The Prophecy and the Templar Scroll

Chapter 3 - 1291

Chapter 3 - 1291

Sequestered by a dense cypress fence, the modest casale of Ramon of Provence was not more than a speck on the map, squeezed between the huge estates of the Grand Commandery of the Knights Hospitallers in Kolossi and the casale of the Count of Jaffa in Episkopia. At its narrowest point, where the Kouris River bordered the Provence casale, you could throw a javelin from one end of the estate to the other. The fief had been the king’s reward for shielding him from a lunatic assailant during a hunting expedition, losing an eye in the process, and for a life of loyal service.

Still youthful at the age of fifty-one, Provence rode Mistral, his black stallion, across the fields, his long silver hair blowing in the wind. He kept a light hand on the reins, letting his mount set its own pace. Recently back from the defeat of the Christian army at Acre, Provence longed for the placid life on his estates. Eloise, his wife, had made him promise that this had been his last battle, a promise he made only too eagerly and one he had no intention to gainsay in the future. His serfs, sowing artichokes and peas, recognized his stalwart figure from afar. He slowed down and passed by them unhurriedly, raising a hand in greeting as they bowed their heads.

Provence reined his mount to a halt and readjusted his black eye patch when he reached Nicholas, his eleven-year-old squire, who was practicing with the pell. Provence had taken him as a page at the age of six; a little earlier than usual, as a favor to his dying friend and comrade in arms. The mother had died at birth. True to his word, Provence had treated the boy like his own son and even given him his name. And so, young Nicholas took up the study of courtesies and the craft of knighthood.

Eloise had borne Provence two daughters. The first was stillborn and the second died in her sleep when she was a baby. Then the Lord blessed them with four healthy sons, and for one moment in life, Provence was happy.

But within the last two years, he had lost the first two; his first-born, Bernard, at the siege of Tripoli, and Olivier, his second son, in a hunting accident. Their thread of life cut prematurely short was a nightmare without end. Provence was still praying for strength and waiting for time to pass until the pain and the sorrow became bearable. But he knew this day would never come. It was unnatural for a father to bury his sons.

The only distraction from grief had been Nicholas’ training and a game of chess in the evenings with Kontostephanos, his Cypriot bailiff. The boy had brought life into the house and his training a sense of purpose. Peyre, his third son, spent almost his entire time in church, studying the Scriptures, and his youngest, Albert, was simply not suited for the military life. To Provence’s concealed disappointment, the boy was more interested in clothes and spices than in weapons. But he was a good boy, handsome as well, and Provence loved him all the same. He was his son.

Provence cast an approving eye upon the young lad with the wavy black hair and the clear green eyes, as he got ready to strike his heavy wooden sword against the tree trunk of a century-old nettle tree for the hundredth time. A few paces farther away, four-year-old Lois watched his moves attentively. The little girl had been following Nicholas, the only other child in the manor, everywhere since she could put one foot in front of the other. She lifted the stick in her hand, and mimicking Nicholas, she charged at a nearby myrtle tree trunk but missed and fell over.

Nicholas laughed heartily, walked up to her, and offered her his outstretched arm. “Vine aquí, pichòt!” Come here, kid!

She accepted his arm gracefully, pushing the mop of thick dark curls from her face. “Mercés,” she thanked him in lenga d’òc.

Provence was not utterly surprised to hear Nicholas and Lois exchange a few more sentences in Greek. He had already noticed the boy’s greatest potential, his linguistic aptitude, in his Latin lessons. “Interesting,” he murmured, rubbing his chin, as a plan began to take shape in his mind.

*

George Kontostephanos was no ordinary man. He had a quick, inquiring mind and uncommon resolve. He was hard-working, forthright and governed in conduct by kind benevolence. Kontostephanos descended from an old Byzantine family of archontes, the landowning aristocracy. Their land taken away from them, the archontes had no place in the new kingdom of Cyprus under the Lusignans. Those who had not left for Byzantium had been degraded to serfs.

Kontostephanos’ father had stayed but had been prudent enough to bestow on his son the knowledge of High Greek and Latin which had served him in diverse ways. Above all, Kontostephanos had been raised to a lefteros, a free citizen, a privilege granted to very few islanders. It also allowed him to stay on in what used to be his family estates as bailiff. His aristocratic lineage granted him deference among the Cypriots who looked up to him for guidance.

