As Georgios translated this lengthy diatribe, Ibelin began to wonder if he’d been dragged all the way here just to hear a lecture against the Templars.
The Cypriot monk continued, his voice getting louder and angrier. “And as if that weren’t enough, after the God-fearing people of Cyprus had driven the offensive Jew-loving Templars away, the English scoundrel sold the island yet again, only this time to that notorious instrument of the devil: Guy de Lusignan!” The monk was clearly working himself into a rage, and Ibelin needed no translation to know he was now talking about “Guy de Lusignan”—though he had not thought of Guy as an “instrument of the devil” before Georgios provided the translation.
“Since his arrival on this island, we have had no peace. Rather, we are smitten with one calamity after another. Anyone who can afford to leave has fled, leaving behind the poor, the helpless, and the uneducated. This island, the birthplace of love and beloved of the apostles, is daily becoming poorer and more benighted.”
“It is, isn’t it?” Ibelin snapped back, when the last was translated for him.
The interruption and his tone took the hermit-monk by surprise. He started visibly and fell silent with a puzzled, angry look at Father Andronikos.
Ibelin took advantage of this break in the monk’s monologue to launch into a speech of his own. It had not been prepared, but the intensity of his feelings gave him words. “This island is suffering from a lack of government. Pirates control the sea lanes, and smugglers clog the ports. Everyone who can, enriches himself at the expense of his neighbors, and no one looks after the common good of the people. The aqueducts spill their water in the wilderness rather than feeding the fountains of the cities. The sewers pour their infectious odors into the homes of rich and poor alike.” Georgios translated all this in a rush of words, his heart pounding in fear at the audaciousness of his lord toward such a holy man.
Father Neophytos was too astonished to respond at once, and Ibelin continued, asking provocatively, “And why? Because people—monks—have set themselves up in the place of emperors and governors. People no longer respect the proper authorities, nor obey the laws, nor pay taxes. Lawlessness is spreading, and with it comes the tyranny of anarchy.”
Ibelin waited for his words to be translated, and saw the holy hermit lift his chin and look at him with piercing, intelligent eyes while Georgios delivered his words in Greek. He watched as the anger was replaced by something closer to surprise, if not respect. As Georgios’ translation ended, the hermit remarked simply, “You speak the truth.”
Ibelin understood the word “alithea”—truth—and breathed out a little.
The monk continued with a question: “So we agree on the diagnosis. What do you propose as the cure?”
“Aimery de Lusignan is not Guy. He is a wise and prudent man. He would bring peace and prosperity to this island, if given a chance. He has asked me to help bring peace.”
The hermit turned to Father Andronikos with a question, but Father Andronikos shook his head and looked at Georgios. The squire put the question to his lord. “He asked, why you? Why did Aimery not come himself?”
“Tell him kings do not negotiate; they send envoys and ambassadors.”
“Aimery isn’t a king,” Georgios pointed out anxiously.
“He means to be. Tell Father Neophytos what I have said.”
Georgios did what he was told and received the next question. “Is it true your master negotiated the peace between the English King and the infidel Sultan Saladin?”
“It is,” Georgios answered for his lord.
“Then I am honored.” The hermit let a smile flit over his lined face. “Let us sit.” He backed out of the little church, and Father Andronikos gestured for Ibelin and Georgios to follow him into the final room. This was more spacious than the altar room, although much smaller than the nave. It was as beautifully painted as the rooms before, and in addition offered modest creature comforts such as a ledge carved out of rock on which a straw mattress lay, and another bench carved along the far side behind a stone table. The monk sat on his bed and indicated that Ibelin should sit on the bench behind the table. Ibelin did so warily, not sure what to expect now.
“What terms does Aimery de Lusignan offer in exchange for peace?” the hermit asked via Georgios.
“First, the release of Humphrey de Toron in exchange for the release of the abbot and monks of Antiphonitis.”
The hermit nodded but made no comment in response, so Georgios looked back at his lord and nodded for him to continue.
“Second, the restoration of the laws of Manuel I Comnenus for the native inhabitants of the island, and their own courts and churches.”
