“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 yo
ung 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, to
o. 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.