Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 18

MAY 1191

Famagusta, Cyprus





Jaufre did not know what to expect as their army approached the town called Ammokhostos by the Greek-speaking Cypriots and Famagusta by the “Latins,” the term for those who adhered to the Pope in Rome rather than the Patriarch in Constantinople. Richard had quickly learned that Isaac had fled toward Famagusta, for the Cypriot emperor was now reaping the hatred he’d sown for the past seven years, and his long-suffering subjects were willing, even eager, to provide information that might mean his downfall. Leaving Berengaria and Joanna in Limassol under the protection of the Prince of Antioch and the Armenian prince Leo, Richard entrusted Guy and Joffroi de Lusignan to lead his army overland while he sailed along the coast to Famagusta with some of his fastest galleys.

So Jaufre was sure that the king would already have reached Famagusta. But what sight would await them? A city under siege? Charred houses and still smoldering ruins? Instead they came upon a scene of surprising tranquility. Richard’s galleys rode at anchor in the harbor, and his army was encamped upon the beach, soldiers strolling about as if they hadn’t any fears for their safety. The town itself seemed no less peaceful. It looked like a mere village to Jaufre, with narrow streets and alleys and small houses with flat, tiled roofs. He could not imagine how Isaac had hoped to hold it, for it lacked walls like Limassol, and the buildings he could see were simple structures; he was truly amazed to be told that one of them was the residence of the Archbishop of Cyprus.

Despite the apparent serenity of this Cypriot seaport, the English camp was well guarded. They were saluted cheerfully by men glad to have been spared that long, dusty journey, and the de Lusignans and Jaufre were escorted to Richard’s large pavilion. Once greetings had been exchanged, Richard explained that Isaac had retreated inland as soon as he’d gotten word of the fleet’s approach. Some of the citizens had fled, too, but others flocked to the harbor to welcome the invaders, reassured by what they’d heard about the treatment of Cypriots who’d offered no resistance.

“You’d best get a good night’s sleep,” Richard told the new arrivals. “We march at dawn for the interior of the island.” He had a map spread out upon the table, and showed them his intended target, the town called Lefkosia by the Greeks and Nicosia by the Latins. “We’ve had reports that Isaac is lurking in the vicinity of Nicosia, about forty miles east of here. So on the morrow, we go to find him.”

Peering over Richard’s shoulder at the map, Jaufre asked if Nicosia was walled; he’d been astonished that the Cypriot towns were so vulnerable to attack. “I thought the man was foolhardy beyond belief when he dared to defy you as he did. But now that I know his so-called empire is so defenseless, I think he must be mad.”

“According to what I’ve been told, there is a small fortress at Nicosia, but the town itself has no walls, so it is not likely that Isaac will try to make a stand there. My guess is that he will seek to ambush us on the road, and when that fails—as of course it will—he will then retreat to one of his citadels along the north coast. Apparently he does have several well-fortified castles there. The strongest is the one at Kyrenia.” Richard gestured toward a spot on the map. “Supposedly this is where he keeps his treasure and the local people say he sent his wife and daughter there for safety. He also has castles at Deudamour, Buffavento, and Kantara.”

Richard was interrupted then when one of his knights entered the tent to announce that some monks had ridden into the camp and were seeking an audience. “One says he is the abbot of . . . Mahera or Makera?”

Richard glanced toward one of Famagusta’s Venetian merchants for enlightenment. He was not disappointed, for the mercer was already nodding knowledgeably. “Makheras Monastery. That would be Abbot Nilus. You ought to see him, my lord king, for he is highly respected. Next to the archbishop and a revered hermit who lives in a cave near Paphos, Abbot Nilus wields great influence, even more so than most bishops.”

When Richard indicated he would see the abbot, his knight went to fetch him. As he ushered the monks through the camp, their long, bushy beards raised some English eyebrows, for this Greek fashion seemed bizarre to most of the soldiers, who were either clean-shaven or had closely trimmed beards like Richard. They were careful not to show any overt amusement, though, for the king had given orders not to harass the locals. But Abbot Nilus was aware of the disrespectful stares, the murmured jests about “Griffons,” and he hoped he’d not made a mistake in approaching the barbarians like this. At first he’d held back even as other bishops and abbots sought to make peace with these English invaders, for he’d known how vengeful Isaac would be once they were gone. It was only when it began to look as if the emperor might truly be deposed that he’d dared to seek English protection for his abbey. Now he was not so sure he’d made the right decision.

Some of his misgivings waned as he entered the king’s tent and saw so many familiar faces: Italian merchants who’d resided for years in Famagusta, the bishops of Kition and Tremetousha, and several highborn defectors from Isaac’s court. His pride was soothed, too, by his courteous reception, and when the English reassured him that they meant no harm to monasteries or churches, Nilus decided to trust this Latin warrior-king, at least enough to relay information that might hasten Isaac’s defeat. He’d been relying upon a Venetian merchant to act as translator, and he told the man now to ask the English king if he knew why Isaac had fled like a thief in the night.

“I do not think he ever meant to keep faith with our pact,” Richard said candidly, “though he hoped to fool us into believing he would. I admit I was surprised that he bolted within hours. I suppose he found the terms too humiliating even if he did not intend to abide by them.”

“That may well be. But I heard that he was warned to flee by one of your own.” Richard frowned as he glanced from the abbot to the interpreter. “Ask him what he means by that. Is he accusing one of my men of treachery?”

After a murmured exchange with Abbot Nilus, the merchant shook his head. “He meant a Latin, my liege. He says a lord from Outremer sailed for Cyprus as soon as they learned of your clash with Isaac. This man told Isaac that you meant to seize him come morning and this is why he ran as he did.” Anticipating Richard’s next question, he turned again to Nilus. “He says the name of this evil adviser is Pagan, the Lord of Haifa.”

The name meant nothing to Richard or his knights, but the de Lusignans and Humphrey de Toron reacted as if they’d been told Judas was in their midst. Pagan de Haifa, they told him, was a close ally of Conrad of Montferrat and a bitter enemy of the de Lusignans. It was obvious what Pagan hoped to do, Guy sputtered. He wanted Richard’s war with Isaac to drag on, keeping him occupied on Cyprus long enough for Conrad to seize Acre and gain all the glory for himself, thus making sure that few could oppose his claim to the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

Glancing around, Nilus saw that most of the men shared Guy’s indignation. Richard alone looked amused. “If that is true,” he said, “it is indeed proof that the Almighty has a sense of humor, for by running away, Isaac provided me with the justification for taking Cyprus from him. I really ought to send Pagan and Conrad some of Isaac’s wine in appreciation for their help.”

