The Last Crusader Kingdom

by Helena P. Schrader

  So many saints had suffered for their faith. They had been tortured and humiliated. So had Christ. Hadn’t Christ himself despaired in the hour of his death, calling out to his Father to ask why He had deserted him?

  “Father, why hast Thou forsaken me?” Humphrey formed the words. First silently, and then as the chattering receded, he said it out loud: “Father, why hast Thou forsaken me?” The words were lost in the vastness of the cave. “Father!” Humphrey raised his voice, “Why hast Thou forsaken me?” Now his words came back at him, reverberating with deathly tension.

  Humphrey pulled his disintegrating sanity together and forced himself to form the words in Greek, a language he had mastered as a youth but spoke far less fluently than Arabic. Still, he had learned his Greek by reading the Gospels, because his grandfather claimed they had originally been written in Greek. Greek was the most “authentic” form of the Holy Word. When he thought he had the phrase right, he lifted his voice and asked loudly of the darkness: Patera mou, yiati exeis me evkatelepsyes?” The last word, forsaken, reverberated in the cave, getting softer and more conspiratorial with each repetition.

  As the echoes died down to a whisper, Humphrey lifted his voice and shouted even louder: “Patera mou, yiati—”

  “He has not,” a voice interrupted him in Greek, and Humphrey leapt out of his skin in terror. He broke instantly into a cold sweat, certain that God had answered his cry and terrified of a confrontation with the Almighty in his present state. Then he realized a light was approaching through the tunnel by which they always brought his water and food.

  Humphrey went stock-still and stared toward the unsteady, yet steadily approaching, light. Within seconds a man emerged out of the tunnel, which was only about four feet high and allowed no grown man to walk upright. As the man righted himself, Humphrey realized that he was dressed in the robes of an Orthodox priest, complete with hat and a flowing white beard. Behind him scrambled some of the shabby men who had been keeping him prisoner. The latter looked strangely subdued. There was no taunting, sneering, or threatening now; they just waited uneasily by the tunnel entrance as the priest advanced.

  “He has not forsaken you, my son,” the priest repeated in Greek as he approached with the torch. He advanced until he was beside Humphrey and then laid a hand on his shoulder as he repeated, “He has not forsaken you, and nor have your friends. They are trying to negotiate your release. It has not yet been secured, but I am here to take you to a more comfortable place.” Then, turning on the shabby men with him, he signaled for Humphrey’s jailers to unlock his shackles. When they finished, he helped Humphrey to his feet and led him back to the tunnel.

  Humphrey was so weak he could hardly shuffle along. The priest had to hold him upright and half-drag him along. He was a strong man despite his long white beard.

  As they neared the entrance of the tunnel, the light started to blind Humphrey. He put his hand over his eyes and resisted moving forward. The priest snapped at the young men, and one returned with a strip of cloth that they used to bind Humphrey’s eyes. Even when he was blindfolded, the light was almost painful, and then suddenly Humphrey felt the warmth of the sun. It was like paradise.

  A cacophony of Greek erupted around him. Men were exclaiming, cursing, mocking, and chattering. The priest silenced them. Humphrey clung to his arm, and he led Humphrey across some uneven ground to something wooden. It moved. “Here, I’ll help you up,” the priest said and then turned Humphrey around. With the help of a second man, he lifted Humphrey up onto the wooden thing. It moved again and Humphrey gasped. The men around him laughed. The priest silenced them again. He put his hand on Humphrey’s knee to comfort and steady him. Then he clicked with his tongue, and Humphrey’s seat moved sideways. After a couple more strides, Humphrey realized he was sitting on the pannier of a donkey. No wonder the men around him laughed! Despite his filth and hunger, Humphrey was ashamed of this ultimate humiliation: to be transported on the back of a donkey like a peasant woman.

  The trail, however, was steep, and the donkey had to brace and find her footing carefully. Humphrey had no choice but to cling to the sides of the pannier. The priest never left his side, however, and as time passed he was glad not only of that warm hand, but of the donkey itself. He could not have walked this far.

