The Last Crusader Kingdom

by Helena P. Schrader

  “The one’s a knight,” the conversation continued.

  “Another [something John didn’t understand] looking to [incomprehensible] us dry.”

  The proprietor brought the wine jug and then turned his back to serve the table on the right.

  “Yes, yes,” John heard the proprietor say. “They’re staying here. I put them in the back room over the latrines.”

  Laughter answered him.

  John felt something creep up his spine. “I don’t think they like us here,” he remarked to Lord Aimery, reaching down to pet Barry as he spoke. The dog’s presence at his feet was somehow reassuring.

  “What?” Aimery had been deep in an imaginary conversation with his brother Guy.

  “I don’t think they like us here.”

  Aimery looked around and shrugged. “What makes you think that? They’ll like our money well enough. I’m tired. Let’s go to our room. You can bring the wine with you if you like.”

  John would have preferred to stay and see what more he could understand, but he was in service and his lord wanted to go to bed. He took the wine and both their pottery mugs and followed Lord Aimery to the chamber they had been given. Barry, John noted, slunk behind them with his belly so close to the floor he collected dirt on his belly hairs, and his tail hung limply. John smiled reassurance at him, but Barry answered by looking up with questioning eyes. Barry didn’t like it here either, John concluded.

  The room they had been given had a low ceiling dark with grime, a box bed with straw covered by a blanket, and a window closed by partially broken shutters. The window overlooked the shed that housed the latrines, and the broken shutters let in the stench.

  Aimery swore and kicked out at the bed. “Shit house!”

  “I’ll go ask for another room,” John volunteered, and without waiting for an answer, turned and scampered back down to the tavern. At the foot of the stairs he stood still in the shadows and surveyed the scene. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he could smell the hostility, and something frightened him. He just couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  He caught sight of the proprietor as he left the stairwell and approached him. “The room stinks,” he announced. “My lord wants another.”

  “I don’t have another,” the proprietor answered sullenly, with a glance in the direction of the men sitting with the young monk. Then he shoved John out of his way.

  Rather than retreating back up the stairs, John slipped out into the courtyard to check on the horses. It was a good thing he did. They greeted him with indignant snorts and whinnies. Centurion kicked at the stall door so hard it leapt on its hinges, and John was sure it would break if he kept it up. Checking their feed boxes, John realized they had been given nothing at all; worse, there were no water buckets in their stalls.

  John started to get angry. Whatever these people had against Lord Aimery and himself, they had no right to take it out on the innocent horses. Simmering with resentment, John led each horse to the open trough and let them drink their fill. He then helped himself to the barley in a sack near the tack room, giving a scoop to each horse. While they devoured this, he looked around for hay and spotted it in the loft. He scrambled agilely up the ladder and was just about to throw a bale down when voices below him made him freeze.

  “… came on the Venetian galley.”

  “From Caesarea, then?”

  “I say we [incomprehensible] tonight.”

  “They are armed.”

  “You can’t count the boy.”

  “Wait until they are both asleep. Costas will give you the key.”

  “With your blessing, Brother Zotikos?”

  “Go with God and do His work!” The monk made the sign of the cross over the other man’s head. John could see the monk’s face clearly. He was burly but handsome in a solid, powerful way with a full, dark beard. His most powerful feature, however, were eyes that burned with passion as they caught the light of the torches inside the tavern.

  “The boy, too?” the second man asked. He was standing with his back to John, and all John could make out was that he was broad-shouldered and had long hair.

  “It is as wise to kill a small viper as a large one,” the monk answered, and then, taking his donkey by the halter, he led it out of the stables followed by the others.

  John was left paralyzed behind them. He was certain that these men meant to kill Lord Aimery and himself in the night—but how could he convince Lord Aimery of that?

  After giving hay to the horses, John returned to the stinking room. Lord Aimery was sitting on the bed with the wine jug at his feet. He looked expectantly at John. “Did you get us another room?”