That stirred some amusement among his knights, but the de Lusignans continued to fume, fearing that this delay could prove fatal to Guy’s hopes of regaining his crown. Jaufre also worried that Richard may have bitten off more than he could chew. He did not doubt that Isaac would be defeated. Yet if Conrad took Acre whilst Richard took Cyprus, would it be worth it? “Are you sure, my liege,” he said, “that you can conquer the entire country ere Acre falls?”

Richard’s mouth quirked. “Well, it is a small country.” After the laughter subsided, he said, no longer joking, “Tell me this, Jaufre. How many men do you think are willing to die for Isaac Comnenus?” And when this was translated for Nilus’s benefit, the abbot smiled grimly, thinking that could well serve as the hated despot’s epitaph.



THE ELDERLY ARCHBISHOP BARNABAS shared the views of his compatriots—eager to see Isaac deposed, but eager, too, to see the English army sail for the Holy Land. So far Famagusta had been spared the usual misery that befell occupied towns and he meant to keep it that way, hosting an elaborate feast that evening in honor of his unwelcome guests. The meal had just ended when Richard got word that a galley had been spotted approaching the harbor, flying the flag of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

As the news rippled across the hall, Richard found himself struggling with conflicting emotions. He knew that as a Christian, he ought to be praying that Acre had fallen. But he dreaded to hear it, for he could not bear that the siege should have ended before he got there to take part in the assault. “Do you think it is a sin to hope that Acre holds out for another few weeks?” he asked his companions with a tight smile, and then crossed the hall to tell the archbishop and Abbot Nilus about the approaching ship.

His audience—Morgan, Baldwin de Bethune, and Jaufre—were equally ambivalent, especially after learning of Pagan of Haifa’s meddling. As they glanced around, they could see that the de Lusignans and Humphrey de Toron and their knights were making no attempt to hide their consternation. It seemed to take forever before one of Richard’s men hurried into the hall to announce that envoys from the French king had arrived. Realizing what they all were thinking, he shook his head emphatically, letting them know the siege of Acre continued.

Morgan recognized one of the lead knights, for Druon de Mello had been a member of the French king’s household during their stay in Messina. He did not know Druon’s companion, a stocky, powerfully built man in his early thirties who strode into the hall with the swagger of one accustomed to getting deference from others. He was clad in an obviously expensive hauberk, which was partially covered by an equally expensive surcote emblazoned with a coat of arms unfamiliar to Morgan. He was surprised that the stranger would come armed into the hall, for most men preferred to eschew the weight of their hauberks unless they expected to be in physical danger. And so he instinctively sensed that this man was bringing trouble into their midst even before he heard Jaufre’s dismayed hiss of breath.

“I cannot believe Philippe sent him!” Lowering his voice, Jaufre said, “That is Philip de Dreux, the Bishop of Beauvais and Philippe’s first cousin. He is also the man loathed by the de Lusignans almost as much as Conrad, for he connived with Conrad to steal Isabella from Humphrey de Toron and then performed the marriage ceremony himself.”

Morgan had heard of the bishop, who was said to love battles more than books and had won himself a reputation for being utterly fearless in combat. It astonished him that the French king would entrust a message to a man whose very presence was a provocation to the de Lusignans. Remembering, then, that there was said to be bad blood between Richard and Beauvais, too, he started hastily toward the newcomers. Jaufre and Baldwin and a number of Richard’s other knights were already in motion.

Richard’s greeting had been icy enough to put the bishop at risk for frostbite, and the latter’s response was so terse as to be downright rude. It was left to Druon de Mello to try to pass over the awkwardness with strained courtesy. Because he respected the older man, Richard thawed somewhat, but he pointedly addressed himself to Druon, all the while staring at Beauvais with a hawk’s predatory appraisal. The bishop glared back, conveying defiance with no need of words. It was then that Guy de Lusignan pushed his way through the crowd.

“First Pagan de Haifa and now Conrad’s tame bishop,” Guy said with a sneer. “Conrad must truly be desperate to keep us here in Cyprus.”

“I do not know what you are babbling about,” Beauvais said disdainfully. “I do indeed respect Conrad of Montferrat, but I do not do his bidding. I answer only to Almighty God.”

Guy feigned surprise. “God told you to marry Isabella to a man who already had a wife?”

“Conrad’s Greek wife was dead, so there was no impediment to his marriage with Queen Isabella.”

“The ‘Greek wife’ you dismiss so easily has a name and an identity of her own—the Lady Theodora, sister to the Emperor of the Greeks. Nor is she dead, as you so conveniently claim. She is well and living in Constantinople.” This challenge came from a new speaker, Humphrey de Toron, who was staring at the bishop with the frustrated fury of a man who realized that his words would be neither heard nor heeded.

Just as he feared, Beauvais did not even bother to deny his charge, for they both knew that the truth of it was irrelevant. “I am not here to argue a matter that was decided months ago. I bear a message from the king of the French.” His gaze flicking from Guy and Humphrey as if they were negligible, he turned his attention back to Richard, “He wants to know why you are tarrying here in Cyprus when there is such an urgent need for your presence at the siege of Acre.”

“‘Tarrying here in Cyprus’?” Richard echoed incredulously. “What do you fools think—that we’ve been lolling about on the beach, taking our ease with their wine and their women? It does not surprise me, my lord bishop, that you apparently cannot read a map, but I expected better of your king. Cyprus is an ideal supply base for the Holy Land, or it was until Isaac Comnenus seized power. It is too dangerous to leave so strategic an island in the hands of a man hostile to the Kingdom of Jerusalem.”

“And why is he ‘hostile’ to us? Because you were intent upon its conquest from the day you sailed from Messina!”

There were angry protests at that from many of Richard’s men. Richard was as outraged as his knights. “Isaac Comnenus has refused for years to send supplies to the Holy Land. He would not even permit ships from Outremer to dock in Cypriot harbors. And whilst he plotted with Saladin, men died at Acre—not from battle wounds, but from hunger!”