  At times the air became very cold and the light went away, suggesting they were traveling through shade. Sometimes Humphrey could hear the wind rustling the trees around him, but not always. He couldn’t figure out what made the shade if it wasn’t trees. Eventually they came to a stream. Humphrey heard the water even before they stopped and the donkey dropped her head to drink.

  “We’ve made it,” the priest announced at last, and Humphrey felt hands untying his blindfold. Although he had to blink and squint, his eyes had adjusted enough to enable him to see his surroundings. They were in a mountain clearing by a stream. Set back a little from the bank stood a small stone church with a single apse. Beside the church were several hovels slowly leaking thin columns of smoke.

  Monks emerged from one of these huts and came toward Humphrey. They shook their heads at the sight of him, in pity or perhaps disapproval at his treatment rather than hostility. Without speaking they gestured for him to follow them, as if they had taken a vow of silence. The priest who had brought him smiled at him and gestured for him to go with them. “You’ll be safe here,” he assured Humphrey, “until your friends can arrange your release.”

  The monks led Humphrey to a goat shed and gestured for him to strip out of his filthy clothes. When he was naked, they made him get into the trough and brought him scrub brushes to clean himself. Although the water was cold, Humphrey still welcomed the bath. By the time he was finished they returned with one of their own robes, and Humphrey gratefully put it on.

  Next they led him inside one of the huts and had him sit at a table. They gave him a pottery cup of water straight from the spring and unleavened bread. The water was cool and clean; the bread was fresh and still a little warm. He ate it ravenously. Indeed, he could not remember another meal ever tasting better.

  After the meal, the monk led him to another hut filled with wooden beds laid with straw and gestured for him to lie down. Gratefully he did. It was soft and wonderfully dry after the floor of the cave. With a deep sigh, he started to drift off to sleep. As sleep swept over him, he was wondering who his “friends” could possibly be. He felt that he had none left in the whole world—ever since Isabella had abandoned him.

  Paphos, Cyprus

  John dropped his visor over his eyes, lowered his lance, and spurred down the sandy stretch of beach that his father’s knights had turned into an improvised tiltyard. His father, his knights, and their squires came here daily to practice their skill at arms. A knight could not afford to let his skills become rusty any more than he could let his chain mail rust. Usually John fought Amalric, Georgios, or one of the other squires, but today Sir Galvin had challenged him.

  “Come on, John!” he’d called out. “You’ve got the best horse here! What have you got to fear? I’m without a lance! I’ll take you on with shield and ax alone!”

  It was a taunt no youth could ignore, although John inwardly thought that Troubadour’s obedience and agility hardly made up for Sir Galvin’s greater strength, weight, and experience. Hoping that speed might compensate for his much lighter weight, John urged Troubadour to a full gallop. His lance tip hit Sir Galvin’s shield, but it had no apparent effect on the knight himself. The tip snapped off and the butt slid off the curvature of the shield. Then, just as John started to ride past, the Scotsman’s blunted ax came smashing down on his shoulder. It hit John with such force that he swayed in the saddle. Grabbing Troubadour’s abundant mane with his left hand, he just managed to keep from falling off as the horse continued down the tiltyard at full gallop.

  As he reached the far end of the lists, Troubadour automatically fell into a trot and then halted. John dropped his reins and the broken lance to feel his left shoulder with his
right hand; he was convinced something was broken. Instinctively he stretched out his arm, but the fact that he could move it belied the theory that the shoulder was broken. But it was killing him all the same.

  Sir Galvin trotted over, grinning from his old-fashioned, open-faced helmet. “Well done, lad! You’re very good!” he announced in a loud voice.

  “Oh, is that why I’m covered with bruises?” John snapped back, frowning inside his own helmet.

  It was only when his remark was met with general laughter that John registered how many men had gathered to watch the little joust, his father included. His father’s face was guarded, but the set of his lips suggested he was not pleased. What John couldn’t tell was whether his father was displeased with his performance or with Sir Galvin’s challenge.

  “Again?” Sir Galvin asked.

  John tipped open his visor to glare at the older man, but with his father listening, he couldn’t answer any other way than, “Sure. Why not?”

