Rebels Against Tyranny, page 26
Sidon was different. He was an energetic man in his mid-thirties with an aura of self-confidence. He was also a nephew of the Lord of Beirut, the son of his older sister Helvis and the old Lord of Sidon. He had been elected baillie of Jerusalem by the barons after the death of Yolanda.
“Ah, there you are at last!” The Emperor greeted the King of Cyprus.
Henry pressed his lips together. The Emperor never addressed him respectfully unless he was making a point in front of others.
Blind to Henry’s resentment, the Hohenstaufen continued, slapping the table around which they were standing, “We have here the terms of an agreement with Beirut and his pack of rebels! We need you to sign it.” The Emperor pointed to the end of the document and indicated a pen standing ready along with ink and a pot of molten red wax and the royal seals.
Henry’s chin went up. “Not until I have heard the terms of the agreement!”
“Alright. Montaigu, Sidon, Montbéliard? Do one of you want to read the agreement to the King. It is in Latin.”
“I’m perfectly capable of understanding Latin,” Henry replied, fuming.
“I know you are,” Guerin de Montaigu answered with a smile and a wink, reminding Henry of their joint action to rescue Sirs Balian and Baldwin from the dungeon. “And I’m sure you will like the first point of the agreement as well,” he continued, “because it says that the Emperor will restore to the Lord of Beirut both his sons—safe and sound in body and limb.” He switched to Latin to read the exact language of the agreement, then paused to politely ask the King if he should continue.
Henry nodded, and the Hospitaller Master read out the remaining terms: 2) that the Emperor would keep the peace with the Lord of Beirut and all his followers and they in exchange would join the Emperor’s expedition to Syria to regain Jerusalem at their own expense, 3) that neither party would bear malice against the other for what had passed between them, 4) that no action would be taken against the Lord of Beirut without a verdict from the respective High Court, 5) the lords of Cyprus would swear fealty to the Emperor as overlord of Cyprus—”
“That’s because,” Frederick Hohenstaufen interrupted to lecture Henry, “they flat out refused to recognize us as regent! They said your mother was your regent.”
“That’s right,” Henry retorted, staring at the Emperor and daring him to hit him for his impudence. “My mother is regent and appointed Lord Philip my baillie, and all my barons swore to recognize him as such until I came of age. Only he died before I came of age, but that doesn’t change the fact that she is my regent. She just prefers to live in Antioch with her new husband and appoint baillies to rule for me.”
“We are your overlord,” the Emperor answered in a voice that made his minions stiffen with discomfort. “Should we choose not to act as your baillie personally, then we and we alone have the right to appoint someone else—”
“It is moot arguing this now,” Herman von Salza spoke up diplomatically. “Beirut and his party will not under any circumstances recognize your excellency as baillie of Cyprus. These are the best terms we could get for now.” He pointed at the document on the table. Salza, Henry noted, was almost the opposite of his marshal Falkenhayn. He was tall, thin and elegant, whereas Falkenhayn was stocky and short.
“May I continue reading?” the Hospitaller Master asked with raised eyebrows.
The Emperor gestured irritably for him to continue, but stood sulking beside the table as he did so.
“And finally, my lord,” Guerin de Montaigu told King Henry, “the Lord of Beirut and his supporters agree to surrender the royal castles that they hold in your name to you, so that you may appoint castellans of your choosing, while they proceed with all their men to Syria to fight for Christ.”
“Oh!” Henry was surprised by that provision—and pleased. If he could appoint the castellans, then they would really be in his power, and then he would be impregnable. He liked that word! “That’s good!” he announced.
“Then you will sign?” The Hospitaller Master asked him with raised eyebrows.
“Yes, of course. Where?” Henry stepped to the table and looked down at the document written by a clerk in elegant and regular calligraphy. Picking up the pen, he dipped it in ink and, with a flourish he had practiced, affixed his name at the place indicated.
“There are three copies,” Guerin explained, “so sign here and here as well.”
Henry dutifully did, then he put down the quill, stepped back and looked at the assembled adults with a satisfied expression.
