“As I told Your Majesty, such accountings can only be requested through the High Court.”
Frederick nodded. He concentrated on keeping his voice soft, almost wheedling. “I intend to go through the regular procedure. The difficulty is that I won’t be able to go to Nicosia, where I believe the High Court meets and the accounts are kept, until at least a few weeks from now. May I request you to summon the Court and arrange the accounts for inspection?”
Through the lashes of his half-closed eyes he saw John’s face sharpen. They were alone in the bleak little room; the furnishings, hastily assembled, looked out of place and the bare walls cold and damp, John said, “I am at Your Majesty’s service, as I said earlier. Anything I can do to hasten your passage to Syria I shall do.”
Get me out of here, you mean. “Thank you. I must ask you to leave me some token of your good faith.”
“Hostages.” John frowned. “Certainly, if Your Majesty believes—”
“I do. Cyprus is already hostile to me; I can’t hope to bring her to my side, but with a little time I can neutralize her. To gain time I need peace, and those people adherent to your cause who haven’t your honor and sagacity might be put off attacking me if I had in my train the young King, for instance, and your two sons.”
The old man made a face. “Your Majesty, I can assure you that no one would consider attacking you.”
“As you said, I’ve already made enemies.” Frederick made his voice plead. “I am a timid man, Lord John.”
Head bowed, John paced back and forth. “Of course, if Your Majesty requests it of me, I can do no less for the suzerain of Cyprus.”
“I am pleased you understand my position. I shall meet you, therefore, at Nicosia?”
“As you will, Sire.” John bowed his head. Frederick stared at the gryphon carved over the doorway. After a moment John realized he’d been dismissed and he fussed a little, his hands rising. “Your Majesty.” His voice quavered, peeved. “Good evening.”
“Good night, my Lord.”
He couldn’t help biting off the end of the last word, and John, who had turned toward the door, glanced back. Frederick’s anger must have shown in his face; the old man lifted his head and nearly said something, but instead he bowed again and went out. The door shut gently behind him.
Arrogant, usurping. “Of course.” He was never appointed, he simply took the office, used the minority of the King and the squabble over the Regency of Queen Alice to embezzle power, if not money. To steal power. Frederick bounded out of his chair and charged out the door, headed for his own part of the castle. His Saracens were waiting outside.
He nearly ran down the steps, ignoring them. There was no chance of trying him for it; if he couldn’t alter the records he might very well destroy them. He charged through a series of empty rooms and banged into his own antechamber—into the middle of his staff, who were standing around talking. They jumped, startled.
“Well?” Tommaso said.
“It’s mended,” Frederick said. “Damned clumsy job, but it’s mended. He’ll be gone by morning, but his sons and the King are staying as hostages. I haven’t told him yet that he’s no longer bailli, but we’ll get to that.” He pulled off his coat and threw it to Corso.
“Did you fight with him?” the Archbishop said. “You look furious, Sire.”
“I’m livid . “
“Then they didn’t fight,” the Grand Master said. “He’s never angry after a fight.” He turned away, talking to Filangieri.
Tommaso said quietly, “What about the revenues?”
“We’ll check the accounts in. Nicosia. They’ll be in order. And I don’t feel like finding any irregularities anyway.” I don’t dare. I—don’t—dare. He spread his arms wide, threw his head back, and shouted wordlessly.
“I think,” Tommaso said, “we’d better leave. Sire, with your permission—” He headed for the door.
“If I can’t yell at my own staff, whom can I yell at?”
“By your leave, Sire—” They filed past him, bowing, and walked out the door. Some of them were actually grinning. His pages and servants came in and started to undress him.
“Oh, get the hell out of here, I’m sick of being treated like a child.” He struck at Corso’s hands. “Go on, leave me. Go away.”
Corso backed away, drawing the other pages with him; the servants, Cypriots unused to his moods, raced off, ashen. Corso said, “Will there be anything else, Sire?”
Frederick scrubbed his face with his palm. The stubble of his beard rasped his hand. “No. Good night.”
