The Prophecy and the Templar Scroll

Chapter 5 - 1291

Chapter 5 - 1291

After the destruction of Salamis, the ancient name for Famagusta, Nicosia became the capital city of Cyprus in 965. With its modest palace and its beautiful Gothic Santa Sophia Cathedral, it struggled but failed to resemble, even remotely, other large Christian capitals with their impressive palaces and castles. Even Famagusta, the island’s major port, was larger and richer.

In the Lusignan palace, Henry would often sit and marvel at the paintings of Cimabue and Cavallini adorning the walls in the solar. With a good eye for art, Henry had begun early to assemble his own collection. But today he was too distraught to admire the paintings.

A man of a small stature and delicate frame, Henry had been fifteen when he succeeded his brother John to the throne six years earlier; his second eldest brother, Bohemond, had died four years before that. Henry was handsome and determined to be a good king, but he was lately susceptible to poor health and sensitive to criticism.

He peered at the map on the table in front of him, his brows knitted in a frown. His reign so far had been ill-fated. After his success at capturing Acre from the Angevins only a month after his coronation, the Saracens had conquered one Christian stronghold after another: Tyre, Beirut, Tripoli, and now Acre. No one could have saved these places, but Henry sat on the throne, and the responsibility fell on his shoulders.

“My lord,” the Seneschal, interrupted his thoughts, and Henry met his eye. “The lords are all here.”

Henry nodded, draped a deep blue mantle, lined with gold silk, over his shoulders, and went down the stairs. He took a moment to arrange his face into a mask of royal serenity and strutted into the great hall where the members of the High Court had assembled. Whispers faded away as he assumed his place on the throne on the high stepped dais, embellished with an Armenian carpet.

“My lords, before we start discussing the matters of the day, let me remind you that as of today, we will be keeping written records of the High Court sessions for better future reference.”

This was one of the novelties Henry had introduced, for which he felt very proud. Since most of his nobles had limited knowledge of Latin, he had decreed that the records be kept in Italian or French; another modernity. In his effort to make his administration more efficient, he had even extended the court’s role from an advisory body to a true court, responsible for trying and punishing criminals.

Henry cleared his throat and went on, “The Holy Land has fallen. The entire Christian world is watching, holding its breath. Will Cyprus be next? Or will our tiny realm rise to the challenge of the times exemplarily and become the stepping stone for a new expedition? I would like to hear your views.” His voice carried well, the tone factual and grave in equal measure.

In the sensitive equilibrium of uneasy coalitions, Henry knew only too well that his court expected him to act as first among equals. Although he had been nurtured on the ideal of the recovery of the Holy Land, the young king was not a man blindly enamored with war. His anxiety to prevent spilling the blood of his subjects for a city he could not hold made him look less wholehearted. His dilatoriness bordered on cowardice, his critics said, to his aggrievement. Henry was also well aware of what the Orders wanted: war.

“I would also like to hear your views on how to best deal with the influx of Christians, arriving daily to our shores from the Holy Land.” The consequences brought about by the sudden increase of the population of the island were alarming.

“The Seneschal will have flour sent to the bakers in Famagusta to bake bread to be given out at the port. And the castellan will ensure that the loaves are apportioned to the right people. The queen and I shall distribute alms here in the capital,” he went on.

There were some anxious whispers, but no one spoke for a while.

“My liege,” Provence said, “perhaps we could enlist some of the poor knights and sergeants.”

“Indeed, we should; as many as possible… Houses that stand empty can be used to shelter those who do not have a home to go back to,” Henry added as an afterthought.

Provence wondered if the nobles who had houses standing empty would like that.

“It seems unfair that we should lift such a heavy burden alone,” Amaury pointed out, and the nobles nodded in silent agreement.

“You are right. We shall write to the Pope, requesting support from other rulers and the Holy Sea,” Henry said. The court members seemed pleased.

“My liege, there’s another urgent issue,” Amaury said. “You should claim to be the Titular King of Jerusalem or the title will be lost forever.”

Henry smiled approbation at his younger brother’s political foresight. Amaury was learning fast, and Henry was counting on him to have his back. A man who took chances where other men spurned, Amaury was also a man to be relied on to keep his head in the heat of battle. If only he could learn to master his temper like he mastered his sword!

“And so, indeed, I shall,” Henry assented. The idea was first mooted once he was safe onboard on his way back to Cyprus after the great catastrophe at Acre.

“It is my belief that we need to start preparing for a new expedition,” Amaury added with conviction, and the hall was filled with whispers. The magnitude of the moment was lost on no one.

Henry’s impassive face did not give away his irritation. He had been expecting that argument from the Templars or perhaps the Hospitallers; not from Amaury, though he knew what a warlord his brother was. He had seen Amaury fight, unburdened by the fear of death that plagued most men.

With a difference of only two years between them, Henry and Amaury had been inseparable, like light and shadow. They had practiced their Latin and at the quintain together. Unlike Henry, Amaury was sturdy and had matched him, risk for risk, throughout their boyhood. They challenged each other to the most outrageous dares in horse racing, swimming, rock climbing, even in brothels.

