CHAPTER 22
JULY 1191
Acre, Outremer
Acre was divided between Richard and Philippe, as were the garrison hostages. This did not please those crusaders who’d been at the siege since the beginning and had expected to benefit when it finally fell. After they’d complained vociferously, the two kings agreed to give them a share of the spoils, but not all trusted in royal promises and some ill will lingered. Nor was Philippe happy with the division, for Richard had insisted upon taking the half of the city that contained the citadel, wanting to lodge his wife and sister there, and Philippe had to make do with the Templars’ house. Remembering how he’d been the one to occupy the royal palace in Messina, this seemed like further proof that his status was being deliberately diminished, and he began to nurse yet another grievance against Richard.
Richard paid no heed to these grumblings of discontent and forged ahead, concerned only with making Acre secure as soon as possible, for once the Saracen garrison was ransomed by Salah al-Dīn, he meant to lead his army south. But first the Archbishop of Verona and the other bishops had to reconsecrate the churches, many of which had been used as mosques. Then the streets had to be cleared of the rubble, debris, and garbage that had accumulated during the siege, and habitable houses assigned to crusaders. He’d begun rebuilding the walls at once, but it was nine days before he judged it safe enough to bring Berengaria and Joanna into the city.
ACRE HAD BEEN a notorious seaport prior to its seizure by Salah al-Dīn, known for its diverse population, its raucous vitality, and its multitude of opportunities for bad behavior. As soon as they passed through the gate by the ruins of the Accursed Tower, the women could see that the Acre of old was rapidly reviving, the streets thronged, the markets up and running, taverns, cook-shops, and brothels already open for business. It was bustling and bawdy and they were both fascinated and repelled, but with Richard acting as their escort and guide, they were able to relax and enjoy their tour of this exotic, vibrant, sinful city.
The old boundaries had been restored, the Templars, Hospitallers, and Italian merchants all allotted their own neighborhoods. They barely glanced at the French fleur de lys flying over the Temple to the west, where Philippe was now lodged. But they were intrigued by the Genoese quarter, for they’d never seen a covered street before. It was vaulted, with shaft openings to let in light and air, lined with stalls and stone benches, the air so fragrant with the scents wafting from the soapmakers and perfume shops that they decided they would later return to make purchases, for that simple pleasure had been denied them since they’d sailed from Messina.
They were accustomed to the odd, flat roofs by now, having seen them in Cyprus. But it was surprising to see no buildings of wood, to see so many houses of stone, a luxury back in Europe, and to see canvas awnings stretched across the narrow streets to shelter people from the hot Syrian sun. They were saddened to discover how the Cathedral of the Holy Cross had suffered during the Saracen occupation, and interested to learn that the Templars and Hospitallers had subterranean stables for their horses. Joanna determined to check out the bathhouses for herself after Richard reported that they had rooms with hot and cold pools, with separate accommodations for men and women. And they were delighted by their first sight of a remarkable creature with a humped back and silky, long eyelashes, astonished when it knelt so that its rider could mount. Richard said these beasts were called “camels,” able to go long distances without water. He was more interested in the stories he’d heard of lions in the north, declaring that he’d love to hunt a lion ere they returned home. Joanna and Berengaria exchanged glances at that, the same thought in both their minds, that “home” had never seemed so far away.
After exploring the Genoese and Venetian quarters, Richard took them back to the royal citadel, situated along the north wall. The women were eager to see it, for they knew this would be their residence for months to come. It was built like many of the houses in Outremer, around a central courtyard, with corner towers and a great hall; while it could not compare to the luxury of her Palermo palaces, Joanna was so pleased to have a roof over her head after weeks in tents that she was not about to complain. They exclaimed over the courtyard, for it was paved in marble and bordered by fruit trees, with benches, a sundial, and a large fountain, where water was flowing from the mouth of a sculpted stone dragon.
