Spirited (6 page)

I had to see her again, if only to know I was not insane.

As fall gave way to winter, the temperatures dropped some, and my father took ill. The doctors said it was scrofularia. A humiliating diagnosis. Who’d ever heard of a king afflicted with the disease known as the “king’s evil”?

The nobles were in discord over the news, claiming God had set a curse on the Lusignan name. Henry with his falling sickness, Father with the king’s evil, and me with my obsession. Though my father asked me to deal with the nobles and assure them all was well, I had no time for bootlicking and flattery, nor could I stomach Father’s aides grooming me to be king. They claimed Charles of Anjou vied for Jerusalem and, eventually, Cyprus. They echoed my brother’s concerns about traitors and advocated a court of the King.

All weighed heavily on my shoulders, and I convinced myself that if only I could see Amunet again, all would be well. The advisors took their concerns about my lack of duty to my father’s sickbed, and I was summoned to his side.

Scrofularia had drained his strength. He looked half his weight, and his fevered skin glistened in the torchlight. When he spoke, phlegm made his voice raspy.

“My advisors say you have an obsession, John. Is it a woman?”

Seeing no reason to lie, I said, “It is, sir.”

At this he laughed, wheezing his way into a coughing fit. When it passed, he said, “A prince who could have any woman pines over one he cannot have. Isn’t that the way of things?”

I had no answer for this.

“What’s her name, boy? I’ll have her brought before me, and you shall have her.”

Typical of my father to demand things go his way. But I did not want him to know how Amunet came out of the senet box. He might think me mad, might take the box away. “She went to Alexandria.”

“Fled, did she? Well, send someone to bring her back.”

“I’m afraid only I can do that, sir.”

My father wheezed a long sigh. “You see I am unwell, John. I plan to mend fully, of course, but if my Lord should take me to Him, you must step up to the task. If you do not, Henry will. I would rather not look down from Heaven to see Henry iron-handing my people. He is openly opposed to all traitors nearly to the point of being one himself. Watch your back, son.”

“Henry doesn’t scare me, Father.”

“He should. Your brother is ruthless. He twists his falling fits into a gift from God. I know he’s beguiled your other brothers to his cause. And they work to convince the nobles. Now then, take a month, go to Alexandria, bring back your woman in chains if you must. Then I need you to assume some responsibilities here. Talk with the nobles. Appease my advisors. Put Henry and your brothers in their place. Guy and Aimery, especially, for they practically worship Henry. Do this for me, will you?”

“Yes, Father. I will.”

“That’s my son. You’ll make a fine king someday, John, so long as you keep your wits about you rather than letting them float loose amongst the clouds.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I must rest. I will see you when you return. Do not tarry.”

“I won’t, sir.”

And so I set sail for Alexandria that very day.

~*~*~

As my ship made port, I stood on the quarterdeck and took in the ancient city. Wars and earthquakes had destroyed much of it. Alexandria was in a constant state of construction. I could see Pompey’s Pillar reaching into the sky above the sea of stone buildings. Had Amunet once come here? Gazed at this same view? Was she here now? Did she think of me the way I thought of her?

I prayed for an end to this pining. I had to solve the mystery of Amunet so I could get back to my life.

On land, I sent out half of my eight guardsmen to look for information. The other four accompanied me as I walked, the senet box cradled in my arms. Nervous about Mamluks, my guards marched on each side of me, boxing me in. I no doubt looked out of place, very Christian, and wealthy. That should cause most Egyptians to treat me well, unless someone suspected I was a prince of Cyprus.

We walked through the marketplace, passed several mosques, and questioned a wide variety of people, but found no clue, no one willing to assist me. Most simply looked confused when my translator explained my needs.

We passed the remains of Saint Mark’s Coptic Orthodox Cathedral, which had been destroyed years ago. Though more than half a century had passed since it fell, people had placed flowers at the site as if they still mourned its demise. With Mamluks controlling the area, the Alexandrian climate was still too volatile to rebuild a Christian church.

