The news of the kidnapping of the Lady of Lusignan and her children spread like wildfire across Cyprus. It was the only topic of conversation in the markets and the taverns of city and town, and across the island Masses were sung for the safe return of the hostages in churches both humble and grand. No matter what people thought of the Franks in general or Lusignan in particular, there was widespread condemnation of the abduction of a young mother, her infant, and three young children. Expressions of distress, sympathy, condolences, and offers of help almost overwhelmed the palace staff.
Sir Simon had dramatically offered Aimery his sword hilt first and spread out his arms, inviting execution. Instead Aimery had cuffed him and ordered him out of his sight. Cecilia had been questioned mercilessly about what had happened until she collapsed in misery and had to be put to bed to recover. Beatrice, confronted with memories she preferred to forget, wore an expression both haggard and haunted as she tried to keep the household functioning. Maria Zoë found sleep impossible and felt lamed by her helplessness as she watched both Balian and Aimery rage futilely.
“Who could possibly want to harm Eschiva?” Aimery asked them collectively and rhetorically for the hundredth time. “Who? And why? If it had been pirates—as they all claim,” he dismissed his wife’s household contemptuously, “why haven’t there been any ransom demands? I’d pay anything! Anything at all!” He dropped his grizzled head in his hands and cried out inarticulately to Christ.
Aimery hadn’t shaved or combed since the news arrived, and with bloodshot eyes and tangled hair he looked quite wild. He was grayer, too, the news having aged him overnight. The sleepless nights made his voice raw when he roared his frustration at everyone in hearing. Nor he could stay still. Instead, when he wasn’t chasing after someone for possible information, he paced about the solar, kicking at the furnishings and pounding his fist randomly on tables, walls, and window sills. His thoughts spun around him viciously. His instinct was to attack, to fight, to kill—but he didn’t have a target.
Balian’s anger had burned itself out sooner, and he now sat looking worse than at any time since his arrival in Tyre after the surrender of Jerusalem. His eyes were sunken in the sockets of his face, and the skin around his eyes and jowls sagged like an old man’s, although he was not yet forty-seven. “Pirates will have wanted to put enough distance between you and them to prevent a rescue attempt. They will then have to send someone back across that distance, possibly by a circuitous route to disguise their whereabouts, with their demands,” Balian responded to Aimery’s most recent outburst.
“What are you saying?” Aimery demanded, staring at him belligerently, although they had never been as united in their feelings as they were now. Over the years they had disagreed over politics, strategy, and tactics. There had been times when Aimery resented Eschiva’s affection for Balian, and times when Balian had blamed Aimery for his treatment of Eschiva. Certainly they had been on opposing sides during the succession crisis after Baldwin V’s death and again after Queen Sibylla’s death. But their love of Eschiva had always bound them together and forced them to find common ground again and again.
“All I’m saying is that the ransom demands may yet materialize,” Balian noted wearily.
“We need to burn out the whole nest of pirates at Famagusta!” Aimery declared, pounding his fist on the nearest table.
Balian looked up at him with a sour expression, too tired to refrain from pointing out, “I told you to do that a year ago! Besides,” he added in a more discouraged tone, “the pirates anticipated you and have cleared the harbor. It hasn’t been this empty in two years, John tells me.”
“Where the hell is Magnussen?” Aimery burst out next. “He’s supposed to keep my waters safe!”
This time Balian bit his tongue rather than pointing out that Aimery had given Magnussen no resources with which to build up a fleet. It was obvious that Aimery was in no mood for a discussion of what he might have done wrong, and Balian conceded that there was little point in such debate anyway. There would be time enough for recriminations after they learned who was behind this kidnapping, and what they needed to do to set Eschiva and the children free.
Aimery growled, “When I find out who told these bastards where Eschiva was, I’ll skin him—or her—alive.”
“You’ve been in the East too long, Aimery,” Maria Zoë remarked. “Torture is such an Eastern custom—and one Eschiva abhorred.”