“My lord king knew you’d have excuses for your irresponsible actions; he says you always do.” At that, Druon de Mello, who’d been looking increasingly uncomfortable, sought to intervene, but the bishop ignored him. “I suppose we must be thankful that you confined yourself to Cyprus and did not go off on a whim to assault Constantinople. But the irrefutable fact is that good Christian knights are dying at Acre because settling a grudge matters more to you than the success of the siege.”

“Since you are so free with your advice, let me give you some, Beauvais. It is always better to let men think you’re one of God’s great fools than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. It is obvious that you know as little about siege warfare as you do about the spiritual duties of a bishop. I have already arranged to send ships to Acre loaded with grain and—”

“And are you sending, too, the Cypriot treasury? I admit that this has been a right profitable digression for you. But it might cost you what you value most, my lord Lionheart—that reputation you’ve so carefully cultivated for demented courage. The longer you remain in Cyprus, killing fellow Christians instead of God’s true enemies, the Saracens, the more likely it is that men will begin to wonder if it is cowardice that keeps you here.”

Richard had been standing on the dais. He came down the steps so fast now that the alarmed French knights clustered protectively around the bishop. “I’ll tell you what cowardice is,” Richard spat. “It is hiding behind your holy vows, using them as your shield. You know full well that I’d kill any man who dared to call me a coward. But you know, too, that I’d not be likely to strike down a prince of the Church.”

“Now why would I think that? After all, your family has a history of ill-treating princes of the Church. If my memory serves, your grandfather, Geoffrey of Anjou, once ordered a bishop to be gelded. And it is barely twenty years since your father’s knights left a saint bleeding to death on the floor of his own cathedral.”

The expression on Richard’s face was one that his men had often seen—on the battlefield—and hands instinctively dropped to sword hilts. He surprised them, though, by not lunging for Beauvais’s throat as they expected. “You’re right,” he said, with a very dangerous smile. “My father was exonerated by the Pope for the part he played in a holy martyr’s murder. So why should I worry about dispatching a luxury-loving, godless pretend-priest to Hell?”

Beauvais’s lips peeled back in a snarling smile of his own. But Guy de Lusignan gave him no chance to respond. He’d been seething at the other man’s contemptuous dismissal, and now he said menacingly, “Well, I have no qualms whatsoever about shedding the blood of a bishop. You’d best bear that in mind, Beauvais, for I doubt you’re in a state of grace to meet your Maker. Where would you ever find a priest corrupt enough or drunk enough to absolve you of all your sins?”

Richard laughed, a chilling sound. Beauvais did not appear at all intimidated by either king, though. “It would give me great pleasure to put the anathema of excommunication upon any man rash enough to lay hands upon a consecrated bishop. You’d best bear that in mind, de Lusignan. As for you, my lord Lionheart—”

He got no further, for Guy took a threatening step forward. “Call me by my rightful title, you son of a whore!”

The bishop’s eyes gleamed. “Which title is that? Surely not the one you earned in Sybilla’s bed? Or mayhap you mean ‘hero of Ḥaṭṭīn.’ No, that will not do, either, for that was the battle in which the entire army of the Kingdom of Jerusalem was destroyed by Saladin, destroyed because of your unforgivable, idiotic blunders!”

When Guy lunged at him, the bishop started to draw his sword. It never cleared the scabbard, though, for Joffroi de Lusignan grabbed his brother just as Jaufre darted forward and interposed himself between the two men. “You are shaming yourself, my lord bishop,” he said, “and worse, you are shaming our king. I cannot believe Philippe sent you here to shed blood in the Archbishop of Cyprus’s house.”

“No, he did not!” Druon de Mello seized his chance and said loudly, “Our lord king bade us tell King Richard to stop wasting time and make haste to reach Acre, for he has been delaying a full assault upon the city as a courtesy to the English king—” Druon stopped in astonishment, for the hall was rocking with derisive laughter. He scowled, angry that they dared to mock his king like this. But after a moment to reflect, he decided their mockery was a small price to pay for the dispersal of this dangerous tension. He knew, even if he feared his king did not, that their hopes of recovering Jerusalem rested upon the military expertise of the English king, and for that, Druon was willing to overlook Richard’s arrogance and bravado, even his regrettable alliance with Guy de Lusignan.

Richard raised a hand for silence. “Go back to Philippe, Sir Druon, and tell him that I will not leave for Acre until I have secured Cyprus for the Holy Land. Remind him that a king does not give orders to another king. Now return to your ship and pass the night. But at dawn, set sail for Outremer, for I want this man gone from here by the time I rise from my bed tomorrow.” And with that, he deliberately turned his back on the bishop and walked away.

Joffroi de Lusignan had pulled his raging brother aside, and although the bishop seemed inclined to continue the confrontation, Druon and the French knights were already withdrawing, giving him no choice but to follow. Jaufre took it upon himself to make sure Beauvais would actually return to his galley and hastened after them. Richard was still infuriated and was giving voice to his wrath before a very receptive audience. But slowly calm began to settle over the hall again.

The aged Archbishop of Cyprus and Abbot Nilus had been dumbfounded witnesses from their seats upon the dais. As they exchanged glances now, the archbishop suggested that they summon one of the Greek-speaking Italian merchants so they could find out what had caused this ugly scene. Nilus shrugged, shaking his head in bemusement. “Does it truly matter? If I were the Sultan of Egypt, I’d be sleeping soundly at night, knowing that the Christians will never be able to retake Jerusalem, for they would rather fight one another than the Turks.”

Barnabas sadly concurred. “Well, at least some good has come out of this. Whatever happens in Outremer, Cyprus has been freed of a tyrant, and for that we must thank the God of our Fathers, His only-begotten Son, and the holy Theotokos and Ever-Virgin Mary.”

Abbot Nilus murmured his agreement. But as grateful as he was to be rid of Isaac Comnenus, he would reserve judgment as to the future of Cyprus under the Latins. His was a sorrowfully cynical view of his fellow men and he knew sometimes the cure could be as bad as the disease.