The monk cut Georgios’ translation short to ask sharply, “Ecclisies?” Churches?
Again, Ibelin understood the word; having a wife who was a native speaker and two sons who were learning rapidly had started to improve his own understanding. He answered in Greek, “Ne, ecclisies.” Yes, churches.
The monk still didn’t seem to believe him, and turned to Georgios. “He said we will be allowed to retain our own churches?”
“Yes, courts and churches.”
Surmising that the hermit was questioning his promise, Ibelin told his squire: “Remind him that we never suppressed the Greek, Maronite, Jacobite, or Armenian churches in the Kingdom of Jerusalem.”
The hermit nodded thoughtfully once this was conveyed to him by Georgios, and then muttered, “This too is true. I traveled across the Holy Land, and Greek and Latin clergy shared many churches and monasteries. Indeed, new Greek churches and monasteries were built under Frankish rule.” He was speaking more to himself than to Ibelin, but Georgios translated nevertheless. Neophytos nodded again, and then announced, “I must pray. Leave me.” He made a gesture of dismissal, and Ibelin got to his feet, bowed his head respectfully, and returned the way he’d come. Father Andronikos, however, lingered longer in the little cell, the recipient of a flood of instructions from the hermit.
Georgios tensed and grabbed his lord’s arm. “My lord! I think, if I heard correctly, he just ordered Toron’s release. As a goodwill gesture. He said that will test the truth of your words, and it is the Christian thing to do.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but we’ll soon find out.”
Father Andronikos took his leave of Father Neophytos, and as he emerged from the altar room, the smile on his face said it all.
Humphrey was not unhappy. Indeed, in some ways he had never been happier. The monks hardly spoke, so he was not plagued with questions, critique, or even inanities. In the isolated little monastery there were no problems, no crises, no threats, no risks, nothing but peace. One heard Mass five times a day, and in between one ate, slept, and did household chores like cleaning, tending the kitchen garden, preparing meals, and darning clothes. The monks here spun and wove their own cloth. They also grew vegetables and raised ducks and chickens. Humphrey was not confronted by his failure here—until he looked up from scattering feed to the cackling and fluttering chickens and saw his former father-in-law coming toward him.
In his astonishment he exclaimed, “Uncle Balian!” It was a form of address that he’d picked up from Isabella when they were still children imprisoned at Kerak under the iron fist of his stepfather, Reynald de Châtillon. He had not used it since that horrible day in Acre when Ibelin had turned his back on him. All because he’d supported Lusignan’s usurpation in 1186.
It made no sense that he was here in this isolated Greek monastery.
Ibelin started visibly at being called “Uncle Balian,” but then his face softened and he came forward more quickly. “Humphrey, I hardly recognized you in those robes.”
It was true Humphrey was dressed as a monk, but that was not the reason Balian had failed to recognize him. Balian had not immediately realized he was facing Humphrey because Toron looked twice his age. He was thin, haggard, frail, and losing his hair.
“Are you here—because of me?” Humphre
y asked in disbelief. When Father Andronikos said his “friends” had not forgotten him, he had not once thought of his former father-in-law. Aimery de Lusignan, even Henri de Brie, but never Balian.
“Yes. Father Neophytos has released you to me. You can come back to Paphos with me. If we leave now, we should be back before nightfall.”
“Paphos?” Humphrey asked.
“Yes; my lady is there. She will be very relieved to see you safe and sound.”
“Isabella’s mother?” Humphrey asked, dazed.
“Yes,” Ibelin assured him, beginning to think Humphrey was not right in the head.
Humphrey shook his head. He couldn’t bear the thought of facing the Dowager Queen. She had been the one who talked Isabella into turning on him. She had been the one who told Isabella that she must choose between her crown and her husband. And even worse. Humphrey instinctively took a step backwards, away from Ibelin. Isabella, he was thinking, probably told her mother that he had never consummated their marriage. The Dowager Queen knew he had failed to fulfill his marital duties. The others might suspect—they might call him a sodomist in their ignorance—but she knew the truth.
