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- Herausgeber: Armida Publications
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
On the eve of a new crusade, Cyprus, the last Christian stronghold in the Levant,
is torn apart when the Templars connive against King Henry in favor of his brother Amaury.
The enigmatic Lois, with the assistance of the Seneschal’s scribe, Nicholas,
undertakes to spy on Amaury while a serfs’ rebellion is underway.
The arrest of the Templars in Europe changes the status quo, and the Templars on the island bury some of their possessions, drawing maps with their exact location.
Seven hundred years later, one such map resurfaces in Covent Garden and a treasure hunt begins.
Cyprus 2013. The banks raid their clients’ deposits in the ‘bail-in’. Michael Costa goes to bed a millionaire and wakes up struggling to make ends meet. Unexpected help comes when Lucy Hernandez buys his house. Unbeknownst to them, the location of the house is the X-location on the Templar map.
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The Prophecy And The Templar Scroll
By Lina Ellina
Credit page
Copyright © 2019 by Lina Ellina
All rights reserved. Published by Armida Publications Ltd.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission of the publisher.
For information regarding permission, write to
Armida Publications Ltd, P.O.Box 27717, 2432 Engomi, Nicosia, Cyprus
or email: [email protected]
Armida Publications is a member of the Independent Publishers Guild (UK),
and a member of the Independent Book Publishers Association (USA)
www.armidabooks.com | Great Literature. One Book At A Time.
Summary:
On the eve of a new crusade, Cyprus, the last Christian stronghold in the Levant, is torn apart when the Templars connive against King Henry in favor of his brother Amaury.
The enigmatic Lois, with the assistance of the Seneschal’s scribe, Nicholas, undertakes to spy on Amaury while a serfs’ rebellion is underway.
The arrest of the Templars in Europe changes the status quo, and the Templars on the island bury some of their possessions, drawing maps with their exact location.
Seven hundred years later, one such map resurfaces in Covent Garden and a treasure hunt begins.
Cyprus 2013. The banks raid their clients’ deposits in the ‘bail-in’. Michael Costa goes to bed a millionaire and wakes up struggling to make ends meet. Unexpected help comes when Lucy Hernandez buys his house. Unbeknownst to them, the location of the house is the X-location on the Templar map.
[ 1. Mystery & Detective - Historical 2. Historical - Fiction / Medieval
3. Romance - Contemporary 4. Romance - Historical
5. Romance - Time Travel 6. Travel - Literary 7. Action & Adventure ]
Cover images:
“The Arn Limited Edition Official Movie Sword” by Søren Niedziella. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license and was only partially modified to fit the purposes of the cover design.“Leiden, Universiteitsbibliotheek, BPL 25 (9th century)” – Photo by Erik Kwakkel - medievalbooks.nl
This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0) and was only partially modified to fit the purposes of the cover design.
Photo by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash
This novel is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
1st paperback edition: March 2019
ISBN-13 (paperback): 978-9963-255-87-0
Table of Contents
Credit page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Chapter 1 - 1280
Chapter 2 - 2013
Chapter 3 - 1291
Chapter 4 - 2013
Chapter 5 - 1291
Chapter 6 - 2013
Chapter 7 - 1299
Chapter 8 - 2013
Chapter 9 - 1299
Chapter 10 - 2013
Chapter 11 - 1299
Chapter 12 - 2013
Chapter 13 - 1299
Chapter 14 - 2013
Chapter 15 - 1299
Chapter 16 - 2013
Chapter 17 - 1299
Chapter 18 - 2013
Chapter 19 - 1300
Chapter 20 - 2013
Chapter 21 - 1300
Chapter 22 - 2013
Chapter 23 - 1300
Chapter 24 - 2013
Chapter 25 - 1301-2
Chapter 26 - 2013
Chapter 27 - 1303
Chapter 28 - 2013
Chapter 29 - 1303
Chapter 30 - 2013
Chapter 31 - 1304
Chapter 32 - 2013
Chapter 33 - 1304
Chapter 34 - 2013
Chapter 35 - 1305
Chapter 36 - 2013
Chapter 37 - 1305
Chapter 38 - 2013
Chapter 39 - 1305
Chapter 40 - 2013
Chapter 41 - 1305
Chapter 42 - 2013
Chapter 43 - 1305
Chapter 44 - 2013
Chapter 45 - 1306
Chapter 46 - 2013
Chapter 47 - 1306
Chapter 48 - 2013
Chapter 49 - 1306
Chapter 50 - 2013
Chapter 51 - 1306
Chapter 52 - 2013
Chapter 53 - 1306
Chapter 54 - 2013
Chapter 55 - 1306
Chapter 56 - 2013
Chapter 57 - 1306
Chapter 58 - 2013
Chapter 59 - 1306
Chapter 60 - 2013
Chapter 61 - 1306
Chapter 62 - 2014
Chapter 63 - 1306
Chapter 64 - 2015
Chapter 65 - 1306
Chapter 66 - 2018
Chapter 67 - 1307
Chapter 68 - 2018
Chapter 69 - 1310
About the author
Also by Lina Ellina
Dedication
To Andreas, the love of my life, and our four wonderful children
In loving memory of my father, Nicholas
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my historical editor, Dr. Nicholas Koureas,
my publisher, Armida Publications,
and all my friends who read the manuscript for their invaluable feedback
Introduction
This book consists of two parallel stories, set in the same place but in different centuries. Nevertheless, once one gets into the book one soon realises that despite the differences in time as well as in the characters figuring in each story, it is the similarities rather than the differences that spring to mind.
Anyone familiar with the medieval and modern history of Cyprus, even in a general fashion, cannot be but struck by the historical parallels between both periods. In the early fourteenth century Cyprus, a western kingdom ruled by a Frankish royal dynasty originating from Poitou in France and with a largely Greek population, was developing rapidly in economic terms, having become a major trading entrepôt after the loss of the Holy Land to the Saracens, was nonetheless bedevilled by war overseas and unrest at home. Expeditions from Cyprus attempted, albeit without success, to recover parts of the lost territory, with the failure to do so creating internal unrest and providing opportunities for the enemies of its ruler, King Henry II. The most ambitious and unscrupulous of them was none other than his own brother Amaury, who eventually usurped the throne in 1306 with the support of a section of the Frankish nobility and of the Templars, who themselves were to suffer arrest throughout Europe just one year later, in 1307 on the orders of King Philip IV of France and Pope Clement V, who had the Templar Order abolished in 1312. As for the usurper Amaury, he was murdered in 1310, with his brother restored as king shortly afterwards.
