The Last Crusader Kingdom

by Helena P. Schrader

  With a gentle clunk and a slight jolt, the galley went alongside the quay. A cheer went up; trumpets sounded. Aimery swung himself onto the ladder leading down to the main deck and descended face first like a sailor. John gallantly helped his mother descend more cautiously, facing backwards. By the time John had reached the deck, Philip and Dick de Camville had already jumped onto the gangway to proceed before their lord and bow before him as Lord Aimery went ashore. It was a brave (and John suspected improvised) attempt to give the Lusignan a touch of dignity, but quite pathetic compared to the Armenians’ display.

  Leo of Armenia strode toward Lord Aimery with outstretched arms. As Lord Aimery started to bend his knee, he caught him and embraced him instead. “My good and dear friend! Lord Aimery!” Leo’s voice carried across the quay. “Welcome to Cilicia! My house is yours!”

  “My lord, there are no words equal to the depth of my gratitude for what you have done—” Aimery had prepared the speech, but he found himself overwhelmed by the situation nevertheless, and his voice caught slightly.

  Leo of Armenia jumped in easily, “What I have done is not worth a word! It is only what any man of honor would have done, and for a lady of such perfect grace and innocence! I’m sure you would have done the same for me if our roles had been reversed. Come, I know how anxious you are to see with your own eyes that no harm has come to your lady or your children—and, I assure you, your impatience is only exceeded by her desire to lay eyes on you.” He took Lord Aimery’s arm and started leading him through the cheering public.

  Balian fell in beside his wife and son. “How is Eschiva really?” Maria Zoë asked, confident that Lord Aimery could not hear her over the cheering and commentary provided by his host.

  “She’s deathly ill,” Balian answered candidly. “I think only the hope of seeing Aimery and Hugh again keeps her alive. She is fundamentally bedridden. She can stay sitting up for an hour or two, but she can hardly stand at all without getting dizzy. She would have fainted dead away had she tried to come down and meet Aimery on the quay, as was originally planned.”

  “What is it? Have you consulted physicians here?”

  “Yes, but they only shake their heads and talk of humors and weak blood.” Balian shook his head in frustration. “I feel as if she needs to move more and breathe fresh air. When a man is wounded and immobilized, he loses strength in his healthy limbs just from inactivity. I can’t help feeling that part of Eschiva’s problem is that because she doesn’t move, she is getting weaker and weaker.”

  “But if standing makes her dizzy . . . ” Maria Zoë pointed out, and her husband threw up his hands with a sigh. “What of the girls and little Aimery?” Maria Zoë asked next.

  “Little Aimery is happy as a healthy puppy,” Balian assured her, “and Helvis also seems to have recovered well. She plays with the other girls and is already learning some Armenian. I’m more worried about Burgundia. She seems to feel she should stay with her mother, reading to her or playing chess. She is far too sober for a girl her age. Even our Helvis was more carefree—bossing Sidon around, actually.”

  Maria Zoë laughed at the memory of their eldest daughter at Burgundia’s age. She was by then already betrothed to Reginald de Sidon and, as Balian noted, had quite shamelessly taken advantage of her elderly bridegroom’s kindness and chivalry. Returning to the present, she remarked, “Let’s hope that once Burgundia gets safely back to Cyprus, she’ll get over her current mood and become more cheerful again.”

  The sun was setting as they reached the Lord of Corycos’ palace, which, as the largest and best-appointed residence in the port, was housing the freed captives and Leo himself. The Lord of Corycos had spared no expense to deck his residence with bunting and bright ribbons, and torches were lit all across the front of the building and on the roof as well. Lord Aimery was led up the interior stairway that wound around the courtyard toward a hall—but Eschiva, hearing the commotion in the courtyard, could not wait for him. She dragged herself to her feet, and leaning heavily on Burgundia’s arm, made her way out into the corridor just as Aimery reached the top of the stairs. He saw her and ran to her, without a thought to his dignity. As he reached her she started to reel, the world spinning around her, and he grabbed her in a fierce grip. Eschiva closed her eyes and dropped her head on his chest.

