CHAPTER 27

SEPTEMBER 1191

Jaffa, Outremer

 

 

 

They huddled together, the flaring torches revealing both their poverty and their fear. Richard assumed that they were a family—an older couple, a young wife or widow, and two small children peering out from behind her skirts. The Templar turcopole interpreter beside him looked aggrieved, but the story he’d related was so improbable that Richard wanted confirmation from Humphrey de Toron; he’d come to trust the young poulain even though they were as unlike as wine and buttermilk. When Humphrey finally arrived, obviously roused from bed, Richard drew him aside.

“They told one of the turcopoles that they’ve come from Ascalon, that Saladin forced all the townspeople from their homes and set about destroying the city and castle. But I find that hard to believe, for Ascalon is one of the great jewels in the sultan’s crown. So I want you to question them for me.”

He watched intently as Humphrey interrogated the family, his Arabic so fluent and his manner so courteous that some of their fright appeared to lessen. Even though he didn’t speak the language, Richard did read faces well—a king’s survival skill—and he soon concluded that they were either speaking the truth or were remarkably skilled liars. But how could it be true?

When Humphrey was done, he shook his head, saddened but not surprised by yet more evidence of the suffering that war inflicted, usually upon the innocent and the helpless. “They say that Saladin arrived at Ascalon six days after the battle of Arsuf and personally supervised the destruction of their city. This created a panic, of course, as the townspeople sought desperately to sell what belongings they could not take with them. Their family was lucky enough to have a donkey cart, but many did not and the prices of horses soared, while the prices of household goods and livestock plummeted so low that a man could buy twelve chickens for only one dirham. Whilst some sought passage on ships to Egypt, most of the citizens did not know where to go, and there was much weeping and fear. The sultan opened the royal granary to the people, but most lost everything they owned. They had a candlemaking shop which is gone now, burned like much of the city. They say they are Christians, not Muslims, and so they hoped we would take pity on them.”

Seeing a question forming on Richard’s lips, Humphrey said swiftly, wanting to protect these poor wretches if he could, “I suppose they may be lying, but it could well be true, for it is not unusual to find native-born Christians living in Saracen towns. In fact, Saladin encouraged the Syrian Christians and Jews to remain in Ascalon after he captured it four years ago.” Adding reluctantly, “I can find out for certes if you wish, see if they know the Pater Noster, the Ave Maria, and the Credo—”

Richard cut him off impatiently, for he had more pressing concerns than the religious faith of these bedraggled refugees. “What would compel him to sacrifice such an important stronghold?”

“They say Saladin was sorely grieved, so much so that he took sick when he saw the misery of the townspeople, and they heard he’d even said he would rather have lost all of his sons than demolish a single stone of their city. But his soldiers told them that he’d been advised he could not defend both Ascalon and Jerusalem, and he feared that no garrison could be trusted to hold firm after the killing of the men at Acre. So rather than have it fall intact into your hands, he chose to destroy it.”

It was obvious to Richard that Humphrey believed them, but he was still not convinced that Saladin had truly taken a measure so desperate. “See that they are fed, Humphrey,” he said, and then looked around at the other crusaders, all of them dumbfounded, too, by what they’d just heard. “Take a galley at first light,” he told Joffroi de Lusignan, “and see if Ascalon is truly in flames.”

AS SOON AS Joffroi de Lusignan had finished speaking, Richard moved to the center of his tent. “Well, we know it is indeed true. But the city is not fully razed to the ground yet, so there is still time. I will take part of the fleet on the morrow whilst the Duke of Burgundy follows along the coast road. It is only thirty miles from Jaffa, so we ought to be able to seize the city ere Saladin can complete its destruction.”

“Attack Ascalon?” Hugh of Burgundy was staring at Richard in disbelief. “Why would we want to do that? Now that we hold Jaffa, we can march upon Jerusalem.”

Richard was taken by surprise, for the advantages of taking Ascalon seemed so obvious to him that he hadn’t expected to have to argue about it. “Ascalon controls the road to Egypt,” he said, striving to hide his vexation beneath a matter-of-fact demeanor, “and Egypt is the base of Saladin’s power. If we hold Ascalon, we can cut off his communications and supplies from Alexandria. Moreover, Saladin will fear that we mean to strike into Egypt itself, and so we could—”

“Have you lost your mind?” Hugh was on his feet now, but the Bishop of Beauvais was even quicker.

“I cannot speak for the rest of you,” he said angrily, “but I did not take the cross to help Lord Lionheart add Egypt to his Angevin empire! Was Cyprus not enough for you, Richard? Are you lusting after the riches of the Nile now, too?”

“I am not seeking to conquer it, you fool! It is enough if Saladin thinks we are, for if he believes his Egyptian domains are threatened, he’ll be all the more likely to agree to favorable peace terms—”

“Now we come down to it,” Hugh interrupted. “I’ve been suspicious of your intentions from the first, for you opened talks with Saladin as soon as you arrived at Acre, treating this infidel as respectfully as if he were another Christian prince. But I can assure you that the rest of us did not come to the Holy Land to make peace with the enemies of God. We came to recover the city of Jerusalem!”

“And how do you plan to do that, Hugh? We were able to reach Jaffa because we had the support of my fleet; they kept us supplied. When we head inland toward Jerusalem, we have to bring all our provisions with us. Have you even spared a thought to what a march like that would be like? We cannot put an army in the field to match Saladin’s; we cannot even replace the horses we lose!”