The three Masters looked decidedly relieved. Guerin de Montaigu even had a smile for him, noting, “Soon Sirs Balian and Baldwin will be reunited with their father and brothers.”
Henry saw Sir Amaury Barlais frown at that, but the Emperor hissed at him. Sidon and Montbéliard bowed to King Henry and excused themselves, saying they would prepare to return to Syria at once, while the Templar Master rolled up the documents. He handed one to Herman von Salza with the words, “See this is filed in the Imperial archives.” The second he gave his brother to place in the royal archives of Cyprus, and the third he kept to take to the Lord of Beirut. A moment later the three Masters had also left.
The Emperor, with his two archbishops, King Henry and Sir Amaury Barlais were alone. The Emperor turned on King Henry and announced in a tone that brooked no contradiction. “You will be coming with me to Syria.”
Henry was taken completely by surprise. Not only did that mean he would neither be rid of the interfering senior monarch nor able to do what he liked, but it also meant he would be part in a military campaign. It was not usual for eleven-year-olds to go to war, even if they were kings. Henry recognized instantly that this was not an honor of any kind, but a means of retaining control over his person—and preventing him from taking possession of his castles. The Holy Roman Emperor was surrendering the Lord of Beirut’s sons in exchange for an even more valuable hostage: his king. Suddenly King Henry of Cyprus felt small, helpless and frightened.
Famagusta, September 1228
The Genoese and Venetians had offered their fleets to transport the Cypriot army to the Syrian mainland and had collected their ships at Famagusta. It had been agreed that the Emperor’s fleet would rendezvous with them there, bringing the Cypriot hostages on the Emperor’s ship from Limassol. The hostages would be released to their relatives at Famagusta before the Emperor continued to Tyre and from there to Acre.
Although Famagusta had grown from a haphazard pirate’s base into a small city in the thirty years of Lusignan rule, it was still overwhelmed by the thousands of men that converged on it to embark for this crusade. The inns and taverns were overflowing, while all the private residences had taken in relatives and friends, leaving the bulk of the Cypriot forces to camp outside the city walls. The harbor was equally congested, with ships moored three or more deep.
Under the circumstances, the Lord of Beirut gave the order that any contingent of men that was complete and ready to embark should go on board the outermost ships and proceed directly to Acre. This was where the Christian forces were assembling for the assault on Jerusalem. Many of the independent knights holding money fiefs from the crown, as well as marshals of Syrian barons bringing knights, sergeants and archers from Cyprus to join their lords on the mainland all departed for Acre incrementally.
The Lord of Beirut’s Cypriot force, composed of 44 knights, 138 sergeants, and 325 archers, in contrast, awaited the rendezvous with the Emperor and the return of the hostages before embarking. Caesarea and Karpas remained with Beirut both to demonstrate their solidarity and out of concern that the Emperor might yet break his word and attempt to arrest the Lord of Beirut.
Beirut and his allies were camped outside of Famagusta on the broad plain before the ruins of the ancient city of Salamis. It was well watered by several small streams, and the horses had good grazing land, but it offered no good view of Famagusta harbor. As a result, the news that the Emperor’s galley had been sighted reached them rather late, and they tacked-up their horses in a flurry of excitement.
When they were about to set off in a small cavalcade, Beirut noticed his sons Hugh and Johnny were with him. He furiously ordered them to remain behind. “You won’t go near the Emperor until your older brothers are back safe!” he told them shortly, signaling Philip of Novare to come up beside him instead.
Novare was honored. He gestured in turn to Sir Balian’s squire Rob to ride with him. Rob was leading Balian’s destrier, the latter beautifully groomed and decked out in his finest panoply. Baldwin’s squire was also in the party with Baldwin’s destrier, while the Lord of Karpas, provocatively, rode the stallion he had won from Sir Amaury Barlais in the judicial duel.
By the time they entered through the northern gate of the city, the entire population seemed to know what was happening. People came out into the streets or crowded onto the rooftops and balconies to get a glimpse of the Lord of Beirut as he rode to meet the Emperor.