The clatter of horses, followed by shouting and pounding, erupted in the street below at the entrance to the palace. Maria Zoë, who was sitting in the window seat, leaned forward to try to see what the commotion was. “It looks like a rider has just arrived, but I can’t see who it might be. He’s completely hooded. It’s raining,” she added, as she noticed the way the torchlight glistened on the cobbles of the street.
Aimery immediately headed for the door, declaring more from hope than conviction, “It must be someone with news of Eschiva!”
At the door to the hall, he saw a crowd of people burst in and start moving toward the dais in an excited mob. Philip d’Ibelin, sitting with his brother John and cousin Guy at one of the tables, leapt up and started running toward the solar. He bounded onto the raised dais with a single leap, and seeing Aimery in the doorway, called to him, “My lord! Someone’s coming—”
“I’m not blind and deaf!” Aimery answered irritably, his eyes riveted on the man in the rain-darkened cloak coming toward him. The hood still shielded his face, but it was clear from his posture that he carried something under his cloak, something precious by the way he moved. He reached the foot of the dais steps and climbed them with a weary doggedness that spoke of long hours in the saddle. Then he looked up and was close enough for Aimery to see his face.
It was a stranger.
The stranger reached up to push his hood off his head with one hand, revealing long, red-blond hair. His other hand remained hidden under his cloak, the elbow still crooked. “My lord,” he croaked out, in a voice laden with grief and warning of bad news.
Aimery backed up into the solar, a sense of foreboding freezing his face and making his movements lame and clumsy.
The cloaked stranger followed him into the room. He was wearing old-fashioned leather boots bound to the leg with thongs, and something clicked in Aimery’s memory. This was surely one of Magnussen’s men.
“My lord,” the man repeated, going down on one knee and then gently pulling back his cloak to reveal a baby sleeping in the crook of his arm.
“Hugh!” Aimery exclaimed instantly, as Maria Zoë and Balian both sprang to their feet in amazement.
“Yes, my lord. Your son Hugh,” the man declared, holding the infant up to Aimery.
Aimery took the little bundle into his arms and looked down at him with wonder. But then his brows knotted in bewilderment. “But what of his brother? Where is Eschiva? The girls?—”
“My lord, Haakon managed to board the pirate ship with half the crew. He broke into the hold where your lady and the children were being held. The crew held the pirates off long enough for Haakon to get them all on deck, but your lady was too weak to climb over the side. As the pirates overwhelmed the crew, your lady thrust the baby into Haakon’s arms and begged him to save at least the infant. That’s what he did.”
“Where is he?” Aimery demanded, and from his grim expression and tone it was clear that he was not satisfied with this story.
“He’s dead.”
Aimery, Balian, and Maria Zoë all gasped at once, and stared at the messenger.
“The pirates fired crossbows as we pulled away. One went straight through Haakon’s back, killing him instantly. We barely managed to catch Hugh as he fell. Almost all the men who had boarded the galley with Haakon were killed, and we lost six more to the crossbows. The Storm Bird was so badly reamed from the collision she nearly sank on the return to port. She’ll never be seaworthy again.” Tears were running down the Norseman’s face as he spoke of the fate of his ship, but they were f
or his captain and his shipmates, too.
Aimery stared in stunned horror, and Maria Zoë hastened to take the baby out of his arms before he dropped the little bundle in his state of shock.
“Eschiva and the girls? They’re still in the hands of the pirates?” Aimery asked, not wanting to believe it.
“Yes, my lord.”
“But . . . ” But what?
“It was Kanakes,” the Norseman added.
“What? Who?” Aimery shook himself out of his shock.
“Kanakes,” the Norseman repeated. “He’s quite a famous pirate.”
“I know! I put a price on his head!” Aimery answered, irritated. “But why hasn’t he sent me ransom demands? What does he intend to do with my wife and children?”
“I don’t know, my lord, but he was headed for Antiochia Mikra on the southwest coast of Cilicia when we intercepted him.”
“Isaac!” Maria Comnena recognized the ruler of this rebellious enclave of Cilicia immediately.