“Wait till you see the great hall,” Richard said. “The ceiling is painted to look like a starlit sky.” But as they started toward the outside stairway, he was approached by one of his men, and after a brief exchange, he turned back to the women, his smile gone. “The Duke of Austria is here and insisting to speak with me,” he said, not sounding happy about it. “Henri will show you the palace and I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
The women were relieved that the citadel seemed so comfortable. They were impressed, too, by how thoroughly all traces of the former occupants had been erased in such a brief time span, realizing that men must have been laboring day and night to make it ready for them. They admired the painted ceiling in the great hall and its mosaic tile floor, and were delighted by the bedchambers, which were spacious and golden with sunlight, for they had walk-in bay windows that could be opened like doors. One of the chambers had a balcony that overlooked the courtyard, and Berengaria and Joanna immediately began to argue over which one should occupy it; much to Henri’s amusement, each woman insisted the other ought to have it.
Stepping out onto the balcony, Berengaria at once beckoned to Henri. “Is that the Duke of Austria below with Richard?”
Henri and Joanna joined her, gazing down at the scene below them in the courtyard. The duke was a compact man in his early thirties, dressed more appropriately for his court in Vienna than the dusty streets of Acre, his tunic of scarlet silk, his cap studded with gemstones, his fingers adorned with gold rings. Both men were keeping their voices low, but it was obvious to their audience that Leopold was very agitated; he was gesturing emphatically, at one point slamming his fist into the palm of his hand, his face so red that he looked sunburned. Richard seemed more impatient than angry, shaking his head and shrugging and then turning away. Leopold’s mouth contorted and he lunged forward, grabbing for the other man’s arm. The women and Henri winced at that, knowing what was coming. Richard whirled, eyes blazing. Whatever he said was enough to silence Leopold, who was ashen by the time the English king was done berating him. He did not protest this time when Richard stalked off, but the expression on his face was troubling to Berengaria, and as soon as they withdrew from the balcony, she asked Henri why the duke was so wroth with Richard.
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I’ve had no problems dealing with him. We dined together upon his arrival at Acre this spring, and he was pleasant company, liking troubadour music as much as I do. He is very prideful and concerned about his honor, but what man isn’t?”
Henri’s favorable impression of Leopold only deepened the mystery for the women. They were still inspecting the chamber, admiring the glazed green and yellow oil lamps and ivory chess figures when Richard strode in. He was still flushed with anger, but he made an effort to conceal it, asking Berengaria what she thought of the room. “I was told the Saracen commander al-Mashtūb occupied this chamber. The carpet is his, and that chess set. You can decorate however you want, of course.”
Berengaria assured him that she was very pleased with the chamber. She was quite curious about his quarrel with Leopold, but she did not want him to think she was prying into matters best left to men.
Joanna had no such compunctions. “What was that dispute with the Austrian duke all about?”
Richard grimaced. “He was enraged because some of my men took his banner down from the city walls.”
Joanna blinked in surprise. “I assume you assured him that the offenders would be punished. Was that not enough for him?”
“I have no intention of punishing my men. I told them to remove his banner.”
Seeing that Berengaria and the other women shared Joanna’s puzzlement, Henri took it upon himself to explain, knowing Richard was in no mood to do so. “By flying his banner over Acre, he was claiming a share of the spoils. It is understandable, though, Uncle, that Leopold would be aggrieved about it. He’s sensitive to slights, real or imagined. Do you want me to talk to him, see if I can smooth his ruffled feathers?”
“No need to bother.” Richard bent over to stroke Joanna’s ever-present Sicilian hounds. “Let him stew in his own juices. You’ll not believe what he dared to say to me. After I pointed out that he was in the wrong, not my men, he accused me of being high-handed and unfair, as when I ‘maltreated’ Isaac Comnenus! It seems his mother is Isaac’s cousin. I told him . . . well, I’ll leave that to your imaginations,” he said, with a glimmer of his first smile since entering the chamber.
