The following morning the two kings set off side by side on the journey to Limassol. There they took leave of one another, with a great show of affection that was no longer staged. Both men had found much to admire in the other, now that Guy was dead and both felt more secure in their own realms.
It was not until Aimery, Ibelin, and the others returned to St. Hilarion five days later that they learned that Queen Eschiva was dead. She had passed away peacefully in her sleep the night before Champagne departed.
Chapter Twenty-One
One Wrong Step
Paphos, Cyprus,
September 1197
“YOU DON’T NEED TO COME IF you don’t want to,” Maria Zoë assured her eldest son sympathetically. Today they were (at last) inaugurating the successful completion of the aqueduct with a festival in the main square of Paphos. Tests had been made and everything was functional, but the water had been temporarily blocked again to await this official opening. Today, in the presence of the Greek Bishop of Paphos, Ibelin, and all the leading (and most of the common) citizens of the city, the large central fountain (and others throughout the city) would be flooded with water. The Bishop would bless the fountain, and there would be street food, music, and dancing. At the banquet Balian and Maria Zoë would honor the Greek master builder and his team, who had successfully built a new channel that hooked up to intact remnants of the Roman aqueduct. The master was to be given a large silver pitcher, and each of his masons would receive a small silver cup.
The problem for John was that Ayyub/Antonis had completed his apprenticeship, and as a journeyman had obtained permission to marry. He had requested the hand of Father Andronikos’ daughter Eirini and had received a positive answer.
When his mother addressed him, John was standing in the window niche, gazing out to sea with a wistful expression on his face. Now he pulled himself together and stepped down into the room. “I will come with you. This is one of Papa’s greatest achievements in Paphos to date. I would not want anyone to think I did not honor him for it.”
Maria Zoë touched John’s arm gently in approval. John was now a head taller than she, having caught up with his father. He was still very slender, and his face was almost gaunt, but it was a man’s face. John had turned eighteen this past May, and he was his father’s right hand in everything.
Maria Zoë nodded that she was ready to go, and John opened the door for her. They descended to the ward where Balian was marshaling their escort, with Meg already mounted on her flower-bedecked palfrey. At the sight of Maria Zoë and John, Balian called to the grooms to bring their horses, and in minutes they were all mounted and ready to depart. They crossed over the drawbridge and back into the town, which was bustling with subdued excitement. The harbor was more crowded than usual, and the crews of the ships were streaming from the port toward the center of town with the unique swagger of sailors freshly ashore. Carts, mules, and donkeys tethered to various buildings testified to the number of visitors, as people from the surrounding countryside flooded into the city to partake in the festivities.
A herald rode ahead of the Baron of Ibelin/Paphos and with short trumpet fanfares announced his approach. At the sound, people flocked to the side of the street and craned their necks to get a look at the Baron and his Comnena wife. There was no cheering, Ibelin noted, but he could sense no hostility, either. His eyes scanned the crowds looking for signs of trouble or resentment, but he found none. People appeared to be adjusting to Latin rule, and he supposed that (for at least today) they were mostly satisfied. Here and there people even waved to him. Bringing water back to the fountains was definitely a popular move, and well overdue. The public humiliation of the bath master who had assaulted his immigrant competitor had caused a small riot the previous year, and tensions between Greek and Latin, native and immigrant populations still simmered. But everyone could agree on the utility of functioning fountains. He hoped.
As they approached the large square on the site of the old Greek agora, the crowds thickened—and here, at last, men occasionally called out blessings or cheers. Ibelin could be fairly certain that most of the men wishing him well were newcomers, settlers from the Kingdom of Jerusalem, particularly from Nablus. Over the past year he had noted the unusual number of men from Nablus among the settlers; they appeared to have chosen Paphos, rather than Nicosia or Kyrenia, because they knew him and Maria Zoë.
