crude insults, for the most part,” John answered, more unsettled than he wanted to admit. Although there had been sporadic and localized violence and unrest ever since he’d come to Cyprus, most had occurred in the outlying regions, such as Karpas or the region between Famagusta and Larnaka. The capital had generally remained calm. Certainly, angry crowds had never assembled in front of the palace like this before.

  “What sort of insults?” Dick pressed him.

  “Bastards, cutthroats, godless whoresons, blasphemers—I think.” John fell silent as he peered through the crack in the door to judge the progress of the party of roughly twenty horsemen making their way through the outraged mob.

  The approaching men were all armored, and wore helmets on their heads to cover their faces in shadow if not behind visors; they were and acted immune to the violence around them. The horses, on the other hand, were visibly unnerved. They fretted, shaking their heads, dancing sideways to avoid this or the other loud noise or sudden gesture. Now and again one swung his haunches around and kicked out. That frightened the crowd back for a few moments.

  At last they were close enough for John and Dick to act. With a nod of agreement, they sprang forward to pull open the wings of the gate. At the sight of the yawning opening, the lead riders spurred their mounts forward. The unnerved horses leapt forward, as eager as their riders to escape the mob. In less than a minute, the entire column of knights had clattered into the cobbled courtyard. Dick and John slammed the gate shut and barricaded it against the mob. The latter rushed the gate too late and found themselves pounding on the iron-studded oak, screaming more loudly than ever before.

  The gate secure, the two squires turned their attention to the men who had just arrived. They were jumping down from their sweated and dusty mounts, shoving their helmets up off their red and perspiring faces. They talked among themselves in angry, agitated tones, cursing the crowds and grumbling about orders not to draw their weapons. John and Dick ignored the bulk of them and made for the two leaders: John’s cousin Henri de Brie and Reynald Barlais.

  The men were almost a comedy of contrasts: Barlais short, stocky, and round-faced, Sir Henri tall but with a gaunt face and a nose that fell straight from his forehead like the nose guard of a helmet.

  “We heard Lusignan was back,” Sir Henri tossed in John’s direction as the latter came up beside him to take his horse. Aimery and the Ibelins had spent the Christmas season in Caymont and had only returned to Cyprus two days earlier.

  “Yes, my lord,” John answered respectfully, while his cousin lifted the saddle flap to loosen his horse’s girth.

  “We need to see him right away. Someone else can see to my horse. Take us to him immediately,” Sir Henri ordered, flipping the reins over the horse’s head and handing them off to one of his knights.

  John nodded to Dick, who had hold of Barlais’ horse, and led his cousin and Barlais under the arcade surrounding the courtyard, through a passageway to a walled garden, and from here up an exterior stairway that brought them to a gallery. John’s feet were light on the checkerboard of brown and white tiles, but behind him the boots of his companions pounded heavily and in accidental unison. To John it sounded like an ominous drumbeat.

  At the tall arched door to the anteroom of Aimery’s suite of rooms, John knocked and then entered to announce: “My lords of Karpas and Kyrenia, my lord.” Both titles were self-appropriated by Henri de Brie and Barlais, respectively. No one had formally invested them with the titles—certainly not Aimery—but he had given them the task of establishing “authority” over the respective regions.

  Aimery had been dictating a letter to the Pope, his secretary hunched over a writing pulpit and scratching away furiously with a quill pen to try to keep up with the flood of words—frequently interrupted, corrected, and started over. “Who did you say?” Aimery asked his squire, frowning at the interruption.

  The door was pushed open, and Sir Henri and Barlais surged past and around John to stand before Aimery with their arms akimbo. “Don’t act so surprised!” Barlais growled.

  “You’re right,” Aimery retorted, with a wave in the direction of the windows from which the dull roar of the agitated crowd still seeped into the room. “I should have known you two would be the cause of any riot! What have you done now?”

  “We’ve got the ringleaders,” Sir Henri answered with evident satisfaction.

  Aimery looked surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Sir Henri insisted. “I’d been suspicious for months, but a week ago I finally found a treacherous weasel willing to puke out the whole story for a laughable reward of a herd of sheep—and the grazing rights, of course.”

  Not willing to let Henri de Brie take all the credit, Barlais growled, “I’d had men watching them for weeks. A nest of vipers, that’s what they are. It would have been better to smash their heads with our heels immediately, but Karpas here” (he too used the title that Henri had expropriated for himself, in a tone that seemed to say, “I’ll call you this because you want me to, but don’t think I don’t know you made it up”) “insisted that we arrest them instead. He thought they might be persuaded to identify their friends and allies.”

  Sir Henri smiled. “I did suggest that. You’d be surprised how easy it is to make men squeal—particularly when they aren’t hardened fighting men, but monks—”

  “Monks? You didn’t arrest monks?” Aimery asked, aghast.

