CHAPTER 29

DECEMBER 1191

Ramla , Outremer

When Richard moved the army to Ramla, Salah al-Dīn withdrew to Latrun and then, on December 12, to Jerusalem, leaving behind his advance guard to harass the Franks. The winter weather had set in by then, and the crusaders suffered greatly, forced to endure torrential icy rains, hailstorms, high winds, and the constant threat of flooding. The damp rusted their armor and their clothes rotted. Food went bad; biscuits crumbled, flour mildewed, and salted pork spoiled. Their pack animals sickened and died and soldiers came down with fevers, catarrh, and colic. But morale remained surprisingly high, for they were now less than twenty-five miles from Jerusalem.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 20, dawned with an overcast, ashen sky. But it was the first day in over a week that they’d not awakened to heavy rain, and Richard seized the opportunity. South of Ramla were the ruins of Blanchegarde, a castle razed by Salah al-Dīn after the fall of Acre, and he thought it would be a good site to lay an ambush. His nephew Henri and some of his household knights rode off with him, but most of the men were content to remain in camp, repairing their rusted hauberks, getting deloused by the laundresses, and playing games of chance.

Morgan had recently adopted the poulain clean-shaven fashion, for it reminded him of home; the Welsh were beardless, confining their facial hair to mustaches. After shaving, he played chess with Warin Fitz Gerald, half listening as the men nearby discussed the women they’d encountered since leaving Marseille a year and a half ago. The consensus was that the whores of Outremer were younger and prettier than their wanton sisters in Naples, Sicily, and Cyprus, and they agreed it was a pity the king had made them stay in Jaffa. Morgan’s thoughts were turning toward Jaffa, too. Richard had decided his wife and sister were safer behind its newly rebuilt walls, but Morgan had heard he might fetch them for his Christmas court, and if so, Mariam would accompany them. He was eager for their reunion, though it would have to remain circumspect; there was no privacy in an army camp, not the sort a highborn lady like Mariam would expect.

Warin had just put the chess set away when the raid was launched. The Saracen bowmen did not actually invade the camp, but they fired off a shower of arrows, accompanied by taunts and catcalls. The Earl of Leicester and some of his knights had been about to go on patrol. Now they hastily mounted their horses and rode out to chase the intruders off. Warin and Morgan were members of Richard’s household, not Leicester’s, but they were bored and so they hurried to arm themselves, as did other men eager for adventure.

The Saracens retreated before Leicester’s charge, withdrawing across the River Ayalon and heading back toward the Judean hills. This had become a ritual by now, with both sides knowing their roles, and the young earl prudently halted pursuit as they approached the west bank of the stream. But three of his men had forged ahead, caught up in the exhilaration of the chase, and they suddenly found themselves surrounded by the enemy. When another knight alerted the earl that they’d been captured, Leicester let out a scalding burst of profanity that even Richard might have envied, calling the knights bloody fools, misbegotten dolts, and accursed half-wits. He still felt honor bound to rescue them and gave the command to advance. By now Warin and Morgan had caught up, and they exchanged troubled glances, the same thought in both their minds, their Michaelmas skirmish that had actually been bait for an ambush.

The crusaders overtook their foes on the other side of the river and for a brief time, it looked as if they’d be able to free their men and retreat to safety. But then the trap was sprung. More Saracens swept in behind them, cutting off escape. Almost at once, a well-aimed arrow brought down Leicester’s stallion and as he scrambled to his feet, he stumbled and slid down the bank into the water. It was not deep, but as he splashed to the surface, he was struck by a Saracen wielding a mace and went under. He came up sputtering, only to be hit again. By then, several of his men had reached him, and as they held off his attackers, another knight performed an act of loyalty that none would ever forget. Robert de Newburgh dismounted and offered the earl his own horse.

Leicester had already won himself a reputation for courage; indeed, he’d surprised some by his prowess, for he’d not been blessed with the physical advantages that men like Richard and Guillaume des Barres enjoyed. Never had he fought as fiercely as he did now, wielding his sword so savagely that he managed to keep his enemies at bay. But they were greatly outnumbered, and all around the earl, his men were being struck down. Warin Fitz Gerald had been unhorsed at the same time as Leicester, and he’d slumped to the ground after taking several blows by Saracens brandishing flanged maces. Fighting his way toward Warin, Morgan leaned from the saddle and held out his hand. “Swing up behind me,” he urged, for a man on foot was surely doomed.

Before Warin could reach him, a Saracen was there, thrusting at Morgan’s stallion with his spear. The horse reared up, hooves slipping on the muddy bank, and he and Morgan went over backward. Morgan managed to fling himself from the saddle, but his helmet’s chin strap snapped and it flew off as he fell. While his mail coif absorbed some of the impact, his temple struck the edge of a dropped Saracen shield. When he recovered his senses, Warin was pulling him to his feet, the battle was lost, and he was bleeding profusely from a deep gash above his eye.

