On this fine, sunny day, however, Balian felt an almost irresistible yearning to ride “home.” He found himself longing to see if any of his vineyards had survived, and to check on the orchards, too. In the gloom of January everything had looked dead—but, he argued with himself, things might not look so bad on a bright spring day like this. He glanced west toward the sun glistening on the sea, and noted with surprise that a ship was running for the little harbor on a brisk following breeze.
Ascalon’s harbor had never been particularly good even in the best of times. It was now barely serviceable. Most of the ships that docked there were fishing smacks or small coastal vessels carrying news from Jaffa and Acre. This ship, in contrast, appeared to be a large oceangoing buss with two masts. As Ibelin squinted at it, the pennant from the masthead snaked out in the wind, and with a start he recognized the King of England’s banner. As if a cloud had just blown in front of the sun, Balian shivered with a sense of foreboding.
By evening the news had spread throughout the crusader host: King Richard’s brother had risen up in rebellion against him and had chased Richard’s chancellor out of the Kingdom. Some of his justiciars and nobles, including the redoubtable William Marshal, remained loyal, of course, but it had come to open warfare between the men loyal to the King and those who had thrown in their lot with his brother. Furthermore, according to the prior entrusted with a letter from the deposed chancellor, the King’s brother John had seized hold of the royal treasury, ensuring that Richard would receive no more funds for his crusade, or indeed for any purpose. It was only a matter of time, the prior warned, before the French King took advantage of the situation and attacked in Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine. King Richard, the prior continued ardently, needed to return home at once or lose his entire heritage. The following day King Richard called together the leaders of his army for an urgent council meeting.
Ibelin hoped that the news would sway King Richard to abandon his inheritance in favor of Jerusalem. After all, if he had already lost his kingdom to his younger brother, why not stay here? However, one look at King Richard as he joined the other barons and bannerets was enough to dash Ibelin’s hopes. They were meeting in the chapter house of the Hospital, a lovely square room with a central pillar from which the ribs of the cross-vaulted ceiling opened like branches of a great tree. King Richard was seated in the central “chair” formed by two stone arms separating off a segment of the stone bench running around the circumference of the room. His nephew Henri de Champagne sat on one side of him, looking as distressed as the King himself, if not more. On the other side was the Bishop of Salisbury, who appeared grim rather than distressed, while the Earl of Leicester was beside the Bishop, looking furious.
The men who had been summoned poured into the chapter house, seeking seats on the stone bench in rough accordance with their rank, and (as always) clustered by language or region of origin. The lords of Outremer were standing as Ibelin joined them, and their faces mirrored his own. They sensed that King Richard had decided to return, and they all feared that the bulk of the crusaders would go with him. Their hope of regaining their homeland was slipping inextricably through their fingers.
The tension in the chapter house was so great that there was hardly any whispering or murmuring. Men fell silent almost as soon as they settled on the benches, and all eyes were directed toward the English King.
Richard Plantagenet looked uncomfortable—more uncomfortable than Ibelin had ever seen him. For the first time he seemed diminished, even chastised. The supreme confidence he had always worn was shaken. “My lords,” he opened, getting to his feet, and the last rustlings and mutterings subsided. “Most of you will have heard the news by now, but I will summarize it nevertheless. My brother John, in complete disregard of his own soul, has chosen to rebel against a man who has taken the cross, against his sovereign and his brother all at once.” If that was delivered dispassionately, Richard’s voice started to getting hotter as he now reported, “He has expelled the royal chancellor and justiciars and seized control of the royal treasury. He has demanded all tenants-in-chief swear allegiance to him as King of England, and he has laid siege to the castles of many men who remain loyal to their rightful King.” The outrage in his voice increased further as he announced, “There have been pitched battles in the streets of London and in other towns between men loyal to me, their rightful King, and those supporting my brother, a usurper.” By the time he reached this point, there was so much fury in his voice that his words vibrated in the air, and his fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides.
King Richard continued in a voice that rasped, as if he were almost choking on what he had to say. “I took an oath to do all in my power to restore Jerusalem to Christian control. You are my witnesses! I have spared neither my treasury, my strength, nor my blood in that effort. I have regained Acre, Haifa, Caesarea, Arsur, Jaffa, and Ascalon,” he reminded them, sounding more like his old self-confident self. But then his voice cracked as he added, “I wish I could do more.” He paused; the strain of saying what he was about to say was obvious in the heightened color of his cheeks and the tension around his mouth. “But I cannot. I must go home.”
The eruption of protests came not just from the men of Outremer; many of his own vassals and bannerets protested as well. They were all saying the same thing. He was needed here. Their job was not done, their objective not achieved. Jerusalem was still enslaved.
King Richard held up his hand for silence. Reluctantly they curbed their tongues. “My departure need not be the end of this crusade. I do not ask any of you to come with me. Each man must decide for himself what is compatible with his conscience, his vow. Most of you do not face the treachery I do. You can remain and continue the fight for Jerusalem, without risking the loss of your homes. Furthermore, I will continue to finance, at my own expense, three hundred knights and two thousand elite men-at-arms. So the choice is yours. Decide in accordance with your conscience whether to return with me at once, or remain here. You can still win without me,” he told them—as much to comfort himself as them, Ibelin thought.
