Tommaso stopped; he looked worn and frail. Frederick squinted slightly. “Go on.”
“They cannot be trusted. Either of the orders. They are both far too concerned with their own interests. Plus, they hate you, the Templars especially. And about the Templars—”
He paused again. This time Frederick waited, his fists on his knees, until he was ready to go on.
“This rumor is so curious—I didn’t credit it at all when I heard it first. But I kept hearing it, and finally someone brought me proof. Of a sort. Not the sort one takes before the High Court. The charge isn’t one I think the High Court should handle. It’s said that the Templars are heretical.”
Frederick shivered. In the stillness Tommaso turned to look at him, his long, bearded face somber.
“I’m heretical,” Frederick said softly. “Be specific.”
Tommaso licked his lips. “They brought me a thing in a little box that they’d stolen from one of the houses of the order. It was a kind of . . . anyhow, it was a wooden cross with a bat nailed to it.”
“Christ in heaven. What did you do with it?”
“I burned it.”
Frederick took a deep breath. His heart thundered under his ribs. “So.”
“What does it mean?”
“You should know, you’re Sicilian. The hill people still use that kind of talisman in some of their rituals. Either the Templars have gone pagan . . . or they’re worshipping Satan.”
Tommaso nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
“How naughty of them.”
Tommaso looked down at his hands.
“I wish you hadn’t burned the bat.”
“I had to. I couldn’t keep it. It frightened me.”
Frederick nodded. The Templars Satanist—it was explosive, it was shocking even to him. But after the first race of excitement he could think of no use for it. If he charged them with it no one would believe him—too many people said the same thing about him. But it would be an interesting thing to know, to produce at an odd moment. He remembered how the Templar at the banquet had stared at him, and abruptly the skin crawled over the nape of his neck.
“Good. I’ll see you in the morning, Tommaso. Leave your full reports here and I’ll read them.”
“Sire.”
Tommaso stood up, bowed, and started out. When he was nearly out the door Frederick called his name, and Tommaso wheeled. Frederick smiled. “Thank you.”
Tommaso bowed again, grinning, and went out. The silence after he had gone surprised Frederick; there was something odd about it. Finally he decided it was because he was alone for the first time in months. He stood up and went to look at the moon again.
The Templars. No wonder Tommaso had been reluctant to speak of it. There was something frightening in it, elementally disturbing, and because he was Sicilian, like Frederick, he knew more about it than most people. All the lights were out in the next keep, but beyond the wall a dog was barking insistently. Cypriot dog.
It’s all rotten, from the top to the root, all of it.
“Sire?”
“I’m coming.”
“This way. “
With a candle in his hand, Corso led him through a small dark room into a bigger one, half lit with oil lamps. On the edge of the bed the dark girl sat, her legs curled beneath her. For a moment, while Corso trimmed out all the lamps but one, Frederick composed reassurances in case she was frightened, but when Corso went to the door, she lifted her head and looked at him, and he saw the bold interest in her face. Corso went out and drew the door shut.
The girl slid off the bed and started toward him, taking off her thin gown. Her dark hair swung over her shoulders and lay against her small breasts and her back. Reaching him, she lifted her hands to open his robe, but he grabbed her before her hands touched him. His whole body tingled; the sight and scent and feel of a girl, after so long, made his head reel. He kissed her hard, and her lips parted and her tongue caressed his. Her hands slid under his clothes, stroking his back and hips. He gasped.
“Don’t do that to an aging man.”
In Greek she said, “I don’t speak Italian.”
“That’s all right. We needn’t talk.” He kissed her again, maneuvering her backward toward the bed. She clung to him moving against him. Halfway to the bed he finally bent, picked her up, and carried her.
“What did you say before?”
He dumped her onto the bed. “That I’m too old for all this thrilling action.” The delicious ache spread in waves through his body. Her mouth brushed his skin, her hands drew him down against her, and she twisted to meet him. A kind of wild frenzy took hold of him; locked together with her, he rode and rode and rode, blind and deaf, until with a rush that made him cry out thickly he came and thrust one last time and lay still.