  “Sweetheart, can you ever forgive me?” Aimery whispered as her legs gave way. He held her upright only by the strength of his arms, conscious of how terribly light she was in them. She had lost a great deal of weight, and she had had none extra to lose three months ago, he registered.

  “Hugh,” was the first word out of Eschiva’s mouth. “Is Hugh—”

  “He’s fine! I swear, he weighs more than you do!”

  Eschiva smiled without opening her eyes. She just seemed to faint into a contented sleep. Aimery bent and slipped his arm under her knees to carry her into the room behind her. She came to again as he set her down on a large cushioned bench. She smiled up at him and whispered, “I love you, Aimery.”

  Leo of Armenia had arranged a magnificent banquet to honor the Lord of Lusignan and celebrate the reunion of husband and wife. In fact, he had arranged three days of feasting, hunting, and other entertainment. The day following the arrival of the Cypriots started with a Mass at the main cathedral to give thanks for the safe delivery of the captives. Eschiva declined to attend, but the three Lusignan children dutifully accompanied their father. Lord Aimery led his little namesake by the hand, and the two girls went before him. Their bright blond hair was brushed out and free for all to see under garlands of almond blossoms.

  Maria Zoë, imperial princess that she was, had thought to bring something appropriate to wear, and looked suitably regal. She also provided gold-trimmed surcoats from her sea chest for her husband and son, but the Lusignan girls were dressed entirely in Armenian charity. The debt, John thought, just kept growing.

  As they returned from Mass, with mouth-watering smells already seeping from the kitchens into the hall of the palace, the captain of Lord Aimery’s galley appeared in an agitated state. “My lord,” he announced in what John thought was a rude tone, “the wind has backed around to the north. If you leave now, we might just be able to ride that wind back to Kyrenia before the storm breaks. If not, you may spend far longer here than you ever planned.” He pointed dramatically toward dark clouds building up in the north.

  “We can’t just depart!” Lord Aimery protested, embarrassed by the man’s tone as much as by his message. “Look at all that the Lord of Armenia has prepared!” He gestured toward the activity around them.

  But a cold wind was lifting the tablecloths from the tables set up in the courtyard, making the servants run about to weight them down. Maria Zoë shivered and wished she had her cloak.

  “That storm brings snow and ice!” the captain insisted. “It could close down sea travel for weeks in its wake. Do you truly want to be away from Cyprus so long?”

  “What is the problem?” Leo of Armenia returned, having noticed that his guest had been waylaid.

  “My fleet captain insists there is bad weather in the offing,” Lord Aimery admitted with a frown, “but I’m sure he exaggerates. We wouldn’t want to disrupt the plans you so graciously made for us.”

  “My lord,” the captain turned to appeal directly to the Lord of Armenia. “Look to the north! That’s a storm from beyond Taurus.”

  The Armenian prince followed the captain’s pointed finger and he, too, felt the chill on the breeze. He nodded. “Your captain is right, Lord Aimery. There is a dangerous storm brewing, the type that brings snow and sleet and freezing rain on a wind like a razor’s edge. We would not keep you here for the sake of merriment when you need to get your family to safety. Make haste.”

  By the time the fleet cast off, the overcast had blotted out the blue sky except for a last strip low to the horizon in the southeast. The sea was already choppy, with whitecaps scattered liberally on the lead-gray water. The oars were shipped and the cover
s battened down as the galley raced before the wind. Aimery stayed with Eschiva and his children in the main cabin, but the Ibelins, including Philip, kept to the deck, watching as the sky behind them grew increasingly dark and ominous.

  By midday they were plunging through ten- to twelve-foot waves, and the captain had reefed all three sails. Maria Zoë clutched her cloak around her, the collar turned up so that it covered most of her cheeks right to the collarbone. Philip, on the other hand, was entertaining himself by trying to run up and down the poop, frequently staggering like a drunk because of the uneven lurching of the ship under his feet. John, annoyed by his antics, called for him to “stop being childish,” but his father laid a hand on John’s arm and shook his head.