Protests and challenges erupted again. No, they told him in various ways and voices, victory was not possible without him. His leadership, his example, his strategic understanding were all essential to success. It was some time before the Templar Master made his voice heard above the others. “If you depart, my lord King,” he addressed his former liege forcefully, “who is to lead the men who remain behind?”
Ibelin suspected that Sablé had intended the question to be a rhetorical reminder of the total disunity in the Frankish ranks, a way of suggesting to the English King that he was indispensable.
King Richard took them by surprise with the answer, “That is for the men who remain to decide—or rather, for the lords of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.”
The collected barons were stunned into silence by his words and his tone. King Richard swept his eyes along the line of native barons. “You, along with the militant orders, will collectively bear the burden of holding what we have gained so far, and for continuing the war. I do not presume to dictate to you who should be your king.”
Guy de Lusignan started to protest, but King Richard silenced him with a single look and then turned back to the others. “I ask only that you decide today, before I leave, and that you swear to uphold whatever decision you make. I leave you to make that decision now.” Turning to the other side of the room, occupied by the Normans, English, Angevins, and Poitevins, he urged, “My lords, leave the men of Outremer to decide this.” Then he strode out of the chapter house, trailed by his own vassals.
Henri de Champagne followed in his uncle’s wake even after the others had elected not to test the Plantagenet’s temper. King Richard went straight to his waiting palfrey, and as he collected the reins to mount he caught sight of Henri. “I’m in no mood for recriminations, Henri,” he warned.
“Nor would I dream of voicing them, uncle,” Henri answered, “but—I did want to warn
you.”
“Of what?”
“That I will stay here. I cannot—” He’d been about to say “walk away” and then realized it might sound insulting. “I think we can still achieve something here, and the Queen . . .” He fell silent, conscious of how foolish he sounded. Ever since that night when he had been witness to Isabella being torn from the warm embrace of her husband and forced against her will to marry another man, he had felt protectiveness toward her. He could not forget how she had been exposed to rude eyes in her nightclothes and practically forced to go barefoot into the night. She was so young and beautiful and vulnerable—a queen in name only, a pawn of the powerful men around her in reality. He had promised her on that night that no harm would befall her, and of course no violence had been committed outright. But how could he know what sort of husband Montferrat was, and what would become of her if the barons chose Guy de Lusignan?
“Which queen are you talking about?” His uncle impatiently brought him back to the present.
“Queen Isabella. What is to become of her if Guy de Lusignan is chosen—”
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell,” the Lionheart told his nephew tartly, swinging himself up into his saddle.
Henri gazed up at him, confused. “But you’ve backed Lusignan ever since you came. . . .”
“Yes, and what has he done with my backing? Has he asserted himself? Made amends for his earlier mistakes? Demonstrated his capabilities? Won the loyalty of his vassals and men? Nothing of the kind! He’s done nothing but cower in my shadow and eat out of my hand. If I’d realized he was so unlike his brothers, I wouldn’t have backed him in the first place,” the Lionheart declared contemptuously.
Henri wasn’t so sure. The way he saw it, his uncle Richard Plantagenet had backed Lusignan mostly because his uncle Philip Capet had backed Montferrat, but Philip was now a thousand miles away and the Holy Land needed a king worthy of the name. “You think they will choose Montferrat?”
“Henri,” the Lionheart said patiently. “They did before. That’s why they made Isabella marry him. Only my pressure and presence forced them to accept the compromise at Acre. When I walked out of the chapter house just now, I was telling them I would no longer stop them from making Montferrat king. The only question I have is how long it will be before the Lusignans come whining to me in protest.”
King Richard was surprised that the Master of the Temple reached him before the Lusignans. Robert de Sablé rode into the courtyard of the episcopal palace within the hour and had himself ushered immediately into the King’s presence. King Richard just raised his eyebrows.
“It was unanimous, my lord, except for Toron—who backed Guy, of course, with a passionate plea that probably did more harm than good. They detest him at least as much as they do Guy.”
“So that at least is done,” Richard remarked with a deep sigh. He had not slept all night for praying, and the exhaustion was catching up with him. He could fight a hundred battles without this kind of utter fatigue. Battles made his body tired, so that he fell into a deep sleep, to awake refreshed and invigorated. But this—this sense of helplessness, betrayal, confusion, uncertainty . . . His instinct was to go home and teach Johnny and Philip a lesson, and yet he could not forget Ibelin’s suggestion, either. Was it really better to be King of England than King of Jerusalem? His great-grandfather had opted for Jerusalem—but then he’d been only Count of Anjou, not King of England, Duke of Aquitaine and Normandy, Count Poitou, Lord of Maine, Tourraine and Ireland as well.
“There is something else we need to discuss,” the Templar Master broke into the King’s thoughts in a deep, soft, but penetrating voice.
Richard looked at him skeptically. “Now, Sablé?” he asked in warning.
“Yes, now,” Sablé insisted.
King Richard sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, as if daring Sablé to have something important enough to demand his attention at this moment.
“Cyprus is in revolt.”