“What are you saying, my lord king?” Even though he was from one of the noblest families of France, Mathieu de Montmorency usually kept quiet in such councils, acutely aware that he was only seventeen years old and a battle novice. But he was too distraught now to remain silent. “You mean we have no chance of retaking the Holy City?”

“I am not saying that, Mathieu,” Richard assured the boy. “But we must first make sure we can protect our supply lines. If we had marched toward Jerusalem from Acre as some of you wanted, we would likely all be dead by now. We reached Jaffa because you listened to me, not the Bishop of Beauvais and his ilk. So heed me now. Ascalon is the key to Jerusalem, and if you doubt that, why would Saladin destroy it rather than risk its capture? It is not enough to take the Holy City. Then we must hold it. And if we have Ascalon, we just might be able to do that.”

Richard had been focusing his attention upon Hugh and Beauvais. Turning toward the others, he was dismayed by what he saw—or did not see. They looked troubled, uncertain, ambivalent, not like men who understood the truth, his truth. Even some of his own lords seemed conflicted. “Listen to me,” he urged, in what was as close as he could come to an entreaty. “I cannot stay in Outremer indefinitely. None of us can. You think Saladin does not know that? All he has to do is to outlast us, wait for us to go back to our own lands. This is why we must come to terms with him. And to get him to agree to a peace that both sides can live with, we need leverage. We need Ascalon.”

“You are giving the Saracens too much credit and our army too little.” Hugh had gotten his temper under control, and his calm certitude was more convincing than his earlier antagonism; even Richard could see that. “This is not just another squabble between the kings of England and France. This is a holy war, sanctioned by Almighty God. Can you not see what a difference that makes? Our Lord Christ died on this hallowed soil. Do you think He has led us this far to fail? You talk of strategy and supplies. But what of God’s Will? I say we continue refortifying Jaffa and then use it as a base to recapture Jerusalem.”

“The Almighty still expects us to do our part! By your logic, Hugh, Ḥaṭṭīn ought to have been a Christian victory since they had God on their side. Yet even God’s Army can be defeated if outmaneuvered and outnumbered.”

“I am glad that you recognize it is God’s Army, not your own,” Beauvais jeered. “If you want to chase off to Ascalon, do so. But the rest of us are going to honor our vows to recover the Holy City.”

Richard’s eyes glittered, his color rising. Before he could respond, Hugh seized the opportunity the bishop had given him. “Do you remember the question you posed to the French lords at Acre? You asked them whether they were going back to Paris with our king or going on to Jerusalem with you. I say we ask again. How many of you want to follow the English king to Ascalon? And how many of you would rather we lay siege to Jerusalem?”

It was soon apparent that Hugh and Beauvais would win the vote count. Richard was backed up by the Templars, the Hospitallers, Guy de Lusignan and his brothers, the other poulain lords, and most of his barons and bishops. But the crusaders from Europe saw Ascalon as a needless detour on the road to Jerusalem. Virtually all of the French, Flemings, Bretons, and some of Richard’s own vassals wanted to recover the Holy City as soon as possible, eager to see the sacred Holy Sepulchre for themselves and to walk in the Lord Christ’s blessed footsteps, but eager, too, to fulfill their vows so they could return to their homes and families and the lives they’d left behind.

Richard was shocked, for he’d honestly believed that his argument would carry the day. How could seasoned soldiers like Guillaume des Barres and the counts of St Pol, Chalons, and Clermont fail to see that he was in the right? Yet of the French lords, only Henri had loyally declared in favor of Ascalon; even Jaufre, looking stricken, had mumbled “Jerusalem.” For several moments, Richard considered going his own way, leading his men and Outremer’s lords south to seize Ascalon whilst letting the others fend for themselves. But that was the Devil whispering in his ear, for what could gladden Saladin more than such a schism in the Christian ranks?

“So be it,” he said curtly, for he was damned if he’d be a good sport about it, not when so much was at stake. “But it is a mistake, one we are all going to regret.”

HENRI AND ANDRÉ had been searching for Richard in growing concern, unable to understand how a king could suddenly disappear. They finally found him on the beach. The wine-dark sky was spangled with an infinity of shimmering stars, the moon silvering the whitecaps as they churned shoreward, a light, variable wind chasing away the last of the day’s heat. But the serenity of the night was at odds with the emotions unleashed by the scene in Richard’s command tent. He turned in the saddle as they rode toward him, and for a time they watched without speaking as the waves splashed onto the sand, receded, and surged back.

“How can they be so blind?” Richard asked after a long silence. His mood had swung from fury to frustration to bafflement; now he just sounded tired. “They are not fools, not even those whoresons Burgundy and Beauvais. So why would they not heed me?”

André had no answer for him, but Henri did. Reining in his horse beside Richard’s Spanish stallion, he said, “Because Hugh was right. A holy war is different. They are listening to their hearts, Uncle, and the heart is not always rational.”

“Are you saying that Jerusalem matters more to them than it does to me? God’s Bones, Henri, I was one of the first to take the cross!”

“No one doubts your devotion to our quest, Uncle. But you are a soldier, first and foremost, and most of them are now pilgrims, albeit armed ones. You want to win the war and secure a peace that Saladin will honor. They just want to recapture Jerusalem, whatever the cost. Try not to blame them for that.”

“I do not,” Richard insisted, not altogether truthfully. “But as I told them tonight, this was a mistake, a great mistake.”

They agreed, so emphatically that Richard took a small measure of comfort in their loyalty. But he remained convinced that they’d let a rare opportunity slip away, one that might not come again.

