THE REIGN OF GUY DE LUSIGNAN (1186-1213)
Part XIII: The Unlucky Number
The Year 1213 was proving to be most unlucky for Guy de Lusignan, King-Consort of Jerusalem.
The Abbasid War had been a needless bloodbath, and now the weary crusaders were forced to abandon their few paltry gains due to a combination of heavy casualties, poor supply lines, and the harsh desert climate. Worst of all, they were only two weeks out of Baghdad and their supply of wine was already nearly gone. Alone in his tent, Guy somberly gulped down the contents of his cup, his face contorted in what had become his usual scowl. The heavily diluted wine was barely drinkable, but there was nothing else and his throat was parched.
The monotony was broken by the arrival of three of the great nobles of the realm: Leon of Cilicia, Raymond of Antioch, and Joscelin of Edessa. Guy barely acknowledged their presence at the entrance to his tent, taking a long draught of his wine as if it tasted delectable, before getting up to see what they wanted.
As the eldest of the three, Leon spoke first. “Sire,” said the Armenian Prince, his face an unreadable mask, “We have come with a… petition… for your majesty to consider.” He produced a large document from inside his sleeve.
With a disinterested grunt, Guy snatched the parchment out of Prince Leon’s hands and began to peruse its contents. Guy was certainly not the best reader in Christendom, but the expensive ecclesiastical education that his parents had obtained for him in his youth had made sure that he was at least cursorily familiar with his letters.
As Guy read the long document, he began to smile. This was most unusual, given his current bout of depression. The King’s widening grin was in fact extremely disturbing to the gathered lords.
Guy Smiley? This can’t be a good thing…
Joscelin of Edessa cleared his throat. “We, ah, we call it the Magna Carta,” he said, clearly unnerved by the incongruity of the parchment’s contents and Guy’s improving mood.
Leon remained stone-faced. “What it says--” he began to say, before the King cut him off.
“
What it says,” said Guy, beginning to look very amused indeed, “If I understand it correctly, is that you want me to make the succession to the Holy Kingdom of Jerusalem a matter of decision by committee! Is that correct?”
“Sire,” said Raymond of Antioch, trying to explain, “We all have a stake in the future of the Kingdom. We all want Jerusalem to prosper. We simply feel that since we all have large demesnes in the Holy Land--” he gestured towards his comrades, “And since your Majesty has been somewhat… injudicious… with his military decisions as of late-- “
“You would prefer that it were all of you who were the ones that decided the succession,” Guy interrupted again, “And not me.”
“We certainly do not believe that this will have any bearing on current events,” Raymond began to prattle, “Your Majesty has many more years to live. And we certainly would not dream of interfering with your son’s succession-- “
“Yes,
Guy,” said Leon, cutting off Raymond’s blustering and disrespectfully using the King's given name, “You have left us dissatisfied, and we demand the right to choose our own King.”
For a moment, all were silent, as the implications of Leon’s statement settled in.
Then the King’s eerie smile vanished in an instant, replaced with what was clearly the deadliest of all his rages. “How
dare any of you think that you have a right to intervene in the royal succession!” he roared, “What would any of you be without me? Leon, you’d have been overrun by foul, murderous Turks over a decade ago. I could have let them take you, pillage your cities, murder your children! And maybe I should have!”
Leon simply frowned, folding his hands behind his back.
“Joscelin!” Guy continued, “There would be no County of Edessa whatsoever without me! Your miserable father was completely incapable of retaking it himself, and now you pay back my generosity to him by trying to rob me of my crown?! I gave you my daughter, for God’s sake! And Raymond…”
“You forced my father into an unwarranted vassalage!” said Raymond, trying his best not to look as scared as he was, “What have you ever done for us?”
“You object that I forced greatness onto the legacy of Bohemond
the Stammerer?!” Guy raved, “Your half-wit father was of less value than a beggar’s pisspot! I made him a part of something great, but he was too short-sighted to see it, just like you!” Raymond looked taken aback; the thought had never occurred to him.
“The only thing this bit of drivel is good for,” continued Guy, “Is for wiping up horse dung!” As Guy began to crumple up their charter in his hands, Raymond and Joscelin looked absolutely mortified, though Leon maintained his composure.
