The Last Crusader Kingdom

by Helena P. Schrader

  With a deep sigh of resignation, he went and barred the door, then collected the broken remnants of his box and carried them over to the fireplace. A low fire burned there day and night, fed just enough discarded, unsuitable, and remnant wood to keep it from going out and so keep the chill off the air. With great solemnity Lakis fed the shattered pieces of his masterpiece into the fire and watched them burn, one piece at a time. In the flames he imagined his father’s mill burning.

  He hadn’t actually seen it burn, because he’d been sent up to the brothers of Antiphonitis to ask for help before the Franks set fire to it. The brothers had not allowed him to go down the hill for weeks afterwards. Nor had they allowed him to see the remains of his parents and sisters. They had put the bodies in a coffin and nailed it shut before they let him near it. It had smelled so terrible he had gagged and backed away. The brothers had comforted him, and now they too were in the hands of the Franks. Some said they had been put into a dark hole to starve, and others said they were already martyrs, crucified just like Christ. Lakis didn’t know what to think.

  A loud pounding at the door made him jump clear out of his skin. He sprang to his feet and called in a voice high with alarm: “Who’s there? What do you want? We’re closed!”

  “Lakis!” The voice was low, unfamiliar but urgent.

  “Yes, I’m called Lakis,” the orphan answered sullenly, going closer to the door to stand in front of it, arms crossed stubbornly. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  “It’s me, Brother Zotikos! From Antiphonitis. Let me in!” The man had dropped his voice to nearly a whisper.

  Lakis was terrified. Had he conjured up the dead? Summoning all his courage, he declared to the closed door as forcefully as possible: “Brother Zotikos is in a Frankish dungeon! Whoever you are, go away!”

  “Lakis, listen! I can’t shout or it will attract attention. Father Eustathios and seven of my brothers were arrested, but I wasn’t at Antiphonitis when the Franks came. I’m still free. Let me in. I need your help!”

  Lakis couldn’t deny help to Brother Zotikos. He lifted the bar holding the door shut, and cracked the door open. In the darkness he saw only a monk in black robes looking anxiously over his shoulder. Then the monk turned toward the door and his dark eyes fixed on Lakis. He gasped. It was Brother Zotikos—but rather than the mild and kindly man that he had been at the monastery, he looked fierce and sinister.

  Lakis backed up, opening the door only a little wider. The monk squeezed himself inside. Lakis shut the door and replaced the bar. Brother Zotikos waited for him. When they were facing one another again, the monk explained, “Your uncle told me you had run away; he wanted us to track you down and return you to him.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” Lakis asked, disappointed and betrayed.

  “No, I found you months ago; but since you seemed to have landed on your feet and not to be in need of your uncle’s care, I decided to leave you here.”

  Lakis let out a slow sigh of relief. He did not want to return to his uncle, no matter what.

  “Lakis, listen to me. I dare not stay in Nicosia very long, but I need someone—you—to deliver a package to that dog Lusignan.”

  “Me? Why me? I don’t have anything to do with the despot!”

  “I know. You’re a good boy. But this message is, well, a warning—to stop the Franks from doing any harm to Father Eustathios. I’m very worried that the Franks could torture or kill him. We have to stop that if we can.”

  “Of course, but how? People say he may already be dead.”

  “No, he’s not. I’ve checked on that. He and my brothers were taken to the Castle of Kyrenia, but the—ah—” he interrupted himself, cleared his throat, and continued “women who have, um, dealings with the garrison have been able to discover that they are being kept in the underwater dungeon. They are being given water and bread, and that is all, but so far none of them have died. We have to ensure they get better conditions soon. You know how old and ill most of my brothers are.”

  “But how can I help?” Lakis wanted to know.

  “It is better if you don’t know the details, but in this box is a message for the tyrant Lusignan.” From a satchel he had been carrying over his shoulder, Brother Zotikos removed a beautiful carved wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  “Oh, that’s beautiful!” Lakis exclaimed, for an instant the craftsman in him overcoming everything else as he reached out to it in wonder.