THEY’D BEEN DISARMED, their reins cut, and their horses were being led on ropes by their captors. The Earl of Leicester had no fears for his own life, for he’d make a valuable hostage. His household knights did not doubt that he’d do his best to ransom them, too, just as Warin and Morgan knew Richard would pay whatever was demanded for their freedom. There were several Flemish knights among them, though, and their lord lay dead in an Arsuf church. Without Jacques d’Avesnes to pay for their release, they might end up in the slave markets of Damascus or Cairo, and their dazed expressions showed that they understood how precarious their future was. Yet all of them were concentrating upon staying in the saddle, for any man who could not keep up was a liability.

This was Morgan’s greatest concern. Despite applying pressure to his wound with the palm of his hand, he’d been unable to staunch the bleeding and he was feeling very lightheaded. If he lost consciousness, he could expect no mercy, and he clung to his saddlebow so tightly that his fingers grew numb. He was seeing the world through a red haze when he attracted the attention of one of their guards. He signaled a halt and reined in beside Morgan’s horse, drawing a dagger from his boot. The closest knights began to shout and Morgan froze, trying to brace himself for the coming blow. The Saracen ignored the protests of the other prisoners. Reaching out, he grabbed the edge of Morgan’s surcote. With one deft slash of his blade, he cut off a wide swatch of cloth and handed it to the stunned Welshman. Morgan folded it and clasped it to his wound, huskily giving thanks, first to his God and then to his captor, surprising the latter by expressing his gratitude in halting Arabic.

While it was difficult to gauge direction without the sun, Morgan guessed they were heading south toward Latrun, for that was where the Saracen advance guard was camped. The makeshift bandage had finally stopped the bleeding, but his head was still spinning and he found himself fighting off nausea. Although he was beginning to doubt that he’d be able to hang on until they reached Latrun, he refused to despair. He was not going to die on this desolate, muddy plain so far from home. Surely God had not brought him all the way to Outremer only to deny him even a glimpse of the Holy City.

During the summer, dust clouds would have warned of approaching riders before they could actually be seen. Now both captors and captives were taken by surprise. The Saracens tightened their grips on their spears and the hilts of their swords. The earl’s men no longer slouched in their saddles. All eyes were upon those distant horsemen. Were they Turkish reinforcements? Or a Frank rescue party? They were almost within recognition range now, moving fast. A sudden glimmer of sun broke through the cloud cover, illuminating the scarlet and silver colors of a streaming banner, and a knight with keener eyesight than the others let out a joyful shout. “It’s de Chauvigny!”

The Saracens did not recognize André’s cognizance, but their captives’ excitement told them all they needed to know. A tense, terse discussion followed, the prisoners assuming they were arguing whether to fight or flee. When they unsheathed their swords, it was obvious the decision had been made.

“St George!” The battle cry was still echoing on the chill December air when the knights couched their lances and charged. Men were yelling in Arabic and French, but the noise seemed oddly muffled to Morgan, for there was a strange ringing in his ears. From the corner of his eye, he saw Leicester try to grab a Saracen spear. When one of the knights’ horses bolted, Morgan’s mount shied sideways, almost unseating him. He felt a jolt of fear, for he knew if he fell under those plunging hooves, he’d likely be trampled to death; as weak as he was, he’d never be able to regain his feet. His head was throbbing and the dull morning light was suddenly so bright that he had to squint. Someone was beside him. He felt a hand clamp down on his arm, and after that, nothing.

MORGAN HAD BEEN LOST in a shadow world of strange, fragmented dreams, none of which made any sense to him. Waking up was not much of an improvement, for he felt wretched. His head ached, his mouth was dry, and his stomach was heaving as if he were back on a galley in the middle of the Greek Sea. Most troubling was his confusion; he wasn’t sure at first where he was or how he’d gotten there. As he studied his surroundings, he realized he was in a hospital tent. All around him, injured men were lying on blankets, some of them moaning. Others were sitting on stools or walking around. He could hear a familiar voice close at hand; after a moment or so, he recognized it as André de Chauvigny’s. André was seated on a coffer, arguing with the surgeons. But as Morgan watched, his shoulders slumped and he nodded. He went white as they manipulated his right arm, biting his lip until it bled while they realigned the bones and then applied pulped comfrey root to the fracture. One of the surgeons was bending over Morgan now. He started to speak, but instead slid back into sleep.

When he awoke again, the scene was calmer, quieter, lit by flickering oil lamps. As soon as he stirred, a voice said, “About time! I thought you were going to sleep all day.”

This voice seemed familiar, too; after a pause, he said tentatively, “Warin?”

“Who else?” The other knight was stretched out on a pallet beside him. He shifted toward Morgan and then winced. “Holy Mother! They say I cracked a couple of ribs. But the way it hurts, I think every blasted one of them could be broken. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve . . . been better. . . .”

