“But Troodos has copper and, they say, silver. And there are salt fields near Larnaka and Limassol,” John added eagerly. In his tone of voice Aimery heard confirmation that John had, despite everything, fallen in love with the island as much as he had.
“The forests are so dense, tall, and broad, you could build a thousand ships and hardly notice a tree had been felled,” Aimery added.
“And the wine is as good as at Ibelin, Papa. Truly it is!” John’s enthusiasm made his parents laugh.
Aimery continued with the geography lesson. “Beyond Morphou Bay here in the north there is a sharp peninsula pointing due north; after that the north coast is a long, straight line right to the tip of the Karpas peninsula. The Pentadaktylos comes down almost to the edge of the sea, so there is only a narrow, but incredibly fertile, coastal plain from here to about here, and there are two ports on the north coast, Kyrenia and Karpasia, of which Kyrenia has the smaller but better protected harbor.”
“So, if you divided up the island based on the ports, much as we did here, you’d have baronies at Karpasia, Kyrenia, Paphos, Limassol, Larnaka, and Famagusta.”
“And Salamis. I forgot that. It’s here on the southern shore of the Karpas peninsula. Little more than ruins, really, but a lovely location. It could be revived.”
“That would still leave you this enormous inland area as the royal domain—to be bestowed on worthy vassals at a later date.”
“There’s a problem, Balian,” Aimery pointed out, sitting upright and glancing at Maria Zoë. “Only a king can make barons. Guy was King of Jerusalem, but he was only Lord of Cyprus.”
“But Isaac Comnenus called himself ‘Emperor,’” Maria Zoë pointed out.
“And everyone called him a usurper. Before that, Cyprus was only a province of the Eastern Roman Empire.”
“So was Palestine,” Balian reminded them. “All the states we have established out here were mere provinces of the Eastern Empire before. All you need do is—”
A knock on the door interrupted them, and on their invitation Georgios entered, followed by a tall, sinewy man with a beak-like nose and blond hair streaked with grey that fell down to his shoulders. Ibelin jumped to his feet, and a moment later found himself in the short but powerful embrace of the Norse captain.
“Master Magnussen, I thought you said you were gone for good!” Ibelin exclaimed as he stepped back to get a better look at the Norseman.
“Stinking boring back in Western Ocean and the North Sea. Nothing doing but a little piracy—which, of course, I abjured long ago.”
“I would have thought King Richard could have used your services in his war with King Philip.”
“I tried, but for some reason he prefers English and Scottish crews. Besides, I thought I remembered the climate being better here. I’d forgotten it was an oven worse than hell in summer.”
“Come, join us. Wine, or should I send for ale?”
“The ale here is lousy—I’d forgotten that, too—but still better than grape juice.”
“Georgios?” Ibelin looked to his squire.
“Yes, my lord.” The young man disappeared again.
“So, aside from missing my beautiful face, why did you want to see me, Ibelin?” The Norseman took a seat on the chest John vacated for him.
“You heard that Guy de Lusignan is dead and has named his brother Geoffrey his heir.”
“That’s what this Lusignan said,” the Norseman replied, nodding his head to Aimery almost insultingly, but then softening the gesture by flinging a smile his way. Magnussen had always retained his independence, taking an oath to no man. He had worked closely with Ibelin—not the Lusignans. The latter had been “the enemy” during most of his stay in Outremer, and had it been Aimery rather than John who had asked for passage, he would probably have turned him down.
“Well, for a variety of reasons, we don’t like that solution,” Ibelin noted.
Magnussen grunted and waited, his eyes fixed on Ibelin.
“Geoffrey only campaigned briefly here; he’s not as familiar with the situation, and despite his unquestioned courage, he did not make many friends.”
“He’d sell his own mother to the devil if it suited him. Last I heard he was thinking of betraying King Richard to Philip.”
“What?” John asked, scandalized. After his father and Magnussen, King Richard was the man he admired most in the world.
Balian wasn’t letting himself get distracted, however. He remarked firmly, “We think Aimery would make a better Lord of Cyprus.”
Magnussen looked over at Aimery and then back at Ibelin with slightly raised eyebrows.