After a long while he said, “Unh.”
Her husky laugh sounded muffled from beneath him. “Are you content, Your Majesty?”
“Hell. I think I’m dying. And take it easy, I haven’t spoken Greek in years.” He turned his head and kissed her. “You’re supposed to tell me I’m not old.”
“That would be silly.” Her hands moved over his back. “Actually, we all expected gray hair and a lofty look.”
He shut his eyes. “Um-hmm. And you may also tell me that while you were dancing you looked up and saw me and fell instantly in love.”
She laughed again. He liked the sound of her laugh. He liked her voice, the way she touched him, her soft dark skin—he was falling asleep.
“Shall I stay?”
With difficulty he pushed his eyelids open. “Naturally. Where would you go?”
“Back with the others.” She put her arms around him. “Sometimes men don’t like us to spend the night with them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He tangled his hands in her hair. “Stay here. I get lonely when I sleep alone.”
Gradually she relaxed; he moved over and she lay beside him, her head on his arm. He fooled with her hair and waited to doze off again. Half asleep, he started awake again and said, “What’s your name?”
“Theophano.”
“You know what mine is.” He yawned and settled himself into the pillows. “My court in Sicily calls me ‘Big Red’ behind my back.”
For a moment she was silent, but suddenly her laughter burst out, half choked back, and she reached out and hugged him. With her arms around him and his hand in her hair he shut his eyes and slept.
Barlais said, “I’m sure Ibelin has been stealing revenues.”
“I’ve summoned him here, and he’ll answer for it if he has. Tell me about Queen Alice.”
“She’s of little importance, really. Since she married Bohemund’s son everybody thinks she’s too involved in the affairs of Antioch and Tripoli.”
Frederick leaned back and half shut his eyes. In a country where boy children died off more quickly than girls a queen was always important, especially if she managed to combine in her person several different kinships. “What’s she like?”
“She’s a bitch.” Barlais paced in a small circle; his body cutting through a shaft of dusty sunlight made the gold on the far wall flash. “And she’s part Ibelin.”
“She isn’t. She’s related to them through her grandmother, who married Balian d’Ibelin after the Queen’s grandfather died. Don’t exaggerate. How strong is John d’Ibelin on Cyprus?”
Barlais shrugged. “Strong enough to make trouble for you, Your Majesty.”
And he didn’t come to greet me; does he think I’ll go looking for him? He brushed his hair back over his shoulders and stared at Barlais, who fidgeted. The door behind them opened, and Marino, the chamberlain, stuck his head in.
“Just a moment, Marino.”
Barlais glanced around and turned forward again. “Your Majesty—”
“Yes. I have no real army with me—only two hundred men. Can you raise more?”
With a grin that changed his whole face, Barlais nodded. “As many as you’ll need o
n Cyprus.”
“Well, I doubt we’ll require that many. Some of the Syrian barons are coming here shortly. Thank you for your information and support. On your way out tell Marino to arrange it so that you can stay openly here. This sneaking around makes me nervous.”
Glowing, Barlais bent double and stalked out. Frederick made a face at his back, got up, and walked around the room, stretching. He could hear the sudden babble of voices in the anteroom. Behind a lattice screen in one corner Hasan and Ayub sat cross-legged, and he waved to them. A side door opened, and Corso with two other pages rushed in.
“Sire,” Corso said, and sent the other pages on into the next room. “That Ferrante, the one who runs the troupe of jugglers—”
“I thought he’d been paid.” Frederick unlaced his coat and reached through to undo the front of his shirt.
“He was, but he wants to know when he can have the girl back, he needs her, he says.” Corso glanced toward the front door. “And she won’t put on some clothes so we can go in and clean up that room.”
“What do you mean, she won’t—Oh. Tell Ferrante I haven’t made my mind up yet.” He started toward the door into the bedchamber, but Marino was already ushering in someone else. Frederick paused a moment, unsure, and finally waved Marino out again and went into the bedchamber.