THEY’D BEEN TOLD the flat, bleak plain was called the Mesaoria, a Greek term meaning “between the mountains.” Warned that it would be desolate, Richard had ordered his men to carry enough rations for several days, and they were glad of it, for it was soon apparent that no army could live off this land. They passed an occasional deserted hamlet, its inhabitants gone into hiding. Even before they’d left Famagusta, they’d gotten reports from locals that Isaac had gathered a force of seven hundred lightly armed horsemen called turcopoles, and so Richard insisted that they maintain a tight formation as they marched, entrusting the vanguard to the de Lusignans and taking the rear guard himself, for he thought that would be the likely target of an ambush.

It was hot and dusty, the road little more than a narrow mule track, and the few streams they found were dried up; it was hard for Richard and his knights to believe this arid area would be transformed into vast, marshy quagmires by heavy winter rains. There were no trees in sight, and the only signs of life were several hawks lazily circling in a sky as empty as the plain below them. The men were uniformly glad when they reached the abandoned village of Kalopsyda, for there the road veered toward the northwest, and the tedious monotony of the landscape gave way to an occasional gully carved out by winter floods. If Isaac meant an ambush, it would be in one of these deep, dry riverbeds, and they found themselves almost looking forward to the prospect, for at least some action would ease the boredom of the march.

Off to the east, they could see mud-brick buildings far in the distance. Shading his eyes against the sun’s merciless glare, Richard decided this must be Tremetousha. He’d met its bishop in Famagusta, and he marveled now that this isolated village could be the seat of a prelate of the Greek Orthodox Church. “There is a monastery there,” he told Jaufre, “and we can halt to rest awhile.” He eased his Spanish stallion so he could unhook his wineskin from the saddle pommel, grimacing at the taste of the warm liquid as it trickled down his throat.

“Your cool head was useful last night, Jaufre. Whilst I cannot imagine anyone mourning that misbegotten hellspawn, I suspect the new pontiff would not have been happy if I’d sent one of his bishops to eternal damnation. For certes, my mother would not have been pleased with me. After all, I’d asked her to get to Rome with all haste so she could gain the new Pope’s favor.”

“Well, my ‘cool head’ did not avail me much later, Uncle. When Beauvais berated me for sailing with you instead of Philippe, I was sorely tempted to push him over the side of his galley.” Jaufre glanced at Richard with a grin. “A dislike of the good bishop seems to run in our family. Druon de Mello told me that my father and Beauvais almost came to blows at Acre when the bishop told him he ought to be ashamed to have a son like me!”

But he no longer had Richard’s attention. The other man was gazing toward the gully looming ahead of them. “If I were planning to entrap Isaac, that is where I’d do it, for yonder hollow offers the best cover we’ve so far seen. You think Isaac is clever enough to figure that out?”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than they heard the sound so familiar to them all, the battle cries of men on the attack. Richard began to curse. “Bleeding Christ! I was so sure that craven swine would hit us from the rear! Take over, Jaufre!” And with that, he was off in a cloud of dust as Jaufre began to shout commands to the men left in his charge.

By the time Richard caught up with his vanguard, the attack had been repulsed. A seasoned soldier like Joffroi de Lusignan had no difficulty in keeping his troops in formation, and once they’d broken out of the ravine, he turned them upon Isaac’s turcopoles. When Richard came upon the scene, some individual clashes were still taking place, but the thrust of Isaac’s assault had been blunted, and his lightly armed horsemen were retreating before the charging knights.

Midst the confusion on the field, Richard detected a flash of purple, the color worn only by Greek royalty. Isaac had donned a silk surcote over his hauberk to proclaim his imperial rank, and it drew the English king now like a beacon in the dark. The emperor was armed with a Damascus bow, and if Richard had not been so set upon running him through, he might have admired the other man’s dexterity with the weapon, for shooting from horseback was a skill few Latins had mastered. Isaac was shouting in rage, obviously urging his troops to regroup, when he suddenly sensed danger and turned in the saddle to see Richard bearing down upon him.

As soon as he was within range to strike, Richard rose in the stirrups, leveling his lance at the emperor’s chest. He was too close to miss and so he was stunned when he did. But Isaac jerked on the reins and Fauvel responded like a great, graceful cat, swerving out of harm’s way just in the nick of time. When Richard swung his horse about for another run, Isaac was almost a bowshot length away. So sure was he of Fauvel’s superior speed that he dared to slow down and shoot two arrows in quick succession. The first one bounced off Richard’s shield; the second sailed over his head. As he spurred his steed forward, Isaac gave Fauvel his head and the dun stallion once again showed that he was as fast as he was agile, pulling away from Richard’s horse with infuriating ease.

The Spanish destrier was as frustrated as his rider, eager to close with the other stallion, and it took Richard several moments to bring the lathered animal to a full stop. By then, Isaac was disappearing into the distance and, as at Kolossi, all Richard could do was watch and indulge in some creative cursing.

“Richard!” André reined in beside him. “You were not hit by those arrows?”

“No . . . why? Even if his aim had been better, I doubt the arrows would have penetrated my hauberk.” Richard shifted in the saddle to look at his friend. “Why the sudden concern for what would have been a minor wound at most, André?”

“Because one of the captured turcopoles told de Lusignan that Isaac is known to use arrows tipped in poison.”

“Isaac is beginning to annoy me exceedingly.” Richard was still staring after the dust trail churned up by the fleeing emperor as Joffroi and Guy de Lusignan rode over to him. When they asked if he wanted to continue pursuit, he shook his head. “What would be the point? He’s astride Fauvel.”



IT HAD NOT BEEN an easy time for Berengaria and Joanna, left behind in Limassol waiting for word. They’d learned that there had been no fighting at Famagusta, but after that, there was only silence. Joanna now understood that this was a foretaste of their life in the Holy Land; she was not sure if Berengaria had realized it yet, too. So Guilhem de Préaux’s arrival was eagerly welcomed by both women, for he bore a message from Richard.

He told them about Isaac’s thwarted ambush outside Tremetousha. Editing his account to be suitable for a female audience, he neglected to mention that the emperor had shot poisoned arrows at Richard, instead stressing the low casualties and the ease of their victory. “Nicosia surrendered at once,” he reported exuberantly. “The king received them in peace, but ordered the men to shave their beards as a symbol of their change of lordship. People continue to seek out the king and disavow their allegiance to Isaac, much to his distress and fury. So it will be over soon. The king has sent Guy de Lusignan to besiege the castle at Kyrenia, which holds the emperor’s treasure and his family, and he has set Stephen de Turnham’s brother Robert to patrolling the coast in case Isaac tries to flee to the mainland—”

“Why?”