“We can all say that. At least your skull was not fractured. When the doctor examined you, he said there were no indentations, no protruding bone. So he just applied an ointment of feverwort ere he bandaged . . .” Seeing the blank look on Morgan’s face, he stopped. “You do not remember any of that?”

Morgan started to shake his head, discovered that was a bad idea. His memories were hazy, as elusive as drifting smoke. “I remember the battle . . . at least, most of it. . . .”

“The doctors said you might be forgetful, that it ofttimes happens with head injuries. I assume you remember André de Chauvigny’s rescue? You looked like you were about to pass out, so I grabbed you and got us both clear of the fighting. Some of our men were eager to join in and indeed did so as soon as weapons began to litter the field. But I figured you and I would be more of a hindrance than a help. It was a fierce struggle. Say what you will of the infidels, they do not lack for courage.”

Morgan slowly propped himself up on his elbows, his gaze searching the tent until he found the man he sought. “André was hurt, then? I thought I may have dreamed it. . . .”

“He blames himself, has been fuming about it for hours.” Warin glanced admiringly toward André, who was seated on a narrow bed, scowling at his splinted forearm. “He killed the emir leading the Saracens, but the man was still able to stab him with his spear.” He anticipated Morgan’s next query. “Leicester is battered and bruised, but he has no serious hurts.” He gestured across the tent, where the earl was having his numerous cuts and contusions tended to. “God was indeed smiling upon him this day, for he charged back into the fray and had a second horse killed under him.”

A memory floated toward the surface and Morgan frowned, troubled that he could not remember the name of a man he knew well. “The knight who gave the earl his mount . . . he survived?”

“He is in better shape than either of us,” Warin said with a smile. “As for you, they think you’ll soon be on the mend since you showed none of the signs of a fatal injury; no seizures or fever and you can obviously talk, though you insisted upon doing it in Welsh and none of us could understand a word you said!”

“Were there prisoners taken?” When Warin nodded, Morgan resolved to see if the Saracen Good Samaritan was amongst them once he was able to do so, for he owed the man a few comforts. He still had questions, but sleep was beckoning again. Before he could answer the call, a sudden din erupted outside, and Warin grinned. “Either we’re under attack or the king has just ridden in and been told of the ambush!”

It was not easy to make a dramatic entrance into a tent, but Richard did it. He headed straight for André, stood gazing down at his cousin and shaking his head. “How in the world did you manage to get injured by a man you’d unhorsed and mortally wounded?”

André’s smile was sour. “How in the world did you manage to miss a battle? But I suppose you can ask Saladin to refight it for your benefit.”

Richard gave a shout of laughter. “What an excellent idea!” Sitting down on the corner of the bed, he lowered his voice for André’s ears alone. After exchanging a few words, he clasped the injured man on the shoulder and then made the rounds of the tent, pausing before each wounded knight to ask a question or offer a joke. He congratulated Morgan upon having such a hard head, teased Leicester for losing two horses in a single day, and spent so much time with Robert de Newburgh that it was obvious he’d been told of the knight’s heroic sacrifice.

Henri had entered almost unnoticed in Richard’s wake, and after brief visits with André and Leicester, he paused by Morgan’s cot. From him, Morgan and Warin learned that they’d abandoned their mission because Richard had an odd premonition of danger. “It is like another sense, one given to soldiers, at least the good ones. As it turned out, it is fortunate that my uncle heeded it, for on our way back to camp, we encountered two of our Saracen spies and they said Saladin had sent three hundred of his elite troops to Blanchegarde. We’d have run right into them.”

Henri stayed for a while, asking Morgan and Warin questions about the battle and rescue, for he knew men often needed to talk afterward, and then telling some comic stories to cheer them up, for he thought life would not be much fun for them as they healed. Their brief weather respite had already ended and they could hear the renewed drumming of rain on the roof of the tent.

Henri did succeed in cheering Morgan up, for he’d confided that Richard planned to return to Jaffa on the morrow and bring the women back with him. The young count was usually a reliable source and that proved to be the case again. Morgan awoke from a nap on Sunday evening to find himself the envy of the hospital tent, for two queens and the Damsel of Cyprus were at his bedside. Berengaria expressed flattering concern for his injury, Anna gave him a Cypriot good luck charm, and Joanna contributed an amusing account of their ride over the very muddy Jaffa road, making it sound as if their fifteen-mile trip had been an epic trek for the ages. But her real gift to Morgan was the screen that now enclosed his bed. Rising to leave, she explained that she thought he’d sleep better if he had a bit of privacy, and winked.

With a rustle of skirts and a fragrance that evoked memories of moonlit, summer gardens, Mariam slipped around the screen, leaned over the bed, and gave Morgan a kiss that was very different from those they’d shared in the past.

