The Last Crusader Kingdom

by Helena P. Schrader

  My thesis and the basis of this novel is this: while the Ibelin brothers Baldwin and Balian d’Ibelin were inveterate opponents of Guy de Lusignan, they were on friendly terms with Aimery de Lusignan. Aimery was, for a start, married to an Ibelin: Baldwin’s daughter and Balian’s niece! We have references, furthermore, to them “supporting” Aimery as late as Saladin’s invasion of 1183. I think the Ibelins were very capable of distinguishing between the two Lusignan brothers, and of judging Aimery by his own strengths rather than condemning him for his brother’s weaknesses.

  Furthermore, the conventional argument is that Balian d’Ibelin died in late 1193 because he disappears from the charters of the Kingdom of Jerusalem at that date. While this is a reasonable argument, it is not compelling. The fact that Balian d’Ibelin disappears from the records of the Kingdom of Jerusalem in 1193 may mean that he died, but it could just as easily mean that he was occupied elsewhere. For example, he could have been busy on Cyprus.

  The lack of documentary proof for his presence on Cyprus is not grounds for dismissing this possibility, because 1) the Kingdom of Cyprus did not yet exist, so there was no chancery and no elaborate system for keeping records, writs, charters, and so on, and 2) those who would soon make Cyprus a kingdom were probably busy fighting a hundred thousand outraged Orthodox Greeks on the island!

  But why would Balian d’Ibelin go to Cyprus at this time if it was such a wild and dangerous place?

  Because his wife, Maria Comnena, was a Byzantine princess, related to the last Greek ruler of the island, Isaac Comnenus. She spoke Greek, understood the mentality of the population, and probably had good ties (or could forge them) to the Greek Orthodox elites, secular and ecclesiastical, on the island. She had the means to help Aimery pacify his unruly realm. Furthermore, Balian was a proven diplomat par excellence, who would also have been a great asset to Aimery.

  If one accepts that Guy de Lusignan failed to pacify the island in his short time as lord, then what would have been more natural than for his successor Aimery to appeal to his wife’s kin to help him get a grip on his unruly inheritance?

  If Balian d’Ibelin and Maria Comnena played a role in helping Aimery establish his authority on Cyprus, it is nearly certain they would have been richly rewarded with lands and fiefs on the island once the situation settled down. Such feudal holdings would have given the Ibelins a seat on the High Court of Cyprus, which would explain their influence on it. Furthermore, these Cypriot estates would most likely have fallen to their younger son, Philip, because their firstborn son, John, was heir to their holdings in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. John was first Constable of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, then Lord of the hugely important barony and port of Beirut, and finally, after King Aimery’s death, regent of the Kingdom of Jerusalem for his half-sister’s daughter. Philip, on the other hand, was Constable of Cyprus and later regent of Cyprus for Henri I—despite the fact that his elder brother was still alive at the time.

  Last but not least, no historian is able to explain why Aimery de Lusignan named John d’Ibelin Constable of Jerusalem in 1198, when John was just eighteen or at most nineteen years old. It has been suggested that the appointment was “just nominal” and didn’t carry real authority—but there is no evidence of this. To the contrary, the position was anything but nominal throughout the preceding century. Furthermore, even if nominal, why would Aimery appoint the young Ibelin to such a prestigious and lucrative post if Ibelins and Lusignans were still, as historians insist, bitter enemies? Postulating a personal friendship between Aimery and John, on the other hand, would explain it. Given their age differences, the relationship of lord and squire is the most plausible explanation. The lord/squire relationship brought men very close and gave each great insight into the personality, strengths, and weaknesses of the other. It was also common for youths to serve a relative, and so quite logical for John to serve his cousin’s husband.

  While this is all speculation, it is reasonable and does not contradict what is in the historical record. It is only in conflict with what modern historians have postulated based on a paucity of records. I hope, therefore, that readers will enjoy following me down this speculative road as I explore what might have happened in these critical years at the close of the twelfth century.

