Maria Zoë nodded in understanding rather than agreement. “Those are two different questions. Yes, I am happy here, because we have peace and I have my family around me. As for it being home . . . it’s different for me. Girls are raised from the cradle knowing that the home of their childhood will not be the home of their adulthood. They know that when they marry they will go to a new place, which will become their home. In my case, I was sent to a completely different land filled with strange people and strange customs, which made it hard for me to feel at home for a long time. It didn’t help that Amalric and I lived not only in Jerusalem, but in Acre, Tyre, and Jaffa. I’m not sure I felt at home anywhere before he died. When I was widowed and moved to Nablus, I started to feel at home, but then you entered the picture, and I had to divide my time between Nablus, Ibelin, and Jerusalem. We’d only been married ten years when King Guy lost the kingdom at Hattin. After Hattin we were in Tyre for five years, living in someone else’s house on borrowed time. We’ve been here two years. So does this feel like home? No, not particularly. Home is where you are, or should I say, where you are happy. If you want to go to Cyprus, I have no objection.” She paused, smiled a little impishly, and added, “Of course, if you want a piece of it, you’ll have to recognize Aimery de Lusignan as your overlord.”
Balian burst out laughing. “Didn’t I say Henri would recognize John’s dog Barry for the sake of a barony? Well, I’m not much better. I’m willing to bend my knee to Aimery. I did it to his idiot brother, remember?” The bitterness was still there.
“And regretted it ever after.”
“Aimery’s not Guy.”
“No,” Maria Zoë conceded, thinking it through, “and he will never be able to treat you like his vassal, either. You’ve been equals for far too long—not to mention you’re his wife’s uncle—and, if nothing else, you’ll still hold Caymont from the Crown of Jerusalem.”
“Or the Sultan, depending on how you look at it,” Balian quipped before becoming more serious and noting, “Perhaps more important on Cyprus: you’re a Comnena.”
“Hmm. We’ll soon see if that holds any water anymore. Isaac was, by all accounts, not very popular.”
“Perhaps, but he was feared and respected.” Balian paused and then announced, “Then it is settled. We will go to Cyprus, both of us. I’ll take six of my household knights, so with them, their squires, myself, and my squires, you’ll have fifteen armed men as your escort. And John. Is that enough for you, my lady queen?”
Maria Zoë replied, “Indeed, my lord. It should be enough.” Then she leaned forward and kissed him.
Over the next two days, Balian set about appointing officials to run his barony in his absence. He named the Syrian Christian who had been most active in reorganizing the community after it resettled in Caymont “ra’is,” the official responsible for serving as an intermediary between his estate officials and the native tenants. To enforce the law and keep order, he named Sir Roger Shoreham “dragoman.” Shoreham had been one of the sergeants Balian knighted during the defense of Jerusalem, and he had proved his solid reliability and incorruptibility many times over his fifteen years of service to Ibelin, but he was aging and in no mood for new adventures. He was happy to remain in Caymont with his grandchildren. The last appointment, that of scribe, had been most difficult. Far more than their title implied, scribes were the financial administrators of a lordship, the tax and rent collectors, the bookkeepers and accountants. Balian would have liked to appoint his confessor of many years, Father Michael, but after much mental agony he decided to name the perpetually dissatisfied Bart d’Auber. While he hated rewarding someone for nothing, Balian had to face the fact that Bart might become even more disruptive of the community if he wasn’t given some authority. Since the position of scribe was usually filled by a man of knightly rank and it came with a fief and house, it assuaged Bart’s damaged pride. The fact that Bart’s command of Arabic was (due to his years in Arab slavery) exceptional helped justify the appointment—and Father Michael was given the task of reporting to Balian any abuses or complaints against him from the tenants.
With these officials appointed and sworn in before tenants, Balian was ready to plan his own departure. Meanwhile Maria Zoë had decided to take Beatrice with her, leaving the nursery of children in the hands of Henri de Brie’s wife, Heloise. What Balian and Maria Zoë had not reckoned with was a revolt by the older boys.