Likewise, Cyprus in the 1960s and early 1970s was also enjoying rapid economic development, largely through tourism, but this took place against a backdrop of internal unrest. Many Greek Cypriots desired enosis or union with Greece, despite British and Turkish opposition, and blamed Archbishop Makarios, the island’s president, for the failure to achieve this aim. Like King Henry II in 1306, Makarios was overthrown by a Greek-inspired coup in July 1974. This coup, followed by a Turkish invasion of the island and the occupation of over one third of its territory, led to his restoration by the end of 1974, just as King Henry II had been restored. Furthermore, both before and after 1974 Cyprus was regarded as and indeed used as a springboard for Western intervention in the Middle East. It was seen for decades as a strategic asset within the context of the Cold War between the Soviet Union and the Eastern Bloc countries and the United States and its allies.
In this respect the parallels with the wider political context of the medieval Lusignan kingdom of Cyprus are remarkable. The kingdom of Cyprus was itself a product of the Third Crusade that set out from Western Europe to reconquer Jerusalem, that had fallen to the Saracens under the leadership of Saladin. One of its leaders, King Richard I of England, conquered Cyprus in the summer of 1191 on his way to the Holy Land from Isaac Komnenos, a Byzantine rebel who in 1184 had proclaimed himself emperor, and then sold it, firstly to the Templars and then when they returned it to King Guy de Lusignan, the dispossessed king of Jerusalem. Guy founded a dynasty that would rule Cyprus for over three hundred years. During this period, as well as during the one hundred years of Venetian dominion that followed it, Cyprus was likewise a strategic asset in the long drawn out conflict between Western Christendom and Islam. Pope John XXII (1316-1334) described it as being located ‘on the confines of the Hagarene nation’, while one century later the Cypriot chronicler Leontios Makhairas depicted it, with a touch of melancholy, as ‘an orphaned realm’ placed between Turks and Saracens. In the early fourteenth century as in the late twentieth Cyprus was a borderland but also a meeting place, not simply between rival political blocs but also between different cultures.
This is brought out very skilfully in the book. The romance blossoming in the early fourteenth century is between the Frank Nicholas and the Greek Lois. In a similar vein, the romance maturing in post-1974 Cyprus is between the Greek Michael Costa and the Englishwoman Lucy Hernandez. Political upheavals and personal tragedies impact on the lives of ordinary people, and the heroes and heroines of this story are no exception. Nicholas is the adoptive son of the fief-holder Ramon of Provence, for his own father, a bosom friend of Ramon, was killed in warfare. Lois, who loves him loses both her parents to the bloody flux and so is raised by her maternal grandfather George Contostephanos. Michael Costa likewise becomes an orphan, raised by his own grandfather after his parents are killed during the Turkish invasion. The tragedies scarring their lives reflect the greater tragedies and upheavals scarring Cyprus. Yet they find love and emotional fulfilment in the end, and so the book ends on a note not of depression, but of optimism, underpinned by a conviction that even the most fearsome odds can be overcome. On a final note I cannot refrain from remarking that Lina Ellina, besides producing a gripping and suspense filled story, has placed it in its wider historical context(s) in a truly masterly fashion, in the details as well as in general. Having recently written a paper on the production and export of soap in medieval Cyprus I was touched to see that Nicholas and Lois at the end of the story engage themselves in exactly the same enterprise to make a living. Readers of this book will find that the melding of romance and history herein is a very felicitous one.
Dr Nicholas Coureas, a Senior Researcher at the Cyprus Research Centre, works on the history of Lusignan Cyprus and has published various books and articles on the subject.
Chapter 1 - 1280
An eight-year old boy tethered his mount to the trunk of a sturdy pine tree and ascended the steep cliff cautiously, oblivious to the drizzle and the cold. The muddy path curved and sloped upward abruptly, and he was mindful of each step he took on the slippery stones.
He came to a secluded cave and stared at it with trepidation. Its entrance was partly covered by the falling water of the cascade and partly by the large branches of an old willow. With reluctant steps, he reached the cave opening and took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light.
“Come in, king’s son,” a rough female voice startled him.
He shivered, as if cold steel had brushed the back of his neck. How did she know who he was? For a moment, he was tempted to turn around and run away, but his desire to find out the answer to the question that niggled at him like a sore tooth was too strong to ignore.
He pressed a piece of silver in the woman’s hand. “Tell me what you see,” he said, assuming the air of authority kings are meant to have.
The woman looked him up and down, put the silver aside, and took his hand in hers. The boy felt the calloused hand studying his palm and the nails tracing his palm lines but told himself he had nothing to fear. The sheath with his knife was secured safely in his boot.
His father would probably punish him if he ever found out that he had sought counsel outside the palace and the Church. He forbade the old ways, but when young Amaury heard the servants in the kitchen talk about the seer in the wilderness, he could not help wondering what his future held. And God must have approved, for his father had decided to take him hunting with him in the vicinity of where the soothsayer dwelled the very next morning.
The woman with the ageless face fixed him with her gaze but remained taciturn.
“Well?” the boy asked eagerly. “Will I be king?”
It was unlikely. He was the fourth of King Hugh’s sons. The four boys, John, Bohemond, Henry, and Amaury had been born within a difference of thirteen summers. But disasters happen, he thought. Warriors perish on battlefields. Even accidents and diseases occur.
The woman quivered and not entirely from the cold. The sun had vanished from the sky when the boy entered the cave. It was a sign of wroth gods. His hand foretold abhorrent deeds. She shut her eyes and chanted an incantation. Amaury stared at the unearthly creature in awe.
When the woman spoke at length, she chose her words carefully. “You will rule over the people of this island, but there will be blood on your hands. Ask me no more. Now, leave!”