Beirut looked splendid in exquisite armor that fit him like a second skin. A surcoat of marigold silk with the crosses of Ibelin strewn across it like drops of blood fluttered in the light wind. The trapper of his horse, although made of a heavier fabric was just as bright a yellow and the red crosses on it were large and vivid. The banner of Ibelin was carried by a squire riding at the flank of his entourage.
As the Ibelin party approached the harbor, the spectators were so numerous that they clogged the streets, and Beirut and his men could hardly force their way through. Eventually, the street opened onto the quay and they had a clear view of the Emperor’s large war-galley, painted red and black with red sails furled on the massive black booms. The Imperial eagle flapped lazily from the masthead and a gaggle of dignitaries in long, fur-trimmed robes hovered on the afterdeck around the pompously dressed Emperor.
In the waist of the ship, the hostages stood in a sorry cluster. They were still wearing the clothes they had worn at the infamous banquet, and their hair and beards were untrimmed. Beirut’s eyes narrowed and he scanned the group twice, but he could not find his sons. He made a head count: eighteen. He caught his breath and drew rein. “Where are my boys?” The question was directed at Caesarea, who rode to his right.
Caesarea had come to the same conclusion: Sirs Balian and Baldwin were not among the men on deck. They looked at one another.
From the raised stern-castle of the ship the sound of giggling wafted over to them, and they both looked back in time to see a lovely, dark-skinned girl yanked back inside one of the windows. The watertight, wooden cover was shut so abruptly that the thud made the horses start, and still the shouting in angry Arabic reached their ears.
Beirut blanched as he registered this must have been one of the women of Frederick’s infamous harem. The thought that a Christian monarch would keep slave girls like this offended him deeply.
Then a commotion near the forecastle drew his attention away from the imprisoned girls, even as he made a mental apology to his niece Eschiva for not believing her. A group of men emerged from the forward hatch onto the deck. A couple sailors came first, followed by men-at-arms in imperial livery. The latter were dragging and shoving two men in their midst. These men were tall, thin and dressed in what appeared to be the habits of Hospitaller lay brothers. They wore no hose, and their naked feet were in wooden clogs. Their hair was shaggy and their faces bearded. It took the Lord of Beirut a full second before he was certain that they were indeed his once proud sons.
Beirut felt his blood boil and his back stiffened enough to make his stallion fret. How often had he chided his sons, Balian in particular, for being vain? How often had he accused him of being a “dandy” and a “fop” because of his love of bright-colored silks, cloth of gold, and jewel-studded belts? How often had he chastised him for “excessive” attention to his outward appearance? Yet, this was far worse, Beirut conceded with inner shame, swearing to himself that he would never again criticize his son for dressing like the nobleman he was.
His sons had not seen him yet, their attention was directed toward the Emperor and the crowd on the afterdeck. This gave Beirut a chance to assess their physical state before confronting their emotions. Baldwin looked considerably better than Balian, whose lips were cracked and swollen and whose eyes were sunken in dark eye sockets. Worse, when the men-at-arms started punishing them toward the afterdeck, Beirut saw Balian stagger and tense. His brother caught him by the arm, and the look on Baldwin’s face said more than a thousand words. Baldwin looked concerned about his rival Balian and that suggested a serious state of affairs. Meanwhile, Balian had recovered and started forward with a set face. His expression, intended to disguise the pain he was in, was a grimace so unsuited to his usually debonair demeanor that it only underlined it.
The Emperor too turned to watch the emergence of the hostages, giving Beirut a chance to watch his face as well. The Emperor was gloating. There was no other word for it. He was smiling not for the audience, but from profound satisfaction at the sight of Ibelin’s proud sons dressed like peasants and in obvious pain.
Beirut clicked to his horse and started forward, distracting the Emperor from the hostages. Beirut saw the look of triumph in his eyes before he hid his expression behind his “friendly” look. Beirut was not deceived. He never would be again, he promised himself. Yet his first priority was regaining control of his sons.