Their youngest son, Philip, and Aimery de Lusignan’s firstborn, Guy, were both twelve, and Joscelyn d’Auber was thirteen. Just after vespers, when Balian and Maria Zoë left the chapel preparing to retire to the solar for a few hours of peace before bed, the three boys blocked their way.
“We have to talk, Papa!” Philip opened belligerently. “I’m not a baby anymore. I shouldn’t have to stay in the nursery with the girls and the children.” He was referring to Aimery’s youngest son and namesake, who was only four, and Henri de Brie’s young sons.
Guy immediately backed him up, declaring, “It’s my mother who wants help! She would want me to come. I can cheer her up!”
Joscelyn kept his mouth shut, but his presence expressed his position. He, too, wanted to go to Cyprus.
Maria Zoë put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm, half expecting him to explode with indignation at such a disrespectful confrontation. The boys arguably needed a good hiding for confronting the Baron of Ibelin in this rude manner, but Balian seemed less offended than Maria Zoë expected. Instead of reproaching them for their tone and attitude, he dismissed them with a wave of his hand. “I can’t afford to take deadweight along. That’s an end of it.”
“But we’re not deadweight!” Philip protested indignantly. “I can take care of Ras—”
“We’re not taking any destriers, just palfreys,” his father interrupted him.
“But I’m even better with Hermes!” Philip spluttered, referring to his father’s favorite riding horse. “And Guy and Joscelyn can help with the horses, too!” he added, harvesting vigorous nods from his companions.
“We have our squires; what do we need the likes of you for?” Balian countered dismissively.
“But the squires can look after the weapons, and—and—we can serve you at table and look after your clothes and run errands and—and—anything you want us to do,” Guy piped up. “Just like I did for King Richard.”
“Really?” Balian asked, looking from one boy to the other in mock disbelief, while Maria Zoë bit her tongue to keep from laughing; she now knew he was teasing the boys.
“John got to ride out with you in Tyre!” Philip reminded his father indignantly.
“He couldn’t have been as young as you are,” Balian answered as if irritated.
“Yes, he was!” Philip insisted. “He was younger! He was only ten!”
“Really? You’re sure about that?”
Philip was beginning to suspect his father was teasing him. “Yes, you know he was. My lord.”
“Ah, that’s better,” Balian noted with a quick twitch of his lips. “Because I’m certainly not taking any impudent little boys who have not yet learned their manners.”
“No, my lord,” Philip adjusted his tactics instantly, echoed by Guy and Joscelyn.
With them now standing contritely in front of him, Balian asked, “So, you want to come with me to Cyprus. Why? It’s just to get away from your lessons, isn’t it?”
“No, no! Not at all, my lord!” Philip’s eyes widened in a look of such perfect innocence that Maria Zoë couldn’t hold her giggles in any longer and had to cover her mouth with her hand.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” his father answered seriously, ignoring his wife’s unhelpful behavior. “Because Father Angelus is coming with us, and if I were to let you come, then you would be expected to spend at least two hours every day perfecting your Greek.”
Philip’s eyes darted between his mother and father. He wasn’t sure about his father yet, but he sensed his mother was not at all opposed to this suggestion
. That meant she would be his ally behind closed doors. He smiled an angelic smile at her and then assured his father, “But I love learning Greek, my lord—”
That was too much for Balian. He burst out laughing—and then cuffed his son lightly with the admonishment, “Don’t lie to me, boy. You hate it. You always have. Just like John. But that doesn’t interest me. If you come with us, you’ll spend five hours in the classroom every day, not just four, until your Greek is at least as good as John’s. Then we’ll see whether Father Angelus thinks we can reduce class time or not. Last I heard, your Latin was nearly as bad as your Greek, your French spelling was nothing short of comic, and you thought Edinburgh was in the Holy Roman Empire.”
“Well, Hamburg and Rothenberg and Regensburg are,” Philip defended himself, adding hastily before his father could get out a disgusted word, “and I’m good with geometry, my lord. Ask Father Angelus!”
“I will,” his father promised. “Now go to bed. All of you!”
Joscelyn and Guy said a hasty, “Yes, my lord. Good night, my lord,” happy to have escaped without actually provoking any rage, but Philip started to leave and then turned back. “Was that a ‘yes’ or a ‘no,’ Papa?” he wanted to know.