The boy looked at her stunned. She seemed exhausted. He wanted to ask what she meant about the blood on his hands but did not dare. Not because she forbade him, but because he was afraid to find out. He was too stricken to attempt to ask, though he would wonder many a time in the years to come why she did not say the actual words: that he would be king.
Still dazed by the revelation, he scrambled to his feet. His heart beating like rumbling, distant thunder, Amaury sprinted back to his mount, balancing safety and speed, shielding his face with his arms from the branches. With trembling fingers he untethered his horse, jumped into the saddle, and dug his spurs into his flanks. He galloped back to the hunting party lest he be missed.
Chapter 2 - 2013
The early morning sunlight peeped through the drawn blackout curtains on a March Friday, waking Michael Costa up. A lazy smile flickered across his face. He was in the best of moods. He caressed the smooth skin of the ravishing model lying by his side, his fiancée. She swayed her hips invitingly, and he indulged willingly.
“Promise you’ll wake me up like this every morning for the rest of our lives,” she said in a pussycat voice.
“If you’re a good girl.” He gave her a quick kiss on the lips and swung his feet out of bed.
Michael shaved and put on a navy blue suit. He struggled between a light blue and a yellow tie but decided he did not need one. He glanced at his thickset figure in the mirror, arranging his collar and went down the stairs sprightly where Lola, a stray brown and white beagle that followed him home one day, was waiting for him to show her affection.
Michael had only coffee for breakfast that morning. He checked on his grandfather in the small house adjacent to the back garden, got into his brand new silver convertible, and drove off, a smug smile on his lips.
Half an hour later, he was entering the main branch of the Cyprus Popular Bank on the commercially busy Archbishop Makarios Avenue in Limassol. An hour later, the sale of his gourmet restaurant chain, Chez Michel, was sealed and two million euros were transferred into his savings account. He had already made plans to start a gourmet catering business. Though he would worry about that after his honeymoon, he took out a loan of half a million euros to set up the new business, using part of the two million as collateral.
He was getting married next Saturday and he no longer wanted to work nights. Night life had a way of burning one out, and he had had enough of that. Instead, he meant to become a family man, have two children, preferably a boy and a girl, ideally in that order. At the moment, he was looking forward to surprising Adriana with a romantic fortnight away in Bora Bora.
Michael bounced out of the bank, sliding his dark shades on. He got into his convertible, lowered the roof, and turned the music on. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm, cruising down the avenue toward the beach and the Four Seasons Hotel to discuss the last details for the wedding reception with the food and beverage manager.
Michael was pleased with himself, thinking he had all the answers. Little did he know that come midnight, through no fault of his own, he would have nothing left in his bank account, and he would still need to repay the loan of half a million, even though he would never touch the money.
*
In her Kensington apartment, Lucy Hernandez tucked a lock of her honey blonde hair behind one ear and emptied her coffee mug. Her brain cells still craving caffeine, she poured herself a second mug, turned on the TV, and put on her make-up. The news was on the bail-out in Cyprus which turned out to be a bail-in.
Only the previous evening she had heard how Troika was threatening to cut off the emergency liquidity assistance to the country unless their parliament voted for a levy on all bank deposits, including those of up to one hundred thousand euros. It was a package measure unheard of, its legality questionable, and the way it came into being rather unorthodox. Lucy had no idea if Cypriots had brought this misery upon themselves, though she suspected politics had something to do with it. The impossible ultimatum this small country had been presented with, she thought, was immoral. She pursed her lips. During shootings of the last episode of ‘Med Cuisine’, she had taken a liking to that sun-drenched place and its hospitable people.
The moment she turned off the TV, the problems of an island thousands of miles away were forgotten. Lucy slipped into a white silk blouse and peach pencil skirt that accentuated her petite figure, checked herself in the mirror, and smiled with satisfaction. The bright colors she had chosen lit up her face and made her look younger. It was William’s birthday, and she had taken the day off to find him a present and meet him for lunch before his evening class.
William Sinclair was in his mid-forties, a dashing professor at UCL, teaching Medieval History. His academic résumé attested his numerous publications on the Order of the Knights of the Temple. Born to wealth and position, he exuded confidence and authority. Sinclair was also a man of sophisticated taste, and Lucy had dwelled for days on what to get him for his birthday. This would be the first birthday present she would be giving him, and she wanted it to be special. The mere thought was daunting, as if she was taking an exam, but she was determined to find a gift that would stand out.
In search of inspiration, she set off for Covent Garden’s Jubilee Hall Market. Lucy always enjoyed a stroll there, a quaint place full of history, where she could find anything from antiques to food. After two hours of searching fruitlessly, she began to feel a twinge of disappointment. All she had come across were souvenirs, and she could only imagine William’s distaste at them. About to switch to plan B, a bottle of Château Margaux, a medieval map caught her eye. She stepped closer and studied it carefully.
It was a map of the wider Grand Commandery feudal estate in Western Limassol, home to the oldest named wine in the world, commandaria. She only recognized it because of the ‘Med Cuisine’ shoot. Whenever she had visited a place for a film shoot, she had made sure to carry out thorough research and to use little bits and pieces of interesting information when demonstrating local products and recipes.
She turned the map around in her hands. It was a parchment with a broken wax seal that depicted two knights on a horse. The Templar seal; if she recalled William’s description correctly. Like many historians, William was often caught in the manic grip of enlightening the laymen around him about all sorts of details that had no place in today’s world, and Lucy sometimes had to make an effort to show excitement. It had been easy at first; everything was new to her. But then she sensed rather than saw his disenchantment when she could not retain all the knowledge he impressed upon her. In fairness, she probably got equally carried away when she talked about flavors and recipes, she thought.
What mattered was that the map would be the ideal present for him. Filled with a surge of exhilaration, she walked to the checkout counter and waited patiently in line, looking dreamily around and imagining his expression when he saw the seal.
With her valuable possession secured in a fine scarlet leather cylinder, she glanced at her Frédérique Constant wristwatch, his birthday gift to her last month. It was almost lunch time. She leisurely strolled to the Floral by Lima Restaurant where she was to meet him, unable to wipe the grin off her face. She had found the perfect gift for him!