A silence fell, somewhat awkwardly, for both Joanna and Henri felt that Richard ought to have been more diplomatic with the duke; why make enemies needlessly? Berengaria’s natural instincts were for conciliation, too, but she was indignant that Leopold would dare to blame Richard for deposing Isaac Comnenus, who still flitted through her dreams on bad nights. Going to her husband’s side, she said tartly, “He ought to be ashamed to admit kinship to such a wicked man!”
Richard liked her display of loyalty, and when he slid his arm around her waist, he liked the feel of her soft female curves. His body was still surging with the energy unleashed by his confrontation with Leopold, and he drew her closer, his anger forgotten. “Henri, why don’t you show Joanna and Berenguela’s duennas the rest of the palace?”
There were gasps from his wife’s ladies, scandalized that he meant to claim his marital rights in the middle of the afternoon. Berengaria blushed, a bit flustered that he’d made his intention so plain in front of others. But when he leaned over to whisper in her ear, she laughed softly. Joanna and Henri ushered the women out, both grinning.
SEATED BY RICHARD’S SIDE at the high table, Berengaria felt a sense of satisfaction as she looked around the great hall. It hadn’t been easy to prepare a dinner like this on just one day’s notice, but she and Joanna had managed it. The linen tablecloths were snowy white, the platters and bowls were brightly glazed, and the rare red glassware she’d found among the Saracen commander’s possessions shimmered like rubies whenever the sun struck them. The menu was not as elaborate as she would have wished, but their guests were eating with gusto, the wine was flowing freely, and once the dinner was done, they would be serenaded by minstrels and harpists. This was the first time in her two-month marriage that Berengaria had been able to play her proper role as Richard’s queen, entertaining his friends, vassals, and political allies, and she was enjoying this long-overdue taste of normalcy.
The guest list was a distinguished one: the archbishops of Pisa and Verona; the Bishop of Salisbury; the beleaguered King of Jerusalem and his two brothers, Joffroi and Amaury de Lusignan; the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitallers; the Earl of Leicester; Henri of Champagne and Jaufre of Perche; André de Chauvigny; the Flemings, Jacques d’Avesnes and Baldwin de Bethune; Humphrey de Toron; even the master of the Templars, for although Philippe was now residing at their Temple, the new master, Robert de Sablé, was an Angevin baron and one of Richard’s most trusted vassals. The women—Joanna, Berengaria, Sophia, Anna, and their ladies-in-waiting—were in the minority and the conversation so far was distinctly male in its tenor.
They discussed the deadly and mysterious weapon, Greek fire, which was so combustible that it could not be extinguished by water, only vinegar. They took turns guessing the identity of an unknown Christian spy, who’d sent them valuable, secret messages from Acre during the course of the siege. Richard revealed that he was negotiating with the Templars, who were eager to buy Cyprus from him. And they drank toasts to the memories of those who’d given their lives that Acre could be taken—the Count of Flanders, Philippe’s marshal, Aubrey Clement, the counts of Blois and Sancerre, Guy de Lusignan’s queen, and a nameless woman in a long green cloak who’d shot a bow with astonishing accuracy, killing several Saracens before she’d been overwhelmed and slain. They’d begun to talk about Saracen battle tactics when the convivial dinner was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais.
Richard scowled, for the mere mention of the bishop’s name was enough to ignite his temper. Beauvais had earned the undying enmity of the de Lusignans for wedding Conrad to his stolen bride, and he and the duke ran a gauntlet of hostile stares as they were escorted into the hall, followed by Druon de Mello, lagging behind as if he wanted to disassociate himself from their mission. After greeting Richard with very formal courtesy, Hugh apologized for disrupting their dinner and asked if they might speak briefly with him in private, saying that it was a matter of some urgency.
Richard had no intention of accommodating either man, and after a deliberate pause to finish his wine, he said coolly, “I think not. I am amongst friends here, men whom I trust. I assume the French king has a message for me, no? So let them hear it, too.”