“My lady?” Guilhem regarded Joanna so innocently that he confirmed all of her suspicions.

“Why has Richard entrusted Guy with the assault upon Kyrenia? Why is he not leading it himself?”

Guilhem had hoped the women would not pick up on that. “The king has been unwell, so he remained at Nicosia whilst he recovers.” He tried then to divert the conversation into more innocuous channels, but they were having none of it, and he reluctantly admitted that upon his arrival in Nicosia, Richard had come down with a sudden fever. Despite his best efforts to make it sound like a minor matter, Joanna and Berengaria knew that Richard must have been afire with fever for him to have taken to a sickbed instead of pursuing Isaac, and they immediately began to lay plans to hasten to Nicosia.

“You cannot do that!” Guilhem cried, shaking his head vehemently. “The king forbids you to leave Limassol.” They did not look at all pleased and Joanna seemed on the verge of mutiny, so he hastily explained that Richard felt it would be too dangerous to undertake an inland journey as long as Isaac remained on the loose. “The king is not seriously ill, my lady queens, and it is better that he recovers on his own. Men are notoriously poor patients,” he joked, “and the king is not taking this disruption of his plans with good grace. Indeed, he has been so bad-tempered that you’d surely want to smother him with a pillow, and think what a scandal that would cause!”

His attempt at humor fell flat. “Do you swear he is not gravely ill?” Berengaria demanded, and when he offered an eloquent avowal upon his very soul, she and Joanna conceded defeat. Guilhem had no time to savor his victory, though, for after thanking him for being honest with them, Berengaria then asked, “Did my lord husband give you a letter for me?”

Guilhem opened his mouth, shut it again. He knew it was safest for him if he simply told the truth, but he could not bring himself to do it, for he thought her brown eyes were as soft and trusting as a fawn’s. “Of course he did, Madame. A long one it was, too, and he wrote it in his own hand instead of dictating it to a scribe, since it was meant for your eyes only. But . . . and I hope you can forgive me . . . I no longer have it. We had a mishap fording a river. The water was much deeper than we’d expected and I was drenched to the skin. To my dismay, I later discovered that the king’s letter had gotten soaked, too, and the ink had run so badly that it was totally unreadable. I am indeed sorry for my clumsiness.”

Berengaria’s good manners prevailed over her disappointment and she assured him that he had no cause for reproach. She soon excused herself, saying that she wanted to offer up prayers for Richard’s quick recovery and victory over the Cypriot emperor. Guilhem escorted her to the door and then returned to bow over Joanna’s hand in his most courtly fashion. But as their eyes met, she said, too softly for her ladies across the chamber to hear, “You are a gallant liar.”

“What do you mean, Madame?”

“I’ve been here long enough now to learn something about Cyprus. Did you know it has no navigable rivers? And whilst they are prone to flooding during the rainy season, they dry up into mudholes during the summer months. So any rivers you encountered between Nicosia and Limassol would have been too shallow to drown a snake.”

Guilhem was stricken into silence, not knowing what to say. His relief was considerable, therefore, when she smiled. “Moreover, I know my brother, know how single-minded he is when he is in the midst of a campaign. I wish he’d spared a thought for his new bride, but in fairness to Richard, he is a battle commander, not a court poet.”

Guilhem returned her smile, pleased that she understood. “I am grateful that you are not angry with me for lying, my lady.” He hesitated a moment. “Do you think she believed me?”

“I do not know,” Joanna confessed. “I hope so.”



UPON HIS RETURN to Nicosia, Guilhem was delighted to find his king much improved and very flattered when Richard interrupted a strategy session to question him about his trip to Limassol. “Thank God,” he said candidly, after Guilhem explained that he’d been able to persuade the women that they could not come to nurse him back to health. He took the letters from his wife and sister and tucked them into his belt to be read when he had the time. He was turning away when Guilhem asked for a moment more. He dreaded telling Richard about that river-soaked letter, but he figured it would go worse for him if the king was ambushed and caught unaware by his queen, so he began to stammer out the story, watching nervously for any signs of Angevin anger. To his surprise, he caught an expression upon Richard’s face that he’d never seen before—guilt.

“God’s Blood,” Richard muttered. “I did not even think.... Were you able to make her understand?”

“Well . . . I did not try, my lord. I . . . I lied.” He saw Richard’s eyebrows shoot upward and said a silent prayer that he’d not done something his king would not forgive. But by the time he was done with his awkward confession, Richard was looking amused and—much to his relief—approving.

“That was quick thinking, Guilhem. Sometimes a kind falsehood is better than a hurtful truth. My queen does not yet know much about war or its demands. She’ll have to learn, of course. . . .” Just when Guilhem thought he’d been forgotten, the king smiled and said, “Come in. We are going over the latest reports by my scouts.”

Following Richard into his chamber, Guilhem felt a flush of excitement at the sight of the men gathered around a table littered with maps, for these were lords of rank and privilege: André de Chauvigny, the Earl of Leicester, Joffroi de Lusignan, Baldwin de Bethune, William de Forz, and Richard’s nephew, Jaufre of Perche. Thinking these were high-flying hawks for a Norman knight, Guilhem eagerly approached the table when Richard beckoned. “This is Deudamour,” he said, “which overlooks the road between Kyrenia and Nicosia. But now that we’ve taken Kyrenia, it cannot hold out for long.”

“Kyrenia has fallen?” Guilhem was pleasantly shocked, for the local people had been insisting it was impregnable.

Richard nodded. “Two days after you left for Limassol, the castle yielded to Guy de Lusignan.”

Guilhem whistled softly, rapidly reassessing his opinion of Guy. If the man could have captured a stronghold like Kyrenia with such ease, he was a better soldier than people thought. “I kept hearing that it could withstand a siege from now till Judgment Day!”

“Well, mayhap it could—if the garrison had offered any real resistance. I’d wager it fell into Guy’s lap like a ripe pear. How else explain his quick success?”

Guilhem was startled, not so much by that caustic appraisal of Guy’s military skills, as by the source—it had come from his own brother, Joffroi. He was not surprised that Richard seemed untroubled by Joffroi’s sarcasm, for he knew there had been no love lost between the king and his brothers. But Guilhem and his brothers had always been as close as peas in a pod, and he found himself feeling an unexpected flicker of sympathy for Guy de Lusignan. “So we have captured Isaac’s treasury?”