Ibelin didn’t explain himself. He simply declared, “Aimery needs to return as soon as possible to establish his claim. It is important that he is well established and recognized before Geoffrey finds out he has been bequeathed a fabulous lordship,” Ibelin explained, only to be taken aback by his wife contradicting him.
“I’m not so sure,” she noted, earning a look of confusion from her husband and son, a scowl from Aimery, and a look of outrage from Eschiva. They all gaped at her, while Magnussen looked amused by her apparent rebellion. Maria Zoë answered their looks by pointing out, “Geoffrey returned to France because he didn’t like Cyprus, remember?”
“Or he didn’t like playing lieutenant to Guy!” Aimery countered, adding bitterly, “It’s an unpleasant and thankless job, I can assure you. Geoffrey didn’t have the temperament for it. Being lord in his own right is something else.”
“Certainly, but Geoffrey will want to weigh his options,” Maria Zoë insisted. “If he thinks he will be welcomed on Cyprus with rapturous relief by devoted followers that is one thing. If he knows he has been rejected by the men in control of the island and that he will have to fight his own brother for it that is something else again.”
“Ah,” Balian caught the drift of his wife’s thoughts. “You’re saying we want Geoffrey to find out that Aimery is staking his claim.”
“Yes; it might help him make, shall we say, the right decision. In fact, I think the sooner he finds out, the better.”
“I can see to that,” Magnussen volunteered. “If you give me a day or two to purchase a cargo of spices, silk, or ivory, I can sail for Cyprus the day after, drop this Lusignan off, and continue back to Marseilles. There we’ll spread the news in every tavern of the city that Aimery has been acclaimed Lord of Cyprus.”
“At what price?” Balian asked evenly. He’d long since learned that Magnussen did most things merely for the sheer fun of it, or the challenge, but he always pretended to be mercenary. It was essential to negotiate a price up front.
“Well,” Magnussen leaned forward to prop his elbows on the table. “Cyprus, as we see here, is an island, and its security, therefore, will depend upon a fleet. I always fancied commanding a whole fleet—not of merchantmen, but of fighting ships. I want to be Admiral of Cyprus.” He looked up and smiled straight at Aimery.
Aimery spluttered with indignation. “For one single voyage?”
Magnussen looked at Ibelin. “Was it only one?”
“It’s a good deal, Aimery,” Balian advised. “You were still in captivity when Magnussen almost single-handedly broke the Saracen blockade of Tyre. If he hadn’t, Tyre would have been lost, but Montferrat never properly thanked him.”
“That man got what he deserved. Almost made me like the Assassins,” Magnussen observed. “Besides, if you don’t take me, you’ll end up being dependent on the Pisans or the Venetians or the Genoese, and they will cut your throat to sell you your own blood or sell you your own p—sorry, my ladies.” He stopped himself with a bow of his upper body in the direction of Maria Zoë and Eschiva.
Aimery recognized that he was in no position to haggle. Of course, he could take passage with another ship, but the Norse snecka was one of the fleetest ships he’d ever seen, much less set foot upon, and the captain was an independent man beholden to no one. Furthermore, the Dowager Queen had a point: if the news reache
d Geoffrey that Cyprus wasn’t really his before he’d had a chance to get accustomed to the idea of being Guy’s heir, Geoffrey might prefer to stay in Poitou. He might opt to stake his fortune on playing off Capet against Plantagenet. It was a game Geoffrey understood well, and was likely to seem more certain of success than another adventure in Outremer.
Aimery signaled his consent by adding, “Be sure you also spread the word about how precarious the situation is. Stress that even the militant orders have been attacked and that no one is safe.”
“Horrible place! Worse than Sicily!” Magnussen answered with a straight face. “Ship was nearly swamped by people desperate to escape the carnage. I wouldn’t be surprised if all the Franks on the island are already dead—slaughtered in their beds.”
The men laughed, leaving the monk delivering Magnussen’s ale completely discomfited. How could good Christian men laugh about such a state of affairs?