But Konstostefanos’ life had changed in the last three years. Both his daughter and her husband had died of the bloody flux, leaving Lois, their baby girl, behind. Kontostephanos’ sister, a nun who lived in the barren land south of the Salt Lake, helping in the construction of the nunnery at Cape Gata, had volunteered to take Lois into her care, but Konstostefanos believed that life in a convent was a choice Lois had to make for herself when she was older.

“You have asked to see me, my lord?” Kontostephanos’ creased face appeared at the door opening of the great hall.

“Yes, come in, Kontostephanos. Pour us some wine while I prepare the chess board,” Provence said.

Provence was a man of simple tastes and few pretensions. He led a quiet life, liked plain food, but had a weakness for wine. Kontostephanos offered him a chalice and took a seat across from him, as he was setting the last pawns on the chess board.

Provence raised his chalice. “A la vòstra.”

“Eis ygeian,” Kontostephanos matched the toast in Greek.

Provence moved the pawn in front of his queen and said, “I would like you to teach Nicholas Greek for an hour after practice every day.”

Kontostephanos raised his eyes to him for a moment and inclined his head. “It would be an honor, my lord.” He moved a pawn, saying, “Might Lois also attend?”

A man who always thought ahead, Kontostephanos had meant to teach his granddaughter how to read and count. She was perhaps a bit too young to start, but he could help her before their evening prayers. Knowledge had been his only means to ameliorate his own life. He hoped it would do the same for his little Lois.

Provence advanced his left knight, contemplating that women were not supposed to learn to read so as not to receive love letters from unwelcome suitors. Worse still, literate women were frequently perceived as the devil’s handiwork. He decided not to take issue with Kontostephanos’ request. Apparently, their views on the subject matter differed. He glanced up at his bailiff’s thinning white hair.

“I see no harm in that. He could practice Greek with her.”

“In that case, might Lois sit with the young master in his other classes as well?”

Kontostephanos was pressing, but he knew Provence was fond of him and his little girl. It would be an unparalleled opportunity for Lois. Who was to tell how she could use this knowledge? If she were married to a serf, not at all, Kontostephanos reflected; yet life was full of twists and turns.

Provence opened his mouth to deny Kontostephanos’ request flatly but changed his mind. He had observed how Nicholas did his best when he knew someone was watching. “All right then. If Nicholas does well, she can stay. If he gets distracted or delayed, she will have to stop.”

“Of course, my lord. You are very kind! Thank you.”

“Your move,” Provence said impatiently, eager to play chess.

*

Long after Kontostefanos bid him goodnight, Provence remained seated in the great hall, pressing the tips of his fingers together in a little steeple. The reflection upon the aftermath of the recent fall of Acre caused him many uneasy hours. The Christian army had been vanquished, and support from the West had dwindled as rulers seemed more preoccupied with fighting each other. It was pure luck that the Sultan of Egypt, who had sworn to destroy Cyprus after the siege of the port of Alexandria, had been murdered. To prevent one another from ascending to power, a lot more emirs took up killing their peers.

Provence sensed that Cyprus’ near future lay not on battlefields but in diplomacy. The language used in the Levant, the Eastern Mediterranean, was Greek. There would be ample time to prepare Nicholas for a position in the palace while continuing his knighthood training. A combination of both skills would set him apart. The young lad seemed up to it.

*

In his manor in Strovolos, Amaury lay still in bed, his nightshirt soaked with sweat. With eyes wide open, he stared into the darkness and waited for John’s ghost to leave him in peace. It had been six years now that his eldest brother’s ghost haunted him, tearing his sleep asunder.

Amaury’s despair was all the greater, for his was a burden he must bear alone; a secret he must take to his grave. He oftentimes wondered if John plagued Henry’s repose as well. He assumed he did but had never found the nerve to ask. Some things were best left unsaid. Eleven years after the prophecy, he understood the part about blood on his hands only too well. He still had to figure out the part about ruling his people.

Despite his youth, he was only two months shy of his nineteenth birthday, Amaury was a seasoned battle commander. His reputation for bravery preceded him. What no one knew, however, was that his bravery, bordering on recklessness, was partly rooted in provoking the Grim Reaper to take him and put an end to his haunted nights.

His thoughts turned to the discussion he’d had with Henry earlier that day. In the fight against the Saracens, Henry needed to forge a stronger alliance with Armenia. He wanted Amaury to marry Zabel, one of the Armenian king’s sisters. Amaury had heard of her legendary beauty and should have been pleased with Henry’s choice, but he demurred. He shifted in bed, his mouth twitching. What would she think of his nightmares?