  “Of course we did!” Barlais barked back. “We have evidence they are the men behind all the unrest. Everything points to them! Like the spider spins a web, they sat up on their mountaintop at Antiphonitis and cast their web of protest and revolt across the whole island.”

  “Just how many monks did you arrest?” Aimery demanded.

  “Not many,” Henri assured him in a ca
lming tone.

  “Seven and the abbot—he’s the real ringleader, of course,” Barlais added more precisely. “And a slimier snake you could not imagine! All pious pose and poison!” he spat out the last.

  “Arresting monks is not going to make us popular!” Lord Aimery retorted angrily. “No wonder there’s a riot out there!” He gestured again to the window.

  “Who gives a damn about being popular?” Barlais snarled back. “It’s better to be feared than loved! Love is as fickle as a woman. Fear, on the other hand, is what these people understand. It’s how Isaac Comnenus ruled.”

  “And how he lost the island to Richard of England, too! No one was willing to raise a finger in his defense. They all came running to offer the English King their fealty.”

  “We don’t need them to lift a finger to defend us! We can damn well defend ourselves,” Brie retorted. “But with this viperous abbot and his sanctimonious apostles in a dungeon, the attacks against us will soon stop!”

  “It doesn’t sound that way to me.” Aimery nodded again toward the undiminished sounds of men shouting insults and threats.

  “Oh, just give them time. Without their leaders to rile them up, they’ll soon calm down,” Henri assured him confidently.

  “Where have you put them?” Aimery wanted to know.

  “The dungeon at Kyrenia—where it’s dank, dark, and smelly,” Barlais declared smugly. “Lots of rats down there, too, and no windows. It’s under water, actually. If they try to dig their way out, they’ll drown.”

  Aimery knew more than he wanted to about dungeons; he’d spent far too much time in them himself. He asked instead with raised eyebrows, “And now?”

  “We let them rot for a bit and then see how willing they are to talk to us about their accomplices and how they are going to publicly submit to us. Sir Henri’s—sorry, my lord of Karpas’—‘sharper’ methods may not be necessary. I say a week with only foul water and no food in the damp cold will make them grovel at our feet like we were the second coming of Christ.”

  Aimery stared at the two men before him with narrowed eyes. He didn’t like what they had done. To be sure, he’d long had his own suspicions against the Orthodox clergy on the island. The Templars had heaped angry abuse on them for their “stubbornness” and “wiles.” Likewise, the Dowager Queen had been saying ever since she arrived that the clergy was the key. While she urged approaching them to effect reconciliation, her stand nevertheless gave credence to these accusations. And if Aimery had no reason to think this particular abbot was at the heart of things, there was also no reason to assume he was innocent, either.

  But arresting men of the cloth was always dangerous. The murderers of the Archbishop of Canterbury had intended only to arrest him, and had been provoked into the horrifying murder of an archbishop in his own cathedral by Becket’s stubborn refusal to comply. If these Greek monks died—even if it was from cold and hunger rather than from torture or execution—they would still be declared martyrs. And everyone involved in their arrest would find themselves cursed, if not by God then by the people of the island.

  The problem was that Aimery was not certain Barlais would obey him if he ordered the immediate release of the monks and their abbot. Furthermore, the damage had already been done. Would anyone in the crowd outside seriously believe he was not behind it? That it had been done without his knowledge and consent? No. They called Barlais and Brie “Lusignan’s wolves.” They all thought these men did his bidding.

  “Still no word from your brother Geoffrey?” Barlais broke into his thoughts, evidently getting impatient with the silence.

  Aimery answered defensively, “We’ve had word he’s not coming. He has rejected—renounced—the inheritance.”

  “So your tame Norseman says,” Barlais scoffed, adding, “I want more proof than that.”

  “Then you’ll have to wait. The Genoese ship he entrusted with his written response won’t be here until the next sailing season.”

  “Well, don’t get too comfortable in your pretty palace!” Barlais sneered, with a contemptuous glance at the luxury around him. “Your brother may be here before his messenger!” Then he turned on his heel and stormed out.

  Brie waited until Barlais was out of hearing before remarking in a bemused tone, “I don’t share Barlais’ conviction about your brother, but I support this arrest, Aimery. I tell you, the Greek Church is behind all this opposition. They feed the people lies about us: say we’ll increase the taxes, reduce them all to slavery, force them to drink blood instead of wine, and God knows what more.”