“That,” he said, “was worth—”

“Do not dare tell me it was worth getting your head bashed in!”

“Of course it was not worth that much,” he said with a grin. “But it was worth waiting for, cariad.”

His blanket had slid down to his waist, and her eyes were drawn to the ripple of muscles, a triangle of golden chest hair, and the skin that she knew would be warm and firm to the touch, unlike the soft, flabby body of her late husband, a good man but one well past his prime by the time they’d wed. “I think,” she murmured, “that we have been waiting too long, Morgan ap Ranulf, far too long.”

He reached for her hand, entwining his fingers in hers. “My sentiments exactly, my heart. Alas, our timing could not be worse, could it?”

“I know,” she agreed and sighed. “I know. . . .”

“I am about to blaspheme,” he admitted, “for as much as I yearn to see the Holy Sepulchre, I am even more eager now to visit Jerusalem’s fine inns.”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, “one with a spacious, soft featherbed, clean sheets, a flagon of spiced wine, and a sturdy latch to bar the door.”

But they were miles and months away from that enticing vision and they both knew it. Kissing the face upturned to his, he brushed his lips against the lashes that shadowed her skin like silky fans, tasted the sweetness of her mouth, and found he could pretend no longer, even to himself. “Mariam . . . I have to warn you, cariad. I am falling in love with you.”

She slanted a mischievous glance through those long, fringed lashes, her eyes shimmering with golden glints. “It certainly took you long enough,” she complained, but when she added, “Ana behibak,” he needed no translation for that alluring Arabic whisper.

“Rwy’n dy garu di,” he said softly, and she needed no translation, either.

ON DECEMBER 23, Richard moved his command headquarters eight miles south to the ruins of the Templar castle called Toron des Chevaliers by the crusaders and Latrun by the Saracens, and there he celebrated Christmas in royal style, or as regal as festivities could be when conducted in tents during relentless rainstorms.

TWO DAYS LATER, Richard observed the holy day of St John the Apostle by holding a dinner for the poulain lords who’d not thrown in their lot with Conrad of Montferrat. He did not remember that it was also the twenty-fifth birthday of his youngest brother, John, not until reminded of it by Joanna, and he was sorry she had. Philippe was surely back in his own domains by now and the French king would inevitably reach out to John, try to coax or bribe him into a seditious alliance. Richard had been very generous with his brother and he ought to be able to rely upon the younger man’s loyalty. But John was something of an enigma to his family, and Richard would have felt much more confident of his fealty had he not been more than two thousand miles away. No ships had arrived from Europe for months and for all he knew, Philippe was ravaging Normandy with John’s heartfelt help. But he resolutely pushed these concerns aside, for “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” It would be foolish to borrow fresh troubles when he was already fighting a war on three fronts—with his French allies and Saracen foes and the vile winter weather.

The dinner was a success, even if it was a Friday fast day, with lively entertainment provided by troubadours and musicians, and even livelier conversation. The guest of honor was Raymond, eldest son of the Prince of Antioch. Although Raymond had been an enthusiastic supporter of the crusade, his father had so far remained aloof and Richard thought it politic to make sure the son knew he was a valued ally. But the guest who shone the brightest during dinner was Hugues, Lord of Tiberias and Prince of Galilee.

Hugues was in his early forties, his shrewd, hooded eyes a startling blue against skin weathered by years of exposure to the Outremer sun, a man as resilient and enduring as the land of his birth. He’d fought at Ḥaṭṭīn; in his youth, he’d survived four years in a Saracen prison; he knew Salah al-Dīn personally; he was one of the few barons of the kingdom who’d not defected to Conrad. These were all reasons why Richard considered him to be a man worth listening to; it was an added bonus that Hugues now revealed himself to be knowledgeable about one of the great mysteries of the Holy Land, the secret killing sect known as the Assassins.

Richard had heard of them before his arrival at Acre, for their notoriety had spread even as far as Europe. They were led by a chieftain known as “the Old Man of the Mountain,” and it was said he promised his young followers an afterlife of eternal pleasure in return for a martyr’s death. The Franks had told Richard their name was derived from the Arabic word for “hashish,” for they were believed to imbibe it before their missions. They’d been in existence only a hundred years or so, yet there were already so many legends and lurid tales circulating about these shadowy, sinister figures that it was almost impossible to separate truth from myth.

Richard was very pleased, therefore, to discover Hugues was such a treasure trove of information about the Assassins. He’d even met the Old Man of the Mountain himself, Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān. Upon learning that Richard already knew Islam was split into two warring camps, Sunnis and Shi’ites, Hugues then explained that the Assassins were a separate Shia sect that originally took root in Persia, and were viewed by other Muslims as heretics. They used murder as a political weapon—and to great effect. They were willing to wait months, even years, for an opportunity to get close to their quarry, and excelled at deception and subterfuge. The Assassins used daggers and always committed their killings in public so that as many people as possible would learn of the deaths. But their victims were almost always their fellow Muslims. Amongst them, Hugues enumerated, were two grand viziers in Persia and the caliphs of Cairo and Baghdad. The only Frank they’d slain, he said, was a Count of Tripoli about forty years ago.