  “Good, lad! Now remember, if you hit me squarely enough to fling me back against the cantle of the saddle, it’ll make it much harder for me to hit you with my ax.”

  John nodded, took a deep breath, and turned Troubadour around, while Sir Galvin trotted back toward the far end of the lists. As he waited for Sir Galvin to take up his position, his father brought him a fresh lance and paused to pat Troubadour on the neck. He didn’t look at John, but spoke as if to the horse. “Fool the old man. When you’re three strides away, cut across in front of him and shift your lance over your horse’s head to ride past him on the right. No need to hit his shield; just avoid his ax.”

  John only had time to nod once as his father stepped back. He started down the tiltyard, his teeth clamped together in determination and concentration. When he asked Troubadour to pivot sharply left, the stallion executed a perfect flying change, as they had often practiced. At the same instant, John ducked down and hunched over the pommel as he rode past Sir Galvin without even attempting to place his lance.

  The Scotsman let out a bellow of protest. “Cheater! Who taught—My lord, you’re a bad influence!” He shook his fist at Ibelin, adding indignantly, “How is the lad ever going to learn to fight properly with tricks like that?”

  Ibelin was grinning with satisfaction, and he called back without remorse: “Every knight has to cultivate his own advantages. Yours is your great strength. John and I don’t have that muscle power, so we have to use tricks. Well done, John!”

  Sir Galvin was still grumbling, but Ibelin paid no attention. He’d been distracted by someone who tapped him on the shoulder from behind. As he turned in response, the man threw something at him, then ducked down and disappeared in the crowd. Ibelin felt his blood run cold as he realized how easily it could have been a dagger flung into his belly. As he recovered from the shock, however, he looked to his feet where the object thrown at him had fallen. He reached down and picked up a rolled piece of parchment. It had Greek writing on it. Now his heart was pounding. He turned back toward the lists and gestured John over.

  John trotted over, grinning with pride, but his face fell when he saw his father’s expression. “What did I do wrong?” he asked, bewildered.

  “Nothing. Here. Read this. Someone just threw it at me.”

  Relieved, John dropped the reins to take the parchment from his father. “Coral Bay. Saturday. Nones,” he read out loud. Then he looked up with excitement igniting his eyes. “Father Andronikos has done it! We have a rendezvous!”

  His father nodded much less enthusiastically. All he acknowledged was, “It would seem so. I want you to ride back to Kolossi and ask Father Andronikos to join us. I want a witness whom everyone can trust.”

  John nodded eagerly. He’d be able to see Eirini again, and this time he wouldn’t be half naked or looking like a drowned rat!

  Coral Bay

  Ibelin took all of his knights, their squires, and both his own. With John and himself that made sixteen armed men, and he made sure all of them were in gleaming armor, polished helmets, and clean surcoats; their horses were brushed and curried until their coats were like satin. Georgios was entrusted with the swallow-tailed Ibelin banner: red on the lower half, marigold on the top, with a red cross pattée on the golden half near the staff. Amidst all that chivalric pageantry, Father Andronikos on his donkey was almost a comic figure, but he gave no indication of feeling either ridiculous or intimidated.

  They followed the coastal road, which roughly paralleled the shoreline, although it continued straight when the coast jutted into the sea in a series of peninsulas. To the right the Troodos Mountains loomed up purple and majestic, and to the left the sea, almost always visible, glistened. The coast of Cyprus was far more rugged than that of the Levant. Great slabs of limestone tumbled down into the water, forming promontories that extended underwater as treacherous ledges. A ship unfortunate enough to be wrecked on this coast had almost no chance, Ibelin reflected, and began to wonder if there had been any survivors from the pilgrim ship wrecked here the previous fall. Aimery had always accused the locals of killing the survivors, convinced that not every soul on board could have drowned. Balian was no longer so sure.

  It was well past noon, and Ibelin was beginning to get anxious about making the rendezvous on time, when they crested a shallow hill and suddenly found themselves looking down on a magnificent bay. Limestone arms enclosed it, but in the concave interior the shore was lined by pristine white sand. Furthermore, unlike the water of the Levant, which was muddied by the constant churning of waves and currents on the sandy bottom, the water here was crystal clear. It was possible to see rocks scattered across the bottom, a turtle paddling in a leisurely fashion, and schools of silver fish darting about. The water itself was aqua in the shallows, but gradually turned turquoise before it became a bright cobalt blue in the distance.