“You cannot think that my lady holds anything against you.” Ibelin tried to reason with Humphrey, dismayed by his reaction.
Humphrey shook his head ambiguously, and then announced, “I don’t want to leave. I am happy here.”
Ibelin frowned slightly and glanced over his shoulder at Georgios. His squire could only shake his head to indicate he was as perplexed as his lord.
“I should have been a monk!” Humphrey burst out in an unintended confession. He had not really thought about it before this moment—but suddenly, confronted with the choice between staying with the monks at this isolated monastery and returning to the pressures and humiliations of his former life, he realized that it was before he came here that he’d worn the wrong clothes. He had played the wrong role his whole life.
“I was never good at fighting,” he reminded Ibelin. And chastity, he added silently, suited him better than marriage. His failings in the bedchamber had always disappointed Isabella. They had turned her against him. If he had not been expected to consummate their marriage, they could have remained best friends, just as when they were still children. To Ibelin he said defiantly, “You never valued my strengths—that I could read and write in three languages, that I had read the works of the ancients, that I could write poetry and play instruments. . . .”
“You are wrong, Humphrey,” Balian answered solemnly. “I did—and do—value your intelligence and your studiousness. I always defended you, even to others, as a good soul. What I could not condone was that you should become king—not after you betrayed us at Nablus. You bear the blame for Hattin, for the loss of Jerusalem, for the slaughter of thousands and the enslavement of many more—”
“DO YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW THAT?” Humphrey shouted at him. “Do you think there is a night that I sleep in peace? You have no idea of my nightmares! I had to watch them slaughtering the Templars and Hospitallers! They haunt me constantly! I spend half my waking hours begging their forgiveness. And the forgiveness of God.”
They stared at one another for a moment, and then Ibelin took a deep breath and nodded. “If that is so, then it is indeed best that you stay here where you can pray in peace—assuming you truly feel safe here?”
“I have rarely felt so safe, or so at peace, in all my life,” Humphrey answered, so sincerely he sounded almost angry.
Ibelin nodded. “Then, if that is what you want, I will leave you here. I must return to Nicosia to bring word to Aimery of what we must do to bring peace to this island.”
Humphrey nodded. “Yes. That is what I want.” He sounded defiant, even a little petulant, as he declared this, and in his eyes was a challenge, as if he dared Ibelin to contradict him.
Balian, however, with an inward wince of contrition, recognized that it was guilt, not captivity, that had ravaged Humphrey’s young face and body. As he recognized that, he felt the anger he had carried with him for far too long seep away like melting snow. As his anger dissipated, his heart softened as well. It was past time to forgive Humphrey for his betrayal.
Balian crossed the distance between them. Before Humphrey knew what was happening, he embraced him. “I am sorry that you were your father’s only son,” he told Humphrey earnestly. “Sorry you were forced to bear a cross too heavy for you. I have judged you too harshly, and I ask you to forgive me for that. I should have been more understanding.” He paused to let the words sink in before adding, “I will tell Isabella that you are at last where you belong, and at peace. It will be a comfort to her, because she loves you still.”
“Truly?” Humphrey asked, brightening at the mere thought.
“Truly,” Balian told him, drawing back to look him in the eye. It was, he thought, the least he could do for a young man who had suffered far too much only for being what he was, rather than what he should have been.
Chapter Sixteen
The Light at Dawn
Nicosia,
April 1195
ESCHIVA LOVED THE WALLED GARDEN. IT had a fountain in the center, cypress trees in the corners, and potted palms, hibiscus, and oleander in the arches of the surrounding arcade. Protected from the wind, it was never really cold, and the arcade offered shade, ensuring it was never too hot, either. Here she could sit and spin or sew while Joscelyn read or sang to her.
