Lionheart (46 page)

“‘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.