The duke and the bishop exchanged guarded glances, while Druon de Mello actually took a few steps backward, like a man getting out of the line of fire. It was becoming obvious that neither Hugh nor Beauvais wanted to be the one to speak first, and Richard suddenly realized what they’d come to tell him. He swung around, his eyes seeking his nephew, and he saw his own suspicions confirmed in Henri’s grim expression. No one else knew what was coming, though, and they began to mutter among themselves as the silence dragged out.
Hugh outlasted Beauvais, for the bishop had no more patience than Richard did. “Our king has sent us to tell you that he has fulfilled his vow by taking Acre, and so he intends to return to his own lands straightaway.”
There was a moment of eerie, utter silence. Then disbelief gave way to outrage and the hall exploded. Men were on their feet, shouting, cushions trampled underfoot and red stains spreading over the tablecloths from spilled wine cups, amid cries of dismay from some of the women as their peaceful dinner turned into chaos. Richard was on his feet, too, raising his hand for quiet. “Shall I send your king a map? He seems to have confused Acre with Jerusalem.”
“We’ve delivered the message,” Beauvais said tersely. “Make of it what you will.”
“There is but one way to take it, and it does your king no credit. He swore a holy oath to free Jerusalem, and now he just . . . goes home? What do his lords say to that? What do you say? Do you mean to disavow your own oaths, too?”
Both men glared at him. “Indeed not!” Hugh snapped, at the same time that Beauvais pledged to remain in Outremer until it was a Christian kingdom again. They were so clearly insulted by the very question that their indignation gave Richard an idea.
“I have to hear this from your king’s own lips,” he declared. “Is he at the Temple?”
“When we left, he was about to sit down to dinner.” Hugh paused. “He’ll take it amiss if you burst in upon his meal without warning.” But he did not sound much troubled by that prospect, and Richard was sure now that Philippe had alienated his own men by renouncing his vow.
“I am willing to risk that,” he said, very dryly. Glancing around, he saw that there was no need to ask if others wanted to accompany him; most of the guests had risen, too. Reaching down, he squeezed his wife’s hand. “I am sorry, Berenguela, but it cannot wait.”
“I understand,” she said. Settling back upon her cushion, she watched as the hall emptied within moments, even the prelates hastening to catch up with Richard and the de Lusignans. She hadn’t lied; she did understand. It was still disappointing to have their first dinner end so abruptly, and she could not help wondering if this would be the pattern for their marriage in years to come, brief moments of domesticity midst the unending demands of war.
Joanna came over and sat down beside her sister-in-law. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement. “Why must women miss all the fun? What I would not have given,” she confessed, “to witness their confrontation!”
CONRAD LEANED TOWARD his friend Balian d’Ibelin, Lord of Nablus, speaking in the Piedmontese dialect that was the native tongue of the marquis and Balian’s Italian father to deter eavesdroppers. “The last time I enjoyed myself so much,” he murmured, “a funeral Mass was being said.”
Balian shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing that the French king had adopted the Frankish fashion of dining on cushions. “So you noticed it, too—that cloud of gloom and doom hovering over the Temple. Any idea what is going on?”
Conrad shrugged. “God knows Philippe is never the most cheerful of men. But I’ve not seen his nerves as raw as this. When Leopold dropped his wine cup, I swear Philippe jumped like a scalded cat.” Glancing down the table at the Austrian duke, he said softly, “There’s another one not exactly bubbling over with joy. I heard he’d had a row of some sort with Richard, but when I asked, he well nigh bit my head off.” Poking at the meat on his trencher with his knife, he sighed. “And the food is as dismal as the company. Well, if I am already doing penance for my sins, I might as well add some new ones. You want to check out that bordel in the Venetian quarter tonight? I’m told they have a Greek whore as limber as an eel.”
Balian regarded the other man in bemusement. “You do remember that your wife is my stepdaughter?”
Conrad was utterly unperturbed by the implied rebuke. “And I cherish Isabella,” he said urbanely. “No man could ask for a better wife. But I’m talking of whores, not wives.”