“Good night,” Corso said. The other pages trotted out; Corso paused to make sure the water pitcher was filled. “Sleep well, Sire.”
“Sure.”
The boy left. Frederick prowled around the room, not tired, wishing he were back in Sicily. The old man, with his tissue-thin arrogance—I can do nothing. He betrayed his King and I can do nothing. He washed his face in the water from the pitcher.
“Are you throwing things yet?” Theophano said.
“What?” He spun around. She was standing in the doorway into his dressing chamber, wrapped in a fur rug; she grinned at him. He straightened up, his hands dripping.
“I heard you yelling—I was asleep and it woke me up. I just wondered if you’d gotten to the throwing-things stage yet.” She came slowly into the room, yawned, and hitched the fur rug up over her shoulder. “I’m told you had a difficult evening.”
“Oh, Christ.” He dried his hands and face on a towel and threw it down.
“You looked wonderful, all dressed up. Like something from a play. Why don’t you come into the bedroom and let me rub your back?” She removed one arm languidly from within the fur and stretched it out. “Come along.”
“You’re amazing.” He went over to her and put his arm around her waist. “How did you know I love being mothered?” Looking down at her face, into her huge dark eyes, he couldn’t help grinning.
“That’s easy. Why else would you act like a child so often?” She squeezed him. They went through the dressing chamber and into the bedroom. “Some women brought me the most wonderful clothes. Did you see that green silk dress I had on in the great hall?”
“Yes. It’s beautiful.” She met his eyes as if she had no reason to look away, ever; the last irritation left him. He put his hand on her hair. “You can go to Syria with me, can’t you?”
“If you want me to.” She tugged at the laces of his shirt. “You look tired. I’ll put you to bed.” She shrugged off the rug and kicked it away—she wore nothing else, and while she stood casually taking his clothes off for him he wished he weren’t so tired. Wait until the morning.
“Do you eat hashish?”
“When I can get it.” She looked up sharply at him, frowning, and drew his shirt up around his chest. Holding his arms out, he bent so she could pull it off over his head. “Why?” she said cautiously.
“I have some. In my cherry-wood chest.”
“Sometimes you amaze me. Do you want some now?” She led him toward the bed.
“No. I’m too tired, I have to sleep. Later. In the morning.” She was going to Syria; she would eat hashish with him. He felt absurdly happy and much less alone. Sprawled on the bed, he watched her trim down the lamps, walking naked around the room, and a soft glow of gratitude filled him.
John d’Ibelin was not in Nicosia when Frederick finally got there; he’d gone to Dieu d’Amour, his castle on the far side of the island. Tommaso frowned, reporting it.
“He sent all his women and the small children there as soon as he got here. I thought you’d said it was mended.”
“It is.” Frederick signed papers, not bothering to read them. “He’ll talk nicely when we catch up with him. Is there any record of his being appointed bailli?”
“No. The Archbishop is checking the accounts now. What did you drag all the Syrian barons here with us for? They’re putting everybody out—complaining about the accommodations.” Tommaso walked
around the porch, scuffing his shoes on the stone floor. “Not that I blame them. Nicosia is a flaming bore, there’s nothing for them to do—”
“I want them to get used to me.”
The Grand Master looked up from a letter he’d been reading. “That should take some doing.”
“Hermann. That wasn’t nice.” He dipped the pen in ink and scribbled.
Tommaso sank down onto a bench. “Why? It’s taken all of us several years at least.” He smiled. “What are you writing?”
“Charters. If he was never appointed I don’t have to go through the High Court to have him dismissed. I just have to appoint another.”
“That might not be so easy. Do you want to start a civil war?” Tommaso smiled. “You could, just by letting that woman of yours spend more time with the Syrians. They’re completely overturned by her—she’s marvelous.”
Frederick grinned. He’d let Theophano—ordered Theophano—to appear at a small reception the evening before, and half the Syrian baronage had trailed around after her the while. Fulk came out onto the porch, saw them, and walked over.
“When are we going?”
“Going where?” the Grand Master said.