Theophano was sitting naked in the sun before the window, combing her hair; either she didn’t hear him come in or she was ignoring him. He stood still, admiring the sheen of her skin and her supple waist.
“Do you have any clothes?”
She spun around, dropping the comb. “Oh. You startled me. What did you say?” Her black eyes were huge, her low voice unsteady.
“Do you have any clothes?”
“No. Not really.” She stood up. Her hands moved uncertainly to shield herself from his eyes and finally dropped to her sides. “Do you want me to go now?”
The way she stood, her slender athletic body poised to run or leap, fascinated him. She’s, beautiful, he thought, and he nearly said so. “No,” he said. “Don’t go. But they have to come in and clean up this room, and they can’t while you’re undressed. I’ll take care of that.”
She smiled, and her eyes fell. “Thank you.” She looked up at him again, and his stomach clenched. For a moment they stared at each other. Finally he turned and went out again, found Corso waiting outside the door, and sent him down to find two women who spoke Greek to attend her and bring her a temporary selection of clothes. Marino stuck his head in again, and Frederick nodded and sat down.
Marino pronounced names, but Frederick wasn’t listening. All girls did that, it was a trick they learned in their cradles—to look down, smile, and look up again through their lashes. Adelaide had done it, Bianca did it, even Yolande had done it sometimes. Everybody knew it was a trick. He couldn’t understand why Theophano could do it and jolt him to the heels when he was so used to it.
Theophano, he thought. I even like the name.
Holding the state gown at arm’s length, Corso stepped awkwardly onto the stool; Frederick maneuvered himself under the gown and settled it onto his shoulders. “God, this thing is heavy.”
“They are all here,” the Grand Master said. “So, you see, you’ve still got some currency, in Syria—they came as quickly as they could.”
“Who is all?” Weighted with gold thread and embroidered with the Hohenstaufen eagles and Frederick’s monogram, the state gown hissed when he moved. He, walked back and forth through the mob of courtiers, getting used to the burden and settling it more comfortably. “All right. Where’s that God-damned crown?”
“John d’Ibelin,” Tommaso said, “The King of Cyprus. Very charming boy—no brains, but all the poise in the world. His mother, Queen Alice. Bohemund of Antioch and Tripoli and his wife, Melisande. Balian of Sidon. Incidentally, Melisande is of the Royal House of Jerusalem and must be a cousin of yours. Guy Embriaco and about thirty of his relatives. The Patriarch of Jerusalem, the Grand Master of the Templars, the Grand Master of the Hospitallers.”
“Marvelous.” Frederick bowed his head so that Corso could put the chain around his neck. Hasan and Ayub had appeared with the crown. “The whole traveling menagerie.”
Through the tail of his eye he caught their reaction to that: the twenty-odd men in the room all jerked, upset. Yes, here comes the Emperor in one of his satirical moods. Let them worry, it was good for them. He stopped in front of the golden mirror and looked at himself and clapped his hands together. “Good. Let’s go impress the local notables.” He swung around, so that the sleeves and skirts of the heavy gown cleaved the air like blades, and winked at the Grand Master. In the corner, Ezzo clapped his hand over his mouth to hold back a laugh; Fulk grinned.
Hasan and Ayub preceded him out the door, while the others jostled each other for position in the train behind him. Moving inside a gown that probably weighed as much as Theophano was a nice problem in mechanics around corners, he had to lean slightly, and momentum carried him sweeping downstairs, his feet striving to keep up. I should have myself carted around on the backs of Nubian slaves and finish them off entirely. The Archbishop and a local prince of the Church were waiting on either side of the brass doors into the hall, and when he approached they turned, ringed by attendants, and commanded the door to open. Frederick stopped still. Pages sailed around him, brushing his gown, buffing his rings and medallions, and finally plopping the crown on his head. He reached up with both hands and moved it back a little. The heavy, cool edge of the gold forced his head down slightly. Inside the hall, horns and flutes began to play, and when the doors opened he heard the murmur of voices and the rustle of clothes. He advanced—walking was too common a word—into the glaring torchlight and a world of eyes.