“I haven’t decided yet,” his father told him truthfully. “So scat before I decide you’re a nuisance.”
Philip took the hint and ran after his friends.
Maria Zoë took Balian’s arm but said nothing, leaving him to sort through his thoughts on his own. In the solar, she seated herself in her favorite chair by the fire. Georgios was waiting with wine, which he poured into two of the beautiful enameled goblets they had saved from the house in Jerusalem. Only after Balian had also seated himself did she speak. “I think it would do Eschiva good to have Guy with her, and he did serve in the household of Richard of England, admittedly more a page to Queen Berengaria than Richard. Still, he knows the duties. We’ve been giving them both a little too much freedom here.”
Balian nodded and looked over to her. “That’s what I was thinking, too. But I’m also serious about them not interrupting their schooling. The older a man gets, the less time he has for education. If I hadn’t found myself serving a prince under the tutelage of a great scholar like William of Tyre, I would be a half-ignorant man. It was also a perverse benefit of being cooped up in Tyre that John had more time to study than otherwise. I don’t want Philip to be less educated.”
“We’ll have access to more learned men on Cyprus than we do here in Caymont.”
“Greek scholars, I presume you mean.”
“Yes, but one learns a language by hearing it all the time. Cyprus will be good for Philip’s Greek.”
“It certainly did wonders for John’s. And Joscelyn? What do you make of his request?”
“That he no longer wants to run away to al-Adil. That’s a first and important step to returning to the True Faith. I think it is a very good thing.”
Balian nodded thoughtfully. “So, we’ll take them along?”
“Yes, I think we should.”
Balian smiled. “Good. I rather like the thought of seeing what sort of trouble Philip will get himself into next.”
Chapter Eleven
Faltering Dynasty
Nicosia
Late August 1194
ESCHIVA WANTED TO DIE. IT WAS that simple. She wanted to die, and she couldn’t understand why God had taken her infant son and left her alive to face the shattered wreck of her marriage. She couldn’t bear to face Aimery ever again.
They had torn the little baby out of her womb and told her he was dead. They hadn’t even shown him to her, or let her hold him in her arms. They had just whisked him away, scolding her in their incomprehensible tongue.
She had screamed and screamed in protest, but it had done no good. They had taken him away wrapped in a shawl, and she wasn’t even allowed to see that he was really dead. Maybe they had just stolen her baby so the hated “despot” would not have a child here? Or maybe one of the women just wanted him for herself? How would she ever know? She couldn’t understand a word they said.
But without the baby, she could not face Aimery. She had stopped them from fetching him. They didn’t understand much of what she said, but they had understood that much. Shaking their heads and clucking, they had gone out and just left her here alone. In the filthy sheets. With the stench of death and failure all around her.
She did not know how long she had been alone, but long enough for her sweat and tears to turn cold where they had soaked the linens. Cold enough to make her shiver, though God knew the room was stiflingly hot, or had been when she struggled to deliver a dead child . . .
Oh, God, why? Why don’t you just take me away so I don’t ever have to go through this again? Or see the disappointment and anger on Aimery’s face? Or worse, hear him renounce me, turn me out. . . .
The door crashed open and women rushed into the room, chattering and tripping over themselves as they tried both to move and to fall on their knees at the same time. Their voices were anxious, urgent, defensive, and then silenced by a single command. Eschiva gasped and struggled to lift her head enough to see to the door. A woman was sweeping past the kneeling servants with shimmering golden veils pinned to her head by a crown. Pearls gleamed on the bodice of her gown. The image was so reminiscent of an icon that for an instant Eschiva thought God had heard her prayers: she was dead, and the Virgin Mary was striding toward her.
But then the Virgin Mary let out a stream of words in Greek that didn’t sound mild or sweet-tempered, as Eschiva expected of the Virgin. Furthermore, the words scattered the women in all directions as if in panic, and Eschiva had come to herself enough to recognize Maria Zoë.
A moment later Maria Zoë had reached the bed and, seating herself on it, pulled Eschiva into her arms. “I’m so sorry, Eschiva! I’m so, so sorry! I thought your time was still weeks away!”