His audience had hung on his every word, fascinated and horrified in equal measure. Richard was the first to inject a note of skepticism. “It does not seem likely to me that these Assassins could be regular users of hashish. How could they manage to deceive their prey, to blend in so well that none suspected them if their wits were addled with this potion?”

Hugues gave the king an approving smile. “Very true, my lord. Frankly, I never believed that myself. I think it is just one of the many rumors that swirl around them. They attract such stories the way Acre attracts sinners. I am not even sure their name is derived from the word ‘hashish.’ I was once told that it comes from ‘Hassassin,’ which means ‘a follower of Hassan,’ who was the founder of their sect. So who’s to say? The only certainty is that the mere mention of that name causes even brave men to glance uneasily over their shoulders.”

Joanna had leaned forward, so intent upon the conversation that she was unaware she’d propped her elbows on the table. “What I do not understand, my lord Hugues, is why they so rarely attack Christians. Do they not see us as the enemy?”

“They view us as foxes, my lady, more of a nuisance than a real threat. They reserve their greatest hatred for the Sunni wolves, who return it wholeheartedly.”

“I’ve heard that they’ve tried to murder Saladin numerous times,” Richard commented. “Is that true?”

“In part, my lord king. I know of at least two attempts upon his life. Both times they penetrated his camp, and once he was saved only by his armor. He began to take great precautions for his safety and eventually he decided to strike at Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān himself, laying siege to his castle at Masyāf. But he called off the siege after just a week. I’ve heard various reasons offered for that, including a story that the Old Man of the Mountain threatened to murder Saladin’s family if he did not withdraw. It would be hard not to take such a threat seriously after what happened with the sultan’s bodyguards. . . .”

Hugues had an innate sense of drama. He paused now to sip his wine, building suspense as his audience eagerly urged him to continue. “Well,” he said, “as I heard it, the Assassin chieftain sent one of his men to Saladin with a message, insisting it must be delivered in private. Saladin finally agreed to see him, but would not dismiss two of his most trusted bodyguards. Sinān’s man looked at them and asked what they would do if he bade them in the name of his master to kill the sultan. They at once drew their swords and declared, ‘Command us as you wish.’ He then rode out of Saladin’s camp with the two bodyguards, the message having been delivered.”

There were gasps of delighted horror. This time it was André who took on the role of resident cynic. He was in a surly mood, in pain and frustrated by his clumsy attempts to cut his fish with his left hand, and so he eschewed tact in favor of brusque candor. “That is rubbish. If the Assassins could place their own men so close to Saladin, why did they not strike when they had the chance? Why settle for scaring him when they could so easily have killed him?”

Hugues was annoyed by André’s derisive interjection. But as he glanced toward Richard, he saw the king looked amused, and so he merely shrugged. “Make of it what you will, my lord de Chauvigny. I can only tell you that Saladin and the Old Man of the Mountain obviously reached some sort of understanding, a truce if you will, for the attempts upon the sultan’s life ceased.”

Henri, ever the diplomat, took it upon himself to steer the conversation into more placid waters and the awkward moment passed. He personally thought André was right, but logic rarely could compete with legend and he saw that many of the guests preferred to believe Hugues’s chilling tale of Assassins with diabolical powers beyond the ken of mortal men.

After the meal was done, Richard beckoned to the Grand Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers; he greatly admired the courage, stoicism, and discipline of both military orders and did what he could to show others that they stood high in royal favor. He was soon approached, though, by the Lady Uracca, the youngest—and to his mind, the most foolish—of his wife’s attendants. The queen was departing for her own tent, the girl reported, a message that was puzzling on several levels. Why had Berenguela not come over herself? And why was she leaving so soon?

While Richard tended to take the behind-the-scenes activities of the women for granted, rarely stopping to consider how much preparation went into festivities like this, he did know his wife had a strong sense of duty, and it wasn’t like her to abandon her obligations as his hostess. Uracca, of course, was unable to provide any answers, but as he searched the crowded tent, he caught a glimpse of Berengaria’s new fur-trimmed mantle.

Moving swiftly to intercept her, he was thinking back to her behavior during the meal. The other women had actively engaged in the conversation about the Assassins, but Berengaria had remained silent. Now that he thought about it, he realized she had been subdued even before the dinner began, uncommonly quiet and withdrawn for a queen on public display. And she did look pale, he thought, with a stirring of unease, for disease was always hovering over an army encampment and it was so cold the guests had been forced to remain bundled in their cloaks even while they ate. With so many of his soldiers laid low by sickness, how much more susceptible must a delicately reared lass like Berenguela be to the alien, noxious maladies of Outremer?