Richard confirmed it with a coolly complacent smile. “And whilst that loss probably pains Isaac the most, we now have his wife and daughter, too. The way his luck is going, Isaac may well end up with just enough Cypriot land for a burial plot.”



AFTER KYRENIA HAD SURRENDERED, Guy laid siege to the nearby castle at Deudamour, but so far he’d made no progress. Richard was not surprised, for this was one of the most formidable mountain citadels he’d ever seen; its north, west, and south sides were made inaccessible by sheer cliffs, and its eastern approach was protected by three walled baileys, with two towers perched even higher up. After consulting with Guy’s captains, Richard left some of his men to assist in the siege and rode the few miles to Kyrenia.

Richard’s first sight of Isaac’s seacoast stronghold convinced him that Guy could never have taken it so rapidly had its garrison not been too disheartened to offer resistance. Situated between two small bays, the castle reminded him of English shell keeps: high walls enclosed a large inner bailey, with sturdy corner towers, a barbican, and two-story gatehouse. He was pleased to see his royal lion flying from the highest tower rather than the golden crosses of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, a diplomatic gesture he’d not have expected from Guy.

Guy was waiting to welcome them as soon as they emerged from the barbican, and as he escorted them toward the great hall nestled along the west wall, he boasted of his triumph with an almost boyish glee. But Richard was willing to indulge him, for however he’d done it, the capture of Kyrenia had dealt Isaac Comnenus a mortal blow: How could he hope to continue the fight now that his treasury was in his enemy’s hands?

Guy wasted no time giving a report on the riches stored in Kyrenia’s coffers. Almost as an afterthought, he revealed that Isaac’s wife and daughter and their women were being held in the southwest tower, where they could be comfortably but securely guarded. Isaac had intended for them to flee to the mainland of Cilicia if it looked as if the castle might fall but, like so many of Isaac’s plans this May, that one had been thwarted by the arrival of Richard’s galleys, which had easily bottled up the harbor, making a sea escape impossible. Richard was not looking forward to his audience with them for, like most men, he was not comfortable dealing with hysterical women. A pity, he thought, that Joanna and Berenguela were not here to assure them that they were in no danger.

Wine was served in Isaac’s goblets of silver studded with gems, and the wine itself was excellent, more than justifying the reputation of Cypriot vineyards. After savoring the taste, Richard asked if Sophia knew anything useful about her husband’s whereabouts. Guy seemed surprised by the question, reminding the English king that he’d had no Greek translators with his army. Now it was Richard’s turn to be surprised. “Why did you not try French?”

Among the disadvantages Guy labored under, he’d been cursed with a transparent face, his thoughts easily read by friends and foes alike. It was obvious now that he was perplexed by this question. “Why would she speak French? She is an Armenian princess.”

Richard was beginning to understand why Joffroi de Lusignan held his youngest brother in so little regard. “No, Guy, she is not. Isaac’s first wife was the Armenian princess. His current wife is a bastard daughter of the Sicilian king William I, so we can safely assume that she speaks French as well as we do.”

Guy did not seem convinced, and was arguing that she’d spoken only Greek at Kyrenia’s surrender when the women were ushered into the hall. Rising to his feet, Richard started toward them, wondering how Guy could ever have imagined they were blood-kin. Sophia was short and dark and plump, whereas her stepdaughter, although only about thirteen, was already the taller of the two, slender and willowy, with white-blond braids that reached to her hips. They embarrassed him by sinking down in deep, submissive curtsys, and he hastily took Sophia’s hand to raise her up; he did not offer assistance to the girl, thinking she might shun the touch of her father’s conqueror.

When Richard politely addressed Sophia by her title, she inclined her head and then gestured toward her stepdaughter. “This is Anna,” she said, and Guy scowled, demanding to know why she’d not told him she spoke French. He was not pleased when she said dryly, “You did not ask me.”

“I imagine the empress preferred to assess the terrain before committing her troops,” Richard said, and she gave him a sidelong, amused glance that told him this woman was not to be underestimated, not if she could face calamity with such aplomb. Seating them in high-backed chairs, he looked from her to the girl. Upon reflection, Sophia’s poise was not so surprising, for she’d known of Joanna’s presence and could assume she’d have a protector in her brother’s widow. But while he was grateful for Anna’s almost eerie composure, he was puzzled by it, too; he’d not have thought one so young would display such self-control. “Does your stepdaughter speak French, Madame?”

“Well, I taught her to swear in French. So, yes, she speaks a little, but not enough to follow our conversation.”

“Does she have any questions for me?” After a quick exchange in Greek, Sophia shook her head, and he marveled anew at the enigma that was Anna Comnena. “She is showing remarkable courage for one so young.”

Sophia gave Anna a fond look that told him much about their relationship. “She has been compelled, of necessity, to learn how to deal with adversity, for she has not had an easy life. Isaac was a prisoner of the Armenians during her first years, and her mother died when she was just six. Isaac was then turned over to the Prince of Antioch and managed to convince the Emperor of the Greeks to pay part of his ransom. When he did not pay the remainder, Anna and her brother were held as hostages in Antioch for two years. When they were finally permitted to join Isaac in Cyprus, her brother took ill and died soon afterward. So Anna learned at an early age how fickle fortune can be.”

Sophia took a sip of wine. “I daresay you’ve heard the grisly stories about Isaac’s crimes. Most of them are true, but not all. He did not poison his first wife, as his enemies in Armenia allege, and he most certainly did not kill his own son in a fit of fury, as others have claimed.”

“I was told that when one of his nobles advised him to make peace with me, he had the man’s nose cut off,” Richard said, curious to see if she’d defend Isaac from this charge, too.

Sophia did not even blink. “Now that does sound like Isaac.” A castle servant was approaching with a tray of sugared comfits, and she helped herself to several, as if there was nothing strange about her circumstances, to have gone from mistress of Kyrenia to a prisoner in her own chambers in the span of days. “May I ask what you intend for Anna once Isaac is defeated?”

