“How would he find out?” the Turcopole countered, and for a moment Ayyub feared he was going to send them away after all. After a moment of letting them dangle in doubt, however, he pointed to a stone bench built beside the gate and told them to wait there. He turned around and shouted to a colleague to man the gate while he took a message to Ibelin.
It seemed to take forever, and Moses was grumbling about having wasted money on baths that they could have spent on food. “We can beg for food at the Archbishop’s kitchen,” Ayyub retorted.
“Sure, and all we’ll get is slops. You think I don’t know? I’ve filled my belly there more times than I can count. They feed pigs better than what he gives us.”
“Hey!” It was the Turcopole guard. “Come with me!”
They jumped up and hurried to follow him. Now Ayyub was nervous. Up to this moment, he’d been so sure he’d fail to get an audience that he hadn’t envisaged actually facing the Baron of Ibelin. As the Turcopole led them across the courtyard, up a flight of stairs, and down a corridor, Ayyub frantically tried to think what he should say, but everything sounded stupid in his own ears. They found themselves in a small chapel, apparently used for private prayer, and were told to wait. Ayyub took the opportunity to address the icon of the Virgin and Christ Child over the altar in a desperate plea for divine assistance.
Suddenly a lady swept into the little chapel with a smile on her face, only to come to an abrupt halt as her eyes lit upon the two men in front of her. Ayyub went down on one knee and bowed his head with a respectful, “My lady.” He recognized the Dowager Queen of Jerusalem. Moses, however, seemed to have turned to stone, and he just stared at his former patroness.
The Dowager Queen glanced from Moses to Ayyub and back to Moses. “Master Moses?” she asked uncertainly in French.
Although Ayyub did not speak French, it was obvious to him that she did not recognize the former master builder, shrunken and broken as he was, so he hastened to explain in a flood of Arabic. “Yes, my lady! It’s Master Moses ibn Sa’id, the master builder you commissioned to build the aqueduct at Nablus, and I’m Ayyub ibn Adam. I was his apprentice for two years before Hattin landed us both in slavery.”
The Dowager Queen looked rather strangely at Ayyub and shook her head to convey that she could not understand him. Then she turned again to Moses and repeated “Master Moses?” followed by something else that made Moses look down at his stump and shrug. After a moment he answered with a single word: “Hattin.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with his brain!” Ayyub pointed out frantically in Arabic, certain that the Dowager Queen was dismissing Moses as a cripple. Mentally, he asked God why the Lady of Ibelin had come rather than her husband. At least the Lord of Ibelin spoke fluent Arabic. . . .
The Dowager Queen silenced him with a raised hand, but then gestured for him to wait. She withdrew. At least they hadn’t been thrown out.
After another long stretch of time, the Baron of Ibelin ducked through the doorway. He had removed his armor and was dressed in a cotton surcoat over leather trousers and a silk shirt. Although he looked comfortable and prosperous, up close Ayyub registered that he, too, had aged significantly since that day a decade ago. He had a streak of gray in his silky, dark hair, and the network of lines around his eyes was deep, the shadows dark. The eyes themselves, however, were alert and took in the two men awaiting for him. He seemed to assess them both before he addressed Master Moses in French.
The latter nodded, and looked down hopelessly and glumly at his stump.
Again Ayyub protested in Arabic. “It doesn’t matter about his arm! He doesn’t need it to direct others. The Saracens didn’t take away what he knows. He can still design aqueducts, and I can be his draftsman. All he has to do is tell me, and I’ll make the drawings. I can . . . ” His voice faded away under the baron’s steady gaze.
“And who are you?” Ibelin asked into the silence.
To Ayyub’s amazement, it was Master Moses who answered for him before he could take a breath. “He is my apprentice, or he was once. He’s a good boy, my lord. Ayyub ibn Adam.”
“And is he right?” the baron asked. “Can you still design buildings and teach Ayyub how to do the drawings? The surveying?”
“Yes—yes, I think I can.” Moses sounded uncharacteristically uncertain and added apologetically, “It’s been a long time.”
“Of course he can,” Ayyub insisted, pleading desperately with his eyes.
“And you are prepared to come to Cyprus?” Ibelin asked.
“Of course! Gladly!” Ayyub assured him emphatically. Anything to get away from the poverty here, to have a new start.