  For readers familiar with the Jerusalem Trilogy, there is one major and one minor change. First, whereas I found it expedient to invent a younger brother for Balian in the form of “Henri d’Ibelin” for the Jerusalem Trilogy, further research has uncovered a very real nephew who would better serve the purposes of the narrative in this (and coming) books. “Henri d’Ibelin” has, therefore, been transformed into “Henri de Brie,” the son of Balian’s half-sister. Second, I changed the name of Balian’s older brother from Baldwin to Barisan “Barry” to avoid confusion with King Baldwin, who was a major character in the first two books of the trilogy. In this and subsequent books, I will refer to Balian’s older brother by his correct name, Baldwin. For other minor changes, see the historical notes.

  I would like to take this opportunity to thank my editor Christina Dickson for her meticulous editing and overall support and encouragement. I’d like to thank my cover designer Mikhail Greuli for a lovely cover that captures the beauty of Cyprus and the juxtaposition of Orthodox Church and invading Franks. Last but not least, I wish to thank all my test readers for their candid but constructive criticism. All of these people contributed to making this a better book, which I hope you, as readers, will enjoy. If you do, please write a review and post it on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Thank you all!

  **Knight of Jerusalem, Defender of Jerusalem, and Envoy of Jerusalem, published by Wheatmark in 2014, 2015, and 2016 respectively.

  Prologue: Lusignan’s Wolves

  Antiphonitis Monastery, Cyprus

  March 1193

  BROTHER ZOTIKOS WAS WORRIED ABOUT THE monastery’s cow. They had only one at the moment, because the older cow had died during the winter. The surviving cow was with calf, and she had been restless all afternoon. So when the other eight monks retired to the dormitory after vespers, Brother Zotikos went out to the barn. The fieldstone structure sat farther down the steep slope from the church, crouching against the eastern wall of the complex, so Zotikos took a brass oil lamp to light his way. He set the lamp carefully on the flagstone porch to the barn. (Too many fires had been caused by knocked-over lamps in barns . . .) Just as he was about to step inside, he heard a noise beyond the wall that made him freeze.

  “Help!” someone called in a faint, breathless, but desperate voice. “Help!”

  Brother Zotikos was in his early twenties, of burly build and robust health. He had joined the monastery two years earlier, but before that he had helped his father in their cooperage. He didn’t hesitate a moment. He ran to open the gate that gave access to the rugged track leading down to the main road from Kyrenia to Karpasia.

  The gate was barred by a heavy timber beam, but Brother Zotikos lifted this clear of the supports and opened the gate. The youth who had been leaning against it fell inside, collapsing to the ground at his feet. “Help!” he repeated.

  Brother Zotikos bent over him. The youth looked healthy, but he was hardly able to speak for breathing so heavily. He had apparently run up the steep hill from the coastal road. “They’re slaughtering us!” he gasped out, dragging himself upright by grasping Brother Zotikos’ legs and black cassock. “My dad—he sent me—to fetch—help!”

  “Who is slaughtering you?” Brother Zotikos asked as he helped the youth up. He recognized him as Lakis, the younger son of the miller at the foot of the gorge.

  “Franks! Lusignan’s wolves!”

  “But why? That’s—” Brother Zotikos cut himself off. What was the point of protesting or questioning? The youth was clearly terrified, and something had to be happening to make him so. But they were just four servants, two shepherds, nine monks, and the abbot. Furthermore, except for himself and Brother Athanasios, the monks and servants were elderly, not to say feeble.r />
  Lakis misunderstood his hesitation and gasped out: “They set fire to the oil press! If you don’t believe me, come and see!”

  Yanking hard on Brother Zotikos’ hand, Lakis pulled him out of the walled compound and along the stony path that zigzagged steeply down the slope. At the first bend, a view opened up of the gorge falling sharply northeast to the fishing village that sat below the monastery on the coast. Brother Zotikos gasped. It wasn’t just one building that was on fire, but a half-dozen. The smell of smoke was in the air and his hair stood up on the back of his neck as a faint, high-pitched scream reached him on the breeze. It was a woman’s scream, and it made his blood run cold.

