The black eyes narrowed, and the old man’s lips twitched. “I am at the service of the Emperor.”
Damn right you are. First skirmish mine. Ibelin’s two sons were presented, uncomfortable in their mourning clothes and probably furious at Frederick’s remarks to their father. The Ibelins left, and Queen Alice took their place, escorted by her new husband, Bohemund’s son. She didn’t look any too happy about John d’Ibelin’s taking precedence over her. Frederick concentrated on being gracious, smiling and commenting softly on the pleasure it was to meet her, and she unbent slightly.
The parade continued—Bohemund, thin and nervous, and his beautiful, pale wife; Balian of Sidon, all at ease, smiling and vivid. God, this is silly, I’ll never remem— Suddenly he saw Theophano, standing in the back, dressed in silk. She lifted her head and smiled. Everybody was staring at her, and he saw the women bend to whisper to their neighbors. Some of the tension eased in his shoulders and back, and he turned to meet the next of the endless line of barons.
Gradually he was able to sort out people by the way they acted before him. Most of them were uncomfortable and would not meet his eyes, and those were enemies or potential enemies. A few, like Balian of Sidon, seemed glad to be presented to him: allies or people who thought they could get something. The pressure of the gown, of the crown, of thinking of the proper things to say, all made him jittery, but when he got the urge to jump up and leave he looked over at Theophano and the feeling left him. I’ll understand that later. The end of the line drew perceptibly nearer. In Henri’s voice, quavering now with fatigue, he detected relief. Behind him, soft-voiced, Tommaso was murmuring to the Grand Master and the Archbishop, identifying by fief and bloodline the men being presented.
All this gets me nowhere. They’ve already made up their minds, most of them—Tommaso had suggested that if he borrowed money from Guy of Jebail, it would tie him into the imperial party, but of them all only two or three could be swayed from one position to the other, or even made neutral. The Templars’ Grand Master stood in front of him openly hostile. Frederick’s nostrils flared; he stared over the man’s shoulder and mouthed phrases without emphasis. The bat nailed to the cross: he felt, suddenly, the web of hatred and fear around him, the working of forces against him. I can’t leave Cyprus at my back, not this way, we have to . . . Finally the end of the line reached him. The rest of the mob wasn’t noble enough to be presented.
For a moment there was silence while everybody waited for someone else to do something. The boy on the next throne looked exhausted. Frederick pushed himself onto his feet. They stirred out there, muttering—the ritual had broken and they weren’t sure what to do. He stretched out his arms and snapped his fingers, and from the doors just behind the thrones pages ran, and his Saracens. The crowd before him rippled, astonished and uncertain. I know this doesn’t usually happen, people, but—He sat down so that they could remove the crown, stood again, and let them peel off the state gown and replace it with a coat. King Henri was on his feet, staring; he looked envious. Frederick tossed his hair back, descended the steps of the throne, and turned and grinned. In a rush the child came down from his throne, suddenly realizing he’d been standing higher than his suzerain.
“May I—” He came up to Frederick, realized he should ask someone else, and looked around, but John d’Ibelin was gone, getting his clothes changed. He looked back to Frederick. “May I go put on something else?”
“You’re the King,” Frederick said. “Do what you like.” He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder a moment and went off through the crowd. His retinue moved around him, Tommaso, the Archbishop, Fulk and Ezzo, the Grand Master, keeping him separate from the mob of Easterners.
The upset murmur of voices died and the court eased itself into the new mood. They were bringing out the food and wine. Gradually the rumble of voices in conversation grew. Frederick looked around for Theophano and saw her near a door, leaving. She met his eyes and smiled and went out, followed by a page in his livery—Giancarlo. He thought, She knows I can’t go around in here with her. But she had come—to see all the gaudy show, or just to see him, whatever—
Queen Alice suddenly thrust herself into the midst of his little perambulating court-within-a-court, smiling, her hands armored with jewels. “Your Majesty.”
He smiled; be gracious to potential friends. “Your Grace. You have a charming son.” Offering her his arm, he headed slowly toward the far end of the room—two of her pages mingled with his men. “And a lovely court.”