“Insolent worms,” Guy spat, “You’re lucky I don’t have you all killed! Now get out of my sight!” Knowing when to make their exit, the three men quickly filed out of Guy’s presence.
With the trio of impudent lords gone, the enraged King threw the offending parchment in the fire.
***
“Well, that went better than expected,” said Leon, whether sarcastically or not the others could not tell.
“Hmph,” groaned Joscelin, “I think I’ve just ruined my chances of being included in the royal will as a favorite son-in-law. At least there’s the victory festival at Jerusalem to look forward to.”
“I’m not going back to Jerusalem,” said Leon, “I’m going home to Cilicia, to bury my son.”
Leon Rubenid, bereaved Prince of Armenian Cilicia.
“Sorry,” said Joscelin, “I forgot.”
“If I hadn’t been off gallivanting with that idiot,” said Leon, his mood taking an even darker turn, “My son would probably still be alive today. I don’t know who killed my boy, but by all the saints and angels in the heavens, I’ll make Guy de Lusignan pay for it!”
“That’s treason,” whispered Raymond nervously.
“And what we just did wasn’t?” asked Leon, his flippancy more apparent, “Maybe a little treason is exactly what this Kingdom needs…”
***
The bustling Great Hall of Antioch was filled to the brim with visiting dignitaries, despite the absence of its lord and master. This was because the city of Antioch had been selected by the clergy as a neutral site for the official inquiry into the death of the young Prince Ruben of Cilicia.
Considering that the Crown Princess herself stood implicated in the murder, one of the great lords of the realm or even the King himself would normally have heard the case, but since they were all absent on crusade, this task was relegated to the aged Patriarch of Antioch, the nearest great prelate of the Church.
Princess Anastasia looked pensive but resolute, determined to prove her innocence. Her cousin Prince Alexios was also in attendance in order to bear his testimony. He had discovered the murder, after all. Crown Prince Godfrey was present as well, ostensibly to defend his wife’s honor, though rumors had been spreading for weeks about his scandalous affair with Frederica of Egypt.
“Quiet!” pleaded the Patriarch, his shrill voice rising over the din, “Please! Let us have order in this court!” The myriad voices slowly began to hush and eventually all was still.
Only when perfect silence had been reached did the Patriarch speak again. He was apparently a very deliberate old cleric. “Now,” he said, “I must defer to young Prince Godfrey, son of our great king Guy de Lusignan, and Lord-Regent in his absence. Sire, do you wish to say anything?” The deferral to royalty was official protocol, though everyone knew what the Prince’s response would be.
Godfrey spoke his words slowly and sadly. “Because of my close connections to those involved in this case, I cannot hear it with impartiality. Thus, it is only just that I sustain you, my Lord Patriarch, as an unbiased judge. Hear this case, determine the truth and uphold justice in the realm.” With his ceremonial role fulfilled, Godfrey collapsed back into his seat and morosely put a hand to his forehead.
“Many thanks, my Lord Prince,” droned the Patriarch, “Now, let the proceedings commence! This official and lawful hearing into the death of Prince Ruben of Armenia Minor, taking place on this the 21st day of July, in the Year of Our Lord 1213--”
“Hold!” shouted a voice from the direction of the hall’s entrance, “First, you will hear
me!”
“The court recognizes the honorable clergyman from Edessa,” said the Patriarch, “You may speak, though this is most irregular.”
As the enigmatic speaker stalked through the hall to the front, he became identifiable from his heavy woolen cloak as the cleric known as “the Grey Eminence,” notorious throughout the realm as the power behind the throne in Edessa.
“This court is
not lawful,” barked the Grey Eminence, his own harsh voice echoing through the hall in a manner very unlike the elderly Patriarch’s. “The highest Church authority has not been consulted.”
“I assure you,” wheezed the Patriarch, “I have the consent of my colleague in Jerusalem, and am duly ordained to--”
“No…,” said the Grey Eminence, “
I am the highest ecclesiastical authority in Outremer! Behold!” The iron-voiced clergyman theatrically dropped his heavy grey cloak to the floor, revealing long robes of brilliant red and eliciting gasps of horror from those in attendance.