  “No, of course not. The proprietor put us here intentionally. My lord, I overheard two men talking about killing us.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I swear, my lord.” and without stopping for breath he spilled out the whole story of what he had overheard.

  Aimery gazed at him in apparent disbelief, but his brain was working, too. He was beginning to wonder if the Venetian captain were in cahoots with these men, or if they were simply facing anti-Latin hatred. But there had been no hostility to Latins two years ago, Aimery argued with himself. The Greeks, high and low, had welcomed Richard of England. The nobles had flooded into Limassol to offer homage, and the common people had lined the roads to offer him bread and salt. Isaac had been defeated as much by the hatred of his subjects as by the prowess of the Lionheart.

  The captain had blamed the Templars, Aimery recalled, but what had his brother been doing since? He looked up at John. “We’re not going to get much sleep in this shit-hole anyway. Let’s take the horses and find ourselves a place to camp.”

  John let out a sigh of relief and agreed with alacrity, “Yes, my lord!”

  “No need to pay the landlord for his hospitality,” Aimery decided next, getting to his feet. “Let’s slip out as silently as possible. You go down first, like you’re going to the latrines, and saddle up. I’ll follow in a few minutes with our gear.”

  “Yes, my lord! Come on, Barry!” John patted his thigh and the dog, who had been lying with his head on his paws, jumped up with wagging tail to follow him.

  In the stables, John first got Lord Aimery’s palfrey tacked up and then Centurion, while Barry kept watch at the door warily. It seemed a long time before Lord Aimery loomed in the stable door, but he had their gear, and together they tied it on the packhorse. From the tavern came the sound of men grumbling and calling for their bills. “Closing time!” John whispered to Lord Aimery.

  “They’ll all be coming out, then,” Lord Aimery drew the correct conclusion. “Hurry.”

  John grabbed the lead of the packhorse and took Centurion by the bridle, while Lord Aimery took charge of his two horses. They made it out into the courtyard, but before they had a chance to mount, men spilled from the tavern into the yard.

  “Mount!” Lord Aimery hissed at John, but before he could even get his foot in the stirrup one of the Greeks lunged at John, drawing a knife as he did so.

  John saw the steel blade in the darkness and tried to jump aside, only to collide with the packhorse. He felt the blade hit his side and then slide over the rings of his hauberk. The man drew his arm back for a second strike as, with the clatter of hooves, Lord Aimery spurred forward, his sword raised. Most of the crowd fled to the safety of the building, but the attacker grabbed John by the throat of his hauberk with his left hand and swung about, using John as his shield against Lord Aimery’s sword. John felt him draw back his right hand for a second stab. In his mind he registered that at this range his chain mail wouldn’t save him.

  Suddenly his assailant was screaming in pain and terror as Barry sank his fangs deep into the man’s buttocks and dragged him away from John. Immediately Lord Aimery spurred past a dazed John and, leaning down from his saddle, swung his sword in a blow strong enough to nearly decapitate the would-be murderer.

  As the man collapsed in a spume of his ow
n blood, Lord Aimery turned his horse again, shouting to his still-dazed squire: “Mount!”

  John turned, grabbed the near stirrup, and pulled himself up into the saddle. Lord Aimery spurred toward the exit to the stable yard with his destrier on the lead. Centurion leapt forward without awaiting any human instructions, and the packhorse followed out of habit. Barry brought up the rear at a lope, his tail in the air and his ears up, as if he were enjoying himself for the first time since he’d acquired a new master.

  Lord Aimery didn’t stop until they were at least two miles beyond the limits of the town. This far they’d followed a paved road by the light of the waning moon, but the sound of water tumbling over itself and rushing under a low bridge reminded them of how thirsty they were. Aimery pulled up and, after checking one last time that they weren’t being followed, he gave his palfrey a long rein. At once the horse plunged off the road and found his way to the soggy banks to drop his head into the water, the destrier beside him.

  While the horses and Barry drank gratefully, Aimery turned to John, his face white in the night, to ask anxiously, “Are you all right?”

