Characters in The Last Crusader Kingdom: St. Neophytos

The role of the Greek Orthodox Church in the popular opposition to Frankish rule on Cyprus is an important feature of The Last Crusader Kingdom. As explained earlier, this hypothesis was based on the fact that the only named rebel was a priest and that the Greek aristocracy had largely withdrawn to Constantinople. Yet the idea was also influenced by the fact that the only contemporary Cypriot chronicle for this period was written by a hermit monk named Neophytos. 

In contrast to the Latin and French chronicles (that in a sentence or two claim that the people of Cyprus welcomed Guy de Lusignan―after driving out the Templars―and every one lived happily ever after), Neophytos’ account suggests an extended period of oppression, resistance, violence and struggle. To be sure, Neophytos’ descriptions of all the twelfth century rulers of Cyprus are negative and his commentary on contemporary events is characterized by a pervasive sense of gloom and impending doom. 

Yet the fact remains: he was living on Cyprus during the period described in the novel. As such he is the only eye-witness of events that we can still “hear from” today―and he describes the increasing lawlessness and deterioration of governance that is a major theme of my novel. 

Furthermore, he was known to have traveled to the Kingdom of Jerusalem in his youth, giving him at least a little insight into what the Kingdom of Jerusalem was like. Most important, he received many visitors to his hermitage in the period of the novel. The temptation to have Balian meet him face to face was too great to resist!

The historical Neophytos was born to a peasant family in the Cypriot mountains in 1134. He, like his parents, was illiterate. At the age of 18 he caused a major scandal by running away to a monastery to avoid an arranged marriage. Because he was illiterate, he was initially assigned to tend the monastery vineyard, but after five years he had learned to read and write sufficiently to be made assistant sacristan. He performed these duties for two years, but then he expressed his desire to become a hermit. His superiors did not think he was ripe enough at the age of 25 for such a life, so instead sent him on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. He spent six months there visiting the sacred sites and other monasteries, but returned to Cyprus still determined to live as a hermit. 

In 1160, Neophytos found a cave in the Trodos Mountains just north of Paphos and began turning this into his hermitage by hand. When the Bishop of Paphos heard about it, he insisted that Neophytos accept consecration as a priest and also take on a disciple. Over time that one discipline turned into many, and an entire monastery grew at the foot of the cliff containing Neophytos’ cave/hermitage. A church was built and dedicated to the Holy Cross. 

Although Neophytos had initially sought solitude, he was (he says) “forced” to interact not only with the monks of his monastery but with the many visitors who sought his advice. He read voraciously and was also an extremely prolific writer, producing numerous biographies of saints, interpreting scripture, composing hymns, codifying the rules of his monastery, and writing a (lost!) history of Cyprus. He also maintained a rigorous correspondence with people as far away as Constantinople. Last but not least, he commissioned the magnificent wall paints of his hermitage, which had grown into a nave, church and cell, which can still be admired to this day. He is believed to have died in 1214.

Both his writings and his letters demonstrate that far from being disinterested in the affairs of the world, Neophytos was actively concerned and, indeed, engaged in with current events―from his cell in the side of a mountain. In short, although he did not want to live with others in a community, he did care about what was happening beyond his cave. More: he recorded ― and at times tried to influence ― the course of events by the advice he offered his visitors and those with whom he corresponded. 

There is considerable evidence that the educated and aristocratic elites disparaged Neophytos’ somewhat simple and direct style of writing, but this may have been the very reason he was so well loved by the common people of Cyprus: they could understand what he was talking/writing about better than the religious tracts of the traditional, erudite elite writing from distant Constantinople. It was above all the common people of Cyprus who saw in Neophytos a man of exceptional spiritual wisdom.

In the period covered by my novel, Neophytos was already a famous “holy man,” although he would not be sanctified until after his death. Furthermore, by the time the Lusignans came to Cyprus, Neophytos’ monastery had been in existence roughly 10 years. It is not, therefore, so far-fetched that a monk (such as my fictional Father Andronicus) would turn to Neophytos for advice and assistance. As a man with great influence, it likewise makes sense for Neophytos to play a mediating role between Orthodox rebels and Frankish invaders. 

It was only after I had decided to include Neophytos in the novel that I saw the wonderful, additional opportunity to have Humphrey de Toron find sanctuary in Neophytos’ reclusive monastery.  While it is recorded that Toron went to Cyprus with Guy, nothing is heard from him after that. Neither he nor his descendants appear in history as lords and vassals of the Lusignans. Furthermore, because he never recognized the annulment of his marriage to Isabella, Humphrey had challenged Isabella’s marriage to both Montferrat and Champagne. Yet he was conspicuously silent about her marriage to Aimery de Lusignan. This has led historians to assume he was dead by 1197, the year of this last marriage of Isabella. Another explanation, however, is that he had by then made peace with his fate and consciously chose to retire from the world. I liked that image and so included it in my novel.

 

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Writing Biographical Fiction: Humphrey de Toron

The historical Humphrey de Toron is known mostly for what he lost. He lost his fief, his wife, and his freedom; he surrendered the most powerful border castles of Kerak and Montreal to Saladin--and he rejected a crown. Having lost everything to which he had been entitled by birth and marriage, he fades from the pages of history to die in an unknown place at an unknown date, without ever having sired children. 