For a moment all he saw was motion—the swoop of gowns and heads and hands, a jumble of bodies flexing in bows, the flash of jewels and bullion-trimmed clothes through the slanting light. Thousands of them. He walked straight up to the throne, a prelate on either hand. Dazzling—the gigantic carved marble throne, cushioned in tissue of gold, plastered with jewels—near it, at the foot of a smaller throne, stood the child King of Cyprus, just as burdened down with state regalia, flanked by older men. With his foot on the bottom step of the throne, Frederick met the boy’s eyes and smiled.
“Hello, Henri.”
The child’s eyes widened, but he grinned immediately. Tommaso was right about his poise. Frederick hauled himself up the steps, turned, and faced a hall crammed with people. For the first time he saw individuals instead of a mass of color and light. The heralds were still proclaiming him; horns blasted. With each title the swarm of glittering bodies bobbed and dipped. The little King moved up to stand before his throne. One of the older men around him was John d’Ibelin, probably the graybearded man in the red satin coat. Another stood just behind him, dressed all in black. And nearby a woman watched, not bowing, her hands clasped before her, a middle-aged woman with a long jaw and fierce eyes, who had to be Queen Alice.
He looked around the hall, not moving his head; in the draft dozens of banners fluttered, worked with the arms of Jerusalem, of Cyprus and Antioch and Tripoli and Acre and Sidon and Beirut—John of Ibelin was Lord of Beirut—the staffs capped with eagles, crosses, gryphons and unicorns. Above them all his imperial banner rippled. The harsh gray stone of the walls, visible between tapestries and paintings on wood, clashed with the pulsating richness of the people, their clothes, their furniture, their attendants. The floor was uncarpeted, covered with rushes through which he knew the vermin swarmed. No matter how rich they were, Cyprus was still only a provincial court. He wished he’d eaten some hashish; this was going to be tedious.
The Patriarch of Jerusalem advanced with his censers. This was ridiculous—because Frederick was excommunicate, the requisite religious ceremony had to be performed before the court but not before him. He stood listening to the old man’s mediocre Latin. Piero would have gone into fits: the Patriarch insisted on using ablatives where datives
would have been more subtle. At the end everybody crossed himself except Frederick. Time for the speech.
“We are made most welcome in our vassal-kingdom of Cyprus and our pleasure and gratification in the honor thus shown us . . .” Blah blah blah. It was one of Piero’s standard speeches for entries into courts not entirely friendly to him, full of praise for the vigor and elegance. The crown hurt his forehead and the gown was making him sweat. At the end of it everybody bowed again and he sat down.
The young King delivered a short speech welcoming Frederick to Cyprus and offering him the resources of the Kingdom for his Crusade. Un-hunh. Nobody was making a fuss about the excommunication; naturally, there was no precedent. Courts transplanted into alien surroundings tended to be conservative. After his speech, Henri dismounted his throne, circled around in front of Frederick’s, and made his obeisance, which meant Frederick had to stand up again. Henri took Frederick’s hand and pressed it to his forehead, and Frederick lifted him up. “We are most pleased to accept our cousin and royal vassal.” And so forth. He sat down again, and the nobles charged around getting in line to be presented. Frederick’s retinue lined up in a semicircle around him; Fulk, on the far end of the left of the crescent, caught Frederick’s eye in passing and shook his head slightly.
“Your Majesty,” the young King said. “I beg to present Lord John d’Ibelin of Beirut, bailli and Regent of Cyprus.”
Frederick’s back tensed. He met the old man’s blazing dark eyes. “Cousin, why do you come before us in mourning?” He’d been wrong; John was the man in black, not the elegant, elderly other.
“Your Majesty, I am still in mourning for my brother.”
A mellow, powerful voice, and arrogance in the way the old man carried himself, a kind of subtle challenge. Frederick said, “The arrival of your suzerain can allow you an exception.” He turned to his right. “Tommaso, see that Lord John is dressed as befits his rank.” Turning back to John, he smiled. “We wish you honored, cousin. With you, we are honored.”
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