  “Don’t open it!” Brother Zotikos warned just as Lakis went to flip open the tiny brass latch holding the box shut.

  Lakis looked up at him, alarmed.

  “What’s inside is for the Frankish dogs only! You must deliver it to them—as a gift.” The way Brother Zotikos smiled as he spoke sent a shiver down Lakis’ spine. “Will you do it?”

  “But—I mean—how am I going to get past their guards?”

  “You sell carved objects, don’t you? You make and sell them? Everyone in Nicosia knows that. The Franks will have seen you hawking your wares all over the city.”

  Lakis looked down at the box in the palms of his hand and shook his head. “I’ve never even seen anything as beautiful as this. No one will think I made it. Where is it from?”

  “It comes from a land beyond Arabia. You don’t have to pretend you made it. Say your master made it and has sent you to deliver it. We must get it to the Lusignan.” There was desperation in Brother Zotikos’ voice, while his eyes burned almost feverishly. Or maybe he was feverish, thought Lakis, as the monk continued in a low, breathy voice: “I am certain God whispered your name to me, Lakis. I came to Nicosia with this mission, but without knowing how I was going to perform it. Then God whispered your name to me, and I remembered you were here, apprenticed to a master carver. I knew you were the one chosen by Him to deliver this box, this message. If you refuse, Lakis, you are not only being ungrateful for all Father Eustathios and my brothers did for you when you were orphaned, you will also be defying the will of God.”

  Lakis stared at Brother Zotikos, hypnotized by his words, and a chill ran down his spine, making him shudder. Truly, he thought, only God could know that he did have a “friend” in the tyrant’s own household: his “friend” Janis. He nodded solemnly. “I’ll deliver the box, Brother Zotikos—if I can convince Master Afanas to give me some time off, that is,” he added uncertainly as he tried to rehearse what he would say.

  Brother Zotikos reached out his hand in blessing. “God will reward you, Lakis!” He made the sign of the cross, then bent and kissed Lakis on both cheeks. “Tell your master it is the anniversary of your parents’ death and that you wish to attend Mass and pray for their souls. No Master would deny you time to do that.”

  Lakis nodded solemnly. He had to find a way to do what Brother Zotikos said. It was not often that an orphan-turned-beggar-turned-apprentice was tasked directly by God.

  “There’s a disreputable Greek youth outside asking to see you, sir,” the sergeant of the guard told John, catching him as he returned from putting his and his father’s horses up in the stables.

  “Me?”

  “Well, he said ‘Janis, the despot’s servant,’ and I don’t know who else he would have meant.”

  John’s heart missed a beat. It had to be Lakis! “Where is he?”

  “I told him to wait on the other side of the street by the khan you used to live in. I didn’t want him accosting people or trying to slip inside. You can’t trust these Greeks, sir. They’re all slippery as eels—liars and cheats at best and outright rebels at worst. If you want me to come with you—”

  “No, I’ll be fine!” John insisted, and hastened back out onto the street. He didn’t spot Lakis right away because he was sitting on the ground with his back against the side of the khan. As John approached, Lakis got cautiously to his feet. He had grown inches, and although he was still thin, he was somehow less feral-looking than the last time they’d met.

  “Lakis! It is you!” John exclaimed, grinning broadly
.

  Lakis did not return his smile. He gazed at John with piercing eyes and an earnest expression. “You lied to me,” Lakis opened the conversation.

  “I—”John’s smile faded. “I had to. I was in disguise. I wanted to get to know Nicosia without anyone knowing who I was. I wanted, for a little while, not to be a Frank.”

  “Why?” Lakis demanded.

  John took a deep breath and tried to think through his answer very carefully. “Because I knew that if everyone saw me as a Frank, I wouldn’t get to know the real Nicosia or have an honest conversation with anyone. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “But why did you care?”

  “My mother’s Greek,” John answered with a shrug. “I don’t hate Greeks.”