“Dio d’Amore,” Fulk said. “Anyplace is better than here. Sire, can Ezzo and I go hunting this afternoon?”
“It’s not the season for hawks.”
“We’re taking some dogs.”
“Go right ahead. Leave me here buried in work—”
“Thank you.” Fulk marched away.
“And when we reach Dieu d’Amour,” the Grand Master said, “what then?”
“I tell him he isn’t bailli anymore, and he thanks me for relieving him of the chore.”
Silence. He finished signing the papers and rang a little silver bell for a page. Out in the courtyard pigeons strutted around pecking at the ground and each other; grass grew up through the cracks in the flagstones, and little trees sprouted from the wall. Frederick got up and walked around, stretching his legs. He needed another haircut. Theophano had said she’d give him one in the afternoon.
“What a name for a castle,” the Grand Master said. “Dieu d’Amour.”
“The Greeks call it Didymi,” Tommaso said, as if he were reciting a lesson. “It’s one of the more difficult places on Cyprus to attack.”
Frederick had his back to them both. He hooked his thumbs inside his belt and watched a hawk circling above the low hills to the west.
“And the old King gave it to Lord John some years ago,” Tommaso said loudly.
The page came; Frederick sent him for Balian of Sidon.
“According to French law,” Tommaso went on, as loudly, “no baron can be evicted from—”
“—a castle given him by a former monarch while the present government is a regency,” Frederick said. “I know.”
The noon sunlight sparkled on bits of mica in the paving stones; the pigeons cooed and strutted around. On the other side of the wall, someone shouted in Cypriot Greek.
“It would be much better if Cyprus were ruled under Sicilian law,” Frederick said.
“I think you’ll have trouble arranging that,” Tommaso said.
“Probably. We can try later. It’s a very untidy government.”
The Grand Master said, “People rarely like an abrupt change in the nature of rule. It makes them nervous. Sire, why don’t you go hunting with Fulk and Ezzo?”
“I have work to do.” He flipped his hair out of his eyes. “We’re leaving for Dieu d’Amour in two days. Sooner, if Berardo gets done checking the finances.”
Balian of Sidon came around the corner, followed by two of his brothers; he saw Frederick and waved cheerfully. Over his shoulder he said something to his brothers, who left through the side gate. Balian sauntered up, smiling, and bowed.
“Good morning. How do you like Nicosia?”
Frederick wrinkled up his nose, and Balian laughed.
“No, neither do we. May I help you?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind?” He liked Balian, he couldn’t help it—he was as light and sunny as the air. “You’re John d’Ibelin’s cousin, aren’t you?”
“I’m everybody’s cousin.”
“So am I, but that doesn’t help. Can you mediate between us? He’s angry, or he wouldn’t have run off to that castle.”
“Oh.” Balian scratched his nose. He wore a ruby ring on one finger that caught the sun and flashed red light across his brown hand. “He’s not angry. He’s worried, probably—John gets ruffled when people try to force him into things, Sire.”
“Do you think he’ll agree to terms?”
“I hope so. I think he will. I mean, it’s obvious that you can’t fight him, but on the other hand you can make trouble for him.” Balian smiled. “He can make trouble for you, though, Sire.”
“I know. Good. I can count on you, then. We’ll leave for Dieu d’Amour as soon as possible—my fleet is meeting me near there to take us to Syria.”
Balian’s smile disappeared. He looked beyond Frederick to Tommaso, shook his head slightly, and said, “You aren’t going to like Acre. Well. With your leave, I have to go.”
“Of course.”
Balian bowed, backed up three easy strides, and went off. Tommaso said, “What did that mean?”
Frederick shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t like Acre and he’s judging it by that.” But he thought he understood; he frowned, looking out into the dusty sunlight of the courtyard.
“If I were King of Cyprus, I’d tear that castle down.” Frederick slung one leg across the pommel of his saddle and scowled at Dieu d’Amour.
King Henri said, “Why?”