“I am Daimbert of Mainz, Papal Legate and Grand Inquisitor!” he proclaimed. This revelation had a spine-chilling effect on the previously animated court. “It is
my right to hear this case!” he continued. Anastasia bit her lip.
Prince Godfrey was immediately roused from his melancholy and was on his feet in a trice. “I won’t permit this indecency! This is my Kingdom and I’ll be damned if I submit to the mockery that your kind calls ‘justice!’”
“You’ll be damned, eh?” sneered Grand Inquisitor Daimbert, “That can be arranged. Go back to your mother, boy! You’re not king yet, and you’ve already waived your right to be heard here, have you not?! Now let’s get on with this thing and see to the fate of that murderess you call a wife!”
The Princess has an idea.
“No, wait!” called out Anastasia, her eyes focused distractedly on one of the many tapestries on the wall. “Back to your mother,” she repeated back to herself, “Back to his mother…”
“Does the little spider have anything
sensible to say before she’s consigned to the flames?” said Daimbert coldly.
“Yes!” exclaimed Anastasia, beginning to smile, “I appeal to the highest authority in the land! I appeal to my sovereign!”
“You want to wait around for King Guy to get back from the wars? Who knows how long that will take? You’re just trying to save your neck. No, it would be a breach of justice to delay justice interminably. Besides, do you really think
he’ll give you a fair trial?”
“No, I am not appealing to King Guy,” said Anastasia, “My royal father-in-law is but the King-
Consort of Jerusalem. I appeal to the sovereign-regnant, in whose veins the royal blood flows. I demand to be heard by Queen Sibylla! It is my right as a member of the Royal Family to be heard by the monarch. The law does not specify
which monarch. You cannot deny me my right!”
The Grand Inquisitor growled loudly, sounding very much like a wolf that had just been robbed of its prey. “So be it!” he hissed.
***
Jerusalem descended into jubilant pandemonium as the victorious crusaders returned at last. As the Marshal responsible for the victory at Baghdad, Conrad of Montferrat had earned the right to lead the vanguard of the royal host in the procession. The tall, burly Frank stuck out from the rest of the men like a sore thumb, his cropped hair bleached bright blond from months in the hot desert sun.
The triumphal entry was as magnificent as any in recent memory, yet Conrad grimaced even while the citizens of Jerusalem acclaimed him as a hero. As always, his mind was a flurry of brilliant thoughts.
Conrad of Montferrat leads the return of the heroes.
What was going to happen next? Conrad had heard of the lords’ demanding proposal to Guy. It was so very poorly timed and so utterly foolish that Prince Leon must have been acting provocatively. But what was he trying to do by inciting the King’s fury? Create a justifiable casus belli? The army was so weakened and weary from Guy’s many recent campaigns that Jerusalem would not be able to handle another war for at least a couple of years.
His train of thought was disrupted as the crowd of people behind him erupted in a cacophony of ecstatic cheering. Looking over his shoulder, Conrad got a glimpse of Renaud de Vichiers and knew instantly what was occurring. The Knights Templar were bringing the Ark of the Covenant into the city. At long last, after an absence of nearly two millennia, the holiest relic of Israel was returning home to Jerusalem.
“Yes,” thought Conrad, as he led the procession towards the Temple Mount, “Things are definitely going to be different around here, and I don’t know that the changes will be for the better.”
***
The torches at the ruins of Babylon were put out slowly, one at a time, as the Illuminati prepared to depart. The ruined city has served its purpose, and now it was to be abandoned again to the dust of ages.
The man who called himself Illuminatus watched carefully while those who served him packed up their gear and prepared to leave. Bringing those imbecile Templars to Babylon had been absolutely necessary to prove the authenticity of the Hebrew artifact, but it had comprised the secrecy of their location. How he detested Franks! Now the Order would need a new base of operations in Mesopotamia. Perhaps there was something of interest in the ruins of Nineveh?