Before Balian could respond, there was a commotion at the end of the table; a nervous servant had dropped a tureen of soup. Philippe’s mouth thinned, but he kept his temper under a tight rein, for a boy’s clumsiness was a small sin when he was facing such monumental challenges. Absently crumbling a piece of bread into small pellets, he studied his dinner guests. Aside from Conrad of Montferrat, Balian d’Ibelin, and Leopold von Babenberg, they were French lords and bishops, men who’d done homage to him, men he ought to be able to trust. But could he?
His cousin Robert de Dreux had been monopolizing the conversation, but Philippe permitted it because Robert was being highly critical of the English king, implying that there was something very suspicious about Richard’s ongoing communications with their Saracen foes. “Look at the way they’ve been exchanging gifts! Since when does a Christian king court the favor of a Saracen infidel?”
Richard had no friends at that table, but this was too much for Balian to resist, for he had a highly developed sense of mischief. “I heard that Richard sent Saladin a captured Turkish slave,” he said in conspiratorial tones. “But is it true that Saladin sent Richard snow and fruit when he was ailing? Snow and fruit—no wonder you are so mistrustful, my lord count.”
Robert de Dreux regarded him warily, not sure if he was being mocked or not. Balian seemed to be supporting him, his expression open and earnest. But he was a poulain, the vaguely disparaging term used for those Franks born in Outremer, and that was enough to raise doubts in Robert’s mind about Balian’s sincerity.
Philippe set down his wine cup with a thud, sorely tempted to tell his dolt of a cousin that he was being ridiculed. He did not, though, for he would need Robert’s support once word broke of his intent to leave Outremer. But would he get it? Robert’s brother Beauvais had reacted much more negatively than he’d expected, for the bishop was the most cynical soul he’d ever met. So had Hugh of Burgundy. He was studying the other men at the table, trying to determine which ones were likely to balk, like Beauvais and Hugh, when there was a stir by the door. A moment later, Philippe was bitterly regretting having agreed to cede security to the Templars, for their white-clad knights were making no attempt whatsoever to stop the English king from barging into the hall, as arrogantly as if he thought all of Acre was his.
Conrad and Balian stiffened at the sight of the de Lusignans, and Leopold shoved back his chair, regarding the English king with frozen fury. The other guests were bewildered by this intrusion, looking to their king for guidance. Philippe half rose, then sank back in his seat, struggling to get his emotions under control, for he knew he must be icy-calm to deal with this crisis. It would not be easy, though; his hands involuntarily clenched into fists as Richard strode toward the high table. He was expecting an immediate verbal onslaught, but Richard had another strategy in mind.
“My lord king.” Richard’s greeting was gravely courteous, even deferential, as befitting a vassal to his liege lord, a tone he’d rarely if ever adopted in the past with Philippe. After politely acknowledging Conrad, Balian, and the French barons, but not Leopold, he offered an apology for interrupting their dinner. “Alas, this could not wait. We needed to speak with you as soon as possible,” he said, gesturing toward the men who’d followed him into the hall. “We’ve come to ask you to reconsider your decision to return to France, for if you leave, our chances of recovering Jerusalem will be grievously damaged.”
The last part of his sentence went unheard, drowned out in the ensuing uproar. All eyes fastened upon Philippe, midst exclamations of shock and anger. Conrad rose so quickly that his chair overturned. “What nonsense is this?” he snarled at Richard. “The French king would never abandon us!” Not all of the French barons were as sure of that as he was, though, unnerved by Philippe’s white-lipped silence and the fact that so many highborn lords and prelates had accompanied the English king, backing up his contention by their very presence.
“I would that were true,” Richard assured Conrad, managing to sound both sincere and sorrowful. “But the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais say otherwise. Nothing would give me greater joy than to be told they are mistaken. Are they, my lord king?” He turned his gaze back to Philippe, his expression hopeful, his eyes gleaming.