“It’s too defensible. My God. It’s an eyrie.” He twisted to look down the slope toward the green plain, where the clusters of tents stood like huge silken flowers. Horses drifted over the grass beyond the tents, and he could see the servants carrying buckets and big panniers from one area of the camp to another. If you can’t give them a real war, try a fake one; the Syrians were enjoying this almost as much as fighting a Crusade—a kind of pretty imitation of a siege. Over his head, sprouting from the naked rock of the height of the pass, the tower fluttered with pennants. He could see goats on the lower slopes of the two peaks that gave the castle its Greek name.
“Tell us another riddle,” Theophano said.
“I still haven’t figured out the last one.” The King moved a little closer to her, shy and adoring. “Have you?”
“Ummm—the monk’s name was Each.”
The King’s brow furrowed. Abruptly he grinned. “Oh. I get it.”
“Tell us another riddle, Red,” she called.
The Saracens laughed out loud, and Frederick turned and glared at them. “I have to get back, we’re having a general council.”
“Tell us a riddle on the way, then.” The King stretched out one hand. “An easy one, this time.”
“All right. If we start now I’ll have thought of one by the time we get to camp.” Frederick swung his leg down and turned his horse. His Saracens and the King’s attendants with the picnic baskets banded around them, chattering to each other—the King had insisted that Frederick bring all four Saracens, he said that they made him think of Syria and romantic stories. The picnic itself had been Theophano’s idea. They trotted down the steep, rocky slope, within range of Dieu d’Amour’s crenelated walls. Theophano rode up next to Frederick and smiled at him.
“Are you angry with me? For calling you Red.”
“No.” He tapped his horse with his heel, moving in closer to her, and reached for her hand. “You can call me Red any time you want.”
“I’m flattered.”
Simultaneously they leaned toward each other; Frederick put one hand on her saddle and kissed her. Among the attendants of the young King someone gasped, horrified. Frederick settled back into his saddle and glanced around.
“The name of the castle is Dieu d’Amour, isn’t it?”
Henri was watching them
longingly. He’d developed a crush on Theophano at the banquet in Nicosia. Frederick grinned at him, and Henri took it as an invitation to ride beside them, next to Theophano.
“Have you thought of a riddle yet?”
Frederick said, “Well, there’s one—” Suddenly he saw something in the camp—John d’Ibelin’s banner. “Jesus.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I have to get down there. Here’s the riddle. If you fill a cup half-full of wine and another cup half-full of water, and if you—” Balian’s banner was there, too, flying from the peak of the red tent in the middle. He stood in his stirrups and looked for Hasan. “If you pour a spoonful of the wine into the cup of water, and then pour an equal spoonful of the mixture into the cup of wine, is there more wine in the water cup or more water in the wine cup?” He grinned at Theophano. “I hope it ties your mind in knots.”
Her lips moved; Henri was staring into space, looking blank. Frederick kicked his horse into a gallop. His Saracens thundered after him, racing. In the pretty little camp men pointed at them and shouted. Hasan veered over to ride just ahead of Frederick, showing off his horse’s superior speed, and Frederick immediately reined down to a canter. Ayub shouted, “One to you, Hasan.”
Frederick turned and made a fig at him. They slowed to a trot through the edge of the camp, where the laundresses had spread acres of linen out to dry, glaring white in the noonday sun, with small boys set around to keep the goats and birds away.
The Grand Master came out on foot to meet him, three tents down from the red one. “We were just about to send for you when we saw you come down from the pass. They’ve only now arrived; everything looks pleasant.” He bawled for a groom to hold Frederick’s horse.
“He’s been told of the outcome of the investigation?”
“Yes. Naturally, he wasn’t surprised. He’s feeling vindicated and very up on his dignity.”
Frederick dismounted and walked toward the tent, with the Grand Master beside him. “You’d better send for his sons.”
“Yes, Sire.”
The tent door opened; Tommaso, the Archbishop and Bohemund of Antioch came out. As always, Bohemund’s hands fidgeted constantly. Frederick went over to them and they bowed.
Antichrist Page 13