THEY CONTINUED WITH the refortification of Jaffa, Richard occasionally taking a hand himself in the repair work, which astonished his barons and endeared him to his soldiers. By Michaelmas, they’d made so much progress that Richard felt he could spare a few hours to go hawking in the low hills south of Jaffa. He’d brought his own gyrfalcons on the crusade; they were used mainly against cranes, though, and required greyhounds for the kill once the falcon had brought down its much larger prey. But Saladin had sent him a saker during his illness at Acre, and he was curious to try it out, having been told it was the main hunting bird of the Saracen falconers. They had a successful hunt, catching partridges and even a red hare. Richard was still restless, and after sending the falcons and their game back to Jaffa, he headed out to do reconnaissance.

This hunt was not as successful; they encountered no Saracen scouts or patrols. By now the enervating heat of midday was upon them, and when they found a small stream by a wild olive grove, they dismounted to water their horses and rest awhile. Bracing his back against a tree, Morgan was grateful to escape the Syrian sun, for he did not think he’d ever adjust to Outremer’s torrid climate. Off to his left, he could hear Richard talking with Renier de Maron, telling the poulain lord that they’d heard Conrad had been making overtures to Saladin and asking Renier if he thought Conrad was capable of such treachery. Under another tree, Warin Fitz Gerald had produced some dice and was playing a game of raffle with Alan and Lucas L’Etable. Morgan was half tempted to join in, but that would require moving. He was dozing when Guilhem de Préaux plopped down beside him, saying he’d like to learn some more Welsh curses.

Morgan was happy to oblige, for he shared Guilhem’s interest in foreign languages; they’d both picked up a few useful Greek phrases in Sicily and Cyprus and were now doing their best to master a bit of the equally challenging Arabic. He taught the other knight a handful of Welsh obscenities, translating twll din as arsehole, and coc oen as lamb’s cock, assuring Guilhem that the latter was highly offensive in Wales. Guilhem repeated the words dutifully, committing them to memory, and then asked for the worst insult a Welshman could utter.

“Well, it is a grievous affront to say that a man is incapable of protecting his wife, for that is a serious slur upon his manhood. But I think the greatest insult by far would be to call a Welshman a Sais,” Morgan said, straight-faced. He began to laugh, though, when Guilhem wanted a translation, admitting that Sais meant “Englishman.”

“That does not offend me,” Guilhem said with a grin, “for I’m Norman. I have some new Arabic curses for you, if you’re interested?” Morgan was, and so was Renier de Maron’s nephew, Walter, who moved closer to hear better; it puzzled both Morgan and Guilhem that so few of the poulains bothered to learn any Arabic. Unhooking a wineskin from his belt, Guilhem shared it along with his newfound store of profanities. “Ya ibn el kalb means ‘You son of a dog,’ which is a serious insult since the Saracens think dogs are unclean. To say In’al yomak is to curse the day you were born; I like that one myself. And In’a’al mayteen means ‘Damn your dead.’ But my turcopole friend Adam says the deadliest insult in Arabic is to call a man a fatah, even worse than calling someone a Sais.”

“Are you going to keep us in suspense? What does it mean?”

Guilhem’s grin had now spread from ear to ear. “It means ‘foreskin’!” he declared, roaring with laughter at the baffled expressions on their faces. When he got his breath back, he explained that the Saracens practiced circumcision as the Jews did, and the foreskin was the fold of skin cut off and cast aside.

Morgan and Walter recoiled in mock horror, bringing their knees up to protect their family jewels, and soon all three were laughing so loudly that they attracted annoyed glances from others trying to nap. Reaching for Guilhem’s wineskin, Morgan pretended to ponder this new curse and then shook his head. “I cannot see that being a useful insult once we go back to our own lands. Now ‘Damn your dead,’ mayhap. But if I were to call a man a ‘foreskin’ in a tavern brawl, he’d just stare at me in bewilderment.”

“But whilst he puzzled over it, you could hit him!” Guilhem insisted, and that set them off again. This time they made enough noise to vex all of the men who’d wanted to sleep, and Richard ordered the culprits to take turns standing guard. Walter volunteered to take the first watch, and Morgan and Guilhem drew further back into the shade. Soon they, too, were dozing.

Morgan’s languid dream-state was broken by a sudden shout. He jerked upright just as an arrow thudded into the tree trunk, so close he actually felt the rush of air on his skin. He instinctively ducked, hearing the high-pitched thrumming as another arrow sped over his head and, then, a muffled cry as it struck its target. All around him was chaos. Richard was yelling for them to mount up, the enemy bowmen screaming “Allahu Akbar!” as the men scrambled to their feet. But as the knights hastened to follow Richard’s example—he was already astride Fauvel, his sword drawn—the Saracens broke off the attack. As Richard charged after them, Morgan ran toward his stallion. As he swung up into the saddle, he heard his name called out, and he glanced back to see Guilhem stooping over a man who’d taken an arrow in his shoulder.

“Fulk? How bad is it?” He’d directed the question at Guilhem, but it was the wounded knight who answered, saying he thought he could ride if they’d help him up onto his horse. Morgan quickly dismounted and between the two of them, he and Guilhem managed to boost Fulk into his saddle. His face had contorted and he was sweating profusely, obviously in considerable pain. He assured them, though, that he could make it back to Jaffa on his own, and they had to take him at his word, for they thought Richard’s need was more urgent since they were all lightly armed, not having taken shields, lances, or helmets to go hawking. “Have them send a patrol out,” Morgan flung over his shoulder to Fulk as he and Guilhem spurred their mounts to catch up with the other knights.