  John nodded, but at once started to relive in his mind how close he had come to being stabbed. “My hauberk saved me,” John said out loud.

  Aimery snorted, and with a nod toward Barry loudly lapping up water beside the horses, retorted, “I’d say Barry saved you! He’s earned his keep, if ever a dog did.” Aimery was as badly shaken as John. They had come within a whisker of being cut down by common thieves in a seedy tavern. Aimery no longer had any doubt that John had overheard a genuine plot to murder them—and had he not, they might have had their throats slit while they slept. As it was, for those few seconds when the murderer held John between them, Aimery had believed John was a dead man. How would he ever have explained his death to Ibelin?

  Aimery had given his word that he would look after the boy—and here, on their very first night on Cyprus, he had nearly lost him. Ibelin would never have forgiven him, never.

  John decided to dismount so he could give Barry some well-deserved thanks—only to discover his legs were shaking. When he landed on the uneven surface of the riverbank, they just gave way, and he fell and slipped in the mud.

  Aimery at once jumped down to help him back onto his feet.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine!” John insisted, ashamed to have his lord discover he was trembling.

  Aimery, however, already had him under the arm, and after he pulled John to his feet, he put an arm around his squire’s shoulder to steady them both. “We both had a bad fright back there,” he assured his squire. “It’s a good thing you can understand Greek, or we’d both be dead. Let’s see if we can find a dry place to catch some sleep.”

  John nodded his head vigorously.

  Aimery let go of him and started searching under the bridge for a dry spot to roll out their blankets. Meanwhile, John went in search of Barry. The dog had stopped drinking and was looking over at him with lifted ears. As soon as John patted his thigh, he bounded over to have his ears scratched as John praised him profusely. “Good boy!” he told him. “Well done! You get the next sausage I can find.”

  “Offload the packhorse and bring our kit over here!” Aimery ordered, and John turned to his duties.

  After they untacked and hobbled the horses, they settled down under the bridge. The ground was damp and uneven, and John tossed and turned before he could find a halfway comfortable position.

  “At least it doesn’t stink,” Aimery commented as John adjusted himself yet again.

  “No,” John admitted. “And look? Isn’t that Gemini?” He was looking out from under the bridge to the crystal-clear sky beyond. The moon was down and the stars were more brilliant than ever. The Milky Way was a smear of white, while the outlying stars were so vivid they seemed to prick like needles.

  “What?” Aimery asked, confused.

  John flung out his arm. “That pair of bright stars there! They’re the constellation Gemini—they represent the twins Castor and Pollux, Helen of Troy’s brothers.”

  Aimery snorted. His education in Poitou hadn’t included the constellations of the Greeks, much less their mythology. The evidence of his squire’s education reminded him again of the boy’s parents. “John,” he started hesitantly.

  “My lord?” John was young and resilient. The trembling had ceased and his breathing was steady. He was enjoying his adventure again.

  “There’s no need to tell your father about what happened tonight.”

  John cracked a smile at his lord. “There’s no way I can; he’s a hundred miles away.”

  “Yes, true—but frankly, we didn’t exactly cover ourselves with glory tonight, and sometimes it’s better fathers don’t know all the scrapes their sons get into.”

  “If you don’t want me to say anything to my father, then I won’t,” John agreed.

  Aimery sighed with relief, remarking as casually as possible, “Good. Then let’s get some sleep and hope we can find better lodgings tomorrow night.”

  ** The place names used throughout the book are the currently familiar names instead of the historical names used in the period. The point is to tell the reader the location of action, not demonstrate the quality of my research by using contemporary designations that mean nothing to anyone but scholars.