  Ibelin drew up to gaze in silent amazement at the beauty and serenity of the scenery, while beside him John put his feelings into words with an enthusiastic, “That’s beautiful!”

  “Coral Bay,” Father Andronikos told them simply.

  Ibelin glanced toward the sun, judging they were not more than a half-hour ahead of the rendezvous time. He searched the road ahead and the rocky escarpment that fell from the road down toward the beach. There was not another living soul in sight. He frowned. He did not want to think they had come this distance with so much show only to be ignored.

  Father Andronikos read his expression and said, “Be patient, my lord. If I am not mistaken, that is a boat.” He pointed out to sea.

  Since the sun was already sinking down the sky, Ibelin had to shade his eyes and squint to see what the priest had seen—but, indeed, there was a black spot far out upon the cobalt water. That made sense, of course, Ibelin noted; what better way to keep one’s whereabouts secret than to use the sea as your highway? No one could track a boat.

  He nodded and ordered his men to dismount. When he started to lead them off the road to descend to the beach, however, Father Andronikos stopped him. “I think,” he said softly, “you will have to meet Brother Zotikos alone. He will not land if he sees so many armed knights waiting for him. He will think it is a trap. Your men can stay up here where they can see what is happening and come to your aid if there is any foul play, but we must go alone, on foot, and unarmed.”

  Ibelin stared at him while Georgios translated, then grimaced, not at all happy with this suggestion. After a moment, however, he nodded once, unbuckled his sword, and handed it to Sir Galvin. Then he turned to Father Andronikos and announced, “I need a translator, and it will be my son John.” He could have chosen Georgios, of course, but he recognized that this was an opportunity for his firstborn to learn about negotiations with an enemy.

  Father Andronikos nodded when the words were translated, adding, “As long as he is unarmed.”

  John at once removed his sword and handed it to Georgios, his heart pounding with excitement. Ibelin turned the reins of his stallion over to Amalric, and John hande
d Troubadour’s reins to another of the squires before following his father off the road, Barry at his heels as always.

  “Leave the dog here,” his father advised.

  “But he’s a concealed weapon!” John protested a low voice.

  Ibelin looked down at the dog, gazing up at him with his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth and his tail lashing from side to side, and found it hard to believe. His skepticism was easy to read from his face, and John added earnestly, “He saved my life once already. I promise, he’ll kill anyone who tries to lay a hand on either of us.”

  Ibelin glanced at Father Andronikos, but the priest appeared uninterested in the dog, so he shrugged and they started down the steep, rocky, winding trail to the beach. Meanwhile, the black dot on the water became larger and larger until it resolved itself into a boat with four oarsmen, a coxswain, and a passenger. By the time Ibelin’s party reached the start of the wide beach, the boat was well into the little bay. The passenger was indeed an Orthodox monk with a thick black beard.

  Father Andronikos laid a hand on Ibelin’s arm. “Wait here. Make him cross the sand to meet you, leaving his men behind as you have left yours.”

  Ibelin nodded at the translation and waited, watching as the bow of the boat collided with the shore at the far end of the beach. One of the oarsmen jumped over the side to land in thigh-deep water. This lightened the boat enough to float the bow again, and the sailor took hold of the gunnel to guide the boat back onto the beach as a second oarsman jumped over the other side. Together they pulled the boat far enough onto the sand for the monk to clamber over the side onto dry land.

  “They look like a bunch of pirates,” Ibelin observed as the remaining sailors disembarked. Below the waist they wore long, baggy braies that ended just below the knee, leaving their calves and feet bare. On their upper bodies they wore shirts with short sleeves, open at the neck but bound at the waist by thick leather belts. Prominently displayed in the belts were long, curved knives, shorter straight knives, and in one case a sling. Their skin was darkly tanned, their hair long and unkempt, and they were all bearded, though only the monk wore a beard long enough to reach his chest.