Their companions were already out of sight, having disappeared into a copse of trees up ahead. Morgan made sure his sword would be easy to slide from its scabbard, for they could hear sounds of combat by now. But nothing had prepared him for the sight that met his eyes when they rounded a bend in the road. A savage battle was in progress. Bodies lay on the ground, a horse was down and screaming, another galloping in circles, his rider slumped over the saddle, and Richard and his knights were surrounded, fighting desperately against overwhelming odds.

“Mother of God,” Morgan whispered, horrorstruck, for it was obvious to him that they’d not be able to escape this trap; there were too many Saracens. But he could not ride away and leave his cousin the king and the others to die. As he unsheathed his sword, he saw Guilhem had made the same choice, for his sword was out now, too. Their arrival had been noticed and some of the Turks were turning their way. Morgan cried out, “Holy Sepulchre, aid us!” and charged toward them.

Guilhem did the same. But it was no battle cry he was screaming. As he closed with two of the Saracens, he shouted, “Anaa Malik Ric! Anaa Malik Ric!”

The reaction of the Saracens was immediate and dramatic. Heads whipped around in his direction and he was encircled within moments, men snatching at his reins, others leveling swords threateningly at his chest. He did not struggle, dropping his sword to the ground and raising his right hand in the Syrian gesture of surrender. Having taken him prisoner, his guards yelled to their comrades as they bore him away. And as suddenly as that, the battle was over, Richard and the other crusaders watching in stunned disbelief as their foes shied off and raced away, leaving them alone on a field with their dead and wounded.

Morgan was the only one who understood what had just happened and he was still in shock. There was no time for fear when men were fighting for their lives, but now they could acknowledge it, could admit they’d been doomed and then given an inexplicable reprieve. Once they were sure the Saracens had truly gone, they turned their attention to the men on the ground. Richard swung from the saddle, dropping to his knees beside Renier de Maron. The poulain lord’s eyes were open, but they did not see him. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his breath came in rasping gulps as the king grasped his hand. After a moment, Richard made the sign of the cross, closed those staring eyes, and rose to his feet. “How many?” he asked huskily, and winced when a shaken Warin Fitz Gerald told him they had four dead and several more were wounded.

Gazing down at the bodies of the L’Etable brothers, who’d been throwing dice with him and joking less than an hour ago, Warin found himself shivering despite the stifling heat. “Renier de Maron’s nephew is dead, too. His head was bashed in. Gilbert Talbot’s wound seems the worst.... And one of the horses broke his leg. God and His good angels looked after us this day, sire. But why? Why did they stop the fight?”

“I do not know,” Richard admitted, sounding just as mystified, “I do not know. . . .”

“I do.” As they all turned toward him, Morgan slid from his horse and leaned for a moment against the stallion’s heaving side, for he knew the blow he was about to inflict upon Richard. “It was Guilhem de Préaux who saved us, my liege. He shouted out that he was Malik Ric. The Saracens rode off because they thought they’d captured our king.”

There were exclamations from the men, cries of admiration for Guilhem’s courage mixed with fear for his likely fate. Richard said nothing, but all the color had drained from his face. It was only when he realized that they were looking to him for guidance that he pulled himself together and began to issue orders. They had to make the difficult decision to leave their dead for later retrieval; the slain knights’ horses had been seized and led off by the Saracen soldiers. After putting the thrashing stallion out of his misery, they assisted their wounded to mount and rode toward Jaffa at as fast a pace as the injured could endure.

They’d only covered a mile or so before they saw plumes of dust along the horizon. As the riders came into view, Morgan gave thanks again to the Almighty, for not only had Fulk gotten to their camp, he’d sent out a rescue party. André and Henri were in the lead, with the Earl of Leicester and Guillaume des Barres close behind. They were greatly relieved to see Richard was unhurt, but he cut off their rejoicing with a terse account of Guilhem’s capture, and as soon as the wounded were sent on to Jaffa, the others followed Richard as he wheeled Fauvel and led a pursuit of the Saracens that all knew was futile. But after glancing at Richard’s bone-white face, none of them argued with him and they continued on until he was ready to admit defeat.

By the time they got back to Jaffa, the camp was in an uproar, and they were mobbed by men wanting to see for themselves that the king was unharmed. The wounded knights had told of Guilhem’s heroic sacrifice and there was much talk of his bravery, but it was sorrowful praise, for all knew what had happened to Christian prisoners in the aftermath of the massacre of the Acre garrison. As soon as Richard dismounted, he ordered Guilhem’s brothers to be found and brought to his tent. He’d only taken a few steps, though, before the Duke of Burgundy blocked his path.

“Beauvais was wrong when he said you were lusting after the gold of Egypt. It is martyrdom you are lusting after, for there is no other explanation for the way you keep courting your own death!”

Richard’s eyes blazed with such fury that some of the other men instinctively drew back. “Christ, what a hypocrite you are, Burgundy! You expect me to believe your sudden concern for my well-being? We both know you’d like nothing better than to spit on my grave.”

“Not so. I’d much rather piss in your open coffin. But you cannot keep up this mad behavior, not when your death would likely end our hopes of recovering Jerusalem.”