  That took Lakis by surprise. He started, frowned, and looked at John harder than before. He’d heard that one of the Franks was married to a Comnena, but John had been there before the Comnena arrived with her Frankish husband. Surely he couldn’t be related. “You’re not—I mean, you can’t . . . ”

  “What?” John asked back, baffled. “What’s so strange about having a Greek mother? Many of us born here in Outremer are of mixed blood. Queen Melisende was half Armenian—”

  “But not the Comnena? Your mother isn’t the Comnena?” Lakis broke in, sounding desperate for reassurance that this wasn’t the case.

  “What’s wrong with that?” John asked back irritably. He was proud of his mother’s blood.

  Lakis crossed himself and started to back away.

  John reached out and grabbed him to stop him from escaping again. “Lakis, what is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Lakis froze. He had been raised to think of the Emperors as semi-divine. His father had taught him that: no matter how unjust Isaac Comnenus had seemed, he was still a member of the Imperial family and, and, and . . . now a member of that family was touching him. Lakis stared at John’s hand on his arm.

  John instantly let him go, but he pleaded with him. “Lakis, I’m sorry for what some of the Franks have done. I told my mother about you and how your parents and sisters had been killed. I think that’s one of the reasons she’s here. She wants to stop this violence—”

  “By arresting monks and abbots?” Lakis flung at him.

  John took a breath to answer and then just shook his head. “No. That’s wrong. My mother has told Lord Aimery that it was a terrible mistake. Even Lord Aimery recognizes that it is wrong, but . . . ” John cut himself off, realizing he had been on the brink of revealing the internal divisions in the Frankish leadership. Instinctively he knew it would not be good to talk openly about them. “Listen to me, Lakis. Despite what has happened, we aren’t monsters and blasphemers and all the other things you call us. Let’s go someplace where we can talk. I’ll buy—”

  “No! I have to get back to my master. I’m an apprentice now,” Lakis told him proudly. “With a wood and ivory carver. I only came to tell you that—and to give you this.” He thrust out the box from Brother Zotikos, at the same time taking a step back in preparation for flight.

  John stared at the beautiful box, and he knew instinctively that whatever it contained was evil. “What is it, Lakis?” he asked in a low, serious voice.

  “A gift.”

  “But from whom? And why?”

  “My master wants commissions from Lord Aimery or his lady. He sent me to bring you this box to show you what good work he does. Give it to Lord Aimery—and if he wants more, come find me in the workshop beside the Paphos gate.” He gave a completely wrong address, in the certainty that the Franks would soon want to kill whoever had delivered the box.

  John saw through the lie, but he also had no compelling reason to reject the box. To buy time and to think things through, he cautiously flipped open the little latch to look inside the box. As he did so, Lakis darted away as fast as his feet could carry him. Distracted and dismayed, John started after him—then, realizing it was pointless, he stopped and looked down into the box.

  A crumpled cloth or rag covered with dark brown stains was all there was inside. Frowning, John started to extract the rag. It was stiff, and the brown stains started to flake off as he touched the cloth. John froze and pulled his hand away. He couldn’t be sure, but he strongly suspected the stains were dried blood. But whose?

  John snapped the box closed and ran to the palace. He didn’t stop until he had reached his parents’ apartment. He knocked once on the door, but didn’t wait to be invited in. “Mama! Papa!”

  They were seated opposite each other in the window seat, his father with a goblet of water in his hand, having just returned with John from a morning ride around the city to assess the situation. He looked up sharply and met John’s eyes. One look at his son was enough to make him get to his feet and step down from the window seat. He was already tense and wary.

  John crossed the distance with the box in his hands. “Papa, this was just delivered—a “gift” to Lord Aimery. But—look inside!”

  Balian took the box from John cautiously, his eyes looking at his son’s ashen face more than the box. He flipped the latch and slowly opened the lid. John watched him closely, but his father’s face was guarded. He studied the contents and then put a finger inside to shove the cloth aside, and with his fingernail extracted a note lying on the bottom of the box. He removed the note, but it was in Greek, so he handed it to his wife, who was hovering beside him. Then he reached inside the box again and pulled out a heavy gold ring.

  “All it says is: ‘An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. . . .’” Maria Zoë informed him.

