Lisbon, October 1171
Sancho glanced at the scribe sitting across from him. "Are you ready, Ramon? Write the following:
"To William, by the Grace of God, King of Sicily, Duke of Naples, and Prince of Capua, Sancho, by the same grace, King of Portugal and Count of Porto and Lisbon, greetings. We would expect that-
He was interrupted by Pedro de Maia walking into the room. Pedro knew that the king was writing to William II of Sicily, proposing a marriage between him and Sancho's younger sister Teresa. Sicily didn't have claims on Portuguese land like Leon did, and the Hautevilles had built an impressive custom made realm in southern Italy. Having them as an ally was not a hard decision.
Luckily, Sancho decided to dismiss the scribe. "It is nothing at this point, really," said the king dismissively. "William is open to the idea, and I think he can be persuaded to take my other sister for a wife. God knows I don't want her here." Teresa was no less troublesome than Urraca.
"I agree," said Pedro, "but of course, that is not what I'm here for."
"Than speak it."
"Your highness, the Crusade for Anatolia goes well. The German and Polish forces have routed several large armies of Turks. But our side has not gone without causalities."
It was this way with every Crusade. Almost as if by routine, nobles died one by one. This count drowned in the river Danube to get to the land of the Turks, that baron lost his life fighting some Turkish mercenary captain in personal combat. But the two that Pedro was here to report on were very concerning indeed.
The first was Eleanor of Aquitaine. As a veteran of the Second Crusade, none had questioned her when she chose to personally lead forces from Bordeaux all the way to Anatolia. The last time she was in the Levant, she was married to the King of France. Now, she had gone as a servant of the King of England, her newly excommunicated husband. Perhaps ordering the death of the Archbishop of Canterbury wasn't such a good idea after all. Now, he was biding his time on whether to just set up an antipope or join the crusade for him.
The news was no doubt sobering for him.
Eleanor had been killed in a pitched battle, where she'd actually donned armor and men's clothes and lead from the lines. It was said that a mercenary captain from the Muslim side had fired at her with an arrow, as opposed to just taking a sword to her. Out of respect, or something like that. But the effect was the same. The Queen of England and Duchess of Aquitaine was dead, with all the consequences of that.
There was the fear that it might affect the Portuguese-English alliance. But thus far, nothing that could point in that direction.
Sancho listened to the news and nodded. He thought his alliance could survive this death. Eleanor's lands went to her sons, and Henry II was still a very powerful figure in Western Europe. His wife's death was a heavy blow, but not the end of the world.
When Pedro went to a list of who had been captured, Sancho raised a hand. "Remind me who this duke of Armenia is?"
"Actually, your highness, it is Duke of Armeniacon."
"I don't care what his title is. Remind me of why he is important."
Pedro sighed. "Herman of Armeniacon was a petty noble from Germany before making a name for himself in the Crusades. He managed to conquer a former Byzantine province and declared himself Duke of it. Similar to how the County of Edessa and Principality of Antioch were formed by Crusader leaders who left the main body of pilgrims."
"Alright, but what's this I hear of him being captured?"
Pedro suppressed a laugh. He knew better.
"It seems poor Herman was captured by one of the Turkish leaders. They are demanding that he give up his claims in Armeniacon in exchange for his freedom and return to Germany, never to return to the Levant."
Sancho remembered what his father had said about Herman. "Arrogant and ambitious, he didn't get that chunk of land for nothing. His drive was unmatched by most of the leaders of the Crusade, knowing his fortunes were tied to the success of it."
"He'll never agree to those demands," said the King of Portugal. "And neither will I or any Crusader leader."
"Exactly," said Pedro de Maia. "Which is why he will remain imprisoned for the foreseeable future."
"Speaking of imprisonments." said Sancho, "where are we with our prisoner?"
Pedro smiled. "He claims he has given all he knew months ago. Of course, being transferred to Portugal from the Holy Land may have taken a toll on his mind, as he appears to speak to angels - so he says. It may well be demons."
"Well, whatever it is, I want to see him. I think it's time we decided what to do with him.
---
The dungeon was dark and damp, with human filth here and there. The only lights were a few torches lit for the sake of the King and his chancellor.
Among petty criminals and serial killers, men who should never see the light of day, was a Muslim leader from far beyond Iberia, somewhere near the Caspian Sea. This was the man that Sancho and Pedro were here for.
His name was Malik, and if he was to be believe, a high chief of some Turkic tribe beyond the Sultanate of Rum and her allies/vassals.
He'd been captured during the same battle that Afonso I had been killed. The first instinct by his captors was to kill him, but one of them, greedier than most, realized that he might be able to be ransomed. A boon for the Portuguese treasury, which was being drained to support the Crusaders in Anatolia.
It never happened. The envoys sent to Malik's homeland had come back empty handed - in some cases, literally. The tribe had no money to pay for their leader's freedom. Thus the high chief languished in Lisbon's dungeons, with the hope that one day, he might prove valuable to the Portuguese crown or the Anatolian Crusade. Military secrets, a potential prisoner transfer, something to make his capture worth their while.
Well, it had been some time and Sancho thought giving him food, even scraps from the butchers, was a waste of resources. He had come down here to give the man one last chance to plead for his life. Two guards stood ready as the king entered the cell with just a torch in hand. Malik was near famished, his beard more scraggly than usual but his eyes defiant as ever.
"High Chief Malik," said Sancho in Arabic. "I fear that you are about to outlive your usefulness to me. Tomorrow I am sending you to the garrote. Do you know what that is?"
Malik remained stone faced.
"It is a wire attached to a post. You'll be tied to this post, and I will personally tighten the wire closer and closer to your neck... until you run out of air and your throat is cleanly split open." Sancho was making a dramatic effect in his words, but that was the point. He wanted to scare the bastard into submitting, if possible. If not... well, the garrote could always use maintenance.
"So I'll ask one last time. Do you have any information you want to share?"
The threat was obvious. But Malik didn't budge. More silence.
Sancho was tired. "No answer? Fine. We use the garrote first thing tomorrow."