“Get out of my way,” Richard snarled, and when Hugh held his ground, several of the bystanders hastily stepped between the two men, Guillaume des Barres pulling his duke away while the Bishop of Salisbury sought to calm his king’s rage. Henri was pushing through the crowd to reach his uncle’s side. He paused, though, as he heard Guillaume’s low-voiced urgings, telling Hugh that Richard was indeed too careless with his own safety but this was neither the time nor the place to argue that point. Agreeing wholeheartedly with the French knight, Henri sighed and hastened after Richard as he stormed off toward his tent.

RICHARD HAD ALLOWED his squires to remove his mail shirt, then slumped down on a coffer. He’d not worn his gambeson under his hauberk and he’d been badly bruised by blows that had gotten past his sword’s defenses, but he ignored Henri’s plea that he be checked out by his doctor. He looked up only when Pierre and Jean de Préaux were ushered into the tent. It was obvious that they had already been told of their brother’s capture, for they had the dazed look of men torn between pride and grief.

“I want you to know,” Richard said, “that I will do all in my power to gain Guilhem’s freedom. I swear this upon the very surety of my soul and all my hopes of salvation.”

Jean murmured an almost inaudible “Thank you, my liege.” Pierre swallowed with an obvious effort and then managed a sad smile.

“You must not blame yourself, sire. My brother sacrificed himself for his king and for the Holy City, and there can be no greater honor than that. But we know there is no hope. We’ve heard what those Bedouin spies have reported, that Saladin has put to death all Christians unlucky enough to fall into his hands. At least we have the comfort of knowing Guilhem will soon be blessed with Life Everlasting, able to look upon the Face of Almighty God.”

“No,” Richard said, so urgently that they exchanged confused glances. “Saladin will not execute Guilhem, for he understands how much Guilhem’s life matters to me. He knows I will pay any ransom he demands. Your brother is too valuable a hostage to be beheaded, worth far more alive than dead.”

They were hesitant at first to believe him, afraid to embrace false hope. But Richard’s certainty was so compelling and their need so great that by the time they departed the tent, they were no longer convinced that their brother was doomed. Once they’d gone, Henri filled two wine cups until they were in danger of overflowing. Sloshing one into Richard’s hand, he said, “Do you truly believe that, Uncle?”

“I have to, Henri,” Richard said, “I have to. . . .” As he turned away, Henri thought he caught a suspicious glimmer in the other man’s eyes and he hastily drained his wine cup, while he, too, blinked back tears.

RICHARD’S FRIENDS WAITED five days before bearding the lion in his den. Henri and André were the ringleaders and they’d carefully selected crusaders the king was most likely to heed—Baldwin de Bethune, the Earl of Leicester, the Bishop of Salisbury, Morgan ap Ranulf, Jaufre of Perche, Guillaume des Barres, and the Grand Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers. And so on a Friday evening at twilight not long after Richard had returned from a scouting mission, he found himself confronted by men whose opinions he could not dismiss as easily as he had Hugh of Burgundy’s.

“As much as it pains me to say it,” Henri began, for he’d been given the dubious honor of being their spokesman, “there were a few grains of sense midst Hugh’s ranting.” Seeking to head off the gathering storm clouds, he said hastily, “Uncle, even a blind pig can find an acorn occasionally. And whilst none of us believe his charge—that you are courting your own death—we do fear for your safety. The line between courage and recklessness is not as blurred as you seem to think.”

“I lead by example,” Richard said flatly. “Our men are so willing to risk their lives on a daily basis because they see that I am risking mine, too.”

None could argue with that, for Richard had just uttered a basic truth of war, one noncombatants did not always understand—that men fought for one another as well as for causes or profit, theirs a solidarity that only the battlefield could forge. Henri did not think this was going as they’d hoped and he glanced toward the others for support.

“Yes, our soldiers greatly admire your courage, Cousin. But they also fear for your safety as we do,” André said bluntly. “Last Sunday was the third time you’ve nearly been killed or captured in a Saracen ambush, the very same ambushes you warn us to avoid. It was foolhardy to chase after those Turkish archers, especially since you all were so lightly armed. You would have been wroth with any of our men for taking such needless chances. Can you deny it?”

Few would have dared to speak so candidly with a king, especially this one. But André knew that Richard had inherited more than his father’s notorious Angevin temper; he had Henry’s innate sense of fairness, too. Neither man had always heeded it, of course, not a welcome thought as he waited tensely now for Richard’s response.

Richard started to speak, stopped himself, and scowled, for he could not deny it. He would indeed have berated others for ignoring the dangers of an ambush. “One of the benefits of kingship,” he said at last, “is that we get to break the rules from time to time.” Even to him, that was a lame defense, but he really didn’t have one. He did not fully understand himself why he felt this compulsion to be the first into the breach, the last to retreat. What of it, though? It was part and parcel of what made him the man he was, after all.

“I do not doubt that is true, sire,” the Bishop of Salisbury said, with his usual aplomb. “Kings do indeed get to break the rules. And we have not dared to reproach you for your boldness until now. But we can keep silent no longer, not when the fate of the Holy Land balances so precariously upon the blade of your sword.”

“None would argue that all men’s lives are of equal value,” Guillaume des Barres said quietly. “Your life, my liege, is precious in God’s Eyes, and not just because you are a king. You are the man chosen to defeat the infidels and restore Jerusalem to its former glory. You cannot risk such a destiny in needless skirmishes with Saracen bowmen.”

As he glanced around the tent, Richard saw that same belief on the other faces, too, a conviction strong enough to risk his anger, even though theirs was a world in which the king’s favor counted for all. “It is not fair to make God your ally,” he said, half seriously, “for how am I supposed to dispute His Will? I understand your concern, I do. I can promise you this much, that I will try to be more careful in the future. But in all honesty, I cannot promise more than that, for you may drive nature out with a pitchfork, but it will still return.”