  Chapter Four

  The Ineffective Despot

  Nicosia, Cyprus

  April 1193

  BLOOD. GUY DE LUSIGNAN STARED IN horror at the stream of urine the color of Cypriot rosé wine, and his stomach cramped in fear. He didn’t need to pay a physician a pretty price to know that blood in his urine was not a good sign. This, combined with the pains in his groin and intestines, warned him that he was ill. Seriously ill. If only Sibylla were alive. She would have comforted him, but there was no one to turn to anymore. No one he trusted. They all wanted him dead. Because of Hattin, which wasn’t his fault.

  The stream of urine had tapered off to a drip, and Guy closed his braies and tucked the tails of his shirt back inside before tightening the drawstring and letting his surcoat fall back in place. He stopped at the basin just outside the garderobe and poured water over his hands. He used a bar of balsam-scented soap to wash them more vigorously than usual, as if by washing his hands he could cleanse away the undefined illness that was eating away at his innards.

  His squire, the awkward and bumbling Dick de Camville, was hovering uncertainly at the door to the outer chamber, moving nervously from foot to foot. It still galled Guy that none of his former barons had been willing to put their sons in his service. That they had elected Conrad de Montferrat and then Henri de Champagne King of Jerusalem in his place might have been rationalized on legal and political grounds, but refusing to let their sons serve him was a personal insult. Guy therefore found himself dependent on this semi-moron, the younger son by a second marriage of one of the men Richard of England had left on Cyprus more than two years ago. While the boy was willing enough, he was not the brightest youth Guy had encountered, and he stuttered half the time.

  “What is it now?” Guy snapped at him, feeling exposed just because the boy had been so nearby while he urinated blood.

  “Th-th-there’s a man here, w-w-who says he is your b-b-brother,” the squire stammered out, getting bright red from agitation in the process.

  “My brother? Is Geoffrey back?” Guy asked hopefully. After Sibylla’s death, Geoffrey had been the only soul to wholeheartedly support Guy. He had badgered the English King into recognizing Guy as the rightful King of Jerusalem, and had been furious when Richard abruptly abandoned the Lusignans and accepted Conrad de Montferrat instead. After Montferrat was murdered and Henri de Champagne married Isabella, even Geoffrey conceded defeat. Champagne was the Plantagenet’s nephew, and blood is thicker than water. Still, Geoffrey had seemed willing to accept Cyprus as an alternative to Jerusalem—until he got here. From the start, he hadn’t liked Cyprus. No sooner had the spring sailing season opened than he abandoned Guy
. That left Guy utterly alone in this hostile world of treacherous Greeks and greedy Italians.

  “N-n-no. Another b-b-brother,” the squire squeaked into Guy’s thoughts.

  It could hardly be his eldest brother, Hugh “le Brun,” Guy calculated; he’d returned to his lordship in Poitou even before King Richard departed. That left only the third of the four Lusignan brothers. “Aimery?” he asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, it can hardly come as that much of a surprise,” Aimery answered from behind him. Guy spun about as his brother stepped into the room from the balcony.

  Guy gaped at his elder brother, completely confused by his own emotions. It was good to see a familiar face, a face that had shadowed him for so much of his thirteen years here in Outremer. But the voice still had that condescending ring to it, and Aimery’s eyes betrayed his continued disdain for his “little brother.” Aimery had never accepted that his “little brother” had been more successful than he, had risen higher, was a king . . .

  “What brings you here?” Guy asked warily.

  “Well, it seems that—because of you—Henri de Champagne does not trust me anymore, and since he does not trust me, he wanted me removed as Constable. Since I can’t draw on the Constable’s income anymore, I’m penniless—all because of you. Under the circumstances, the good Baron d’Ibelin thought I might find more lucrative alternatives here on Cyprus.”

  “The good Baron d’Ibelin,” Guy sneered sarcastically, “who never supported me, who undermined me at every turn, who worked against me—” Before he got more insulting, his elder brother gestured with his head to the youth in the doorway to the balcony, and Guy belatedly recognized Ibelin’s eldest son. Instantly, his resentment boiled. The barons refused to let their sons serve him, but Ibelin—the ringleader of the lot!—allowed his eldest son and heir to serve Aimery! It was ridiculous.