  “Let him be, John. Life will catch up with him soon enough. I wish you had had more years to be a playful colt. Of all the evil consequences of Hattin, one minor but nevertheless sad one was that it robbed you of your childhood.”

  Nonplused, John stared after his father, who had already turned away to follow the soaring of a seagull as it rode the wind overhead, cawing loudly. John had never thought about it like that, but with a twinge of guilty insight he realized that he was often sharp with Philip because he envied him his carelessness.

  “I do hope we are ahead of that storm,” Maria Zoë confessed her growing unease as the storm appeared to be inexorably catching up with them.

  Her husband nodded soberly. “I admit, I’d feel happier in the Storm Bird. She could ride out anything!” He flashed a smile at John as he spoke, as if he knew these had been John’s thoughts, too.

  The captain was giving orders frantically, and shortly afterwards the helm was put up hard and the galley pitched down into the next trough, then lay hard on her side and seemed about to roll right over as they swung across the swells to head into the wind. “My God!” Maria Zoë gasped, clinging to the railing in terror. “What’s happening?”

  “I presume we’re about to shorten sail again,” Balian told her calmly, while Philip, frightened by this latest maneuver, sought proximity to his father. The four Ibelins stood together clinging to the rail and waited.

  Sure enough, the crew made ready to hand the mainsail, casting the halyards off to the last turn, and ensuring the lines were free to run. For several nerve-racking moments, the booms of all three lateen sails shook and swung violently from side to side. The Ibelin party cowered at the very stern to be out of the way of the lashing and cracking canvas of the mizzen sail.

  The galley was now pitching so violently that the bows came clear out of the water before plunging down violently as the swell swept aft. The long ram smashed into the sea to be smothered in foam, and once or twice water washed completely over the foredeck. As the rushing water collided with the forward deckhouse, it broke into cascades of spray that splattered on the main deck like drenching rain.

  “You might want to go below,” Balian advised his wife.

  “What? Now? My dear, if we’re about to go down, we stand a better chance of survival here on deck.”

  “I don’t think we’re in any risk of foundering,” Balian reassured her, “but I think I just felt the first drops of rain.” Maria Zoë glanced toward the low-hanging overcast, but could see no rain.

  Meanwhile the crew had managed to drag the mainsail down, one handful of shivering canvas at a time. As soon as the upper boom was lowered, the crew lashed the sail into a rough stow. Meanwhile, the helmsmen fell off the wind and the bows swung around again. Once more, the passengers clutched the railing and felt their stomachs lurch as the galley turned broadside to the waves and rolled on her side, putting the leeward gunnel well under water. But the bows continued around, and she soon righted herself. In a moment they were again running before the wind—but now, with just the fore and mizzen set, the ship appeared lighter and fleeter. She seemed to ride the tops of the waves, racing the whitecaps.

  “I’m beginning to like this ship,” Balian grunted to his eldest son. “What’s she called?”

  “Something boring like the Pilgrim Angel.”

  Balian roared with approving laughter, and John grinned with pleasure. It was not easy to make his father laugh like that. Then again, he seemed to laugh more recently than he had in the years immediately after the Treaty of Ramla, much less in that hellish period between Hattin and the arrival of the crusaders.

  With the ship settled into a comfortable stride again, Philip wandered away to the front of the poop, interested in watching the helmsman. John turned and asked his father, “What did you think of Leo of Armenia?”

  “A very fine prince and a good man.”

  “He was so generous—he reminded me of Richard of England, somehow, for all that he was slight and dark rather than big and blond.”

  His father nodded. “Very observant of you, John. I think they do have much in common, and in some ways I admire Leo of Armenia more. His father was treacherously murdered, and his brother was taken captive and held for ransom, yet I have seen no indication that Leo has become bitter or overly suspicious of other men. He seems remarkably at ease in his own skin, candid and generous both.”

  “Did I understand correctly that he took the Prince of Antioch captive?” John asked cautiously.