She laughed. “Still, it can’t be like Sicily’s. You’ve quite dazzled us, Sire.”
“Surely not.” Her French was broadly accented, and he had to work to understand it. “Granted, Cyprus seems to be in the hands of the austere, but Antioch and Tripoli are not.”
“Oh. John. He has no sense of elegance.” Her hand rested lightly on his arm. “Watch him, Sire, he’s a difficult man.”
“Thank you.” That irritated him, and he looked around for her husband to give her back. He was coming through the loose mass of courtiers, a cup in his hand.
“My Lady,” he said, mildly, and bowed to Frederick. “Sire, has no one served you? Permit me.” He snapped an order to a page. Considerably younger than Alice, he moved with a nearly feminine grace; his green eyes never seemed fully open. Alice transferred her hand to his arm. He said, “Let me precede my lord father this once, Sire, and express to you the devotion of Antioch to the cause which you so admirably pursue.”
A page rushed up with wine and a tray full of pastries and glazed fruit, and Frederick looked down at them. He took a cup. “Thank you.” Meeting the young man’s eyes again, he grinned, and unexpectedly the young man threw his head back and laughed. “Well. At least, my devotion. Your leave, Sire.” With Alice reluctantly in tow, he bowed himself out of Frederick’s range.
Fulk drifted up. “The feel of treachery in the air, huh?” He took the cup from Frederick and tasted it.
“For the love of Christ,” Frederick said, startled. “I really doubt that’s necessary.”
Tommaso said sourly, “Don’t get him upset, Fulk. Sire, there’s Guy Embriaco.”
“Damn it. You ask him for the loan.” He’d reached the end of the room, and turning, he walked along the wall to the corner, paused to drink wine, and started up the room again. Flocks of minor barons and their women bowed and stared. Bohemund of Antioch fidgeted his way over to him.
“Your Majesty.” Bohemund jerked his head in a bow. “Unh—very pleased to—unh—” He pulled himself together with a massive effort. “I’m at your service at any time during the Crusade.”
“I’m sure,” Frederick said, mildly. “Princess.” He smiled at Melisande.
She dipped a tiny curtsey. “You are welcome here, Your Majesty.” With a tug on Bohemund’s arm, she steered him out of the press.
“God,” the Archbishop said. “Definitely frosty, that.”
Ezzo murmured, “She’s damned pretty, though.”
Frederick paused to hand his cup to a page. Abruptly, at the far end of the hall, a horn blared, and everybody whirled around. There was a concerted rush among the Syrians and Cypriots toward the far door. John d’Ibelin was coming in. Frederick turned his back just in time and stared in the opposite direction. He knew with a rising uneasiness that almost everybody else in the hall had flown down there to greet John, that very few of the local people stayed here, near him. Well, get it all out in the open. He stared at his banner, rippling slowly in the draft beneath the ungainly vault of the ceiling. If he went over to John, if he made some kind of fuss, they’d all have to pay attention— That was stupid, a salve for his pride. He clenched his fist. There was something else to do, more useful.
Turning, he caught the Grand Master of the Templars staring at him, his eyes glittering, his lips drawn back against his teeth in the ugliest smile Frederick had ever seen. Observe, the man’s face said, how you are overshown by a minor prince. Frederick met his eyes, keeping his face sober and
calm. Carefully, behind his back, he folded the index and ring fingers of his left hand in against his palm and thrust the little finger and forefinger straight out; he brought the hand out from behind his back with a flourish that drew the Templar’s eyes to it.
The Templar’s face went white and his mouth dropped open. Frederick saw him swallow hard. His gaze snapped up to Frederick’s face, and Frederick hawked, spat into the rushes on the floor, and with the heel of his slipper ground the spittle into the stone. The Templar took a deep breath, still pale as chalk.
Frederick turned and walked out the nearest door.
“I’m afraid we can’t provide you with entertainment like that you have in Sicily, Sire,” John d’Ibelin said.