Most of the men hadn’t expected much more from Richard and they reasoned that a qualified promise was better than no promise at all. They hoped to continue the conversation, though, wanting to make sure that he fully understood the depths of their anxiety. But it was then that Warin Fitz Gerald hastened into the tent with news that couldn’t wait.

“My lord, King Guy is back! His ship has just dropped anchor in the harbor.” Warin paused then, realizing that a council was in progress. “Forgive me for interrupting, sire. I thought you would want to know straightaway. . . .”

Richard had dispatched Guy to Acre with instructions to bring back the truants still enjoying themselves in the city’s taverns and whorehouses. He did indeed want to know that Guy had returned, but he was also glad of an excuse to end this uncomfortable lecture. “No, we are done here, Warin. How many ships are with him?”

“Only the one galley, my liege.”

“What? You mean he failed to bring any of those laggards back with him?” Richard was incredulous; how could Guy fail at such a simple task? He was halfway across the tent before he remembered the other men. “This cannot wait,” he explained. “I have to find out what happened.”

They agreed politely that this took precedence, and as soon as Richard had gone, they, too, began to disperse, relieved that at least they’d gotten him to listen. Only Henri and André lingered, helping themselves to some of Richard’s wine, for they thought they’d earned it.

“That comment about a pitchfork . . .” André paused to take a deep swallow. “Does it mean what I think it does?”

Henri’s mother had made sure he’d received an excellent education, no less thorough than Richard’s, and he’d recognized the quote. “It was from Horace,” he said, adding when he saw André’s blank look, “a Roman poet. Yes, it does mean what you think—that a leopard cannot change his spots, and God help us all, but neither can a lion.”

JOANNA AND BERENGARIA had spent the afternoon with Prior William, an English cleric who’d come to Outremer to establish a church and hospital in honor of the martyr St Thomas of Canterbury. He’d arrived during the siege and set up his chapel outside the walls, but now that Acre was in Christian hands again, he hoped to move into the city. Since Richard had promised to endow the hospital, he’d taken the women to see a suitable property near the gate of St Nicholas. Their lives were so different from what they’d experienced back in Sicily and Navarre, when royal duties had kept them busy from dawn to dusk, that they were pleased to be able to function again as queens and they gave the prior permission to purchase the building. They then visited the covered market street, where they bought perfumed soap to assuage Anna and Alicia’s disappointment; the girls had wanted to accompany them, for an excursion into the city was much more appealing than their daily lessons. So it was dusk before Joanna and Berengaria returned to the palace, their household knights good-naturedly complaining about being loaded down with their purchases like pack mules.

As soon as they entered the courtyard, Anna and Alicia flew out the door to meet them. “Where have you been?” Anna scolded. “We did not think you were ever coming home!”

“We told you we’d not be back until Vespers,” Berengaria said, puzzled, while Joanna studied the girls with sudden suspicion. They were flushed with excitement, had clearly been up to something, and she hoped they hadn’t been playing pranks again. The timid Alicia had blossomed under the bolder Anna’s tutelage and they’d been chastised in the past week alone for smuggling a mouse into the bed of the Lady Uracca, giggling uncontrollably during the morning Mass, and sneaking a roast from the kitchen to feed to Joanna’s dogs.

“We have a gift for you. But it is a surprise, so you must first cover your eyes,” Anna insisted, producing two silk scarves for that purpose. Joanna was game, but Berengaria balked.

“I am not going to put on a blindfold,” she protested, and was holding firm despite the girls’ entreaties when she glanced across the courtyard and saw the man watching in amusement from the door of the great hall. “Richard!” Her dignity forgotten, at least for the moment, she gathered up her skirts and ran into his arms, followed by a delighted Joanna and the disappointed Anna and Alicia.

“You were supposed to wait, Malik Ric,” Anna pouted, but Richard was too occupied with kissing his wife and then hugging his sister to pay her much mind.

DINNER WAS THE MAIN MEAL of the day and so supper was usually a more modest affair. But Richard, Baldwin, Morgan, and the other knights he’d brought with him proclaimed the lamb stew to be utterly delicious, regaling the women with stories of the dubious victuals cooked over their campfires. Richard did not find the conversation as appealing as the food, though. Guy de Lusignan had often boasted that he’d kept no secrets from his queen, and Richard discovered now that Guy had been as forthright with Berengaria and Joanna as he’d been with Sybilla. He’d told them all about the deprivations and dangers of the march, including Richard’s narrow escapes and his crossbow wound. Richard did his best to gloss over the perils they’d faced, and then turned the talk to lighter fare, telling the women about their comic encounters with jerboa, strange rodent-like creatures that hopped like rabbits, and relating the story of Baldwin’s disastrous attempt to ride a camel, thankful that at least Guy had not mentioned the Michaelmas ambush.

He was soon to learn otherwise. After they’d consumed the final dish of dates, almonds, and honey, his wife and sister steered him toward the relative privacy of a window-seat. “We were deeply sorry to hear of Jacques d’Avesnes’s death,” Joanna said somberly. “It is almost as if his Flemish hounds know that he is not coming back, for they have been very subdued and eating poorly.” She hesitated, exchanged glances with Berengaria, and then plunged ahead. “Had you been slain at Arsuf, too, Richard, it would have been a grief almost beyond bearing for us. But how much worse it would have been if you’d died in that Michaelmas battle; then we’d have been tormented with ‘what if ’ and ‘if only,’ even the guilt of blaming the dead, for how could we not be angry with you for taking such needless risks?”