Chapter 3 - 1291
Sequestered by a dense cypress fence, the modest casale of Ramon of Provence was not more than a speck on the map, squeezed between the huge estates of the Grand Commandery of the Knights Hospitallers in Kolossi and the casale of the Count of Jaffa in Episkopia. At its narrowest point, where the Kouris River bordered the Provence casale, you could throw a javelin from one end of the estate to the other. The fief had been the king’s reward for shielding him from a lunatic assailant during a hunting expedition, losing an eye in the process, and for a life of loyal service.
Still youthful at the age of fifty-one, Provence rode Mistral, his black stallion, across the fields, his long silver hair blowing in the wind. He kept a light hand on the reins, letting his mount set its own pace. Recently back from the defeat of the Christian army at Acre, Provence longed for the placid life on his estates. Eloise, his wife, had made him promise that this had been his last battle, a promise he made only too eagerly and one he had no intention to gainsay in the future. His serfs, sowing artichokes and peas, recognized his stalwart figure from afar. He slowed down and passed by them unhurriedly, raising a hand in greeting as they bowed their heads.
Provence reined his mount to a halt and readjusted his black eye patch when he reached Nicholas, his eleven-year-old squire, who was practicing with the pell. Provence had taken him as a page at the age of six; a little earlier than usual, as a favor to his dying friend and comrade in arms. The mother had died at birth. True to his word, Provence had treated the boy like his own son and even given him his name. And so, young Nicholas took up the study of courtesies and the craft of knighthood.
Eloise had borne Provence two daughters. The first was stillborn and the second died in her sleep when she was a baby. Then the Lord blessed them with four healthy sons, and for one moment in life, Provence was happy.
But within the last two years, he had lost the first two; his first-born, Bernard, at the siege of Tripoli, and Olivier, his second son, in a hunting accident. Their thread of life cut prematurely short was a nightmare without end. Provence was still praying for strength and waiting for time to pass until the pain and the sorrow became bearable. But he knew this day would never come. It was unnatural for a father to bury his sons.
The only distraction from grief had been Nicholas’ training and a game of chess in the evenings with Kontostephanos, his Cypriot bailiff. The boy had brought life into the house and his training a sense of purpose. Peyre, his third son, spent almost his entire time in church, studying the Scriptures, and his youngest, Albert, was simply not suited for the military life. To Provence’s concealed disappointment, the boy was more interested in clothes and spices than in weapons. But he was a good boy, handsome as well, and Provence loved him all the same. He was his son.
Provence cast an approving eye upon the young lad with the wavy black hair and the clear green eyes, as he got ready to strike his heavy wooden sword against the tree trunk of a century-old nettle tree for the hundredth time. A few paces farther away, four-year-old Lois watched his moves attentively. The little girl had been following Nicholas, the only other child in the manor, everywhere since she could put one foot in front of the other. She lifted the stick in her hand, and mimicking Nicholas, she charged at a nearby myrtle tree trunk but missed and fell over.
Nicholas laughed heartily, walked up to her, and offered her his outstretched arm. “Vine aquí, pichòt!” Come here, kid!
She accepted his arm gracefully, pushing the mop of thick dark curls from her face. “Mercés,” she thanked him in lenga d’òc.
Provence was not utterly surprised to hear Nicholas and Lois exchange a few more sentences in Greek. He had already noticed the boy’s greatest potential, his linguistic aptitude, in his Latin lessons. “Interesting,” he murmured, rubbing his chin, as a plan began to take shape in his mind.
*
George Kontostephanos was no ordinary man. He had a quick, inquiring mind and uncommon resolve. He was hard-working, forthright and governed in conduct by kind benevolence. Kontostephanos descended from an old Byzantine family of archontes, the landowning aristocracy. Their land taken away from them, the archontes had no place in the new kingdom of Cyprus under the Lusignans. Those who had not left for Byzantium had been degraded to serfs.
Kontostephanos’ father had stayed but had been prudent enough to bestow on his son the knowledge of High Greek and Latin which had served him in diverse ways. Above all, Kontostephanos had been raised to a lefteros, a free citizen, a privilege granted to very few islanders. It also allowed him to stay on in what used to be his family estates as bailiff. His aristocratic lineage granted him deference among the Cypriots who looked up to him for guidance.
But Konstostefanos’ life had changed in the last three years. Both his daughter and her husband had died of the bloody flux, leaving Lois, their baby girl, behind. Kontostephanos’ sister, a nun who lived in the barren land south of the Salt Lake, helping in the construction of the nunnery at Cape Gata, had volunteered to take Lois into her care, but Konstostefanos believed that life in a convent was a choice Lois had to make for herself when she was older.
“You have asked to see me, my lord?” Kontostephanos’ creased face appeared at the door opening of the great hall.
“Yes, come in, Kontostephanos. Pour us some wine while I prepare the chess board,” Provence said.
Provence was a man of simple tastes and few pretensions. He led a quiet life, liked plain food, but had a weakness for wine. Kontostephanos offered him a chalice and took a seat across from him, as he was setting the last pawns on the chess board.
Provence raised his chalice. “A la vòstra.”
“Eis ygeian,” Kontostephanos matched the toast in Greek.
Provence moved the pawn in front of his queen and said, “I would like you to teach Nicholas Greek for an hour after practice every day.”
Kontostephanos raised his eyes to him for a moment and inclined his head. “It would be an honor, my lord.” He moved a pawn, saying, “Might Lois also attend?”
A man who always thought ahead, Kontostephanos had meant to teach his granddaughter how to read and count. She was perhaps a bit too young to start, but he could help her before their evening prayers. Knowledge had been his only means to ameliorate his own life. He hoped it would do the same for his little Lois.
Provence advanced his left knight, contemplating that women were not supposed to learn to read so as not to receive love letters from unwelcome suitors. Worse still, literate women were frequently perceived as the devil’s handiwork. He decided not to take issue with Kontostephanos’ request. Apparently, their views on the subject matter differed. He glanced up at his bailiff’s thinning white hair.
“I see no harm in that. He could practice Greek with her.”
“In that case, might Lois sit with the young master in his other classes as well?”