Nevertheless, the fact that the Greek Bishop of Paphos had agreed to conduct the blessing was a good sign, too. The Bishop was flanked by scores of priests, all in their black vestments and long beards, which fluttered in the stiff westerly breeze coming off the Mediterranean. Ibelin had had word that the Pope had issued a papal bull this past winter naming a Latin Archbishop of Nicosia and suffragan bishops in Paphos, Limassol, and, surprisingly, Famagusta. While Ibelin welcomed the notion of Paphos becoming a bishop’s seat, because it would bring additional wealth and prestige to the city, he was a little relieved that no Latin bishop had yet been named. This way he could bow to the Greek bishop in a gesture of respect that would, hopefully, help ease the latent tensions even more.
At the edge of the square, Ibelin and his party dismounted, left the horses with the squires, and advanced to greet the Bishop of Paphos with humility. Ibelin, his lady, and Meg all bowed their heads to receive a blessing before going together to the edge of the fountain. As they waited, apparently in prayer, a flag was run up on the tower of the customs house overlooking the square. This was answered by a flag on the tower of the outer wall. The latter could be seen by the men controlling the aqueduct cistern. Within minutes water rushed down the slope to bubble up into the fountain with a satisfying gurgle, followed by splashing. The latter ignited a cheer from the crowd around the square that became so enthusiastic it drowned out the Bishop’s blessings. People started pressing in, dipping their hands in the cool water or filling jars and cups with it. Everyone was talking at once and jostling one another good-naturedly.
Ibelin, his wife and children removed themselves from the fountain with the bishop to stand on the steps up to the customs house. The bishop nodded benevolently at the crowds, as youths started splashing one another to the accompaniment of loud shouts. “This is a good thing,” the bishop assured Ibelin above the noise. Balian’s passive Greek had improved enough for him to understand remarks like this, but he was still reluctant to speak in Greek. So he answered in French, and Maria Zoë stepped in to translate.
While his parents exchanged pleasantries with the bishop, John’s eyes found Ayyub/Antonis in the crowd. Sure enough, Eirini was at his side. She was dressed in a pretty gown with bright red embroidery, and she had hooked her hand through his elbow to walk beside him. She was very modest—indeed, she wore a scarf over her head and neck. She kept her head down, too, rather than shaking her curls and throwing smiles at all the handsome youths as some of the other girls did. But she didn’t look glum or miserable, either. Rather, she was flushed and cast frequent admiring glances at Ayyub/Antonis. They were the same glances that she had once directed at John.
“Could you excuse me a moment, my lord?” John addressed his father formally.
Ibelin nodded absently, and Maria Zoë cast John a questioning, almost warning, look, but he ignored her. He wove his way through the crowds, skirting the press of people still surrounding the fountain to where Ayyub/Antonis was chatting to several of his fellow masons.
“Antonis!” John called out to attract attention.
Antonis turned around, surprised. When he caught sight of John, his face broke into a wide smile. He had no idea that John was in love with Eirini, and John knew that. Nor could John blame the Syrian immigrant for falling in love with the Cypriot maiden. Who wouldn’t? What he couldn’t understand was why Eirini had chosen Antonis over him.
As he joined the masons, John held out his hand to Antonis and congratulated him on successfully completing his apprenticeship.
“And my marriage! Eirini and I were married yesterday!” he announced,
bursting with pride.
John was staggered to think it was already done—irrevocably and eternally. Not that he could have stopped it. He glanced sharply at Eirini, and she dropped her eyes, blushing bright red.
“Then I must congratulate the bride,” John found himself saying smoothly, as he bent forward to touch his cheek to hers. It was self-inflicted torture, as he remembered the feel of her lips on his. How could she do this?
“I wanted to invite you and your lord father,” Antonis was saying innocently, “but Father Andronikos convinced me we couldn’t afford a feast worthy of a baron.”
“My father, and indeed all of us, do not require extravagance,” John countered, still feeling off balance and a little dizzy; “you should know that.”
“Look! They’re opening the casks of wine! Will you join us for a toast?” Antonis asked.
“Of course. I must drink to your good fortune and wish you many children,” John agreed—although he didn’t know where the words came from. Inwardly, out of pain, he wished them the opposite.