Richard was at a rare loss for words. “Anyone who thinks women do not speak their minds has never met you, Joanna,” he said ruefully. “I am sorry Guy told you about that, for I know you both worry enough about my safety as it is. What Guy did not know is that Henri and André and others have already taken me to task for it. They reminded me that my death could guarantee victory for Saladin, and I promised them that I would try to remember that in the future.”

“Will you promise us, too, Richard?”

“I will, Berenguela,” he said, and she took comfort from the fact that he sounded utterly serious for once.

“Just remember,” Joanna warned, “that if you do not mend your ways, Richard, I will have no choice but to write to Maman about your rash behavior.”

“Jesu forfend!” he exclaimed, and when they grinned at each other, Berengaria felt a pang, for their easy camaraderie stirred memories of her brother Sancho, so far away in Navarre.

Joanna’s expression soon sobered, for they’d not yet spoken of Guilhem de Préaux. Her gratitude to the Norman knight was magnified by grief; she’d liked Guilhem, remembering how kind he’d been in Cyprus, quickly concocting a lie to shield Berengaria from Richard’s neglect. “Guy did not think there was much hope of ransoming Guilhem de Préaux. Is Guy right about that, Richard?”

“I am beginning to wonder if Guy de Lusignan has been right about anything in his life,” he said, with an exasperated grimace. “He is most definitely wrong about Guilhem. He has not been executed, nor harmed in any way. But Saladin is refusing to ransom him because he knows how much I want his freedom. That makes him a very valuable bargaining counter, so Saladin means to hold on to him for now.”

“But the Saracens must have been sorely disappointed to find out that they did not capture you, after all. Would they make Guilhem suffer for his deception?”

“No, al-’Ᾱdil assured me that he is being treated with respect, Berenguela. The Saracens value courage and loyalty as much as we do.”

Joanna’s relief was so great that she leaned back in the window-seat, closing her eyes. Berengaria smiled and squeezed Richard’s arm. “Al-’Ᾱdil is Saladin’s brother, no? But are you sure you can trust him?”

“Yes,” he said, “I am. I resumed talks with him not long after Arsuf, and I think he is a man of honor. Of course, Burgundy and that bastard Beauvais would swallow their tongues if they ever heard me say that! To hear them tell it, I came to Outremer for the sole purpose of betraying the kingdom to the Saracens. Meanwhile, their ally, Conrad of Montferrat, is said to be trying to strike a deal with Saladin that would enable him to hold on to Tyre and Sidon.”

Both women were so indignant that it was a while before Joanna remembered she had a surprise for Richard. “I almost forgot! A troubadour from Aquitaine arrived in Acre last month. Whilst he may not be as celebrated as Gaucelm Faidit, he is very good, and I arranged for him to entertain us tonight.”

“Mayhap tomorrow, irlanda. Tonight I think I’ll let Berenguela entertain me,” Richard said, giving his wife a sidelong smile. As he expected, her creamy skin took on a deep-rose tint and her lashes fluttered downward. But the corners of her mouth were curving as she murmured demurely that it would be her pleasure. “I hope it will not entirely be yours, little dove,” he said and pulled her to her feet.

Joanna stayed in the window-seat. Across the hall, Morgan and Mariam were playing chess, but there was an intimacy in their laughter that told Joanna their ongoing flirtation was becoming something more. Her gaze shifted to her brother and his bride, who were exiting the hall with unseemly haste, and she leaned back against the cushions again with a soft sigh. She was happy whenever Richard paid Berengaria the attention she deserved, and she was pleased, too, that Mariam seemed to have found a man she could care for, but she could not suppress a twinge or two of envy. She would soon be twenty-six, too young to be sleeping alone.

“IS THIS THE CROSSBOW WOUND?” Getting a drowsy confirmation from Richard, Berengaria asked then about a scar on his hip and traced its path with her fingers when he said it was an injury from his early years as Count of Poitou. “What of this scar on your wrist?”

“I do not even remember how I got that one,” he yawned. “What are you doing, taking inventory of all my wounds?”

“Not all of them,” she said softly, for she’d kept her eyes averted from the ugly yellowing bruises on his shoulder and chest, still very visible eight days after the Michaelmas ambush. Seeking a safer topic of conversation, she said, “You seem so different with such short hair, Richard!” She thought his scalp looked like a hedgehog’s bristle, assuming there were red-gold hedgehogs, but she wasn’t sure he’d take that as a compliment and kept it to herself.

“It just seemed easier to cut it off and let it all grow back at the same time.” He yawned again, but she refused to take the hint, determined to make the most of this unexpected reunion, for she had no way of knowing how long it would be until she’d see him again.

“I was so glad to hear that Guilhem is safe. I owe him a debt that can never be repaid.”

“So do I,” he said, so low that she barely heard him. “I’d give half of all I own if only I could relive that day. . . .”

She was deeply touched that he trusted her enough to make such an admission. “I do not know war as you do, Richard, but I am sure Henri and André and your friends would tell you what I am about to say now, that those deaths were not your fault. If you had not followed the Saracens, they would likely have still attacked since you were so outnumbered.”

“But I ought not to have gone out with such a small escort. I knew better, Berenguela. It is just that scouting is so important. . . .”