Eschiva had hardly spoken over the meal. She was particularly intimidated by Magnussen, who seemed to her more a heathen Viking than a Christian captain. Mostly, however, she was still shaken by that moment in the courtyard when Aimery had turned his back on her. It didn’t matter that his reason had been shame. In that single gesture, she had been confronted by her worst nightmare: divorce. Her father had divorced her mother after twenty years of marriage. Eschiva had been married to Aimery for the same number of years.
Suddenly she realized why she had never made a fuss over Aimery’s frequent affairs. In the deepest core of her being, she knew she could survive anything except being set aside, dismissed, discarded. Let him have his mistresses, as long as he didn’t take from her the status of wife. For twenty years—nearly her entire conscious life—she had been Aimery de Lusignan’s wife. It was who she was. Yes, she had been born an Ibelin and inwardly often sided with her uncle against her in-laws, but she was still Aimery de Lusignan’s wife.
That moment in the courtyard had been all the worse for being so unexpected. Since Aimery’s return from captivity five years ago, they had found new affection for one another. They had been like young lovers, as the child in her womb testified. Her hand fell automatically to her belly, feeling for the sign of life within. This past Christmas at Caymont had been the most beautiful interlude of her entire life. She had felt loved, respected, cherished, and content. Aimery had spent all his waking hours with her or the children. Indeed, he had lavished attention on the children as never before. Furthermore, although he had complained about his brother’s policies, his love for Cyprus and hope of building a future there had shone through.
The door fell shut with a loud clunk, and Aimery shot the bolt. “You know,” he started at once, not noticing his wife’s fragile mood (as was so often the case), “it’s risky, but Ibelin is right. We have nothing more to lose. The only thing I regret is, it means we’ll be separated again for God knows how long.”
“No.”
“No?” Aimery looked around, baffled. He had unbuckled his sword and hung it over the bedpost, and was about to sit to remove his boots. “But, Eschiva! You heard the arguments. On Cyprus I have a chance, a real chance, of becoming a king in all but name—maybe in name, too, if we appeal to the Pope—”
“I didn’t mean you shouldn’t go, Aimery,” Eschiva declared steadily. “I only meant I wouldn’t let you go alone. I’m coming with you.”
“Eschiva! You can’t come now! Not in your condition!”
“What do you mean, ‘in my condition’? I’m carrying your child, Aimery—a child whose future is at stake. A child who might one day be the ruler of Cyprus.”
Aimery crossed the distance between them with two giant steps and put his hands on her shoulders. “Eschiva, Cyprus is—not safe.”
“This has nothing to do with being safe. I don’t want to be safe, if it means being separated. And, more important, if you are laying claim to a kingdom, then you need to show your future barons that in choosing you they aren’t choosing a single man, but a dynasty—a man with a wife, two sons already, and more on the way.”
Aimery registered that Eschiva was making sense—as she almost always did when she ventured to voice an opinion. Before he had decided what to answer, Eschiva continued, “Nor does it hurt that I’m an Ibelin.”
Aimery had thought of that already. Eschiva’s father had been a respected nobleman; her uncle was nothing short of legendary. “I know,” he admitted, “but you’re in the seventh month. Do you think I’ve forgotten how frightened you are of childbirth? Do you think I don’t understand what a chance you are taking already? I want you safe, and I want you to be among people you trust when the time comes.”
Eschiva thought briefly of how earlier today she had made Isabella promise to be with her when the time came, and instantly recognized how unimportant that was compared to being with Aimery. She lifted her chin, looked Aimery straight in the eye, and declared: “And I’m telling you, Aimery, you are the only one I need to have near me. Any midwife can deliver the child, but I want you beside me when I hold our child in my arms for the first time. I want you beside me when we christen him in Nicosia, your future capital. I would rather give birth in a manager like the Virgin Mary than in a palace, if the former means you are with me.”
Aimery pulled her into his arms and held her closely but gently, conscious of her big belly between them. “Eschiva, you are more precious to me than anything else on earth. How can I put you at risk?”