“Isaac who?” Aimery and Balian asked in unison.
“I forget what he calls himself. He’s nothing but a petty warlord, a traitor to the Emperor. I believe he has been meddling in the dispute between Leo of Armenia and Bohemond of Antioch. He was certainly allied with Saladin as long as the latter lived. God knows who he’s allied with now, but his only interests are his own power and wealth.”
“Then he will sue for ransom?” Aimery asked.
Maria Zoë drew a breath and held it, hesitating with her answer. In the end she said, “It’s hard to know what someone like that wants. I fear he will seek more than money. That would be too mercenary for him. He sees himself more as a power broker.” She paused and then reminded them of the positive: “At least we now know to whom we can direct an embassy.”
Aimery swung around and looked Balian in the eye. “Will you go?”
“Of course; I’ll leave as soon as possible.” As he spoke Balian reached out to raise the Norseman to his feet, remarking to the sailor, “You need rest and food. I’ll see that you get both, and then I will ask that Masses be said for the soul of one of the bravest and truest men I have ever had the privilege to meet: Admiral Haakon Magnussen.”
Cilicia
After the rescue attempt, the treatment of the Lusignan hostages deteriorated. They were bound hand and foot and watched continuously. Although given water on demand, they were given no food nor any chance to relieve themselves. This treatment robbed them of any strength and all pride. But what did it matter? The pirates had gloated over the fact that the rescue had been a disaster. As they tied them up, they’d told Eschiva that Magnussen had been killed, and that Hugh had fallen overboard to drown. The news had broken Eschiva’s heart, leaving her numb to her own fate.
The sounds of oars being shipped, and feet running back and forth overhead, followed by the thud and shudder of the ship going alongside a quay, dragged Eschiva from her oblivion. She lifted her head to glance at her three terrified children. Although Burgundia was trying to be brave, Helvis and little Aimery were both whimpering again. The children were not too young to realize that their arrival at whatever the destination was would bring them new horrors. Helvis’ face was swollen and covered with dried blood from the injuries she had received during the kidnapping. Burgundia’s gown was soiled from holding Hugh in his dirty diapers. Eschiva glanced down at her own gown and realized it, too, was torn and filthy.
And Hugh was dead. Drowned.
Voices were shouting down to the hold, and the man guarding them stood with a grunt. A ladder was lowered, and their guard cut the cords binding their wrists and ankles before gesturing with his knife for them to climb the ladder. Aimery was closest, and at the sight of the threatening knife blade he scampered up the ladder with astonishing energy. Helvis followed quickly, but Burgundia looked back toward her mother. “Mama?”
The man with the knife shook it at Burgundia, and she grabbed the ladder and mounted it with evident reluctance, but steadily enough to avoid any more threats. Lastly, the man gestured for Eschiva to go. She tried to stand, but the world started spinning around her. She staggered forward, lost her balance, and crashed down onto the floor of the hold. A sharp pain stabbed up from her hip, and she tasted bile in her throat. Over her head the pirate stood shouting at her, his knife just inches from her face. But just trying to sit upright brought the dizziness back and she grayed out.
The pirate shouted furiously. Eschiva expected to feel cold steel on her throat. Instead, men thudded down beside her and roughly dragged her up the ladder to dump her on the deck of the ship.
The fresh air smelled amazingly good, and started to revive her. Burgundia was beside her, too, her little hand on her shoulder saying, “Mama! Mama! Are you all right?”
Eschiva put her hand over Burgundia’s and nodded, but did not speak.
“My mother’s sick!” Burgundia spiritedly told the pirates gathered around them. “She can’t walk.”
Eschiva noted mentally that they didn’t need her upright to rape her. They could do that well enough with her lying right here.
Babbling voices and much commotion, however, ended in an improvised stretcher being brought. To her amazement, Eschiva was carried off the galley on this, with Burgundia close beside her. Eschiva had glimpses of a quay laden with barrels and crates being on- or off-loaded. There were some weathered warehouses crowding the quay, and a tavern filled with gaping people in shoddy clothes. The women wore their hair loose and uncovered (whores), and the men looked like sailors from all the seas on earth.