  Balian was turning the ring over in his hand, frowning. It was a man’s ring, large enough for him to wear on his thumb. It had an exceptionally large, irregular stone set in heavy gold. The style was quite exotic—neither Frankish nor Greek, more oriental, although nothing on it was overtly Islamic such as an Arabic inscription. He felt as if he’d seen this ring somewhere before, but he couldn’t place it. Holding it up, he asked his wife, “Do you recognize this or know to whom it might have belonged?”

  Maria Zoë gasped. “That’s Humphrey de Toron’s ring! The one he inherited from his grandfather the Constable. It was too big for his fingers, so he used to wear it on a chain around his neck.”

  “Of course!” Now Balian recognized it, too. “It was a gift from the Caliph of Cairo! Given to the Constable when he negotiated with him in the 60s.”

  Balian and Maria Zoë’s eyes met.

  “Humphrey de Toron?” John asked anxiously. “You think he’s dead?”

  Maria Zoë shook her head sharply. “Not unless the abbot of Antiphonitis is. I think we can assume, however, that the rebels have poor Humphrey in their power, and his fate depends on how we treat the abbot and monks of Antiphonitis.”

  “Who gave you this?” Balian asked his son intently.

  John drew a deep breath to lie, but he couldn’t. “Do you remember the orphaned beggar I told you about? The one whose parents were killed by Henri de Brie—burned alive in their own mill? He—he—please don’t go after him!”

  “No, there’s no need. What you said is enough. He has reason to hate us, and he’s probably active in the rebellion, which confirms what this is: a clear threat to Toron. Where was Toron last we heard?”

  “Paphos,” Maria Zoë answered. “In the West,” she answered her husband’s question before it formed; “Aimery sent him to demand salvage from that pilgrim ship and see if he could find out what had happened to the survivors. It seemed an easy enough job, as there has been no open rebellion or unrest in the region.”

  “And Toron, of course, doesn’t inspire fear,” Balian noted cynically. Then, taking a deep breath, he announced: “Come with me, John. We need to take this to Aimery.”

  Aimery turned the ring around in his hand and considered it with narrowed eyes for what seemed like an inordinately long time, before setting it down on the beautiful mosaic table in front of him and declaring with a nod, “This is a very good turn of even
ts.”

  “Aimery! How can you say that?” Eschiva exclaimed in outrage. “Have you forgotten that poor Humphrey backed the Lusignans when the rest of the High Court would not? You can’t still begrudge him the better treatment he received from Saladin! He’s suffered. . . .” The flood of words died on Eschiva’s lips as she realized that Aimery was nodding calmly to everything she said. Falling silent, she looked nervously to her uncle and aunt. The two were waiting alertly for her husband to continue, rather than joining in her protests. She didn’t understand.

  “It’s very simple, my dear,” Aimery explained once she fell silent. “This,” he took the ring in his fingers and held it up again, “gives me the excuse I need to order Barlais to improve the conditions in which the abbot and his monks are held. Obviously, we can’t and won’t release them until we can be sure Toron’s kidnappers will release him in exchange, but it gives me an excuse to enter into negotiations with the rebels. Not even your nephew could object to us talking with the rebels now, could he?” The question was directed at Balian.

  Balian shook his head. “No, Henri wouldn’t insist on putting Toron’s life at risk.”

  “Good. I don’t think Barlais will, either.” Aimery turned to his wife and assured her, “I’ll order the abbot and his monks confined in more humane conditions until we can find out where Toron is and who is holding him.” Then he focused again on Balian and Maria, his eyes shifting between them as he asked, “Do you think you could find out who sent this and where Toron is?”

  Balian nodded slowly. “I think so.” He studiously avoided looking at his son.

  “And do you think you could negotiate with them?”

  Balian glanced at his wife before answering. “I think so.”

  “Good. Then I would ask you to set out for Paphos tomorrow. These people appear to have slaughtered innocent pilgrims. I am not happy thinking about what they might do to Toron.”

  Balian nodded, then turned and ordered John out of the room.