Ibelin looked pointedly at Master Moses, and the old man nodded hesitantly.
“The population on Cyprus is more homogeneous than here,” Ibelin warned. “They all speak Greek and dress in the Byzantine fashion. You will want to adapt as fast as possible. I fear they will look on you as Muslims because of your names, speech, and dress.”
“I’ll wear anything you give me—or tell me to,” Ayyub corrected himself hastily. Learning another language was more intimidating, but he dared not express any doubts.
Ibelin nodded again. “I’m willing to see what you can do. Do you have families you wish to bring with you?”
Ayyub and Moses shook their heads.
“It’s probably better that way. If you marry on Cyprus, it will help you assimilate more rapidly.” He smiled at that, and then told them matter-of-factly, “I’ll send my squire to show you where to get a meal and where to sleep tonight. We leave for Acre first thing in the morning, so I’ll have Georgios organize a couple of hired hacks for you as well.” He nodded one last time and withdrew.
Ayyub and Moses stood staring at one another in stunned disbelief, and then Ayyub flung his arms around his still-bewildered former master in speechless relief. He didn’t care what awaited him on Cyprus: it was a new beginning.
Royal Palace at Acre, August 1195
“I’m sorry to see you go,” Champagne admitted to his father-in-law somewhat awkwardly. “And Isabella misses her mother very much. She was very upset that she wasn’t here for Alice’s birth.”
Ibelin nodded but countered, “Isabella likes having her mother with her, but she doesn’t need her; she’s strong and attended by the best physicians in the Kingdom. My niece Eschiva, on the other hand, nearly died at the last birth,” he exaggerated. From Balian’s perspective, Isabella had been spoiled much of her life and, now that she was a ruling queen with a doting husband, she was on the brink of becoming insufferable. Isabella truly did not need her mother waiting on her. Eschiva, on the other hand, was emotionally fragile and intensely grateful for Maria Zoë’s moral support.
“I suppose you’re right,” Champagne admitted reluctantly, “but I miss your sage voice in my council as well.” He flashed Ibelin a smile that was intended to be winning.
It very nearly was. Ibelin was not immune to flattery. Part of him felt he ought to remain in the Kingdom of Jerusalem and play his hereditary role in the High Court. Furthermore, here he was recognized as the premier baron in the realm by virtue of being stepfather to the Queen. If Champagne recognized him as an asset, it increased his value to the Kingdom. Didn’t he owe it to Jerusalem to give her everything he had? Did it matter if his greatest contribution was no longer the strength of his arms but rather the quality of his advice?
He hesitated, rethinking his decision to return to Cyprus. He had expected to feel more “at home” here, but Caymont still felt alien—while Acre and Tyre, and indeed the entire country, struck him as overpopulated and over-cultivated. The countryside seemed dry and dusty and the cities smelly and crowded, after the forested mountains and well-watered plains of Cyprus. The sun seemed hotter here, too, because Cyprus was cooled by strong winds, and the castles sat a thousand feet or more above sea level.
Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he recognized that after nearly a year away, he’d also been discomfited by the
large number of Arab caravans that used Acre and Tyre as their market for West-bound goods. They were a constant reminder of the defeat the Christians had suffered and the threat that remained. On Cyprus, on the other hand, it was so easy to forget about Hattin. . . .
And there was Paphos. Aimery had offered it to him. “Rebuild it, and it’s yours,” he’d said plainly. The offer was more than tempting: it was seductive. On the one hand, the city’s Roman/Greek heritage was so dominant that it was almost like returning to the age of Christ. On the other hand, it was in such a state of decay and disrepair that it begged for help. The vision of a new city with a modern castle and a Latin cathedral was far more compelling that Champagne’s offer of a seat on his council. Ibelin took a deep breath. “Thank you. I’m honored, but no. I promised Aimery I would return.”
“Aimery.” Champagne’s face turned sour and his voice tart.
That surprised Ibelin. Champagne had been in the wrong with his accusations of treason against Aimery, and the Lusignan’s gracious withdrawal to Cyprus had saved them all an unpleasant confrontation. Champagne, Ibelin thought, ought to be grateful to Aimery. “Surely you can have nothing against him now?” Ibelin asked with an edge of exasperation in his voice.
“Is it true he is trying to have himself made king?” Champagne returned sharply.