“Would you mind looking after Eirini while I fight my way through the crowd?” Antonis asked, with a smile so innocent it baffled John. Didn’t he suspect anything?
John could only nod, however, and the next thing he knew Eirini was hanging on his elbow, while Antonis plunged into the crowd that had converged on the wagon with the wine casks. At first John couldn’t bring himself to even look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on the crowd, watching Antonis’ progress. Then it just burst out of him. “Why? Why did you marry him?”
“Because he asked me,” Eirini answered bluntly.
“You mean you would have married anyone?” John demanded angrily, looking down at the first and only woman he had ever loved in his short life, anger smoldering in his breast.
“Not anyone,” Eirini answered firmly, “but Antonis is a good, honest man. He is hard-working and will go far. He is also very kind, and he loves me. Is that not reason enough?”
“What about me?” John protested. “Are you saying I am not good or honest? Or do you doubt my love?”
Eirini would not meet his eye as she answered, but she spoke firmly, almost bitterly. “You are Latin, and you are a knight. You would never have married me.”
John felt he had been kicked in the gut. She was right, of course.
“I do not want to dishonor my father,” Eirini rubbed the message in. “I was foolish to lead you on, but I’m not a child anymore. I want to be a respectable woman with a husband, home, and family. You could never give that to me. Antonis will.”
John had nothing to say to that. He swallowed and looked for Antonis. He didn’t want to be with Eirini a moment longer. He just wanted to run away. But he couldn’t. He had to wait for Antonis to return. Eirini was now gazing at him. “Are you angry with me?” she asked, sounding for the first time a little unsure of herself.
John didn’t dare to look at her. He kept his eyes on Antonis, who had successfully purchased three cups of wine and was returning cautiously through the crowds, intent on not spilling any of the precious liquid. “No,” John told Eirini, unsure if he was lying or not. “As you say, we are not children anymore,” he added. Inwardly he wondered: Could only children love without thought of the consequences? Did you have to be a child to just fall in love without calculating costs and benefits and risks? He felt very sad and very old, and had to force himself to smile as Antonis, grinning, offered him a cup of red Cypriot wine.
John raised his cup. “To the bride and groom! May you have many happy years together and a house full of healthy children!” He put the cup to his lips and gulped down half at once. Then, with another forced smile, he raised the cup again in salute.
“And to you and your father for making this all possible!” Antonis answered sincerely, lifting his own cup.
John raised his cup to clink it with Antonis’, and as he did so he noticed a commotion at the other side of the square. He frowned and craned his neck. “Something’s going on.” He gestured toward a rider who was forcing his way through the crowd, making for the Lord and Lady of Ibelin/Paphos. The rider wore Lusignan livery and his horse was caked in sweat and dust.
“Something’s going on. Excuse me.” John handed his near-empty cup back to Antonis. “I must find out what has happened.”
John forced his way back through the crowd as rapidly as possible, but it wasn’t easy. People kept getting in his way. By the time he’d skirted the fountain, the rider had dismounted and gone down on one knee before his parents. They were both staring at him in obvious shock, while the Bishop of Paphos was crossing himself. Whatever news he’d brought, it was bad.
John pushed people aside to run the last few strides, pounding up the steps to his parents’ side. Balian pulled him up the last step. “John! I need you to escort your mother to Acre at once. I’ll come as soon as I can, but I need to regulate some things here first. Take her back to the castle to change and organize an escort of six knights. Take Sir Galvin and have him choose any other five knights he wants. Meanwhile, I’ll find Andersen and have him get ready to put to sea immediately. Haakon’s Ghost may not be as fast as the Storm Bird, but on this wind, she’ll still get you to Acre faster than riding for Limassol and looking for another galley. Don’t bother with horses. You’ll have access to the royal stables.”
“Yes, my lord,” John replied without hesitation, but he couldn’t help asking, “What’s happened?”
“Henri de Champagne is dead. Some sort of bizarre accident. We don’t know the details yet, but apparently he fell from a window to the courtyard and his death.”