  By morning, more than two dozen villagers had reached the refuge of the monastery. They arrived breathless, with scratched and bleeding legs from cutting through the underbrush, and many of them were still barefoot or in their nightclothes. They had not had time to grab anything but their wives and children. The dazed women sat clutching their screaming infants, who had long since soaked their diapers and wet the clothes of their mothers as well. The smaller children clustered around them, too frightened and bewildered to even cry. The men argued and ranted, outdoing one another with the tales of horror they had witnessed.

  Father Eustathios listened to them patiently without comment. Then he ordered the elder monks to see that the visitors were given food, a chance to wash themselves and their clothes, and a place to sleep. Finally, he told Athanasios and Zotikos to accompany him down the hill. Father Eustathios, who was in his fifties and suffered from arthritis, rode the monastery donkey; the two young monks walked.

  As they descended toward the village, they came upon small groups or lone villagers still dragging themselves up the hill to the monastery. These were men with injuries or wounds, hysterical girls carried by their brothers, mothers clutching injured children. Partway down the road, they came upon a woman and her unconscious husband. The man’s head was covered in crusted and still-shimmering blood. His wife poured out a tale of horror with a flood of tears. Her elder son and husband had tried to stop the Franks from taking her daughter from the house, but they had smashed her boy’s face with a mace, killing him with a single blow, and everyone could see the state her husband was in! As for her daughter . . .

  When they approached the mill that lay a little outside of town, they first encountered a terrified mule that had evidently broken free of its stall at the price of tearing its shoulder open. A hundred yards further, they found only the charred ruins of the mill itself, including the partially incinerated corpses of Lakis’ parents and siblings.

  After that it just got worse.

  It took them two days to bury all the victims. The survivors helped the monks, and even started to scratch together what was left of their lives. Lakis was told he could stay at the monastery, helping with the livestock, until someone could get word to his maternal uncle in Karpasia that he was orphaned.

  But once the last Mass had been said and the last of their guests (save Lakis) had departed, Brother Zotikos realized that he could not just accept what had happened. Innocent people had been slaughtered while they peacefully pursued their humble lives. Pious and devout women had been defiled in a church—before being butchered. Men had been murdered for defending their homes, their livelihoods, and their daughters.

  How could they just go back to praising God as if nothing had happened? Why should he praise God at all? For what? For letting this happen?

  Brother Zotikos’ blood was boiling. He could neither sleep nor pray for fury. His rage was too great, and it kept growing. Who were these men who had worked such destruction? What right did they have to destroy the lives of others? Why were they allowed to break the laws of civilization and Christianity with impunity?

  When his rage had built up to the point that he could contain it no longer, Brother Zotikos burst in on his abbot and exploded. “We can’t just suffer this! We can’t—shouldn’t—‘turn the other cheek’! They are monsters! Worse than Saracens! We must fight them!”

  Father Eustathios was hunched over his desk reading something, and he slowly turned to face his outraged subordinate. His eyes were piercing and they bore into Brother Zotikos, making him feel both naked and uncertain. “You want to fight the Franks?” he asked coldly.

  Brother Zotikos already felt a little foolish under the abbot’s gaze, but he persisted. “Yes! We can’t allow them to just slaughter us as if we were less than sheep! Mere insects! They have treated us worse than infidels, worse than livestock! As if neither we nor they were Christians!”

  “You are aware,” Father Eustathios asked in a low but clear voice, “that these Franks have just fought Saladin to a standstill?”

  “That was the English King—who promised us we would be left in peace, only to betray us by selling Cyprus first to the Templars and now to the Lusignan!” Brother Zotikos shot back furiously. “King Richard might have been invincible, but Lusignan lost his kingdom in a single day! He’s an idiot as well as a monster!”

  “Maybe, but he is supported by a pack of greedy wolves who have lost their lands to the Saracens and have come here to steal ours in compensation. That makes them both greedy and desperate. Desperate, greedy men are notoriously vicious, tenacious, and very dangerous.”