The stretcher was put on the back of a wagon, and the children were ordered to crawl onto the back beside their mother. From where she lay, Eschiva could see nothing but the side of the wagon, so she squeezed Burgundia’s hand and whispered, “Tell me what you can see.”
“It’s a port,” Burgundia started.
“Can you see minarets?” Eschiva asked, fearing they had been landed in Saracen territory and were headed for a slave market.
“No. There’s a church up on the hill.”
“A church?” Eschiva could hardly believe their good fortune. “What does it look like?”
“It’s made of red brick with a dome, more like a Greek church than one of ours.”
Eschiva nodded in relief and let her eyes roll back in her head as unconsciousness overcame her.
She was woken by Burgundia shaking her shoulder. “Mama! Mama! They want us to get out.”
Sure enough, the wagon had halted and men were crowding around it, peering over the sides. These men were dressed differently from the pirates. They had long-sleeved shirts rather than naked torsos, and some had armor that was fashioned primarily from leather but with chain mail in places where flexibility was particularly important, like the neck and under the arms. The children were ordered off the cart with gestures, and then someone grabbed the handles at the end of Eschiva’s stretcher and pulled them far enough for a second man to get hold of the other end. They carried her a few yards and then set her down again in the grass.
From here Eschiva could see what looked like a poor, rundown farm with a lofty barn, some smelly and muddy pens for pigs (further evidence they were in Christian-held territory), and a stucco house with a smoking chimney. Two women in brown homespun dresses and linen aprons stood staring at the commotion. After some shouting in their direction, the women came over and took charge of the three Lusignan children, gesturing for them to come into the house. Although the women did not look very bright and were clearly taking orders from the armed men, they were instinctively maternal, and one gently touched Helvis’ bruised and scratched face, saying something that sounded comforting.
Eschiva was left lying outside for several more minutes. Eventually she saw a man in long black robes come out of the house. The robes looked like those of an Orthodox monk, but that didn’t make sense to Eschiva. Surely no man of God would be involved in kidnapping, rape, and whatever else was going on here? This man handed a purse over to the leadi
ng pirate. The pirate chief opened the drawstring and poured the coins into his palm, counting carefully. Satisfied, he nodded, replaced the coins in the purse, and climbed back onto the seat of the wagon. The other pirates clambered onto the back, and the wagon slowly turned around in the little yard. Evidently the pirates had been contracted to conduct this abduction by the men here. That meant the objective was not merely rape and murder, Eschiva reasoned.
After the pirates had departed, the man in the black robes approached Eschiva with long, purposeful strides. He had a full black beard that extended a good four inches from his chin. His black hair was long and wild. His nose was broad, and his eyes were pools of black hatred. Eschiva recognized that, even if his expression was completely at odds with the large wooden cross that hung on his breast. This man was indeed an Orthodox monk, she registered.
He stopped, looked down at her for a long moment, and then spat on her. “Lusignan!” he hissed. “Lusignan’s woman and brats!” he spat again, followed by a furious diatribe in Greek. All she could understand was the visceral hatred it expressed.
Another man had come up behind the monk and laid a hand on his shoulder. He said something in Greek and then turned to Eschiva and spoke in heavily accented and poorly constructed French. “My friend Brother Zotikos would rather I kill you and the children, but I have convinced him you’re worth more to us alive than dead. We will send your husband your wedding ring to prove we hold you in our power, and we will give him a choice. Either he and his wild dogs depart Cyprus and leave it to us Greeks, or we will kill his children one by one and then kill you, too—but not until we’ve turned you over to our men to enjoy.” He smiled at the thought, evidently anticipating that Lusignan would sacrifice his family for his throne.
Eschiva looked him in the eye and said with all the strength she could muster, “Your men will find little pleasure in raping a corpse.”
The man frowned and snapped, “We’ll kill you afterwards, stupid.”
The Last Crusader Kingdom Page 40