Drawing her aside, he looked intently into her face. “Uracca told me you were leaving. Are you ailing, little dove?”

“No, I am quite well. I am just . . . just tired. But I will stay if that is your wish.” Relieved, he bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “No, there is no need for that; Joanna can act in your stead. I was merely concerned that you might be ill. Go and rest. In fact, that is a good idea,” he said with a smile, “for you are not likely to get that much sleep tonight.”

He’d expected her to blush and laugh, as she always did. He did not expect the reaction he got. “No, not tonight!” she cried, and then clapped her hand to her mouth as if she could call her words back.

Richard blinked in astonishment. While he might have agreed in theory that a wife ought to have the right of refusal, it had not occurred to him that his own wife would ever invoke it. “Are you sure you are not sick, Berenguela?”

“I . . . no, I am not ill,” she assured him, although she no longer met his gaze, her lashes coming down like shutters to shield her thoughts.

He was momentarily at a loss, but then he understood. “Oh, of course! Your flux has come,” he said, pleased with himself for solving this minor mystery so easily, and reached for her hand. Again, he got more than he’d bargained for. She gasped and tears suddenly welled in her eyes. Jerking free of his grasp, she whirled and fled—there was no other way to describe her precipitate exit. Heads turned in her direction and her startled ladies and knights hurried to catch up, while Richard stared after her in consternation.

“Richard?” Joanna materialized at his side as if by magic. “Whatever did you say to her?”

He was usually amused by her protectiveness, even if it did mean she invariably took Berengaria’s side whenever they had a difference of opinion. Today he was not amused. “I said nothing,” he protested. “We were talking and suddenly she ran off. Go after her, Joanna, and find out what’s wrong.”

“Richard, she’s your wife! You’re the one to go after her.”

“You’d be better at it than me,” he insisted. “I am not good at dealing with female vapors or tears—” Warned by the look on her face, he stopped himself, but not in time.

“‘Female vapors’?” she echoed incredulously. “When have you ever seen Maman or me succumb to ‘female vapors’? When have you ever seen Berengaria give way to an emotional outburst of any kind? Has she even shed a tear in your presence? If she is distraught, she has a damned good reason for it—and it is your responsibility to find out what it is!”

When Richard didn’t reply, she read surrender in his silence. She stayed where she was, though, watching him with an implacable expression until he turned and started for the tent entrance. Only then did she clap her hands, signaling for the musicians to resume playing and for the guests politely to pretend that the queen’s flight had been nothing out of the ordinary.

RICHARD WAS NOT HAPPY with his sister. But a sense of fairness that he thought often surfaced at inopportune times compelled him to admit that he’d wronged his wife. Berenguela had none of the vices he attributed to many of her sex; she was not flighty or overly sensitive or sentimental. He still thought Joanna would have been better at offering comfort or ferreting out womanly secrets. Since she’d balked, he had no choice, though, and he entered Berengaria’s tent with the reluctant resolve of a man venturing into unknown terrain. His appearance created a predictable stir among her attendants. Thinking they were fluttering about like hens that had just spotted a hawk, he started to dismiss them; remembering in time that it was pouring rain, he settled for waving them away from the screen that afforded Berengaria her only privacy.

She was lying on the bed, but she rolled over when he said her name, looking so surprised to see him that he felt a twinge of guilt. She’d obviously been weeping, for her eyes were red and swollen. “I am sorry,” she said, “for making a scene.”

“Have you forgotten my family history, Berenguela? By our standards, you’d have to fling a glass of wine into my face to make a scene.” Sitting beside her, he reached over and wiped her wet cheeks with a corner of the sheet. “Tell me what is wrong.”

“You were right,” she confessed; her voice was muffled, as if she were swallowing tears, but she met his gaze steadily. “My flux did come today . . . almost three weeks late.”

“Ah . . . I see. You’d thought you might be with child.”

“I’d never been late before, Richard, never.” A solitary tear trickled from the corner of her eye, slowly flowed down her cheek, and splashed onto his wrist. “I was so sure, so happy. . . .”

“Berenguela . . . I have no doubts that you’ll give me a son. But it must happen in God’s time.”

“That is what my confessor keeps telling me, too,” she said, and it was obvious to him that she took no comfort in this truism. He was quiet for a few moments, trying to decide what to say.

“I think it might be for the best if you do not conceive whilst we are in Outremer,” he said at last, and saw her brown eyes widen. “Think about it, little dove. You have already experienced more discomfort and danger than most queens could even imagine. Think how much worse it would be if you had to endure all this whilst you were great with child. Then what of the delivery itself? Do you truly want to give birth in a tent? And afterward . . . you’d be fearful every time the baby sneezed or coughed. This is not a kind country for infants, for women and children. Hellfire, lass, it is no country for any man not born and bred here; we all sicken and die much easier than we would back in our own lands.”