  “And for that reason we should just roll over and offer them our throats?” Brother Zotikos shot back indignantly. His dark eyes burned over his thick black beard.

  “No,” Father Eustathios answered, adding in a voice that was so low it was hardly more than a hiss, “for that reason we must not bellow like a wounded bear but remain silent as a cobra—until we strike.”

  Brother Zotikos felt as if he himself had just been seized by the deadly fangs of a poisonous snake, and his eyes widened in sudden understanding. “You mean . . . ?”

  “Do you think you are the only man on Cyprus with a sense of honor? The only Greek with spirit and courage? Don’t be so presumptuous! But silence and stealth are our best shields. We must collect our strength, and we must await the right opportunity. When it comes—whenever it comes—we must strike without noise or warning. We must survive to strike again and again and again—until one by one, handful by handful, troop by troop, they are all as dead as the nuns of Agios Kosmos.”

  Chapter One

  Arrest of a Constable

  Acre, Kingdom of Jerusalem

  April 1193

  THE HEAVY POUNDING OF A MAILED fist on the wooden door reverberated through the narrow stone house. The cook was startled from her sleep and grabbed her groggy husband in terror. “Christ’s bones! Who can that be in the middle of the night?”

  On the far side of the room by the still-smoldering fireplace, the two scullery boys sat up. “What is it? Who is it?” the boys asked one another in fright.

  “Open up!” a gruff voice shouted through the door.

  From the floor above came the sound of muffled voices: Lady Eschiva’s voice was alarmed and questioning, Lord Aimery answered with a calming growl. Then a child started crying. Lady Eschiva hurried to the children’s chamber, and Lord Aimery leaned over the railing to call down the stairs: “Answer the door! Find out who it is and what they want!”

  The man-of-all-work in the little household rolled out of the box bed with a grumble and padded barefoot to the door. His hairy, unshapely legs protruded naked from beneath his shirt. “Coming! Coming!” he called as the knock was repeated urgently. When he reached the door, he turned the key and pulled back the bolt to crack it open and peer into the street.

  The heavy door was shoved open into his face with so much force that it flung him against the wall and smashed his nose. Blood gushed down to his mouth, and his forehead would wear an ugly bruise.

  The men who forced their way inside were dressed in chain mail from head to toe. They wore skullcap helmets with heavy nose guards. Most terrifying of all, they wore surcoats with the arms of Jerusalem on them: they were the King’s men.

  “Where’s Lord Aimery?
” one of them barked at the stunned servants.

  “I’m here!” Aimery called from the floor above. Without hesitation the four armored men pushed past the frightened servants to the stairs at the back of the vaulted room. They pounded up to the next floor, and as they emerged out of the stairway, they found the Constable of Jerusalem hastily donning his surcoat while a young squire held his sword ready for him to take.

  “Hold that, boy!” one of the King’s men shouted, springing to put himself between the squire and the Constable. He pushed the squire backwards, pinned him against the wall, and wrenched the sword out of his hands with little trouble.

  Meanwhile, the sergeant turned his attention to the Constable himself. “My lord, you are under arrest for high treason! Either you come with us willingly, or we have orders to take you by force.”

  Aimery de Lusignan was a handsome man in his early fifties. His shoulder-length blond hair was somewhat disheveled and his face was sprouting the beginnings of a beard, but he had managed to pull on braies, hose, and a gambeson over his nightshirt. He stood with his shoulders squared and his head held high. “The charges are false and slanderous!” he told the sergeant firmly. “I will defend myself before the High Court.”

  “Maybe. For now you’re coming with us!” the sergeant answered bluntly, ominously lowering his hand to his hilt.

  “Where are you taking me?” the Constable asked gruffly.

  “To the royal dungeon, where all traitors are held! Now, are you coming willingly, or must I use force?”

  “Will you at least allow me to put on boots?” the Constable asked back in a voice edged with bitterness.

  “No tricks!” the sergeant warned, drawing his sword for emphasis before nodding to Lord Aimery to get on with it.