  Aimery sighed, and when he spoke his voice was both tired and irritable. “Maybe, but by arresting their monks we only give credence to their lies. It makes us appear opposed to their Church, and we’re not. Holy Cross! Muslims, Jews, and Samaritans—let alone Armenian, Jacobite, Maronite, and Coptic Christians—were all good subjects of the Crown of Jerusalem. A more or less homogenous population of Greek Orthodox subjects ought to be far less troublesome.”

  “Ought to be, perhaps, but they aren’t proving to be. The situation isn’t getting any better, Aimery. If you don’t come up with a strategy to get control of this island soon, you’re going to lose it—just as the Templars did—whether Geoffrey comes back or not.” With a sarcastic bow to Aimery and a nod and a wink for John, Sir Henri also withdrew.

  Early February 1195

  Master Afanas was the best ivory carver in Nicosia. Although he worked predominantly in wood, his workshop also produced magnificent ivory inlays. He had a large workshop near the Kyrenia gate, and he frequently received commissions for altar screens, choir stalls, and other furniture for churches and monasteries. The work with inlaid ivory, on the other hand, was rare, small scale, and usually for the Italians.

  It was, Lakis reminded himself, a privilege to learn your trade under such a master. But as an orphan, Lakis had no contract. He’d obtained his position by showing the master the combs and buckles he’d made from bone, and Master Afanas had been interested enough to agree to take him on under conditions that Lakis increasingly saw as slavery.

  To be sure, he was allowed to sleep in the workshop, which wasn’t bad since the wood shavings made a sweet-smelling, soft bed, and he was given the same hearty midday meal provided all the apprentices. But that was where “remuneration” ended. Lakis received no pocket money for baths, clothes, or wine. Since he had no home at which to obtain breakfast or dinner, he was almost always hungry. Worst of all, he could not sell what he produced, because “the Master” had the right to everything made in the workshop.

  Work started early, ended late, and was accompanied by what seemed like constant criticism from Master Afanas combined with sneering and heckling from the other apprentices, all of whom felt themselves better than “the beggar.” Sometimes their insults and jokes inspired Lakis to work harder and be better—but sometimes, like tonight, they just made him miserable and tired. One of them had “accidentally” knocked over the little chest of drawers he’d been working on for two weeks and it lay on the floor, a heap of broken pieces.

  Master Afanas had hit the boy responsible with his stick and vowed to deduct the cost of the materials from his allowance as he chased him and the others home for the night. But the chest was still ruined, and two weeks of work had been for nothing.

  “Don’t look so broken-hearted,” Master Afanas advised in a businesslike tone. “Your work wasn’t that good. Hopefully your next try will be better. You certainly aren’t going to be entrusted with any ivory if you can’t do better than that.” He indicated the broken box with a dismissive gesture. “I told you when I took you on that you had just one year to start producing things I can sell to real customers. You’ve only got until Christmas to meet my standards. After that you’re back out with your friends behind the abattoir!”

  “I don’t have any friends!” Lakis shot back at him, hardening his feelings.

  “No wonder, either! Sullen little brat that you are. I don’t doubt your last ma
ster ran you out for being impudent and rude! I didn’t ask any questions when I took you on—but believe me, if I hear something that makes you a liability, you’re out on your ear! Now clean up that mess and bar the door after me. I’m late for dinner as it is.”

  The Master was out the door, leaving Lakis behind feeling sorry for himself as he squatted down beside the wreck of his masterpiece and started picking up the pieces. He had been so proud of it. He had thought it was up to Master Afanas’ standards. He’d pictured it in an apothecary, filled with precious drugs, or maybe adorning a lady’s table, holding beautiful jewels.

  Tears started to well in his eyes, and to defeat them he deflected his emotions into rage. He threw the pieces across the room and screamed “Damn you! Damn you!” Only he didn’t know who he was damning: Master Afanas, his fellow apprentices, or the Franks who had killed his parents and left him an orphan.

  The thought of the Franks, however, reminded him of Janis. He had almost been a friend. At least he’d been friendly, but Lakis had sensed something was fishy right from the start. Lakis had suspected he was the son or servant of an Italian merchant. But then, months after their last meeting, he’d caught sight of someone who looked like Janis all dressed up in fine Frankish clothes and riding a beautiful horse beside one of the Frankish lords. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, so he had started lurking around the palace. Sure enough, “Janis” came and went with easy familiarity, although he lived in the khan opposite. By asking around a little, Lakis soon discovered that the man Janis was usually beside was none other than Aimery de Lusignan, the brother of the tyrant himself. Then the tyrant died (terribly, it was said), and now this Aimery de Lusignan had taken over as tyrant.

  It made Lakis sick and angry that Janis was one of them, but it was also Janis who had suggested he apprentice to a real carver. Angry as Lakis was, he still recognized that he’d learned a huge amount in the last ten months. Even if Master Afanas threw him out, he’d be better able to fend for himself.