“Champagne?” John asked, incredulous, the images of him full of life, charm, and good spirits still vivid in his mind.
“I need to get to Bella as soon as possible,” his mother told him.
“And I’m coming with you!” Meg declared resolutely.
Balian stepped back so John could take his mother’s arm and escort her, and he didn’t stop Meg from following. John elbowed his way through the crowds to their tethered horses. They did not speak. They did not need to. They all grasped what a horrible and unfair blow this was to Isabella. Just once did Maria Zoë exclaim: “God help me! She doesn’t deserve this!”
Acre, Kingdom of Jerusalem, Mid-September 1197
Haakon’s Ghost slipped into Acre as the wind died at dusk. The standards of Ibelin and Jerusalem were both flying from the masthead. The pilot met them off the outer sea wall. As the Norsemen manned the oars to enter the harbor cautiously, the pilot turned to sprint into the harbor. Imperiously, the pilot ordered one of the ships tied at the quay to clear a berth for the Dowager Queen’s ship. By the time Maria Zoë, John, and Meg stepped ashore, horses were already waiting for them along with a small contingent of royal knights. Although Maria Zoë could not remember any names, she recognized several of the young knights from Champagne. They had come out with their lord on the last great crusade and had served Isabella since her marriage to Henri. They looked shocked and somber.
Standing with his mother and sister on the quay as they prepared to mount up, John was disturbed by distant shouting, screaming, and crashing. He frowned and lifted his head to listen more closely, and Barry lifted his head and ears as well. As a knight led a horse forward for him, John swung himself into the saddle and picked up the reins, but immediately asked the knight, “What’s going on? It sounds like you’re under assault!”
“In a way we are,” the royal knight answered grimly. “Ever since their victory over al-Adil last week, the Germans have become insufferable! They’ve been demanding better lodging and complaining about market prices. Now they’ve run amok down in the Jewish quarter and are plundering and looting.”
John stared at the knight in incomprehension. “And you haven’t been able to restore order?”
“How can we? There’s only a score of us, and we need to stay close to the palace to protect the Queen.”
“You can’t just let foreign troops run amok in the
heart of Acre!” John protested.
“Well, you try to stop them, puppy!” the man answered with a sneer and a contemptuous look at Barry. Then he spurred his horse to the head of the column. John clamped his jaw together and followed behind the others, but his gaze was drawn again and again toward the sounds of rioting coming from the northwest. Where was the watch? Where was the Constable? John realized uncomfortably that he hadn’t a clue who Champagne had appointed Constable after driving Aimery out of the Kingdom five years ago.
He cantered to catch up with his mother and sister near the head of the column, Barry loping behind him. As he drew up beside them, he pointed in the direction of the noise. “Do you hear that? Apparently the German crusaders are helping themselves to the property of the Jews. Someone’s got to stop them! The Jews are citizens, too. Besides, if they can take what they want from the Jews with impunity, they’ll attack the Syrians and then the other burghers next.”
Maria Zoë looked over her shoulder in the direction John was pointing, and nodded. “You’re right. You’d better see what you can do.”
“Me?” John asked, astonished.
“No one else seems to be concerned. Take your father’s knights and find out what’s happening.”
John drew a breath to protest, but then realized his mother was right. He was a knight, heir to Balian d’Ibelin, Lord of Paphos. His father’s knights would obey him. “I’ll see what I can do, my lady,” he answered his mother formally.
He set his jaw and his expression turned to one of grim determination. As he inwardly assumed his father’s role, he jumped down, put a lead on Barry, and turned the dog over to his sister. Then he remounted and rode back to his father’s knights.
As he drew up beside Sir Galvin, he pointed toward the noise and again explained the situation. Sir Galvin didn’t hesitate or question. He pulled his helmet off his pommel, set it on his head, and drew the strap tight. Then he drew his battle-ax from its leather case and weighed it in his right hand. Sir Sergios strung his bow and notched an arrow. The other four knights drew their swords.
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