Her eyes searched his. “You truly would not be disappointed if I do not conceive until we go home?”

“I’d be relieved,” he admitted. “Had I known what it would be like here, I doubt that I’d have taken you and Joanna with me. You could have waited for me at Tancred’s court in safety and comfort. Now . . . now I must worry about you both whilst I also worry about my men and our chances of defeating Saladin.” He smiled, but it held little humor. “There are good reasons, little dove, why men do not usually bring their women with them to war.”

“I cannot deny that those are thoughts I’ve had, too,” she confided. “I would not add to your burdens if I could help it, Richard. But . . . but I am still glad that you brought me with you.”

Leaning over, he kissed her. When he started to rise, though, she caught his hand. “Will you still come to me tonight? Even though we cannot . . . ?”

“I will,” he promised, and kissed her again. She sat up once he’d departed, but she was not yet ready to face the world and she decided to indulge herself for a while longer, safe from the stares and speculations. It was not long, though, before her sister-in-law arrived, and none of Berengaria’s ladies dared to deny her entry.

“I know Richard was here,” Joanna said forthrightly, “but I was not sure how helpful he’d be. Even the bravest of men seem to become unnerved by a woman’s tears.”

Berengaria looked fondly at the other woman, thinking how lucky she was to have Joanna as her friend. “My flux came today,” she said. “It was so late that I’d dared to hope . . . but it was not to be.”

“Berengaria, I am so sorry.” Joanna climbed onto the bed and enfolded her in a hug. “You’d been so happy the past few weeks that I’d suspected as much. You told Richard?” She hoped her brother had been sympathetic to his wife’s needs, but she did have a few misgivings, for she thought men were the unpredictable and impulsive sex, not women, and they could be insensitive at the worst possible times.

“Yes . . . he was very sweet about it.”

Joanna hid a smile, thinking that this was surely the first and only time that anyone had used that word to describe Richard. “I am glad to hear that, dearest.”

“He said he’d rather it does not happen until we are safely back in his domains, that it would be too dangerous. He is right, of course, and it is a great relief to know he does not blame me. It is just that . . . that it means so much, Joanna. Every woman surely wants children, but it is so much more urgent for a queen. What could be worse than to fail to give Richard the heir he needs?”

Joanna said nothing, but Berengaria had become adept by now at reading her sister-in-law’s face. “Oh, Joanna, I am sorry! Can you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive. I know you did not mean to diminish my loss. My son died, and yes, that is a hurt that will never fully heal. But I’ve had years to come to terms with it, Berengaria. That is part of my past. I am sure that in time Richard will find me a suitable husband—preferably Christian,” she added with a faint smile. “And when that happens, I will have other sons. As will you, my dearest sister. I truly believe that, want you to believe that, too.”

She half expected her sister-in-law to soften the presumption of that prediction with a cautious “God willing.” Berengaria surprised her, though. “I want to believe it, too, Joanna, and I will endeavor to do so. Why should it not happen, after all? How could the Almighty deny a son and heir to the man who will free Jerusalem from the infidels?”

Joanna opened her mouth, shut it again. During one of his last visits to Jaffa, Richard had confided in her about his constant struggles with Hugh of Burgundy and the French, admitting how exhausted and disheartened he was at times, even confessing that he doubted Jerusalem could ever be taken by force, that their only chance of regaining access to the Holy City was by a negotiated settlement with Saladin. He’d told her that he knew that would not go down well with his army, that his men would be bitterly disappointed if they failed to recapture Jerusalem. She wondered now if he realized his own wife would share that bitter disappointment. She briefly considered alerting him, but decided against it, for why add one more worry to the many burdens he already labored under?

RICHARD MOVED his army headquarters after Christmas to Bait Nūbā, just twelve miles from Jerusalem. The winter weather remained wretched, yet skirmishing continued. Richard interrupted a Saracen ambush on the third day of the new year, but they fled upon recognizing his banner. Not long afterward, he escorted his wife and sister back to the greater safety of Jaffa. By now he was convinced that it would be madness to advance upon Jerusalem under the circumstances and, upon his return to Bait Nūbā, he confronted the issue head-on.

THEY MET in Richard’s command tent during yet another pelting hailstorm, the wind keening in an eerie accompaniment to the rising voices. As soon as Richard broached the subject of turning back, he was assailed by his French allies, accused of betraying their holy quest. Determined to hold on to his temper, he sought to counter their passion with what he saw as irrefutable facts.