  “Yes, and he still has him, but he allowed me to meet with both Bohemond and his wife. They assured me they had been treated very courteously and provided with every luxury possible—except freedom. Leo’s terms for their release were, if you like, mild, because he asked only that Bohemond accept Armenian sovereignty over Antioch—the exact reverse of the terms his brother had been forced to accept for his freedom. The problem is that while Bohemond was willing to agree to those terms, and sent his marshal to Antioch with Armenian troops to implement them, the citizens of Antioch were not. Since there were too few Armenian troops to resist the mob, they fled, leaving the citizens to proclaim Bohemond’s son Raymond Prince of Antioch in his father’s stead. This leaves poor Bohemond in an awkward position, to say the least. He is not sure what would become of him if he went home, but it also leaves Leo with a hostage of little value.” Ibelin ended his narrative with a laugh. “Such is the absurdity of some diplomacy, John,” he noted, glancing up at what he thought were more drops of rain.

  At his inquiring glance, Maria Zoë again shook her head and declared, “I’m still happier here. Below deck, I promise you, half the inhabitants are violently seasick.”

  This was too true, so Balian turned again to John. “I like Leo, John, and he is a model of a good ruler, but there is a profound weakness in Armenia.”

  John looked over, surprised, and Balian continued, “It is in a sense a lawless land. Not that it has no laws, but strong men are too quick to ignore them. Central power is weak and only exercised when someone like Leo can win the loyalty of the scores of warlords who wield the real power. Such a system easily leads to despotism. Where power rests on strength rather than legitimacy, that power too often goes to the strongest rather than the best. Leo is a good prince, but his uncle was a very different man, who terrorized his people and plundered the wealth of the country. It is unimaginable that a youth like Baldwin IV could have ruled in Armenia; they would have torn him apart like wolves, or simply murdered him in his bed.”

  “But the disputes over who was the legitimate king of Jerusalem almost destroyed us,” John protested. “Uncle Baldwin left, Tripoli made a separate peace, and then Montferrat and Lusignan undermined each other for years.”

  His father nodded as a rain shower pattered across the deck and then fled. “What do you think would have been better?”

  It was very dark on deck because of the low clouds. Furthermore, with the wind howling, the deck creaking, the canvas moaning, and waves rushing under the keel, they had to raise their voices to be heard. Yet words were whisked away by the wind as soon as they left the speaker’s mouth. It was almost as if they had never been said. So John risked it: “Didn’t you ever think that you would have made a better king than either of them, Papa? D
idn’t you ever want to be King of Jerusalem?” As he spoke, John felt his mother’s gaze firmly upon him, and he sensed her almost amused approval. That was good, but it was his father’s answer he feared.

  Balian gave his son the greatest compliment. He did not rebuke him or dismiss the question as impudent and inappropriate; instead he nodded thoughtfully and took his time answering. At last he looked John in the eye and admitted, “Yes, there were times when I thought I would make a better king than Conrad—much less Guy. But the price of grasping power would have been to make it dependent on force. Think of how Saladin lived in constant fear of someone doing unto him as he had done to others. Think of the Emperors of the Eastern Empire today—fearing the next assassin, the next palace coup. If I had seized power by force, I would have left an illegitimate legacy, one that secured you nothing. You would have had to fight for the Crown all over again—just as al-Afdal now fights for his father’s legacy—indeed for his very survival.” He paused to let this sink in, and his wife and son waited, sensing he was not finished.

  “It seems to me, John, that the Constitution of Jerusalem is an excellent and wise foundation for government, because it gives precedence to the legitimate heirs of previous kings, while leaving to the High Court, much like the College of Cardinals or the monks of an abbey, the function of selecting between rival claimants the most suitable candidate. Certainly in the case of female heirs, the selection of the king consort lies firmly with the High Court, not the queen or her male relatives. If Sibylla and Guy had not bypassed the High Court at the time of her marriage, we would never have had the debacle of Hattin. It is the combination of hereditary and elected power that makes our Constitution strong. On the one hand it precludes the rise of adventurers and upstarts, but on the other hand it ensures that when a king is recognized by the High Court, then he has the support of his barons, bishops, and knights. That is something worth preserving, John. Henri de Champagne is not such a bad king, do you think?”