He jumped down from his horse, handed off the reins, and mounted the gangway in an easy fluid motion. Caesarea and Karpas scrambled to stay close on his heels. As he dropped onto the main deck he made eye contact with Balian and then Baldwin. The reproach, anger, and hatred he had feared to meet in their eyes were not there. There was not even bewilderment or incomprehension, only relief and, amazingly, respect. Baldwin nodded to him, as if in encouragement, while Balian tried to smile.
Beirut did not stop to speak to them. Instead, he turned away to mount the ladder up to the afterdeck. Here he approached the Emperor’s party and went down on one knee in a gesture of homage.
The Emperor bent and raised him up, kissing him on each cheek before intoning in a voice that to Beirut’s ears was sheer sarcasm, “What a joy to see you again, my lord! We rejoice to be united at last in this great enterprise for our Lord Jesus Christ. But, first, let us restore to you the hostages you left in our keeping. Here they are, whole and well, just as we promised!” Behind him, one of his Archbishops smiled benignly as if he didn’t know what had been done to the hostages, as if he didn’t know he served an excommunicate like a lapdog.
Sirs Balian and Baldwin had been brought onto the afterdeck in their father’s wake and were shoved to stand at his elbow. The smell of them made Beirut’s stomach turn over—not in revulsion but fury. He turned again to look at them up close, and his first impression was reinforced. Whatever the Emperor had done—or ordered or condoned others to do – he had not broken them. Beirut nodded to them, and they nodded back almost imperceptibly. All three Ibelins understood instinctively that this was no time for a great display of emotion. Anything that revealed how happy they were to be reunited would only make them more vulnerable and delight their watching enemies.
When the Emperor realized that there was to be no noisy reunion, he announced in a syrupy voice, “We must confess, however, we are so very, very sorry to see dear cousin Balian leave. In fact, now that he is happily no longer our hostage, we would most heartily welcome him into our household as a knight.” He paused, smiling at Balian, who—to Beirut’s relief—held his tongue, but smiled back at him with undisguised contempt. The emperor, unable to provoke a response from his victim, continued, “We would welcome your younger son John as our own body squire even more happily. It is a position that we award only to the highest and most beloved of our subjects. Both Balian and John would be richly rewarded for their service to me, we assure you.”
“I would be delighted to serve you, my lord!” Balian burst out before his father had recovered from the shock of such a brazen request, and even as he opened his mouth to protest and decline, his son continued in a voice that was anything but polite. “I am sure, however, that in your infinite generosity you will first grant us the great favor of a little time together. If nothing else, it will allow me to prepare my dear little brother for his duties to you. We will join your household in Acre. Now, however, I crave your indulgence to return with my father to his camp.” The words, so laden with humility were belied by the sarcastic tone of voice and the look in Balian’s eyes.
Christ almighty, Beirut noted mentally, his hatred is enough to set the air on fire! I must help him tame it. To the Emperor, he added his voice to Balian’s, requesting the Emperor’s leave to withdraw and reinforcing, “We will join you with our full force at Acre.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” The Emperor declared dismissing them with a wave and a smile. “We particularly look forward to your company, Sir Balian, and” turning to Beirut with a mocking smile, he added, “and to becoming acquainted with your young son and namesake John.”
Beirut just bowed his head, then turned to depart. Beirut noted the way Baldwin helped his brother down the ladder to the main deck.
By the time they had stepped off the gangway, Rob’s and Baldwin’s squires had brought their destriers forward. Baldwin let go of his brother’s elbow, kicked off his clogs and, putting his bare foot in the stirrup, swung himself up into his saddle with enthusiasm bordering on bravado. Balian took up his reins, but then seemed to freeze.
Rob, noticing the unexpected pause, assured him, “It’s alright, sir. I’ve got the off stirrup.” He was dutifully leaning his weight on the off stirrup to keep the saddle from twisting the horse’s back as the knight put his weight on the near stirrup.
Balian didn’t answer. He just stood beside his stallion’s shoulder with the reins in his left hand.