“We in Cyprus live quiet lives, dedicated to God and the law.”
“My, how noble of you.” Frederick played with his fork, drawing furrows across the gross slab of meat rapidly cooling on the plate before him. John’s sons were serving as cupbearers at the high table; throughout the rest of the hall people chomped and gurgled their way through what Frederick had decided must be typical Cypriot food, totally unappetizing. He reached for his wine cup. “What do you do for sport?”
John shifted in his chair, almost smiling. “I find prayer and meditation more edifying than racing about after hawks and hounds, myself.” He looked around until he found one of Frederick’s Saracens, Yusuf, half-concealed behind a buttress. “Of course, the Arabs provide us with some interesting hunting too.”
The young King kept stretching his neck to listen. Frederick glanced at him. “It must be unsettling when the prey decides its point of view is as valid as the hunter’s, though. But in a game like that such distinctions are obviously arbitrary.”
“Yes,” John said. “I understand your sympathies lie rather more with the enemies of Christendom.”
Frederick leaned back and laid his hands flat on the table, his eyes on the maze of tables before them. “My sympathies as a man, I assure you, are not engaged in this. My only aim is the security and prosperity of my son’s kingdom and that of my cousin and vassal, King Henri.” They had announced him Regent of the Kingdom of Jerusalem before dinner, which made that legal until the High Court of the Kingdom met to name him officially. Tommaso had said they would not resist.
“How boring it must be for you,” John said, “to have to exercise your superb talents among mere provincials. I only hope we can amuse you in some way.”
The doors all along the walls had opened earlier and men were moving in behind the people at dinner; nobody, apparently, had noticed. At the far end of the hall Filangieri stood up and lifted one hand to Frederick.
“You may,” Frederick said. He glanced at the King again and swept his eyes over the diners. Chewing, drinking, talking to their neighbors, none of them looked disturbed, and yet all around the hall, men stood casually leaning on their swords. Beside him, John abruptly stood up. Frederick thrust his chair back. The scrape of the legs over the rush-covered dais cut through the blur of conversation, and everybody looked up toward him.
“For instance,” he said, “you might try accounting to me for the revenues of the Crown of Cyprus, which you seized.”
All talk ended; in the silence the growling of the dogs under the tables sounded abruptly loud and harsh. John stared down at Frederick and jerked to look all around the room. The men against the wall, at a signal from Filangieri, stepped forward, throwing off their cloaks—they all wore mail. The men and women at the tables froze, their eyes on the dais, their mouths working.
“This is the basest treachery,” John said, loudly. “I was warned to ignore your kind invitation. I was told of the ignoble ways of an irreligious emperor.” He flung one hand out. “Before all these witnesses, do you dare display this—unseemly treatment of one who wishes only to serve?”
“Then serve.” Frederick realized he was clutching his knife; he made himself put it carefully down. “What happened to the revenues of Cyprus? And for that matter, you’d better account for your dealings in Beirut as well.”
“You have no right to require that of me,” John said. His voice reached into the farthest corners of the hall. Frederick glanced out toward the rest of the room—Bohemund had stood up, but his son took hold of his sleeve and drew him down. The silence grew heavier and more tense.
“I have every right,” Frederick said. He kept his voice low. “As suzerain of Cyprus and—”
Blaring like horns, two dogs started to bark, fighting over a bone. Frederick leaped up, his hand flying toward the dagger in his belt, and a woman screamed, men swore, high-voiced. Two of the soldiers against the wall leaped forward, grabbed the snarling dogs, and threw them bodily out the nearest door. Queen Alice stood up, looking toward her son. The silence crashed down again. Frederick realized that his hands were shaking and he was crouched as if to fight. He stood up, trying to loosen his muscles.
“I am suzerain of Cyprus and Regent of Jerusalem and I have every right to require you to account for your actions.”
“Your Majesty,” John said, still talking to the whole room, “as bailli of Cyprus I answer only to the High Court, and unless the High Court appeals to you directly, by law you may not intervene. In the case of Beirut, you may demand an account of me only if you are requested to do so by one of my tenants. You cannot legally call me to account on your own initiative.”