Kontostephanos was pressing, but he knew Provence was fond of him and his little girl. It would be an unparalleled opportunity for Lois. Who was to tell how she could use this knowledge? If she were married to a serf, not at all, Kontostephanos reflected; yet life was full of twists and turns.
Provence opened his mouth to deny Kontostephanos’ request flatly but changed his mind. He had observed how Nicholas did his best when he knew someone was watching. “All right then. If Nicholas does well, she can stay. If he gets distracted or delayed, she will have to stop.”
“Of course, my lord. You are very kind! Thank you.”
“Your move,” Provence said impatiently, eager to play chess.
*
Long after Kontostefanos bid him goodnight, Provence remained seated in the great hall, pressing the tips of his fingers together in a little steeple. The reflection upon the aftermath of the recent fall of Acre caused him many uneasy hours. The Christian army had been vanquished, and support from the West had dwindled as rulers seemed more preoccupied with fighting each other. It was pure luck that the Sultan of Egypt, who had sworn to destroy Cyprus after the siege of the port of Alexandria, had been murdered. To prevent one another from ascending to power, a lot more emirs took up killing their peers.
Provence sensed that Cyprus’ near future lay not on battlefields but in diplomacy. The language used in the Levant, the Eastern Mediterranean, was Greek. There would be ample time to prepare Nicholas for a position in the palace while continuing his knighthood training. A combination of both skills would set him apart. The young lad seemed up to it.
*
In his manor in Strovolos, Amaury lay still in bed, his nightshirt soaked with sweat. With eyes wide open, he stared into the darkness and waited for John’s ghost to leave him in peace. It had been six years now that his eldest brother’s ghost haunted him, tearing his sleep asunder.
Amaury’s despair was all the greater, for his was a burden he must bear alone; a secret he must take to his grave. He oftentimes wondered if John plagued Henry’s repose as well. He assumed he did but had never found the nerve to ask. Some things were best left unsaid. Eleven years after the prophecy, he understood the part about blood on his hands only too well. He still had to figure out the part about ruling his people.
Despite his youth, he was only two months shy of his nineteenth birthday, Amaury was a seasoned battle commander. His reputation for bravery preceded him. What no one knew, however, was that his bravery, bordering on recklessness, was partly rooted in provoking the Grim Reaper to take him and put an end to his haunted nights.
His thoughts turned to the discussion he’d had with Henry earlier that day. In the fight against the Saracens, Henry needed to forge a stronger alliance with Armenia. He wanted Amaury to marry Zabel, one of the Armenian king’s sisters. Amaury had heard of her legendary beauty and should have been pleased with Henry’s choice, but he demurred. He shifted in bed, his mouth twitching. What would she think of his nightmares?
Chapter 4 - 2013
Hunched over a steaming mug of coffee, Michael watched the financial analysts on TV. He pecked on his laptop, browsing from site to site for breaking news. The minister of finance had just returned empty-handed from a crusade to secure a loan. The country’s immediate future seemed bleak. Rebuilding the shattered economy would take years, if not decades.
In the meantime, the little experiment carried out on Cyprus had been met with skepticism, and a new directive that guaranteed deposits of up to one hundred thousand euros was now underway. That was not much, but it was better than nothing. Michael had always adapted well to change and found himself ruminating on how to use best whatever money he would be left with when the banks opened again; he had a flair for business.
The breaking news at the bottom of the screen caught his eye: ‘Cyprus Popular Bank Closing?’ He gasped and held his breath. That was his bank! How was it possible that the second-largest bank could fail? How could anyone have the right to steal the money he had worked a lifetime to earn? Michael was furious with whoever was responsible for this mess, Cypriot or foreigner. If only he had not trusted his cousin, a branch manager at the bank. He had reassured him that the high interest rates on deposits were a means to attract more capital for the bank’s overseas investments.
Michael passed a hand over his shaved head. Life as he had known it would no longer be the same. The realization bored down on him with a devastating impact.
He turned the TV down and picked up his ringing cell phone. It was Adriana. He took a deep breath to calm himself and did his best to smile when he spoke to her. “Good morning, sweetheart.”
“Good morning, Michael.” Her voice, though guarded, came as a pleasant break from all this distressing news.
“How was the fashion show in Paphos yesterday?” Normally, he would have gone with her, but she had insisted that he should best stay home and think of a way out of this mess. Michael was not sure that there was much he could do at the moment but did as she had said.
“Michael, there’s something I have to tell you.”
He took a sip of his coffee and put his mug down on the table. “I’m listening.”
“I can’t do this.”
He did not like the sound of that. “You can’t do what exactly?”
“I can’t marry you.”
“What?”
“You deserve someone better than me.” She had picked up the line from a movie.
A pause.
“Oh, hilarious! You had me going there for a moment. Is this a joke? It’s not April Fool’s Day yet, is it?”
“I’m serious, Michael. I’m leaving. I have this new contract from a modeling agency in the Emirates. I’m sitting on the plane as we speak. It wouldn’t have worked between us. I’m sorry.”
“On the plane? Now? Really?” He breathed in slowly. Now he knew why she had not wanted him with her in Paphos. “How long have you been planning this? When were you going to tell me?” Michael snapped, his patience wearing thin.
“I’m telling you now.”
“Over the phone! You couldn’t even tell me in person?” His brows bumped together in a scowl.
“You’d make me change my mind. I know it’s hard to believe right now, but I love you, Michael, with all my heart.”
“You have a funny way of showing it!” he said, narrowing his lips.
“I’m sorry!” Her voice broke.
Michael tried hard to understand. Why was she doing this? Had he done or said something? He racked his brain but nothing came. Everything had been fine until a few days ago. And then it dawned on him. “If you ever loved me, answer just one question for me truthfully!”
“Michael, we’re taking off. I must go.”
“Just one question. I deserve that much.”
“All right,” she said reluctantly.
“Are you leaving because I’m broke?” There was a pregnant pause, and Michael became conscious of holding his breath.
“I can’t be poor again. I’m sorry, Michael. I must go now. Goodbye.” She ended the call and turned off her cell phone.
Michael tried to call her back, but his call went straight to voice mail. He tossed his cell onto the table, his nostrils flaring. He darted to his feet, thoroughly blindsided, almost too angry to think. He paced up and down, shaking his head in disbelief then threw himself down on the chair again, unable to shake the feeling of being dragged deeper and deeper into a Kafkaesque nightmare.