Ibelin registered Champagne’s resentment and tried to reply in a mollifying tone. “He needs the authority of a crown to keep the likes of my nephew, Cheneché, and Barlais in check. By offering Cyprus to the Holy Roman Emperor in exchange for a crown, he also gains an ally against the Greek Emperor, who still claims Cyprus.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, the snake calling himself Holy Roman Emperor is the man who held my uncle Richard in a dungeon!” Champagne retorted hotly. “He treated the King of England—a crusader—as if he were a criminal! The Hohenstaufen is a madman!”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t met him,” Ibelin demurred, “but he is a very powerful monarch. Furthermore, he’s taken the cross and is recruiting a substantial force to come to your aid. The truce with the Saracens, don’t forget, runs out in nine months.”
“No, I haven’t forgotten,” Champagne answered grimly. “It’s one of the things that keeps me awake at night—and, indeed, another reason I wanted you to stay. I wanted to consult with you about our strategy. When the Holy Roman Emperor comes, I don’t want all his men wasted on a futile assault on Jerusalem. Twice the French forced my uncle to waste men and horses on a goal that was never achievable. Even if we could capture it, Jerusalem cannot be held now any more than it could have been held three years ago. When reinforcements arrive from the West, we need to direct them toward a goal that is strategically sound and will strengthen this kingdom in the long run.”
Ibelin nodded, relieved that Champagne had learned this lesson from the Lionheart. “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” he told his young king.
Champagne looked pleased by this reply, and Ibelin was both flattered and unsettled. It was flattering that Champagne valued his opinion, but not good for a king to be so obviously unsure about his own military instincts.
Champagne continued, “So, Ascalon? I know how reluctant my uncle was to withdraw from Ascalon—not to mention the effort he put into rebuilding it.”
Ibelin’s heart missed a beat. To retake Ascalon, they would have to recapture Ibelin first. For a second the image of Ibelin hovered in his consciousness, calling to him like the sirens of the Odyssey. Then Ibelin shook his head sharply to banish it to Hades. “No. Ascalon, like Jerusalem, is far too vulnerable. Your uncle, however, was planning an assault to retake Beirut when Saladin’s attack on Jaffa diverted him. Re-establishing control of the coast from here to the County of Tripoli ought to be your priority. It will greatly strengthen all three remaining Christian states if we eliminate the Saracen enclaves separating us.”
Champagne nodded and admitted, “Yes, that makes sense. I’ll see what the others say.”
Ibelin nodded and got to his feet. “Then with your leave, I’ll go find my wife and say goodbye to Isabella.”
Champagne stood and they embraced briefly.
“Go with God,” Champagne ended the audience, and Ibelin bowed deeply. He liked Champagne, but as he exited the chamber he still felt a sense of relief and excitement to be returning to Cyprus.
Chapter Eighteen
Pirates of the Mediterranean
Paradisi, Cyprus,
November 1195
THE PLACE WAS WELL NAMED, ESCHIVA thought. There was surely no place on earth more like paradise than this manor, nestled between low hills encircling a small cove on the south shore of Cyprus. There was a beach of fine white sand between arms of white limestone, and water so clear it was like glass the color of aquamarines. Even when the wind blew, it remained transparent, yet transported the gently wiggling beams of light to the minnow-rich floor of the cove. The meadows behind the beach were a brilliant green after the first rains of autumn. They sprouted tiny yellow and white wildflowers. The orange trees on the slopes were heavy with ripening fruit and harbored hosts of songbirds. The hills formed a natural protective wall around the small complex of whitewashed stone buildings, giving Eschiva a sense of utter security and privacy.
Beyond the hills, people labored, traveled, traded, and tilled the soil. Beyond these natural walls, they quarreled, competed, and complained. Out there, Aimery was still struggling to establish his control over this unruly island, and she was expected to be his consort. But here she had no duties and no one expected anything of her. Instead, she lived in simple peace and harmony with her little brood of children. Except for Guy, who was with Aimery, they were all with her, including the latest addition to her growing brood: Hugh. He’d been born in October, a perfect little Lusignan with hair so fair it was almost invisible and bright blue eyes. He was sure to seduce all the ladies of his brother’s court when he grew up, Eschiva thought, just as his father had.