Philippe reached for his wine cup and drank, not for courage, but to help him swallow the bile rising in his throat. “I have no choice,” he said, very evenly, determined not to let Richard bait him into losing his temper. “My health has been dangerously impaired by my recent illness and my doctors tell me that if I do not return to my own realm for treatment, it might well cost my life.”
“Indeed?” Richard’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I was told that your illness was not as serious as my own bout with Arnaldia.” He left it for their audience to draw the obvious conclusion—that he’d nearly died and all knew it, yet he was not renouncing their holy cause.
Philippe realized how lame his health excuse would sound. But what else could he offer? He could not very well admit that his concern over securing possession of Artois mattered more than the liberation of Jerusalem or that he’d loathed every moment of every day since his arrival in Outremer and could not abide the prospect of months, even years, in the English king’s company. “My doctors insist that I have no choice but to return to France. Lest you forget, my lord Richard, my heir is a young child, often ailing. If I die in the Holy Land, my realm would be thrown into turmoil.”
Richard was thoroughly enjoying himself by now. “Your worries about your heir are understandable,” he said sympathetically, one king to another. “I have concerns about mine, too.” Looking around the hall, he saw that Philippe was utterly isolated; even his own men were staring at him in stunned disbelief. Dropping the pretense of commiseration, then, he went in for the kill, his tone challenging, blade-sharp. “It is no easy thing to take the cross, nor is it meant to be. It is a burden that all true Christians willingly accept, even if they must make the ultimate sacrifice for Our Lord Christ. You took a holy vow to recover Jerusalem from Saladin, not to assist in Acre’s fall and then go home once you lost interest. How will you explain your failure to your subjects? To God?”
Philippe’s eyes had narrowed to slits, hot color staining his face and throat. “You are not the one to lecture others about holy oaths!” he spat, unable to contain himself any longer. “Time and time again you swore to wed my sister, lying to my face whilst you were conniving behind my back to marry Sancho of Navarre’s daughter!”
For the moment, all the others were forgotten, and it was as if they were the only two men in the hall, in the world, so intense was the hostility that scorched between them. “If you want to discuss the reason why I refused to marry your sister, I am quite willing to do so,” Richard warned. “But do you truly want to go down that road, Philippe?”
The French king did not, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. But memories of the bitter confrontation in Messina had come flooding back, memories of that humiliating defeat at this man’s hands. He felt like that now, well aware that Richard had their audience on his side, just as he had in that wretched Sicilian chapel. “You want me to stay in Outremer?” he said, his voice thickening, throbbing with fury. “I will disregard my doctors’ advice and do so—provided that you honor the agreement we made in Messina. We swore that we would divide equally all that we won, did we not? Yet you have not done so.”
“What are you talking about? I even gave you a share of my sister’s dower and you had no right whatsoever to that!”
“But not Cyprus!” Philippe was on his feet now, sure that he’d found a way to put Richard in the wrong. “I am entitled to half of Cyprus by the terms of our Messina pact. Dare you deny it?”
“Damned right I do! I took Cyprus only because I was forced to it, because Isaac Comnenus—the Duke of Austria’s illustrious kinsman—threatened my sister, my betrothed, and my men. It was never part of our pact, which was to share what we conquered in the Holy Land.” Richard paused for breath, and then smiled, the way he did on the battlefield when he saw a foe’s vulnerability. “If you want to expand the terms of our agreement, though, so be it. If it will keep you in Outremer, I will give you half of Cyprus.” He paused again, this time to savor the expression of shock on Philippe’s face. “But that means you must share the lands you inherited from the Count of Flanders. It is only fair—one-half of Cyprus for one-half of Artois.”
“Never!”
“Now why does that not surprise me?” Richard jeered. “You care nothing for our holy quest, care for nothing but profit. You may have the blood of kings in your veins, but you have the soul of a merchant, Philippe Capet, and now all know it.”
“And what do you care about, my lord Lionheart? Your ‘holy quest’ is not for God, it is for your own glory and fame! Nothing matters to you but winning renown for yourself on the battlefield. For that you’d sacrifice anything or anyone, as the men foolish enough to follow you will soon find out.”