He wiped his face in a downward motion, looked up, and cast a perfunctory glance at the pendulum. Pappou, his grandfather, would be home soon from his morning swim, and Michael did not want him to see him like this. A cold shower would help, he thought, and rose to his feet.
*
“Oh, and don’t forget the deadline for your assignment on the Third Crusade next week,” Professor Sinclair said, finishing his lecture on Richard the Lionheart.
The students drifted out of the auditorium, and Sinclair gathered his things when two female students approached him. “Professor Sinclair, we were wondering if you might have a moment to explain the importance of capturing Cyprus for the Third Crusade. I mean –” one of the girls began to say.
Sinclair flashed a smile at them that made them sigh inwardly. “I’m sorry, ladies. I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you today. I have an appointment, and I can’t be late. Why don’t you come and see me during office hours?”
“Of course,” the girls said and walked away, head down.
Sinclair had a gift for enchanting students, female ones in particular. Someone would always want to talk to him for a few minutes, but today he did not have the time for that. He left the auditorium in long, brisk strides and went past the main library and the Bloomsbury Theatre. He crossed Gordon Street and entered Christopher Ingold, the building that houses the Department of Chemistry. He took the elevator to the second floor and knocked on Professor Keller’s door. Charlie Keller was the head of the department, a colleague and friend, but most of all, a fellow member of the Order.
“Hello, William,” Keller greeted him with a smile. “What brings you here?”
“This,” Sinclair said, handing over the cylinder containing the parchment with the Templar seal. “You might want to wear gloves,” he pointed out meaningfully.
Intrigued, Keller grabbed a pair of gloves from a glove container and removed the parchment from the cylinder. His brows furrowed at the sight of the seal. He raised his eyes and looked at Sinclair. “Where did you get this?”
“Lucy found it in one of the stalls in Covent Garden.”
“Ah! Lucy! Such a nice girl,” Keller said. “And smart,” he added, pointing at the parchment. He chuckled. Keller had been surprised at first that Lucy had outlasted the female competition on campus that long. But maybe she was a good match for Sinclair after all.
“Yes, that’s Lucy,” Sinclair nodded in agreement. “It’s probably just another counterfeit, but could you run a check anyway?”
“I’d love to! I’ll get back to you as soon as I have the results.”
“Thank you, Charlie. I owe you one,” Sinclair said and walked to the door.
*
The house was as still as a cemetery when Michael carried the empty boxes to the bedroom upstairs. In a way, it suited his mood. It was like the funeral for a relationship based on deception. He had been betrayed. Now, it felt like he was digging a grave without a tombstone, wishing for the grass to grow over it and cover it quickly so that it would be out of sight and out of mind forever.
Overcome with emotion, he let the boxes fall on the wood flooring. Everything in that room reminded him of her. He snorted bitterly. She never thought much of wearing clothes and would move around the room in the nude, swaying those lean hips teasingly in front of him, and he would always indulge in that pleasure. They had great sex together; he missed that already. And they enjoyed going out for the evening. Adriana turned heads wherever they went, and Michael could see men’s lustful gazes but never felt jealous. He had always believed that beauty is to be admired.
He stared at the boxes with a sense of finality. She was not coming back. Did he want her back? In retrospect, Michael was not sure he had ever really loved her. He knew what love was. He had found true love once – many years ago.
He closed his eyes and sighed. He needed closure, yet gathering Adriana’s personal belongings for charity filled him with anger and bitterness. The world around him was falling apart with lightning speed, but Michael was certain of one thing: he had done nothing to deserve this; any of this.
Chapter 5 - 1291
After the destruction of Salamis, the ancient name for Famagusta, Nicosia became the capital city of Cyprus in 965. With its modest palace and its beautiful Gothic Santa Sophia Cathedral, it struggled but failed to resemble, even remotely, other large Christian capitals with their impressive palaces and castles. Even Famagusta, the island’s major port, was larger and richer.
In the Lusignan palace, Henry would often sit and marvel at the paintings of Cimabue and Cavallini adorning the walls in the solar. With a good eye for art, Henry had begun early to assemble his own collection. But today he was too distraught to admire the paintings.
A man of a small stature and delicate frame, Henry had been fifteen when he succeeded his brother John to the throne six years earlier; his second eldest brother, Bohemond, had died four years before that. Henry was handsome and determined to be a good king, but he was lately susceptible to poor health and sensitive to criticism.
He peered at the map on the table in front of him, his brows knitted in a frown. His reign so far had been ill-fated. After his success at capturing Acre from the Angevins only a month after his coronation, the Saracens had conquered one Christian stronghold after another: Tyre, Beirut, Tripoli, and now Acre. No one could have saved these places, but Henry sat on the throne, and the responsibility fell on his shoulders.
“My lord,” the Seneschal, interrupted his thoughts, and Henry met his eye. “The lords are all here.”
Henry nodded, draped a deep blue mantle, lined with gold silk, over his shoulders, and went down the stairs. He took a moment to arrange his face into a mask of royal serenity and strutted into the great hall where the members of the High Court had assembled. Whispers faded away as he assumed his place on the throne on the high stepped dais, embellished with an Armenian carpet.
“My lords, before we start discussing the matters of the day, let me remind you that as of today, we will be keeping written records of the High Court sessions for better future reference.”
This was one of the novelties Henry had introduced, for which he felt very proud. Since most of his nobles had limited knowledge of Latin, he had decreed that the records be kept in Italian or French; another modernity. In his effort to make his administration more efficient, he had even extended the court’s role from an advisory body to a true court, responsible for trying and punishing criminals.
Henry cleared his throat and went on, “The Holy Land has fallen. The entire Christian world is watching, holding its breath. Will Cyprus be next? Or will our tiny realm rise to the challenge of the times exemplarily and become the stepping stone for a new expedition? I would like to hear your views.” His voice carried well, the tone factual and grave in equal measure.