“Well, I do not think it would be safe to leave her in Cyprus, where her father is so hated. So I am going to entrust her to my wife and sister. They will care for her and instruct her in our customs, and I can assure you that they will welcome her most lovingly. What of you, Lady Sophia? Do you wish to accompany Anna to Outremer? Or would you rather return to your homeland? If so, I can arrange for your safe journey to Sicily.”

“Thank you for giving me a choice. I prefer to remain with Anna.” Sophia drank more wine, as if this was a social occasion, and when Richard asked if she had any knowledge of Isaac’s whereabouts, she answered readily, saying that he had only one lair left, his castle at Kantara. As she leaned over to tell Anna that they would be sailing with the queens of England and Sicily to Outremer, Guy gave voice to his growing disapproval.

“How do we know we can trust what she says?” he asked in a low voice. “She does not seem very loyal to Isaac, after all.” He was vexed when they did not appear to take his concern seriously; Richard and André were looking at him as if he’d suddenly started to speak a foreign tongue and Joffroi heaved an exaggerated sigh.

Turning back to them, Sophia looked quizzically from one man to the other. “What is it? Do you have other questions for me?” Richard shook his head, impressed by how observant she was; he supposed that was how she’d survived six years of marriage to a man like Isaac Comnenus. “There is something else you need to know,” she said. “As soon as Kyrenia surrendered, you won your war. You see, Isaac is a man with many sins on his soul and much blood on his hands. But he has one redeeming quality. He truly loves his daughter.”

Had anyone else said that, Richard would have laughed aloud. He felt that Sophia deserved courtesy, though, after all she’d been through. He was framing a politely skeptical response when he had an ugly thought. Among the many accusations made against Isaac was that he was a despoiler of virgins. Richard’s gaze shifted to Anna, who was very young and very pretty. Glancing around, he saw that André and Joffroi and even Guy shared this sudden suspicion.

Sophia saw it, too, and her black eyes blazed. “No,” she said sharply, “whatever his sins, Isaac is not guilty of that one. Anna is his blood, the one pure corner of his soul. He would never abuse her like that. Nor would I ever have allowed it.”

“And how would you have stopped him?” Guy challenged.

“I would have cut his throat whilst he slept,” Sophia snapped, and Guy laughed in disbelief.

Not Richard, though. He did not doubt that she meant exactly what she said, and he decided he could learn to like this shrewd, forthright woman who’d sensibly given her loyalty to the stepdaughter who needed it rather than to the husband who did not deserve it. “Even if you are right, Madame, that only means that Isaac is grieving for his daughter’s capture. Why is that something we need to know?”

“Because Isaac expects other men to act as he does. He will be terrified, sure that you will maltreat Anna the way he would have maltreated an enemy’s daughter. You might want to consider making use of that fear.”

This time none of the men were able to disguise their disbelief. They carefully avoided one another’s eyes, lest they laugh at Sophia’s ludicrous suggestion—that a man like Isaac would ever sacrifice his own selfish skin for anyone else’s welfare. Richard changed the subject then by telling Sophia that her half-sister Mariam was with Joanna in Limassol. She seemed pleased, saying she ought to have known Mariam would never have been able to resist such an adventure. From time to time, she glanced over at Anna, smiling reassuringly. Anna always smiled back. But none of the men knew what she was truly thinking.



DEUDAMOUR SOON YIELDED, its garrison unwilling to die for a lost cause. Richard was laying siege to Buffavento, the most inaccessible of Isaac’s mountaintop strongholds, when a messenger rode in under a flag of truce. To the utter astonishment of everyone except Sophia, Isaac offered to surrender unconditionally to the English king in return for a guarantee of his daughter’s safety. He asked only that his imperial rank be respected and he not be placed in irons like a common felon.



A HUGE CROWD had assembled to watch Isaac’s surrender at his former castle of Deudamour. The contrast with his earlier appearance could not have been more dramatic. Accompanied by a small band of his dwindling supporters, he was clad in mourning garb, his hair and beard unkempt, his fingers stripped of his jeweled rings, his head bare. Dismounting, he knelt at Richard’s feet and spoke in a hoarse voice, keeping his eyes downcast as an interpreter conveyed his plea for mercy.

The Cypriots began to jeer and curse, enraged when Richard allowed Isaac to rise instead of making him grovel in the dust as he deserved. Their threats echoed after Isaac as he was escorted by Richard’s soldiers into the safety of the castle, their fury the final verdict upon his wretched reign, and Richard wondered if he’d really surrendered because he knew what would have befallen him if he’d been captured by his own subjects.

But that cynical suspicion was soon dispelled. Once they’d entered the hall, Richard gestured for Isaac to sit beside him upon the dais and then had Anna brought out to show that she’d not been harmed. At the sight of his daughter, Isaac amazed his audience by bursting into tears. He leaped to his feet and hastened to her side, embracing her with such obvious joy and relief that those watching no longer doubted the sincerity of the tyrant’s affection for his child.

Exchanging bemused looks with André, Richard shrugged. “I suppose,” he said, “even a wolf can care for his cubs.” And André nodded, for that seemed as good an explanation as any for this unexpected and unlikely end to their Cyprus campaign.



SINCE GIRLHOOD, Joanna had sought to vanquish fear or worries by shaming herself into letting them go. Upon their arrival in Famagusta, she was trying it again, mentally enumerating all that she had to be thankful for. Glancing about the sunlit courtyard of the Archbishop of Cyprus’s residence, she added a sisterly reunion to the list, for Mariam and Sophia seemed genuinely delighted to see each other. Anna was seated beside them on a marble bench, and the sight of the girl stirred Joanna’s maternal instincts anew. Anna’s rescue was surely cause for gratitude, too. Joanna had no doubts whatsoever that Isaac’s daughter would be better off away from his baneful influence, and she meant to do all in her power to make sure Anna thrived in her new world.

Richard was the center of attention, as usual. But Joanna was pleased to see that he’d drawn Berengaria into the circle, an arm draped possessively around her shoulders as he bantered with André and Jaufre. Richard was being properly attentive to his new wife and her dark eyes never left his face. Joanna had overheard him murmuring to her about a Michaelmas goose, and while that meant nothing to her, it obviously did to Berengaria, who’d blushed and then laughed. Joanna thought it was a very encouraging sign that they already shared private jokes, for she took it as an indication that their marriage was getting off to a good start.