Eschiva rested her head on his chest with a sense of deep gratitude for his words, his presence, and his warmth, but she spoke firmly. “I’m at risk in childbed—no matter where I am. I could die just as easily at Caymont or in the royal palace at Acre. It’s not as if you’re going to the wilderness where there are no midwives, no physicians, no houses, baths, or churches.” Eschiva had listened very well to his enthusiastic descriptions of Cyprus over Christmas. “Indeed, the way you described the royal palace in Nicosia, it was hardly less splendid than the Imperial palace in Constantinople where Maria Zoë grew up.”
Aimery winced inwardly as he realized he was now trapped in a web of his own making. He was being repaid for his earlier eagerness to make her want to come, anticipating reluctance rather than this untimely zeal.
“And you said the physicians were highly trained, the sewage systems very modern, and the wine excellent,” she recited further.
“God help me, Eschiva.” Aimery bent to seal her lips with a kiss to stop her saying any more. Then, pulling away, he admitted, “It is all true, but . . . ” He searched for an argument that would hold water. “I would feel happier knowing you are with Maria Zoë or Isabella. I’m going to have my hands full. I’m not going to be able to devote the time and attention to you I did at Christmas.”
“I understand that,” Eschiva told him bluntly. “I don’t expect you pay me attention. I’m coming to support you, not the other way around.” Taking a deep breath, Eschiva drew away from Aimery’s embrace and faced him. “Aimery, it doesn’t matter what you say. I’m going with you to Cyprus.”
For a moment more, Aimery tried to resist. He wanted to do what was right for her and their unborn child, but deep down inside, selfishly, he wanted her with him. He knew she would be a comfort to him, and a source of strength. Aimery pulled her back into his arms and laid his head on hers. “So be it then, sweetheart.”
Chapter Nine
Staking a Claim
Cyprus
June 1194
THE WIND GOT UP AFTER THEY had lost sight of the mainland. Eschiva at once started to feel queasy, and decided she should lie down. Although her hastily recruited handmaiden Anne was here to look after her, Aimery insisted on going below with her. This left John on deck alone and free to approach the crew.
John would never forget the first time he laid eyes on Haakon Magnussen. He and his father had gone to an armorer about repairs to a hauberk, and Magnussen had burst in with half his crew still bleeding and bruised from a brawl with the Marquis de Montferrat’s men. In their
old-fashioned leather armor, with axes as large as ox heads and long, flowing hair, the Norsemen had seemed like characters right out of a Viking saga. John had been entranced from the start, but his father had not been keen on him making a more intimate acquaintance with the Norsemen. John wasn’t entirely sure why, since they were all good Christians. Even now, he noted, all the crew wore heavy wooden or bone crosses around their necks, most of which were elaborately carved.
“Either out of the way or give a hand!” Magnussen’s voice bellowed from the afterdeck. “We’re coming about!”
John looked back over his shoulder, saw men dividing up to unleash both corners of the sail, and went to join the men on the leeward side. He’d watched this maneuver on the outward voyage and thought he understood what was going on.
At a shout from Magnussen, the helmsman flung the tiller over with all his might. The sharp prow of the vessel swung into the wind. The great striped sail started to shiver, sag, then fill from the wrong side. The ship lost momentum, and the pitching of the deck became so pronounced that John found it hard to stand (although his companions seemed to have no problem). John glanced nervously over his shoulder toward the captain, awaiting the order to release the sail and adjust it, but one of the men around him told him to relax. “We need to back around more,” he explained to John.
After what seemed like an eternity of wallowing, the order came. The man at the head of the rope released it, and they walked the end forward to make it fast as close to the bow as possible. John was conscious more of tagging along than of doing any good, but that earned him at least a grunt of thanks from one crewman and a smile from another. The latter was a youth who seemed about his own age and startled John by asking in Latin, “Want to learn seamanship, do you?”
“Well, I want to understand it better,” John corrected, asking back, “Where did you learn Latin?”
“My father sent me to a monastery to atone for his sins three years ago, but I ran away. It didn’t seem fair, me suffering for his sins. I couldn’t stand being cooped up all the time. I need the wind and sea.” He gestured vaguely toward the prow, which was again plowing the sea in a steady, purposeful manner. He had long blond hair, tied at the back of his neck by a leather thong, but the wind had freed many strands that now whipped around his face. John thought he looked magnificent.
The Last Crusader Kingdom Page 17