Although the youth could walk again, the injury had been too severe for him to fully recover the strength and agility needed to resume an active life. A future as a Mamluke was as closed to him as a future as a knight or even a squire. He would remain a quasi-invalid with a severe limp the rest of his life. Surprisingly, he had accepted this fate with far more equanimity than his mother or anyone else had expected. It seemed as if the injury had resolved his conflict of loyalty. Now that he could serve neither his “master” al-Adil nor his “lord” the Baron of Ibelin, Joscelyn was free to choose a profession that did not involve taking sides at all. He was determined to become a surgeon or apothecary, although it was not yet settled where and how such an undertaking could be arranged and financed. Meanwhile he served as a willing companion to Eschiva, while Beatrice handled the day-to-day running of the household.
Eschiva sometimes felt guilty for not being more active in the household, but she still felt very weak—almost perpetually exhausted—and occasionally still had dizzy spells. She presumed this was because she was pregnant again, and her fear of losing this latest child made her all the more cautious. She was determined to carry this child to term even if it meant she hardly set foot outside her chamber, let alone the palace. After this next child was born, she promised herself, she would take up her duties as Lady of Cyprus. Just another five months, and she would be become more active. . . .
Voices echoed in the passageway to her right, and she looked up to see Aimery burst in. He was dressed for riding in leather boots and hose. His hair was windblown, his face reddened by the sun and exertion. “My love!” He strode across the garden toward her, and pushed her down as she tried to rise to greet him. “Sit! Sit! I’ll join you.” He dropped down on the bench at her side, and took her hand in both of his. “Geoffrey’s ship put into Kyrenia at last! He delivered a formal written renunciation of his rights to Cyprus or anywhere else in Outremer!”
Eschiva was surprised by how elated her husband sounded. “Did you ever doubt Magnussen’s word?” she asked.
“I didn’t, but Barlais and Cheneché certainly did!” Aimery reminded her. “Now they have both caved in and are vying with one another to assure me they supported me all along! Hypocritical bastards!” Aimery was grinning as he spoke, betraying how much his relief outweighed his resentment.
“I saw Renier de Jubail off as well,” Aimery continued, dropping his voice slightly and glancing at Joscelyn.
“Leave us, Joscelyn,” Eschiva suggested with a smile, and the youth dutifully set the book on the bench and slippe
d out. Aimery watched him go, and then got up and followed to make sure he wasn’t lurking in the passageway. Apparently he was, because Eschiva heard her husband say, “Go on! Fetch me lime sherbet and pistachios!”
Returning, Aimery sat down beside Eschiva, took her hand again, and continued, “The Archdeacon of Latakia sailed two days ago with my message to the Pope, and Jubail put to sea yesterday with my letter to Emperor Henry VI.”
Eschiva was very supportive of her husband’s appeal to the Pope to elevate Cyprus to a kingdom. She recognized the advantages to her husband and her son, when the time came, of being crowned and anointed. She also saw that it was important to establish Cyprus’ independence from Jerusalem—as long as Henri de Champagne was king there. Although Aimery’s arrest by Champagne had been brief—thanks to the intercession of her uncle and other members of the High Court—she could not forgive Champagne for what he had done. The mere thought of that night when he sent men to drag her husband from his bed for a crime he had not committed made her blood boil. She was as determined as her husband, if not more, that he never again bend his knee to Champagne. If they ever met again, she vowed to herself, it would be as equals.
She was less comfortable, however, with the idea of Aimery ceding Cyprus to the Holy Roman Empire and doing homage to the Holy Roman Emperor for it. Aimery had explained the logic: he needed protection from Constantinople, which had never accepted Isaac Comnenus’ secession from the Greek Empire or Richard of England’s conquest, much less Templar or Lusignan rule. Twice the Greek Emperors had equipped and sent fleets to regain control of the island. Aimery was convinced that the rebels, too, had ties to Constantinople. He needed an ally against Constantinople, an ally strong enough to deter attack. Jerusalem, Tripoli, and Antioch were too weak to help them—and Aimery would never ask a favor of Champagne anyway. The Armenians were gaining strength, but they were not a seafaring people, and so not much help if faced with a fleet from Constantinople. The Holy Roman Emperor Henry VI, on the other hand, had a tradition of hostility toward Constantinople, and he now controlled Sicily, which had a powerful fleet.
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