Continuing to tally up her reasons for gratitude, she added the capture of Cyprus, for Outremer would benefit greatly, now and in years to come; some of their ships were already loaded with wheat, sheep, chickens, and wine. Richard’s soldiers were also contented with their Cypriot campaign, for Richard was always generous about sharing booty with his men. And she thought the Cypriots had reason for rejoicing, too, freed from Isaac’s yoke. Richard had chosen two trusted castellans to govern the island until he could make long-term provisions for its future, and he’d agreed to issue a charter confirming the laws and rights as they’d been in the days before Isaac’s seizure of power, although he’d exacted a steep price for this privilege; he’d imposed a levy of half of the possessions of the Cypriots to help finance the crusade. Joanna had enough experience with governing to know this would be highly unpopular with the local people, but she still felt that her brother was leaving Cyprus better off than he’d found it.

So she had much to be thankful for and she ought to be counting her blessings. But the lecture did nothing to ease the hollow, icy feeling in the pit of her stomach. The voyage from Limassol to Famagusta had been tolerable, for they’d hugged the shore. But on the morrow their fleet would head out into the open sea. Berengaria and Mariam kept reassuring her that this would be a much quicker passage, for ships could sail from Cyprus to the Syrian coast in just a day. But Joanna knew better. Storms could strike at any time, blowing them far off course, and she knew that she would suffer grievously again in heavy seas; her memories were still so graphically vivid that she found herself shivering under a hot Cypriot sun.

“Whatever you are thinking about, stop.” Richard was standing over her. “You look positively greensick, Little Sister.” Holding out his hand, he said, “I’ve something to show you and Berenguela.”

Berengaria shrugged her shoulders, indicating she did not know what he had in mind, and Joanna let Richard steer them across the courtyard, several of their knights protectively trailing at a discreet distance. He led them into the archbishop’s gardens, a shaded refuge from the summer heat, and then out a postern gate, refusing to reveal where they were going. When Berengaria congratulated him upon winning his wager with André, he made a mock grimace and said he’d lost, for the campaign had actually taken fifteen days. He’d already alerted them that he would be remaining in Cyprus for a few days after the fleet sailed, as he had arrangements still to work out with Stephen de Turnham’s brother Robert, one of the men he’d entrusted with the governance of Cyprus. He explained now that he also wanted to oversee Isaac’s departure for the Syrian castle at Margat, where he’d be turned over to the Knights Hospitaller for safe-keeping.

As they walked, Richard told them about Isaac’s surprisingly touching reunion with Anna and that the erstwhile emperor had not even raised the question of ransom, asking only that he not be placed in iron chains or fetters. This caused protests from the local people, Richard said, for they’d wanted him to suffer the punishment that would have been meted out in Constantinople—blinding or maiming. “So I ordered chains to be made for Isaac of solid silver.”

“You are jesting . . . no?” Berengaria asked uncertainly. But Joanna laughed, assuring her new sister-in-law that he was quite serious, saying the men in her family could teach the Devil a trick or two about slyness. Berengaria was not sure she approved of this; it seemed somewhat guileful to her. She kept her opinion to herself, though, for she did not think it was a wife’s place to meddle in such matters.

“Ah, here we are,” Richard said, and they saw he’d led them to an enclosure next to the archbishop’s stables. As they approached, the stallion came over to the fence, curious but wary. Both women exclaimed admiringly, for he was a beautiful animal, high-shouldered, with a long neck and broad chest, a coat that gleamed like pale gold.

Richard was beaming. “This is Fauvel,” he said proudly.



JOANNA HAD TRIED to hide her anxiety with jests, joking that Richard had not come to see them off, that he really wanted to make sure Fauvel had enough esparto grass for bedding and secure ringbolts for his underbelly sling. But as soon as their buss hoisted its sails and left the harbor behind, she’d gone ashen and hastily retreated to their tent, followed by most of the other women.

Berengaria remained on deck, committing to memory her last view of Richard, waving from the dock. She told herself she was being foolish, that they’d soon be reunited at Acre. But she was beginning to realize that her husband was as elusive as quicksilver, his eyes always on the horizon, inhabiting a world she would find difficult to share. None of the usual rules of marriage seemed to apply to Richard. How many royal wives had to live like camp followers? What sort of home life could they establish for themselves in the midst of a holy war?

“Ah, Papa,” she whispered, “did you truly think this through?” But watching the sea change color as they headed into deep water, she knew she had no regrets. At least not yet. Becoming aware then that she was no longer alone, she turned and was surprised to find her companion was the girl they were calling the Damsel of Cyprus, Anna Comnena. She smiled to let Anna know her company was welcome, for she had enormous sympathy for the girl. How could a flower uprooted so rudely flourish in foreign soil?

Anna seemed to want to ask a question. Her French was very tentative, strongly accented, and Berengaria was not sure she understood. “My . . . my husband?” she asked, and Anna smiled and nodded. She soon frowned, though, fumbling in vain for the phrase she wanted. She repeated “mari,” pointing toward Berengaria, back toward Famagusta, and then placed her hand upon her own heart. Her frustration was obvious when Berengaria still did not understand. She did the pantomime again, and then gave a lilting, triumphant laugh, saying “aimer,” so pleased she’d remembered the right word that she did not even notice the older woman’s recoil.

Berengaria was so nonplused because she’d never expected to be asked this question. A marriage was a legal union, recognized by the Church and the Crown as a means of begetting children and transferring property in an orderly fashion from one generation to the next. Love was not a component of marriage, especially royal marriages. It was true there had been love in her parents’ marriage, but that had been an unexpected blessing, a mutual devotion that had developed over time. She had harbored no such expectations once she’d agreed to wed Richard, would have been content if they could forge a bond of respect and consideration and possibly affection. But with this innocent question, Anna had forced her to look into her heart.

“So you, too, are bedazzled by Richard, child,” she said, with a rueful smile. “He does seem to have that effect upon people. . . .” Anna was looking puzzled, for she’d spoken in her native Romance, and she reached over, patted the girl’s arm. “You do not understand what I am saying, do you?” She hesitated, feeling as if she’d reached another crossroads and, as she’d done then, she embraced the truth. “Oui,” she said, nodding and mimicking Anna’s gesture by placing her hand over her heart. Anna smiled, obviously approving, and they remained together on deck, watching until the island of Cyprus had vanished into the low-lying clouds cloaking the horizon.