“Look at this,” he demanded, pointing toward the map he’d laid out upon a trestle table. “I asked men personally familiar with the city’s defenses to draw it for us. Jerusalem’s walls are more than two miles in circumference and enclose an area of over two hundred acres. We do not have enough men to securely encircle the city. We’d be stretched so thin that they’d be able to send out sorties and break through our lines whenever they wanted. Saladin has been preparing for a siege for months, so I daresay they have food stockpiled. Nor are they going to run out of water; their cisterns must be overflowing by now!” he said, with an angry, ironic gesture toward the rippling walls of the tent, billowing with each powerful gust of the storm battering Bait Nūbā. “Even if we had an army twice as large, it would be sheer folly to begin a siege in weather like this!”

“I cannot believe that you are balking again!” Hugh of Burgundy glanced disdainfully at the map, shaking his head. “We are twelve miles from the Holy City—only twelve miles!”

“Our men did not come so far to turn tail and run.” The Bishop of Beauvais had not even bothered to look at the map, keeping his eyes accusingly upon Richard. “Why did you take the cross if you were not willing to fight God’s enemies?” Henri and André both jumped to their feet. But for once the Angevin temper did not catch fire. Richard did not even bother to defend himself, overwhelmed by the futility of it. Christ’s Blood, he was so bone-weary of all this. No matter what he said, they’d not heed him. It was as if the past four months had never been and they were back at Jaffa, making the same arguments and aspersions that they’d made then.

He was wrong, though; this was not to be another repeat of their Jaffa confrontation. Hugues de Tiberias had been standing in the rear, but now he pushed his way to the front of the tent. “It is ridiculous to accuse the English king of lacking the heart to wage war against the Saracens,” he said scornfully. “If I thought you truly meant that, my lord bishop, I’d wonder if you’d been afflicted by some malady that scrambles a man’s wits. Who got us safely to Jaffa? Who won the battle of Arsuf? Not you, my lord bishop or you, my lord duke. Why must we constantly waste time with these petty squabbles instead of talking about what truly matters? Can we take Jerusalem?”

When they would have interrupted, he flung up a hand for silence. “No, by God, you’ll hear me out! Some of you use the term ‘poulain’ as an insult, at least behind our backs. Well, I am proud to call myself poulain. I know far more about fighting in the Holy Land than men who’ve lived all their lives in the fat, green fields of France, and I say the answer is no. We cannot take Jerusalem. Now are you going to accuse me, too, of not wanting to win this war? This is my home, not yours, and after you’ve all gone back to your own lands, I’ll still be here, struggling to survive against a foe who is not going anywhere, either.”

“We do not doubt your good faith or your courage,” Hugh insisted. “But we cannot give up now. Jerusalem is within our grasp!”

“No, my lord duke, it is not.” Garnier de Nablus remained seated on a coffer, arms folded across his chest, but his voice carried; the Grand Master of the Hospitallers was accustomed to dominating gatherings of other men. “The problems we faced in September are still unresolved. We still risk having our supply lines to the coast cut by Saladin, finding ourselves stranded in enemy territory, caught between Saladin’s army and the garrison in Jerusalem. Nothing has changed since we last discussed this, except to get worse. Now we have an army weakened by sickness and desertions and we are in the midst of one of the most severe winters in memory. There is a reason why fighting in the Holy Land is seasonal, and you need only stick your heads out of this tent to understand why that is so.”

Before he could be refuted, the Grand Master of the Templars added his voice in support of Garnier. Robert de Sablé argued that even if they somehow managed to capture Jerusalem, they could not hope to hold it, for all the men who’d taken the cross would then depart, their vows fulfilled. “We’d be gambling more than the lives of our men. We’d be risking the very survival of the kingdom, for if our army suffers another defeat like Ḥaṭṭīn, . Outremer is doomed. I say we withdraw to the coast and rebuild Ascalon, as the English king wanted us to do last September.”

The French were not convinced. They infuriated all the Templars by implying that Robert de Sablé was Richard’s puppet because he was a vassal of the English king. They dismissed the concerns of the Hospitallers and poulains by arguing that a holy war was not like ordinary warfare, insisting it was God’s Will that they besiege Jerusalem and He would reward them with victory. This was the reasoning that had carried the day at Jaffa. But on this cold January night at Bait Nūbā, it did not. Much to the dismay of the French, their fellow crusaders were no longer willing to disregard their military training and experience in favor of such a great leap of faith. It was agreed that the army would not attempt to capture Jerusalem now and instead would seize the ruins of Ascalon, rebuilding it to threaten Saladin’s power base in Egypt.

The French departed with dire predictions of disaster and veiled and notso-veiled threats to abandon the crusade. Hugh of Burgundy paused in the entrance of the tent to glare at Richard, whom he saw as the architect of this shameful surrender. “Our men will never forgive you for this,” he warned, “for they will never understand why we did not even try to seize the Holy City.”

Richard said nothing, for although he truly believed they’d just averted a calamity that would have reverberated throughout Christendom, he knew that Hugh was right. Their men would not understand and he would be the one they blamed.