That would be tragic in itself, but what puts Humphrey on the brink of pathetic is that he was very much to blame for most of these losses. A man of different character might have been the founder of a dynasty, rather than an obscure footnote in history. In creating my fictional Humphrey de Toron, therefore, I was very much looking for an explanation of why Humphrey was the way he was. I had a major hint: contemporary accounts of him call him “cowardly and effeminate,” or “more like a woman than a man.” He was said to be very learned, and to have “a gentle manner and a stammer.”

Why would the heir to of one of the greatest barons of Jerusalem, Humphrey de Toron II, be so “cowardly and effeminate?

Humphrey de Toron II (the grandfather of my character) had not only been the lord of the important fief of Toron, he was Constable of the Kingdom of Jerusalem from 1153 to 1179. Toron owed 18 knights to the crown, making it a mid-sized barony by man-power, but it held two great castles, Toron itself and Castel Neuf on the border with Syria east of Tyre. Furthermore, Constable was not an empty title at this time, but brought with it the duty to muster and command the feudal armies. Humphrey de Toron II repeatedly proved his competence in this role, and died of wounds received defending the young King Baldwin IV at the Battle on the Litani. His son, Humphrey III, had predeceased him, making Humphrey IV his heir.

We do not know how old Humphrey IV was at this time. He would have been at least five and at most thirteen, in either case still a minor. Since young men came of age at fifteen in the Holy Land and Humphrey continued to live with his mother and step-father at least until in November 1183; I think he was most likely born in 1168. If so, he was only eleven when he inherited his grandfather’s barony of Toron. In accordance with the customs of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, although still a minor, he did not become a ward of the king, but remained in his mother’s care. She, however, had remarried after his father’s death. When the elder Toron died making his grandsom his heir, she was on her third husband, the infamous Reynald de Châtillon.

Humphrey had most probably been just six years old when Châtillon became his step-father. Thus, from the age of six he had been in the care of a man notorious for having brutally plundered and burned the peaceful, friendly and Christian island of Cyprus, for having tortured a patriarch to extort money, and would soon make a reputation as a truce-breaker.  If Humphrey was latter “more like a girl than a boy” it was Reynald de Châtillon that made him that way. As a novelist I hypothesize a childhood of intimidation and terror, perhaps intended to make Humphrey “stronger,” but which in fact only succeeded in making him timid and unsure of himself ― as the stutter, and later actions, suggests.  Worst case scenario: he was subjected to child abuse by Châtillon, but there is no historical evidence of this.

Châtillon was also responsible for negotiating a brilliant marriage for his step-son: with the king’s half-sister, Isabella of Jerusalem, in 1180, when Isabella was just eight, and Humphrey probably eleven. While the match itself was a major coup, the marriage contract Châtillon negotiated stripped Humphrey of his entire paternity, the barony of Toron. In exchange he received an annual cash payment. While officially this was because Humphrey would one day inherit his mother’s barony of Oultrejourdain and the King did not want two such powerful baronies in the hands of a single lord, but this argument is disingenuous. First, Châtillon held Oultrejourdain in an iron fist and wasn’t about to give it up as long as he lived. Secondly, other even more important baronies, such as Galilee, were held in personal union by extremely powerful lords, e.g. the Count of Tripoli. It is far more likely that the Queen Mother and her avaricious brother, the titular but landless Count of Edessa, were grasping for Toron to enrich themselves (as they did). Apparently, Châtillon didn’t give a damn about Humphrey’s feelings ― or perhaps he had already despaired of Humphrey ever being capable of commanding troops. Whatever the reasons, the loss must have humiliated Humphrey and isolated him further from his paternal heritage and traditions.

The other consequence of the marriage was that Isabella came to live with Humphrey at the border castle of Kerak. She was imprisoned here, cut off from all contact with her mother and step-father. She too was at the “tender mercy” of the notorious Châtillon. It seems probable to me, the novelist, it was in this hostile environment that the two children formed bonds of friendship and affection. They would both have seen Châtillon as “the enemy,” the man who had torn Isabella from her mother’s arms and taken Humphrey’s inheritance away from him. As a novelist, this is the key to Humphrey’s relationship with Isabella. We can, based on the description of Humphrey and the fact that his marriage was later invalidated in part because it was not consummated, assume that Humphrey was homosexual, yet all accounts stress that he did not want to be separated from Isabella and pined for her years after she had married not just one other husband but three!

Two children in a hostile world: a Victorian depiction of Edward IV's two sons, who were murdered during the reign of Richard III in the Tower of London

But loving Isabella was not the same as sharing her vision and dreams nor the same as respecting her dynastic role as heiress of Jerusalem. In 1186, when Isabella’s older half-sister Sibylla usurped the crown of Jerusalem without the consent of the High Court, the majority of barons were prepared to crown Isabella as a rival queen ― and make Humphrey king of Jerusalem. He was by now at least seventeen years old, more than old enough by the standards of the day to take up the scepter. Baldwin IV, despite suffering from leprosy, had led his armies in person at the same age.  Any young man with an ounce of ambition, a trace of courage, or a sense of self-respect would have snatched such an opportunity. Humphrey instead snuck out in the dark of night and groveled at Sibylla and her husband’s feet.