“Shall we put that to the test?” Richard spun around, pointing toward the Bishop of Beauvais and the Duke of Burgundy. “Let’s begin with your messengers. It is no secret that there is no love lost between us, and I daresay they also believe that I hunger only for personal glory. But you both told me that you mean to honor your vows. Is that not so?”
Neither man looked pleased to be singled out like this. They did not hesitate, though, each one confirming that he did indeed intend to remain in Outremer. Although inwardly he was seething, Philippe showed no reaction, for he’d been braced for their defection. Yet what happened next caught him off balance. Richard turned to Philippe’s guests, the barons, knights, and bishops who owed fealty to the French king.
“What about the rest of you? Are you going to follow your king back to Paris? Or will you follow me to Jerusalem?”
Some glanced toward Philippe, despairing. Some averted their eyes. But when Mathieu de Montmorency shouted out “Jerusalem,” the cry burst from other throats, too, sweeping the table and then the hall. One by one, they rose to their feet, as much a public repudiation of Philippe as it was an affirmation of their faith, all orchestrated by the English king. At least that was how Philippe would remember it, till the day he drew his last mortal breath.
BERENGARIA PROPPED HERSELF up on her elbow, regarding her husband quizzically, for he usually fell asleep soon after their love-making. Tonight, though, he was not only wakeful, but talkative, too, and for more than an hour he’d been giving her a dramatic account of his confrontation with the French king, interspersing the narrative with acerbic comments about Philippe’s manifold failings, both as a man and monarch. Berengaria was very pleased that he was willing to discuss the day’s astounding developments with her, and greatly shocked by Philippe’s decision to abandon the crusade, so she was an ideal audience for Richard’s tirade, convinced that he was utterly in the right, even if he had not been completely candid about his intentions in Cyprus.
After a while, though, she began to realize that there was more than anger fueling his harangue. Putting her hand on his arm, she could feel the coiled tension in his muscles. “Richard . . . I understand why you are wroth with Philippe. But surely it must be a relief, too, to know that you’ll not have to put up with his slyness and ill will, especially since the rest of the French are staying on. So why are you not better pleased that you are now in sole command of the Christian forces?”
“Yes, I will be glad to be rid of Philippe,” he admitted. “Having him for an ally made me feel like a cat with a hammer tied to its tail. The problem, Berenguela, is that he is utterly untrustworthy. He is not returning because he is ailing. He is going back to try to wrest Flanders from Baudouin of Hainaut. And then he will start casting covetous eyes toward my domains, toward the Vexin and Normandy.”
“But the lands of a man who’s taken the cross are inviolable. Surely the Pope would excommunicate him for so great a sin?”
“In a perfect world, yes. In ours, I’m not so sure.”
“How could the Holy Father not act, Richard? The Papal See has always given its full protection to men who go on pilgrimage. How shameful it would be if the Church let harm come to their lands or families whilst they are fighting for the Lord Christ in the Holy Land!”
He smiled at her vehemence. “You’ll get no argument from me, little dove. I hope the new Pope feels as strongly as you do about the Church’s duty to defend those who’ve taken the cross. All I can do from Acre, though, is send word to my mother and Bishop Longchamp, warning them there’ll soon be a French wolf on the prowl.”
She looked at him unhappily. It was so unfair that he must worry about Philippe’s treachery whilst all of Christendom expected him to be the savior of the Holy City. He seemed to sense her distress, for he reached over and took her hand. But that reassuring gesture brought tears to her eyes. He’d lost his fingernails during his illness, and while he’d acted as if it were a minor matter, the sight of his injured fingers reminded her how very close he’d come to death.
She did her best now to hide her concern, for even her brief experience as a wife had taught her that men did not want to be fussed over. There were several copper-colored hairs on the pillow and she tried to brush them away before he noticed, remembering what Joanna had said about his vanity. She only succeeded in calling his attention to them. “That’s odd,” he mused. “Henri said he did not begin to lose his hair for nigh on two months after his illness. I wonder if I’m starting early.”