But since the fall of Tripoli, Amaury’s first battle command, his mood had become more and more mercurial. Henry had sent him in charge of a company of knights and four galleys. They had been heavily outnumbered. Defeat was inexorable. Henry suspected that Amaury faulted himself for the loss of the men under his command; perhaps even that he had failed him. No one could have fought more bravely. Henry knew that.

That same year, he made Amaury Titular Constable of Jerusalem and the year after that Titular Lord of Tyre. Yet Henry sensed a gap between them, one he was finding hard to bridge. He wished his uncle, Philip of Ibelin, were there. He could always rely on his counsel. But from his letters, it seemed that it would be several weeks before he returned to the island.

Provence saw the indecision in Henry’s eyes and the quiet expectancy on the nobles’ faces. There had been rumors that he had been too slow to go to war against the Saracens, but Henry, who had just come back from the calamity at Acre, dismissed these rumors as invective accusations of a cabal of malcontent, ill-willed nobles.

Provence cursed under his breath. Whatever his other faults, Amaury was not a fool. Why then would he bring the subject up now?

“Perhaps we should not rush, my lord,” Provence said, adroitly steering the attention to him; his voice rising up above the whispers. He had an uncanny sense of alliances shifting.

“Why wait?” Amaury ranted, tilting his head back. “It might take months to gather an army again anyway.” A man with little patience with people who contradicted him, Amaury spoke with emotion. The tension in the great hall was palpable.

Provence looked him straight in the eye with the serenity of a man who had long since made his peace with his Maker. “This is true, of course, my lord,” he said. He had lost one eye, he reminded his listeners, but his good eye did not deceive him. “We cannot go to war with empty coffers, and at the moment they are severely depleted. We should use whatever money is available, levy a tax if need be, to improve our roads and bridges and make trade easier. Trade will fill our coffers. Then we will be ready for war.”

Provence’s gaze swept around the room; he could smell new enemies coming out of the woods. A pack of wolves was waiting to pounce.

“Such talk is a disgrace to Christianity, a blasphemy! God wills to protect His Son’s birthplace against the Infidel,” the Count of Jaffa carped at full throttle. Provence felt disgust when people spoke as if they knew God’s will. “Then Jesus entered the temple and drove out all who were selling and buying in the temple,” the count went on, quoting Matthew, as if delivering a sermon.

The count was ardently supported, the passion of opposing opinion evident. The Templar and the Hospitaller Grand Masters were quietly assessing the evolving situation. Discussion rose and ebbed till the king raised a palm and ceased it.

“I thank you for your views. You will all agree that we need to set the taking-in of fleeing Christians as our priority. There will be plenty of opportunity to discuss further action in the near future,” Henry said, trying to maintain the equilibrium, trusting in Providence. War had been staved off for now.

*

The birds’ chirping filled the air as Provence traversed the burgeoning greenery in the palace gardens, heading for the stables after the court session.

“Provence!” an abrasive voice called out his name. He stopped and looked over his shoulder as Enric of Roussillon caught up with him.

“Roussillon,” he acknowledged him warily.

Enric of Roussillon was a bilious man. The smallpox he had suffered at the age of seven had left him badly scarred. People blinked and strove not to turn their eyes away at the sight of his repulsive face. Even his own wife demanded that all shutters were closed and all candles blown out before he touched her.

Roussillon had never come to terms with the king’s change of heart about the casale at Kouris River. Right before the hunting expedition, in which Provence had saved the king’s life, Henry had promised him that estate. In the end, he had given Roussillon another much larger, albeit arid, piece of land.

Roussillon, who reveled in dirty tricks and ambushes, tried to coerce Provence into exchanging their fiefs. Provence, a man who chose his battles wisely, knew he was no match for Roussillon’s rich family if it came to a confrontation. So, he suggested a marriage between Bernard, his eldest son, who would inherit the estate, and Aceline, Roussillon’s eldest daughter. What had seemed an ideal settlement at first, however, turned sour with Bernard’s death. Provence then mentioned the possibility of another betrothal between Olivier, his second son, and Aceline. Everyone was satisfied for a while until Olivier’s tragic hunting accident.

“It has been a while. Let us walk together,” Roussillon said, and Provence feared he knew what he wanted to talk about. “It has been nigh on six months since Olivier’s death.” It had been only four, but Provence thought it wiser not to correct him. “I think you will agree that this was a respectful time for mourning. My Aceline is not getting any younger, and I have three more daughters to see settled down. So, why not have Peyre marry Aceline in Olivier’s place?”

Subtlety in manners was an art Roussillon had yet to master, Provence thought. “This would be a wonderful arrangement if only Peyre had not entered the clergy.”

He hadn’t – not yet anyway. But he wanted to. A marriage would make him miserable. Provence would have to send him away as soon as he got back home.

Roussillon uttered an oath. “All right. You have another son, do you not?” He exerted himself to curb his temper.

“Indeed, but Albert is still a beardless boy, much younger than your fair Aceline,” Provence pointed out calmly.

“Are you trying to insult me?” Roussillon’s scoff of disbelief left little room for maneuvering.

Provence looked away uncomfortably then back at him. “No, of course not. I will speak to him.”