The argument that Humphrey did this to save the kingdom from civil war cannot be dismissed out of hand, since even if what came was worse (complete annihilation of the kingdom), Humphrey can’t be blamed for not having foresight. He can, however, be blamed for not having the courage to tell the barons who supported him as king to their faces that he refused to play the role they intended for him. Apparently, he pretended to agree, and then betrayed the barons. His actions were certainly characterized as “betrayal” by the baronial faction later. It is also significant that Humphrey’s step-father, Châtillon, was a major supporter of Sibylla. It is possible, therefore, that his betrayal of his wife may have stemmed from a terror of opposing Châtillon, or a pathological devotion to the man who had beaten him into a stammering “coward.” How this affected his relationship with his wife can only be speculated upon, but while they remained married, it’s hard for me not to see in Isabella’s later willingness to divorce him a wound that cut very, very deep.

But first, the man to whom Humphrey had done homage, Guy de Lusignan, had to lose the entire kingdom to Saladin. Humphrey is listed in all sources as one of the prisoners taken by the Sultan at the Battle of Hattin, although it’s unclear what purpose our “more girl than boy,” troop-less ex-baron was doing there. He was not released for two years, by which time he spoke excellent Arabic. It is not clear whether he learned it in captivity or already commanded the language. What we do know, however, is that Humphrey did not come out of captivity hating the Saracens as, for example, Châtillon did.

Humphrey promptly joined Guy de Lusignan’s siege of Acre and took Isabella with him. One presumes this was because after two years of separation the young couple (Humphrey was about 21 and Isabella 17) could not bear to be apart. On the other hand, a medieval siege camp was a horrible, unsanitary place infested with disease, whores, rats and insects, and this siege was one in which the besiegers were subject to frequent attacks as well ― not a terribly romantic place to be.

In November 1190, Queen Sibylla and both her daughters died in Acre and Isabella became the heir presumptive to the throne. Unfortunately, however, she needed the consent of the very barons that her husband had betrayed four years earlier. They weren’t having Humphrey. The condition of her coronation was that her marriage to Humphrey be dissolved. This was not difficult, since she had not been the age of consent when it was contracted.

Humphrey tried to retain his bride. He testified that she had consented to the marriage and that the marriage had been consummated. Unfortunately, there were men present willing to challenge his testimony and demand that he defend his words in judicial combat. Humphrey declined.

Why? He must have known that his refusal to defend his testimony with his body would be seen as 1) proof that he lied and/or 2) cowardice. He must have known that by refusing to fight for Isabella he would lose her. Perhaps he recognized that he was too weak to oppose the barons and that he would lose Isabella whether he fought for her or not. Perhaps, being “effeminate” he simply knew he could not win any contest at arms. In either case, Humphrey surrendered yet again, this time his last and arguably most beloved possession ― without a word.

Humphrey accompanied Guy de Lusignan to Cyprus in 1191, when the former went to meet Richard the Lionheart and seek his support in the dispute over the crown of Jerusalem.  Humphrey, having failed defend his right to his wife in judicial combat, hoped that the powerful Plantagenet would do what he could not and regain his wife for him.  Initially, Richard the Lionheart favored the Lusignan claim to the throne and used Humphrey, who was fluent in Arabic, as an envoy to Saladin.  However, these negotiations soon broke down. By spring 1192, Richard had seen enough to recognize Guy de Lusignan was not fit to be King of Jerusalem and withdrew his support. Conrad de Montferrat, Isabella’s new husband, was recognized as the legitimate king. 

Just days later an assassination cut Montferrat’s life short before he could be crowned. Isabella needed a new husband and the choice of the barons fell on Henri de Champagne. Not only did Humphrey remain utterly unacceptable to the High Court, when Richard next opened negotiations with Saladin he turned not to Humphrey but instead to Balian d’Ibelin.

Humphrey is last mentioned as one of the barons that accompanied Guy de Lusignan when the latter when to Cyprus for the last time.  Apparently, having sacrificed everything because of his homage to Guy in 1186, he remained slavishly devoted to him. It is not recorded that he achieved anything on Cyprus, and he is believed to have died in 1197 or 1198, at which time he would have been approximately 30 years old. There is no indication of the what the cause of death might have been. He left no heirs.

 

Humphrey is a wonderful character for a novel because he was complex and so very different from your average 12th century knight and baron. He was gentle, fluent in Arabic, self-effacing to a fault, and utterly lacking in ambition. And although he contributed directly to the loss of the Kingdom of Jerusalem by his refusal to take up the scepter in 1186 (thereby enabling the disastrous Guy de Lusignan to become king), I found myself  having sympathy for him. My Humphrey is therefore a tragic figure that I hope readers will sympathize with ― even if Balian could not.

Humphrey is a character in the second two books of my Jerusalem trilogy:

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