“It was,” Eschiva gasped out, breaking down into miserable, choking sobs. “It was, but—but—he came early. He was dead. Or they say he was dead. They took him away from me!” She wailed this out, reliving it all over again.
“Hush, hush, hush,” Maria Zoë whispered, stroking Eschiva’s face and head, while tightening her hold so Eschiva could gain strength from the warmth and comfort of her arms and bosom.
Feeling the pearls of Maria Zoë’s bodice, however, Eschiva tried to pull back. “I’ll ruin your beautiful dress, Tante Marie. I’m so dirty!”
“Then the lazy hussies will have something else to do—after they’ve cleaned up the mess here, made a proper meal, and washed down the corridors as well! This palace looks as if no one has taken a mop to it since Isaac Comnenus died!” Maria Zoë retorted indignantly. “But first and foremost, we need to get you cleaned up so you can see Aimery.”
“No! I can’t face him! I’ve failed him! He’ll renounce me, Tante Marie—just like my father—”
Maria Zoë put her fingers to Eschiva’s lips. “Shhh!” she ordered.
Eschiva swallowed down the words, but they burped back up as hiccups and gasps for breath.
Maria Zoë pulled her back into a close embrace. “Listen to me, Eschiva.”
Eschiva tried, but she couldn’t stop the sobs, so Maria Zoë just sat and held her until they ebbed on their own. Then she asked gently, “Can you listen now?”
Eschiva nodded in resignation.
“Aimery is outside banging his head against the wall and blaming himself. He thinks the reason they won’t let him in is that you’re dead or bleeding to death. He has called for a priest, and he just told me that he would—”
Women burst in on them, carrying a tub and several amphorae of steaming rose water. Maria Zoë turned to give orders for setting up the bath, and then turned back to Eschiva and pulled her soaked and bloodied gown up over her head. She tossed the gown across the room in disgust and then helped Eschiva onto her feet and helped her hobble to the bathtub, all the while giving further orders to the women. These rushed to strip th
e dirty sheets from the bed, remove the basin full of blood beside the birthing stool, manhandle the stool to the side of the room, and start wiping up the marble floor.
“They told me he was dead, but they wouldn’t even show him to me,” Eschiva told Maria Zoë in a notably calmer voice as she sank into the warm water of the tub.
Maria Zoë stroked her forehead, turned, and demanded a sponge. Then, pushing back her outer sleeves and heedless of the inner sleeves, she dipped the sponge in the water to start gently washing Eschiva’s face with the clean water. “Sweetheart, John told us the babe had not been kicking in the womb. If that’s true, he had probably been dead for some time before the birth. Which means, of course, that development had stopped and he was not—whole. That’s why the midwife didn’t want you to see him.”
Eschiva bit her lower lip as she began sobbing again, but this was a different sobbing, the sobbing of grief rather than protest. She knew it was true. She had known it before she first sent for the doctor, before she’d told John. . . .
The warm water was calming her, as were the gentle strokes of the sponge on her face. Maria Zoë spoke to her again gently: “We brought Guy with us, and Philip and Joscelyn.”
Eschiva opened her eyes and lifted her head from the padded rim of the tub. “My Guy? My son? He’s here? On Cyprus?”
“Yes, but we can’t let him see you like this. Come. We need to wash out your hair.” As she spoke Maria Zoë put the sponge aside to unbraid Eschiva’s hair, and then ordered her to dunk her head under the water.
Eschiva did as she was told. (People rarely disobeyed Maria Zoë.) The water made her long hair swim and swirl around her. When she came up again for air, Maria Zoë started combing it away from her face with her long fingernails. Eschiva had always admired her for those long, beautifully filed nails. She couldn’t seem to grow her own. They broke or got chewed off. . . .
“I’m going to have a long talk to the midwife,” Maria Zoë was saying now, “but if I understood her apologetic babbling as I came in, she said you will be fine. She insists there is nothing fundamentally wrong with you at all. The bleeding stopped very promptly, she said, and the afterbirth came out cleanly. Are you in any pain?”
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