He took off his feathered cloak and handed it to a nearby porter to be packed away. It had galled him to have to wear such frivolous garb for so long, but it was necessary to maintain the illusion for the Franks.
“Do you think they bought it?” said a Voice.
“My master,” answered Illuminatus, “I had not expected to see thee here.”
“I came to behold the old city with its glory restored once again, before time and neglect reclaim it. You know I take an interest in such things.”
“Yes, my master,” said Illuminatus, “And yes, the so-called Templars believed all the words that I said to them.”
“How do you know this to be true?” asked the Voice.
“The Frankish leader was the easiest to read. He does not hide his emotions in his heart; he wears them on his face.”
“Indeed? These Europeans are a fascinating people. Prepare yourself; you may have more dealings with them in the future.”
“What is thy bidding, my master?” asked Illuminatus.
“That always depends,” said the Voice, “Sooner or later, time will tell.”
***
As the celebrations died down for the night, the palace servants made sure to give the King a wide berth. They knew better than anyone that a drunken Guy was a dangerous, arbitrary Guy, given to fits of random, brutal violence just as often as to moments of inexplicable jollity.
”Here’s to me! Long live the King!”
Therefore, as Guy de Lusignan headed at last for bed in the wee hours of the morning, the corridors of the al-Aqsa Palace appeared to be completely empty. After over a hundred years of Frankish occupation, it was hard to believe the building had once been a mosque, so complete was its transformation. Such lofty thoughts eluded the King, however, for he was focused on more pressing matters -- most notably the need to go to the privy really, really badly.
Nevertheless, the countless flagons of wine Guy had consumed that evening had affected the King’s constitution in more ways than one. On this particular occasion, Guy felt inspired to spontaneously burst out in song, much to the chagrin of any in earshot.
“Pour the wine and fill it up!” sang Guy, his lyrics unbeholden to any particular melody, “Drink it out of Baldwin’s cup! Heh, heh, Baldwin… you ph-phony leper king! I have all your gold and silver… and your crown… and your sister… hehehe…”
At last Guy found his way to the garderobe, and, following a truly royal belch, began to relieve himself. Thus it was, that the King made himself extremely vulnerable to the individual lying in wait for him outside the window. The assassin quietly crept inside the room and then stabbed Guy squarely in the back.
The King gasped in agony and shock. The blade fell again, striking him lower in the torso. Guy tried to call for help, but his mouth had already filled with blood, which he immediately began retching into his wine-chalice. The dagger struck a third time, and the golden cup fell to the floor with a clatter, alongside its fallen owner.
The household servants heard their King’s death throes, but had assumed Guy was vomiting in a drunken fit, as had happened on occasion. When a footman went at last to check on the King an hour later, he found his liege-lord lying in a pool of blood, wine, and filth.
There was also a small note in Arabic, affixed to the wall with the murder weapon, a long Saracen dagger. The short message had apparently been written in the King’s own blood.
“Thus is Sinan of the Hashishin avenged. God is great.”
When her hysterical handmaidens woke her with the news, Sibylla managed to maintain her composure. Despite the maids’ protests, she insisted on seeing the truth for herself.
The menservants had already carried the body out into the hall, where the royal physician was examining the stab wounds. “The blade was poisoned,” he pronounced to those present, “Though from the number of times his Majesty was stabbed, it wouldn’t have mattered.”
Queen Sibylla looked down at her husband’s lifeless face. They had been together for thirty-three years, and now it was all over. The marriage had been out of political expedience -- truthfully, she had never really loved the man, but she had grown accustomed to his habits, and had learned how to manipulate him with skill. He had been a fool, it was true, but he had been her fool.
And now he was dead. Sibylla shrugged her shoulders. "Thus ends the reign of Guy de Lusignan," she said quietly. Well, that was that. There would be a lot to do in the morning, and she needed her rest. Sibylla returned to her own quarters where, after shooing out her panic-stricken maids, she blew out her candle and went straight to bed, where she slept soundly for the first time in months.
***
Thus was the Year 1213 the most unlucky year of Guy de Lusignan’s entire life. The Kingdom of Jerusalem now sits on the brink of total chaos. Who has slain King Guy? What other secrets does the future hold?