She did not dispute that, but she suspected that he went out scouting himself because he enjoyed it, too. “I shall hold you to your promise,” she said, and offered up a silent, fervent prayer that these Michaelmas memories would curb some of his recklessness in the future. “How long can you stay, Richard? Joanna would be greatly pleased if you could remain for her birthday.”

“I cannot spare that much time, little dove. I will have to go back to Jaffa as soon as I drag those sluggards out of Acre’s bordels and hellholes. Guy’s leadership leaves much to be desired if he cannot even get a bunch of lazy drunkards to obey him. At least he is not secretly conspiring with the Saracens like that Judas in Tyre. It is pitiful, though, that the best to be said of Guy is that he is not a traitor.”

She was only half listening to his complaints, so great was her disappointment that he’d be returning to Jaffa so soon, for she didn’t doubt that he’d round up all of his fugitive soldiers in a matter of days. “I will miss you,” she said, and he propped himself up on his elbow to look down into her face.

“Well . . . I was thinking of taking you and Joanna back to Jaffa with me. I will understand, though, if you’d rather remain in Acre, for Jaffa would not be as comfortable as the palace here—”

“Richard, of course I want to come with you! How could you ever doubt it?”

He hadn’t, for by now he knew the mettle of the woman he’d married. “Actually, I was just being polite and giving you a choice,” he said with a grin. “I took it for granted that you’d want to come, one of the many reasons why I consider myself a lucky man.”

Berengaria blushed again, this time with pure pleasure, and was emboldened to flirt a little. “May I hear these reasons, my lord husband?”

“The first one is that you are not Alys Capet,” he said, so promptly that she realized he’d given this some thought. “Alys could never have coped with the storms at sea and Isaac Comnenus as you did. I doubt that she could even have adapted to life in an army camp, much less in the midst of a siege.” He shifted so she could cradle her head in the crook of his shoulder. “You want more reasons? Women are never satisfied, are they?” He gave a loud put-upon sigh, but she knew he was teasing, and after a moment, he said, “Well, I am grateful that you are so sweet-natured. And undemanding; men like that. You have never complained about my snoring, you smile whenever you see me, and you let me have that last helping of dates and almonds tonight.”

This playful litany of her virtues was hardly a passionate declaration of love, but she’d not expected one. It was enough for her that he seemed so content with their marriage, that he could offer affection and respect, for she knew not all wives were so fortunate. And when he continued, saying that she had more courage than the vast majority of her sex, with an admirable measure of steel in her spine, she felt such a surge of happiness that she could not speak, knowing that, for Richard, this was the ultimate accolade.

She’d not dared to hope that Richard would bring her to Jaffa, and she felt like a child again, given a wonderful gift when she’d least expected it. In four days, they’d have been wed for five months, and every time her flux came, it was a wound to her heart. Joanna had reminded her that a crop could not be harvested unless seed was planted first. But she could take no solace from her sister-in-law’s commonsense admonition, so eager was she to give Richard the son and heir a king so needed. Now, though, she’d be able to share his bed again. The Almighty had often shown His Favor to Richard, sparing his life time after time. Why should He not show His Favor, too, by letting her conceive and bear his child here in the Holy Land? Richard was already sleeping. That was such a comforting thought that she soon slept, too.

JOANNA WAS ELATED when Richard and Berengaria broke the news the next morning. Anna and Alicia were so excited that they forgot they were supposed to act like well-behaved, modest maidens of thirteen and fourteen, shrieking with glee instead, and while Mariam said nothing, she glanced toward Morgan with a secret smile. But most of the women reacted with dismay or horror, for none wanted to trade the luxuries of the royal palace for a tent in another army encampment. Richard had said they were rebuilding Jaffa’s walls; it would be months, though, before the city would revive, and it was unlikely ever to offer the markets, diversions, and security of life in Acre.

Sophia and Beatrix were too resilient and too realistic to share the consternation of the younger ladies-in-waiting, and they merely exchanged looks of resignation. Taking their breakfast wine, fruit, and bread to a corner table, they watched with detachment as the other royal attendants struggled to hide their unhappiness. “Only two kinds of women would want to follow men off to war,” Beatrix grumbled, “one too adventuresome for her own good or one determined to be a dutiful wife come what may. It is just our bad luck that Joanna is the first kind and Berengaria the second, so we can expect no voice of reason from either of them.”

Sophia was wryly amused and chuckled between bites of melon. “That is certainly true for your lady and for my Anna, too, but it is not duty that is drawing Berengaria to Jaffa. Heaven help the lass, she practically glows whenever she looks at him. I suppose it is only to be expected; a man acclaimed as the savior of Christendom is bound to turn female heads. It would be better for her, though, if she were not so smitten. The happiest marriages are those uncomplicated by passion or, God forbid, love.”

Beatrix had been a widow for many years, but most of her memories of that long-ago marriage were pleasant ones. “You do not think that is a harsh assessment? Of course, your husband . . .” She stopped, for there was no tactful way to suggest that Isaac Comnenus was one of Satan’s minions.

“Oh, my husband was a monster,” Sophia said, so blithely that Beatrix blinked.

“But I’ve seen enough of other marriages to realize that men, even the good ones, cannot be trusted with something as fragile as a woman’s heart. They are much too careless.” Glancing across the hall, she said dryly, “Lionheart is probably lucky, though, that his bride is still bedazzled. How many other queens would be so willing to become camp followers?” Beatrix joined in her laughter, and then they rose and made ready to play their parts, to act as if they shared Joanna, Berengaria, Alicia, and Anna’s eagerness to accompany Richard back to Jaffa.