In the sensitive equilibrium of uneasy coalitions, Henry knew only too well that his court expected him to act as first among equals. Although he had been nurtured on the ideal of the recovery of the Holy Land, the young king was not a man blindly enamored with war. His anxiety to prevent spilling the blood of his subjects for a city he could not hold made him look less wholehearted. His dilatoriness bordered on cowardice, his critics said, to his aggrievement. Henry was also well aware of what the Orders wanted: war.
“I would also like to hear your views on how to best deal with the influx of Christians, arriving daily to our shores from the Holy Land.” The consequences brought about by the sudden increase of the population of the island were alarming.
“The Seneschal will have flour sent to the bakers in Famagusta to bake bread to be given out at the port. And the castellan will ensure that the loaves are apportioned to the right people. The queen and I shall distribute alms here in the capital,” he went on.
There were some anxious whispers, but no one spoke for a while.
“My liege,” Provence said, “perhaps we could enlist some of the poor knights and sergeants.”
“Indeed, we should; as many as possible… Houses that stand empty can be used to shelter those who do not have a home to go back to,” Henry added as an afterthought.
Provence wondered if the nobles who had houses standing empty would like that.
“It seems unfair that we should lift such a heavy burden alone,” Amaury pointed out, and the nobles nodded in silent agreement.
“You are right. We shall write to the Pope, requesting support from other rulers and the Holy Sea,” Henry said. The court members seemed pleased.
“My liege, there’s another urgent issue,” Amaury said. “You should claim to be the Titular King of Jerusalem or the title will be lost forever.”
Henry smiled approbation at his younger brother’s political foresight. Amaury was learning fast, and Henry was counting on him to have his back. A man who took chances where other men spurned, Amaury was also a man to be relied on to keep his head in the heat of battle. If only he could learn to master his temper like he mastered his sword!
“And so, indeed, I shall,” Henry assented. The idea was first mooted once he was safe onboard on his way back to Cyprus after the great catastrophe at Acre.
“It is my belief that we need to start preparing for a new expedition,” Amaury added with conviction, and the hall was filled with whispers. The magnitude of the moment was lost on no one.
Henry’s impassive face did not give away his irritation. He had been expecting that argument from the Templars or perhaps the Hospitallers; not from Amaury, though he knew what a warlord his brother was. He had seen Amaury fight, unburdened by the fear of death that plagued most men.
With a difference of only two years between them, Henry and Amaury had been inseparable, like light and shadow. They had practiced their Latin and at the quintain together. Unlike Henry, Amaury was sturdy and had matched him, risk for risk, throughout their boyhood. They challenged each other to the most outrageous dares in horse racing, swimming, rock climbing, even in brothels.
But since the fall of Tripoli, Amaury’s first battle command, his mood had become more and more mercurial. Henry had sent him in charge of a company of knights and four galleys. They had been heavily outnumbered. Defeat was inexorable. Henry suspected that Amaury faulted himself for the loss of the men under his command; perhaps even that he had failed him. No one could have fought more bravely. Henry knew that.
That same year, he made Amaury Titular Constable of Jerusalem and the year after that Titular Lord of Tyre. Yet Henry sensed a gap between them, one he was finding hard to bridge. He wished his uncle, Philip of Ibelin, were there. He could always rely on his counsel. But from his letters, it seemed that it would be several weeks before he returned to the island.
Provence saw the indecision in Henry’s eyes and the quiet expectancy on the nobles’ faces. There had been rumors that he had been too slow to go to war against the Saracens, but Henry, who had just come back from the calamity at Acre, dismissed these rumors as invective accusations of a cabal of malcontent, ill-willed nobles.
Provence cursed under his breath. Whatever his other faults, Amaury was not a fool. Why then would he bring the subject up now?
“Perhaps we should not rush, my lord,” Provence said, adroitly steering the attention to him; his voice rising up above the whispers. He had an uncanny sense of alliances shifting.
“Why wait?” Amaury ranted, tilting his head back. “It might take months to gather an army again anyway.” A man with little patience with people who contradicted him, Amaury spoke with emotion. The tension in the great hall was palpable.
Provence looked him straight in the eye with the serenity of a man who had long since made his peace with his Maker. “This is true, of course, my lord,” he said. He had lost one eye, he reminded his listeners, but his good eye did not deceive him. “We cannot go to war with empty coffers, and at the moment they are severely depleted. We should use whatever money is available, levy a tax if need be, to improve our roads and bridges and make trade easier. Trade will fill our coffers. Then we will be ready for war.”
Provence’s gaze swept around the room; he could smell new enemies coming out of the woods. A pack of wolves was waiting to pounce.
“Such talk is a disgrace to Christianity, a blasphemy! God wills to protect His Son’s birthplace against the Infidel,” the Count of Jaffa carped at full throttle. Provence felt disgust when people spoke as if they knew God’s will. “Then Jesus entered the temple and drove out all who were selling and buying in the temple,” the count went on, quoting Matthew, as if delivering a sermon.
The count was ardently supported, the passion of opposing opinion evident. The Templar and the Hospitaller Grand Masters were quietly assessing the evolving situation. Discussion rose and ebbed till the king raised a palm and ceased it.
“I thank you for your views. You will all agree that we need to set the taking-in of fleeing Christians as our priority. There will be plenty of opportunity to discuss further action in the near future,” Henry said, trying to maintain the equilibrium, trusting in Providence. War had been staved off for now.
*
The birds’ chirping filled the air as Provence traversed the burgeoning greenery in the palace gardens, heading for the stables after the court session.
“Provence!” an abrasive voice called out his name. He stopped and looked over his shoulder as Enric of Roussillon caught up with him.
“Roussillon,” he acknowledged him warily.
Enric of Roussillon was a bilious man. The smallpox he had suffered at the age of seven had left him badly scarred. People blinked and strove not to turn their eyes away at the sight of his repulsive face. Even his own wife demanded that all shutters were closed and all candles blown out before he touched her.
Roussillon had never come to terms with the king’s change of heart about the casale at Kouris River. Right before the hunting expedition, in which Provence had saved the king’s life, Henry had promised him that estate. In the end, he had given Roussillon another much larger, albeit arid, piece of land.