I had been in Alexandria six days before I found my first and only clue. I was standing inside the Kom el-Shoqafa catacombs a short distance southwest of Pompey’s Pillar, gazing in wonder at the chambers adorned with statues, burial niches, sculpted pillars, and sarcophagi, when an old Arab fisherman hobbled by. He glanced at my group as he passed, then looked away, but his gaze shot back to the senet game in my arms, and his eyes swelled like an owl’s. He continued on his way, though, as if nothing were amiss.

“Sir,” I yelled. “A moment of your time.”

My guardsmen brought him to me. As my translator explained our mission, the man’s eyes grew fearful. He looked at me, glanced at my senet box, then answered, “O holy, foreign lord, may you live forever. I cannot tell you how to achieve this feat, but one of your stature and inheritance can gain nothing but catastrophe by toying with black magic.”

When I asked what he meant by black magic, he said, “What you described—a woman coming out of a box—can be none but magic of the darkest kind.”

I persisted. I showed him the drawer and asked how I might open it. But he only spoke in circles, repeating himself until my own frustration induced a headache.

I would have stayed in Egypt forever, looking for a way back to Amunet, but a missive from Cyprus summoned me home. My father’s health had worsened, and he demanded I return at once. I had no choice. I left that moment for Cyprus.

When I arrived in Nicosia, I could tell that things had shifted in my absence. People looked at me warily, as if I carried some unknown disease. It was the same look most nobles had once cast Henry’s way, fearing the demons they believe inflicted his falling sickness.

My father’s physician told me that many believed I’d gone mad, thinking myself a player in some mythical story—Henry’s doing, no doubt. Not one of my father’s advisors would speak to me. The majority no longer favored me for the crown.

I found my father ill indeed. The scrofularia had gripped his lungs in a vise tighter than Amunet had on my heart. His eyes widened when he saw me, and he stretched out a trembling, bony hand. I took hold of it, disquieted by just how frail his grip was.

“You found her, then?” my father rasped.

I knelt at his bedside and clutched his hand to my chest. “I did,” I lied, unwilling to admit I had wasted three weeks that I could have spent by my father’s side. How had I let Amunet bewitch me from my father’s final days?

“Good,” my father said. “So now you will be happy, and therefore, so will I.” He fell into a coughing fit them, so hard that his body jerked until his blankets slid onto the floor.

I pulled them back over his bony frame.

“Henry tells me I should go to France.” Father sputtered again as if trying to clear his throat. “But I would rather die here than crawl before
la maison capétienne.”

I could only imagine how humiliating it would be for a King of Cyprus to grovel before a King of France, begging for his touch. I didn’t know if I believed the rumors that a king’s touch could heal. I hated that this superstition was my father’s only hope besides a miracle from Holy God. Why was this happening? Why now?

Despite whatever mischief Henry had built up in my absence, my father still favored me as his heir. And as he was still living, none would dare oppose him. He immediately began grooming me to replace him.

I was not ready to be king, but I loved my father and would obey him no matter what he asked of me. So over the next few months, my father set my kingship in motion. He received a letter from Charles of Anjou, formally contesting my claim to the throne. Anjou had no reason but his own ambition. Father said that Anjou could get in line behind Henry and my other brothers, whom we knew were still plotting.

When Henry wasn’t in seclusion for his falling fits, he barely spoke to me but to deliver sarcastic insults. When he was well, he swaggered about with Guy, Aimery, and his gaggle of noble supporters, shooting me evil glares and murmuring just out of earshot.

I had never felt so alone in my life. That I could not reach Amunet… that everyone seemed to favor my ill brother over me… that my father might truly die… I could not fathom it.

But die he did on the twenty-fourth of March in the year of our Lord, 1284. Hugh III was buried at Santa Sophia in Nicosia. I was crowned king the following May at the
Cathédrale Sainte Sophie
. I was titled John III of Cyprus, John I of Jerusalem. The monarchy was mine to direct. All the riches, land, and women I could desire lay at my disposal. I need only ask.

Yet nothing but Amunet filled my mind.

The absurdity of this did not escape me. Was Henry correct? Was I mad to be so entranced? Had she somehow bewitched me?