Hugh was not objectively more perfect than any of his older siblings, of course. Eschiva recognized that. Yet after the nightmare of last year’s miscarriage, bringing Hugh into the world healthy and whole had seemed miraculous. As if by divine intent, he’d also made things easy for her, coming a little early but with little fuss, and from the start he’d been sweet-tempered. He slept well, fed well, and smiled more than any infant she could remember. With Hugh in her arms, Eschiva felt utterly content and complete.
He would be her last child, she had resolved privately, feeling that three sons and two daughters was enough. Maria Zoë had confided in her that there were safe ways of preventing a new conception without even telling Aimery about it, and Eschiva was resolved to take her advice as soon as she’d recovered enough strength to return to Nicosia and take up her duties.
The need for her to do both—get well and take up her duties—was evident to everyone. For all Aimery’s concern for her health, he was also impatient for her to take a more active role in his realm now that a tentative peace had been established. A lady dispensing charity and showing an interest in the cultural and social life of the island would do much to bolster his fragile popularity. It was also more appropriate for a lady to be reconciliatory and forgiving than for the lord himself. A lord needed to be feared and respected; a lady to be loved and cherished. Aimery argued persuasively that the time had come when a gentler face would win them more support than his sword, and he wanted her to be that face.
But there was also no question that Eschiva was too weak to take up her duties just yet. She tired just from walking from one end of the palace in Nicosia to another. She had frequent dizzy spells, and her skin was so pale and bloodless it was like ivory. The apothecary Andreas Katzouroubis prescribed complete rest and a diet rich in seafood, particularly mussels and clams, and cheese. He also suggested she eat as many oranges as possible and cook with lemon juice.
Eschiva was determined to follow the doctor’s orders, and Paradisi was surely the perfect place to do so. Not onl
y was it surrounded by orange groves, while bountiful lemon trees filled a walled garden, but local fishermen brought their catch to the cove daily. The local women brought their fresh cheese as well, along with olives soaked in their own oil. Eschiva had convinced herself she was feeling better already, although she’d only been here a fortnight.
“Mama! Mama!” six-year-old Aimery called excitedly from the beach. “Come see! Come see!” His high-pitched voice was frail and distant, partially carried away by the light but freshening breeze.
Eschiva was sitting under a roof of vine leaves woven through a framework of bamboo with Hugh in a cradle beside her. She lifted her head to see what had excited her middle son.
“Baby turtles, Mama!” The high-pitched voice of nine-year-old Helvis joined her little brother.
Eschiva could see all three of the older children clustered around something on the beach. Her lethargic body wanted to remain where she was, but her heart said she should go to the children. When would she ever again have time for them like this? If Aimery succeeded and was given a crown, she would become a queen. She would have endless duties and obligations, not to mention the duty to protect her dignity. She would not be allowed to wade barefoot into the lusciously warm waters of the Mediterranean to look at baby turtles with her children.
She glanced around for the wet nurse, but the young Italian woman, Cecilia, had gone inside to fetch some needlework for them. So Eschiva scooped little Hugh into her arms and started down the sandy trail through the soft grass toward the beach. Before she reached little Aimery and Helvis, however, eleven-year-old Burgundia came running toward her. “Give Hugh to me, Mama!” she demanded, adding, “You know it exhausts you to carry him!”
Eschiva smiled at Burgundia’s concern and handed off the easygoing Hugh, not because she felt exhausted, but because she liked to see her eldest daughter taking such an interest in her infant brother. Aimery was already talking about marriages for Burgundia. Thinking like a king, he was looking for alliances that would serve Cyprus best. He was currently most taken with the thought of forging ties of kinship with Leo of Armenia. Leo had been systematically expanding his territory and his power for several years now, and he had proved effective in holding his frontiers against the Turks as well. Furthermore, he favored independence over close ties to Constantinople. However, he had no sons, so any ties would be indirect, via one of his nephews. Eschiva had asked for more information about these young men, and Aimery had promised to find out what he could. Meanwhile, Aimery had suggested as an alternative that they ask the Holy Roman Emperor to suggest one of his nobles as a means of binding the ever-slippery Hohenstaufen more closely to them. Or there was the Venetian option. As an island kingdom, Cyprus needed maritime ties, and Venice, so Aimery claimed, was on the ascent.
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