Roussillon, who reveled in dirty tricks and ambushes, tried to coerce Provence into exchanging their fiefs. Provence, a man who chose his battles wisely, knew he was no match for Roussillon’s rich family if it came to a confrontation. So, he suggested a marriage between Bernard, his eldest son, who would inherit the estate, and Aceline, Roussillon’s eldest daughter. What had seemed an ideal settlement at first, however, turned sour with Bernard’s death. Provence then mentioned the possibility of another betrothal between Olivier, his second son, and Aceline. Everyone was satisfied for a while until Olivier’s tragic hunting accident.
“It has been a while. Let us walk together,” Roussillon said, and Provence feared he knew what he wanted to talk about. “It has been nigh on six months since Olivier’s death.” It had been only four, but Provence thought it wiser not to correct him. “I think you will agree that this was a respectful time for mourning. My Aceline is not getting any younger, and I have three more daughters to see settled down. So, why not have Peyre marry Aceline in Olivier’s place?”
Subtlety in manners was an art Roussillon had yet to master, Provence thought. “This would be a wonderful arrangement if only Peyre had not entered the clergy.”
He hadn’t – not yet anyway. But he wanted to. A marriage would make him miserable. Provence would have to send him away as soon as he got back home.
Roussillon uttered an oath. “All right. You have another son, do you not?” He exerted himself to curb his temper.
“Indeed, but Albert is still a beardless boy, much younger than your fair Aceline,” Provence pointed out calmly.
“Are you trying to insult me?” Roussillon’s scoff of disbelief left little room for maneuvering.
Provence looked away uncomfortably then back at him. “No, of course not. I will speak to him.”
Chapter 6 - 2013
Michael stood by the large French windows in his living room and looked out into the distance. He was in a foul mood. The thought that Adriana had been with him only for his money stung; so did notifying everyone that the wedding was off. He texted a laconic message: runaway bride – wedding’s off, hoping it would stop people from calling to find out what had happened. He did not want to talk about it. Next, he canceled the wedding reception and the honeymoon.
He shook his head, puzzled. Just a few days ago, he was a wealthy, happy man with a great future ahead. How did he get from there to here?
“You’re a lucky man, Michael,” pappou said, folding his newspaper, placing it on the couch next to him.
“You think?” Michael said, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged. “I guess it could have been worse. She could have let me wait for her at the front of the church,” he said self-mockingly.
“You’re better off without a woman who loves you for your money; she will walk out on you the moment she comes across a thicker wallet. Better now, before you have any kids,” pappou concluded with the gelid detachment of a man who had seen it all before.
Michael bit back an irate retort. “Gee, thanks!”
Pappou looked at him kindly. His forbearance under provocation never failed him. “You’re miserable because you’re focusing on what you cannot have. Happiness is being grateful about what you do have: health, youth, a wonderful house, a gift for cooking. Happiness is a choice. Self-pity won’t get you anywhere!”
“What? Has it occurred to you that I’ve lost everything in one night? Not to mention that I have no idea how to go about starting a new business without cash and with the banks closed! This is ridiculous!”
“You were, of course, too young to remember, but when we escaped from the Turks in ’74, we only had the clothes we were wearing. We had literally nothing but one another, and that was plenty! We did it then, we’ll do it again! It’s a different kind of war. They didn’t take our lives and land this time, but our money. Have faith! Have patience! Money comes and goes. They can take away our money, but they can’t take away our smile! Now, I could use some help with the gladioli.” Pappou’s voice was authoritative and unwavering.
Michael looked at the old man with a sense of pride and admiration for his buoyant spirit. It was he who should be giving pappou courage, not the other way around. Experiencing a twinge of shame, he came abruptly to his feet and walked to the door.
“Well, come on! What are you waiting for? Let’s plant the gladioli!” he said, giving pappou the most optimistic smile he could muster up.
*
William Sinclair walked the short distance to the heavy flying buttresses of Chartres Cathedral and looked for the small iron side door. It was unlatched, as they had said it would be. He winced when the gate jarred open against the stone floor, cast a cursory glance around, and stepped inside unnoticed as the bells chimed at midnight.
Though there was no time to marvel at the stained glass windows, he was awed by the mystic atmosphere surrounding him as he descended the narrow spiral staircase, careful not to bump his head on the low ceiling. This was the first time he had been invited to one of the Order’s clandestine meetings. When he had first heard of them, he thought they were no more than a legend. Yet here he was!
If one looked closely, one could detect the remains of engraved hexagons and triangles on the stone wall. He moved toward the circle of the candlelit labyrinth. On the far side of the room, there were four heavy oak seats, covered with vermillion velvet. An eight-pointed cross pattée was carved in the center of the horizontal wooden surface at the top of each seat.
Sinclair proceeded to the inner circle, at the center of the labyrinth, as he had been instructed. Moments later, four dark suits marched in and took a seat, their faces concealed in the shadows.
“Professor Sinclair, you believe you’re in possession of a Templar parchment,” the Grand Master said, his voice resonating in the empty cathedral.
This had been the first time the Grand Master had addressed him, and Sinclair felt a thrill of excitement. “This! It’s a map with the seal of the Order,” he said, holding Lucy’s birthday gift up, struggling to keep the triumph from his voice.
“And you’re certain that this is not one of those imitations readily available in stores?”
“I had it authenticated by one of our own, Professor Keller at UCL.” Sinclair was not discouraged. He had expected them to be suspicious.
“What does it depict in your opinion?”
“Professor Keller believes that the parchment dates back to the early fourteenth century. It’s a map of the Grand Commandery, the area around Kolossi Castle that came into the knights’ possession in 1306, shortly before the trials. An educated guess would be that ‘X’ marks the location where the knights hid a treasure, or maybe documents, before abandoning the island or being thrown into the dungeons. What’s perhaps even more intriguing is the riddle in invisible ink.” He deliberately did not give more away to trigger their curiosity, and it worked.
“A riddle?”
“Yes, it goes like this:
‘You shall find your faith
In Lorraine,
On the tree whose seeds
Weigh gold,
Facing Ursa,
Taking as many strides
As Judas’ pieces of silver.’”
“And have you solved the riddle?”
“I have a working theory about the symbolism, but it would be safer to visit the place first,” Sinclair said circumspectly. “I, therefore, request permission to investigate this further on site.”