Frederick thought, I’ve lost it. The crowd, listening, broke into an excited hum of talk. He glanced toward Tommaso, who was frowning—he hadn’t been told of this. Seeing Frederick’s eyes on him, he shook his head from side to side.
John said quietly, “If you push this, you know, you’re going to undermine the legality of any action you might take in Syria.”
Frederick shut his eyes. He hadn’t made a mistake this gigantic in years—he’d forgotten about French law, and Cyprus and Syria both were under French customary law. Waves of heat rolled over him. I have to do something, save face, anything—no. That’s a sure sign you’ve—He opened his eyes and looked at John and smiled, and the other man’s brows rose in surprise.
“ ‘Dedicated to God and the law . . .’ with reason, I see. And to good account.” He was still trembling, but now he saw a way out of this, not a good way, but at least something. “Lord John, the field is yours.” He took two steps backward. “At least you can’t say I’m a poor loser.” He bowed, and in astonishment John bowed as well. The little King was staring at them, his teeth sunk in his lower lip. Frederick turned and went out the door.
In the little room behind the thrones he stood a moment, alone, and with his eyes shut swore under his breath. They’d be laughing at him—John would be so humbly triumphant. Damned old—He clenched his fists before his face; tears stung his eyes.
“Well,” Tommaso said. “That was a disaster. Why the hell didn’t you talk to me first? Whose idea was that?”
Frederick let his breath out. “Mine.”
“Barlais,” the Grand Master said. The rest of them—the Archbishop, Filangieri, Fulk, Ezzo, all of them—moved in around him, staring at him, amazed.
“No,” Frederick said. “It was all mine. Tommaso; get me a room, not in my part of the castle, where I can talk. Now. Berardo, you and Hermann—” He paused, wondering how to word it. “You and Hermann go back in there and tell Lord John that I desire to talk with him privately—”
“He’ll never agree,” the Archbishop said.
“Shut up and listen to me. That I want to talk to him, and that I will place you and Hermann into the hands of his trusted companions as a pledge of my good intentions.”
The Grand Master snorted, but the Archbishop only nodded. “Good. I hope you have the sense to say the right thing.”
Frederick started for him, but the Grand Master got in the way. “Come on, relax. You deserved that. In my life I’ve never seen you do anything so completely incompetent as that farce out there. Pull yourself together.” He spoke so softly Frederick doubted anyone else heard; he took F
rederick by the shoulder and shook him gently. “Calm down.”
Frederick shut his eyes again. “I will. I’m sorry.” He turned; he could not loosen his muscles, and he ached with tension. He chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to organize himself—his mind felt bruised.
“Sire,” Tommaso said. “We can use a room on the second floor of the north wing. I have men there now arranging the furnishings.”
“Very good.” Frederick looked at the Grand Master. “Will you ask him, Hermann?”
“We will,” the Archbishop said lightly, and with the Grand Master left the room for the great hall. When the door opened, Frederick heard a blast of voices; he knew what they were talking about, and his face grew hot with shame. Spinning around, he headed for the far door, and the rest of his staff fell in behind him, like armor against the enemies out there.
* * *
“I want to . . . apologize,” Frederick said. He leaned his head back against the chair and stared at the ceiling. “I had some information and I acted hastily upon it.”
John said nothing for a long moment. Through the corner of his eye Frederick saw him frowning. At last he said, “Obviously that’s an apology I must accept. I do advise Your Majesty to curb your rashness henceforth. Already you’ve made enemies here. Without the support of the local nobility, you cannot hope to succeed at anything in Syria.”
We’ll see about that. “I’m in an uncomfortable position. I am the suzerain of Cyprus, after all, and I should, in the normal course of events, investigate the affairs of the kingdom. Especially with the King a minor. Were you ever officially appointed bailli? “
There was a distinct pause. “Of course I was. The law of Cyprus is almost sacred to me, and I would not break it.”
“In that case you will have no objections to allowing my agents to see the accounts of the revenues of your tenure in office.”
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