“What?” King Richard gasped, his arms dropping instinctively to his sword-belt, his entire body alert and tense.
“Yes; we left too few—and the wrong—men in charge. They tried to impose Latin rites on the entire population, turning out the local clergy—”
“Are you Templars mad?” King Richard challenged, furious. “For God’s sake, I took the island so easily largely because I promised them I wouldn’t do that! I said everything would remain as it was, except that I’d be their liege rather than that sadistic ass Isaac. I promised—”
“My lord,” Sablé tried to calm him. “You are right. I make no excuses for the Templar commanders. They were shortsighted and foolish, and I—I was too focused on things here. I did not exercise proper oversight. I thought our instructions had been sufficiently clear. Evidently they were not. Now the whole island is in revolt, and the Templars are holed up in their house in Nicosia, begging for reinforcements to recapture the island—”
“Not one bloody archer!” King Richard opened, and followed it with profane threats of what the Templars deserved instead. The Lionheart raged because this was the last straw. He shouted and cursed, venting all his pent-up fury with his brother John and the King of France, and indeed with God himself, for allowing his brother and Philip to band together to destroy him while he was on this sacred mission in the Holy Land. He wanted to retake Jerusalem. He wanted to restore the Kingdom’s viability. He wanted to humiliate Salah ad-Din. He didn’t want to scuttle for home like the vile, cowardly Philip Capet!
But he had to go.
And now Sablé was telling him that his greatest conquest, Cyprus—the one thing he thought he had truly achieved for the sake of the Holy Land—was also at risk. Everything he had accomplished at home and here was disintegrating—as if they were no more substantial than sand castles overwhelmed by a powerful wave. Precisely because he could feel things slipping out of his once seemingly powerful hands, Richard raged. He pounded his fist down on the nearest table, making the cups and bowls jump into the air as it shook.
Over the years Sablé had weathered more than one Plantagenet rage, particularly from Richard’s father, Henry II. He was not intimidated by this outburst, although he was acutely aware that it was a great advantage to no longer be a subject of the English King. Braving the King’s temper, he urged, “Hear me out, my lord. I’m not suggesting we divert troops from Palestine. What I propose is that we, the Knights Templar, return the island of Cyprus to you.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do with it?” Richard roared back. “Now, of all times! I need to return to England! Haven’t you heard a damn thing I’ve said all the bleeding day?”
“Your grace, if we restore the island of Cyprus to you, you are free to bestow it on someone else.”
“And why should I want to do that?” King Richard demanded furiously. “Cyprus is as vital to the survival of Jerusalem as everything else put together—particularly in the precarious condition it is in now. For Christ’s sake! All we control is the coastal strip! Are you all so bloody blind that you can’t see that’s not enough territory to even feed the Christian population? Nor can the ports of the coast survive unless we control the eastern Mediterranean. Cyprus is the breadbasket and the sentry on the sea lanes to the cities of the Levant! Cyprus must become an invincible bastion from which to launch future campaigns against the Saracens. Why does no one else seem to understand that?” Richard ended, almost in tears from the frustration and the stress.
“We do understand—but the knights of my order are better used here in Palestine, fighting on the front lines. On the other hand, someone like Guy de Lusignan, who should never again be allowed to command troops confronting the Saracens, is not unqualified to restore order and then serve as the caretaker of Cyprus. If you give him Cyprus, he will not be tempted to thwart or undermine the authority of Conrad de Montferrat.”
King Richard stared at Sablé in astonishment. The idea was so radical that for several seconds he
said nothing at all as he absorbed it and then turned it over in his mind. Guy had proved himself a poor leader of men and a terrible military commander. Could he be trusted to restore order and secure Cyprus for the future?
“It’s not so much Guy I’m thinking about,” Sablé admitted, as if reading Richard’s thoughts. “But if you give it to him, his brothers will go with him.”
“Ah,” Richard was beginning to understand, “and that would kill two birds with one stone. We’d not only keep the troublesome Lusignans from challenging Montferrat and dividing the Franks here in the Holy Land, we’d also keep that rebellious band far away from Poitou—where they would almost certainly ally themselves with Philip of France as they have in the past.”
“Exactly.”
“But are they capable of getting the situation on Cyprus under control?”
“In my estimation, Geoffrey and Aimery are—provided they restore the Orthodox Church.”
Richard did not answer right away. His eyes were unsettled as he thought through various scenarios—but the rage was gone, Sablé noted, and that was good. In the end he said only, “The proposal has merit. I’ll think about it.”
“No solution is perfect, my lord,” Sablé reminded him. “But I think you will find this the best of the options at hand.”
Off the coast of the Levant, April 1192
The High Court of Jerusalem selected Ibelin and the Patriarch of Jerusalem to take the word to the Marquis of Montferrat that he had been elected King of Jerusalem. King Richard decided to send the Count of Champagne with them to assure the Marquis that the King of England gave him his full support. The Patriarch disliked sea travel and elected to go overland, despite the fact that the prevailing southerly winds made the journey from Ascalon to Tyre significantly shorter by sea. Ibelin and Champagne, on the other hand, boarded the Storm Bird, each accompanied by a half-dozen knights.
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