She was surprised that he sounded so matter-of-fact. “It does not trouble you, Richard . . . losing your hair?”
“Well, it will if it does not grow back,” he said with a smile. “And in all honesty, I’d not have been happy if this happened ere an important event like my coronation or our wedding. I doubt that my crown would have looked quite as impressive if I’d been bald as an egg. But if I have to lose my hair, there is not a better time for it than now. I’m not likely to be looking into any mirrors whilst campaigning.”
He laughed then, as if at some private memory. “Soldiers have many vices, but vanity is not amongst them. How could it be? What man is going to worry about his hair when he might lose his head?” Too late, he caught her look of alarm, and to divert her thoughts from the dangers he’d be facing, he said quickly, “It is hard for a woman to understand what campaigning is like, Berenguela. It is a much simpler life we lead. We have to make do without luxuries like this. . . .” He patted their feather mattress. “Or this . . .” he added, cupping her breast. “We eat what can be cooked over campfires. We usually have to bathe in cold water, so it does not take long until we’re all stinking like polecats. We’ll bring along some laundresses, so at least our clothes will get washed occasionally, and they’ll do their best to keep us from getting too lice-ridden. But you can be sure I’ll not be looking like that splendid peacock who bedazzled Isaac Comnenus and the Cypriots!”
He laughed again, but Berengaria was dismayed by the image now taking root in her mind. Was it not enough that men must put their lives at risk? Must they endure so much discomfort, too? “Richard, that sounds dreadful!”
“No,” he said, “it is not. It is a soldier’s life, no more, no less. Do you want the truth, little dove? I love it. It is the world I’ve known since I was fifteen, the only world I’ve wanted to know.”
She sat up, forgetting to tuck the sheet around her, so intent was she upon what he’d just said. “Why do you love it, Richard?”
“The challenge. I love that, being able to test myself, to prove that I’m the best. Not because I am Henry Fitz Empress’s son or because I wear a crown. Because I can wield a sword with greater skill than other men. Because I have worked to perfect those skills for nigh on twenty years. Because when I’m astride Fauvel, I feel as if we’re one and he does, too. Because I can see things on the field that other men do not. Sometimes it seems as if I know what a man is going to do ere he does himself. And when the fighting is done, I know that I’m the best because I’ve earned it.”
“Are you never afraid?”
He didn’t answer her at once, considering the question. “I suppose so, though it is hard to tell fear from excitement. But I’ve known for a long time that I do not feel the sort of fear that most do, the sort that can cripple a man. Why, I do not know. I just know that I never feel more alive than I do on the battlefield.”
He’d surprised himself by his candor, for this was something he’d rarely talked about, even with other soldiers. “Mind you, it is not just blood and gore,” he said, striving for a lighter tone. “It is the companionship, too, the unique bond you forge with men when you fight together, when you know that they’d risk their lives for you and you for them. Jesu, it is so different from the royal court! And since I am being so honest about it, yes, it is for the glory, too. What Philippe cannot understand is that the glory is only part of it.”
Berengaria did not know if she’d ever understand fully, either. But she was enthralled by this intimate glimpse into his very soul, for it confirmed what she’d begun to believe, that God had chosen him for this sacred purpose, blessing him with the exceptional abilities he’d need to recover Jerusalem from the infidels. “I would have been ashamed today had I been Philippe’s queen,” she said at last. “But I am proud to be your wife, Richard, very proud.”
He reached out, pulled her down into his arms. “Joanna says I do not deserve you, and she’s probably right. I know I’m not the easiest of men to live with. I can promise you this much, little dove. I’ll always try to do right by you.” He kissed her then, his mouth hot and demanding, and when he rolled on top of her, she wrapped her arms around his back, hoping that the Almighty would smile upon them, that on this special night Richard’s seed would take root in her womb. For how fitting that their son should be conceived in Acre, the first of his father’s conquests in the Holy Land.