I sat on my throne and did my duty, but I replayed that night over and over in my mind. Had I pressed some specific part of the box? Tapped out a combination of some kind? Had I said something—a magic word? Could the time of day have been a factor?

I reached to the small table beside my throne and took the senet box in my hands as I had done a thousand times before. The box was smoother now than it had been that day I had lifted it out of the treasure in the hold of
la Petite Baleine
. My hands had worried the cedar to the same softness I recalled of Amunet’s skin.

“What are you doing with that thing?” Henry’s voice lifted my chin. He stood in the center of the room, hand on one hip. Two of my guards stood on either side of him, each with a hand on their sword. I nodded to let them know all was well.

“Why do you care what I do with this box?” I asked Henry. “What does it matter?”

“It has you in a trance. You are useless whenever it’s around.”

Could that be true? I didn’t doubt that the box had a hold over me. I stared at it now, sitting innocently on my lap. I slid a panel back, then another one forward, so that both sides matched. I frowned, then slid the first one back. The familiar tremble of the box brought an involuntary cry of anticipation from my lips.

The drawer popped open. And there stood Amunet, looking at me, looking exactly as she had before.

I jumped up from my throne. “Amunet.” Her name came out in a breath.

“By the saints’ songs,” Henry cried, moving closer. “Where did she come from?”

Amunet spun around to Henry, her black hair flying out like a cape. She looked back to me, her eyes wide, hurt. “
Tu me retrorsum posuit
.”

I shook my head and tried to explain in my best Latin. “I did not mean to put you back. I have been seeking you ever since you left. It has been my obsession.”

She smiled then and sauntered toward me. My heart pounded so hard inside my chest it threatened to destroy me from the inside.

Amunet reached out and slid free the loose piece of wood that formed the drawer. She held it between our eyes, and my gaze shifted focus. “This, my protector,” she said in Latin, “is the key. Swear to me you will never lock it again.”

“I swear to that and more,” I said, bumbling over my Latin. “Whatever you ask of me, up to half the kingdom, is yours, fair lady.”

Her brows rose, two perfect arcs above her dark eyes. “How is it you can make such offers?”

“I am king of Cyprus and Jerusalem.”

“You are a king?” She tugged the rest of the box from my hands. “Well, then, O King, I ask only to hold onto this box so that I may put it somewhere safe. I do not wish to return to its prison again.”

“Your wish is my command, my lady.”

I called my chief minister and made arrangements for Amunet. She was given the best chamber available, three personal maids, and a new wardrobe.

With Amunet at my side, I ruled like a focused king. I met with the royal advisors, placated the nobles, dealt with a long list of duties that had been awaiting my attention, and asked Amunet to marry me. My advisors and brothers disdained this plan. To marry an Egyptian—unless she was a princess—was foolish indeed. The people would think I had partnered with our enemies.

I did not care. Amunet was all I wanted—all I had ever wanted. She filled me like nothing else.

For several months, life was blissful. What little discord my marriage to Amunet had kindled was quickly appeased by Amunet’s charm. The noblewomen adored her. She learned French quickly, moved with the grace of a dancer, and had a way of complimenting anyone who entered her presence so that they left feeling better for having spoken with her.

One night at dinner, Amunet and I began making plans for the one-year anniversary of my coronation. My brothers sulked at the end of the table. I had grown accustomed to their morosity.

Amunet wanted the celebration to be a grand affair, because she had not been there for the real event. “There must be dancers and magicians and athletic competitions.”

“What kind of athletics?” I asked, curious.

“Where I come from, we had the
Ptolemaieia
, a competition of great skills. Sword fighting, feats of strength, horse races, swimming—”

A crash turned our heads to the end of the table. Henry had fallen from his chair and lay twitching on the floor. Guy and Aimery stared as if they could see the demons holding Henry down.

“Don’t just stand there.” I stood and started toward them. “At least move the chair so that he doesn’t knock it onto himself.” I pulled the chair aside and leaned over Henry.

Amunet’s familiar smell drifted over me moments before she spoke from my side. “Will he be all right?”

“He has the falling sickness. It will stop soon, and he’ll need to lie down.”