CHAPTER 33

MAY 1192

Ascalon–Dárúm Road

Upon his arrival at Ascalon, Henri learned that Richard had grown impatient with waiting and had ridden south to begin the siege of Dārūm Castle on his own. Henri set out at daybreak the next day, his men soon complaining of the oppressive heat. It was Pentecost Eve, the weather already much hotter than it would have been back in Champagne. Henri wondered if he’d ever get accustomed to the sultry Syrian climate, and he was relieved when the seventeen stone towers of Dārūm eventually came into view. Raising his hand, he signaled for a halt so they could assess the situation. By now he could see Richard’s tents in the distance, and the siege engines he’d brought by ship from Ascalon, but they were strangely silent. A swirl of dust heralded the approach of the Duke of Burgundy, and Henri coughed when he inhaled a lungful, hoping the other man did not plan to ride beside him for the rest of the way. That was apparently Hugh’s intention, though.

“What did he think he could accomplish with only his household knights? Sometimes that man has not a grain of sense, just an insatiable hunger for fame.”

Henri had never liked the duke, feeling he’d done nothing but obstruct their progress, and he was still angry at the way Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais had attempted to browbeat Isabella when they thought she’d be most vulnerable. Yet he knew Outremer needed French support and so he contented himself with saying mildly, “You do remember, Hugh, that Richard is my uncle?”

“A man cannot pick his kinsmen,” Hugh said, generously absolving Henri of that tainted family bond. “But you cannot deny that Richard is a lunatic on the battlefield.”

“I’ll not deny he is reckless about his own safety.” Henri ignored Hugh’s snort. “But he is never reckless when it comes to the lives of his men.”

“And I am? Why—because I am urging an assault upon the Holy City? That is why we are here, Henri, why so many good men took the cross. We swore to retake Jerusalem. If we do not even try, we dishonor the memories of all those who died for their faith.”

It was obvious to Henri that Conrad had not confided in his French allies, for Hugh did not appear to know of the marquis’s secret talks with Saladin. “Do you truly believe it is worth putting the very survival of the kingdom in jeopardy, Hugh? I’ve yet to talk to a single poulain who thinks we ought to take so great a risk. To a man, they say another loss like Ḥaṭṭīn would doom Outremer.”

“You know what I think? That the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn has sapped them of their will to fight for the True Faith. They no longer have the stomach for battle, even if it means humbling themselves before the enemies of God.”

Henri turned in the saddle to stare at the other man, incredulous. “The Templars have no stomach for battle? I’d not say that in their hearing if I were you.”

“I am not saying they lack courage. But living in the midst of pagans and infidels and unbelievers corrupts the soul, and not even the Templars are immune to it. Nor am I surprised that the poulains are so willing to yield Jerusalem to Saladin. They still attend Mass, but they live like Saracens, luxury-loving, decadent, and effeminate—”

“And we take frequent baths, too. What greater proof of depravity can there be?” Neither Henri nor Hugh had noticed as Balian d’Ibelin had reined in his stallion within earshot. Balian was accustomed to hearing criticism like this from suspicious newcomers, those who thought the Syrian Franks were too much at home in this alien environment, and he no longer reacted with youthful anger or indignation, for it served no purpose. He’d long ago acknowledged the irony of it, that the survival of Outremer depended upon men who judged its inhabitants to be unworthy to dwell in God’s Kingdom.

Balian’s sly raillery was not lost upon Hugh, who gave him a suspicious scowl, but the poulain lord was pleased to see that Henri looked amused. He wanted Isabella to be happy with her new husband, wanted the young count to be content with his new life. “As interesting as this discussion is,” he said, with just a hint of sarcasm, “you might want to direct your attention to the castle battlements.”

It took a moment or so for them to see it, and when they did, they could only stare in disbelief at the red and gold banner flying from the keep—the royal lion of England.

RICHARD SAUNTERED FORWARD to greet them, looking justifiably proud to Henri and insufferably smug to Hugh. He was quite willing to regale them with the details of his capture of Dārūm, and most of the men were eager to hear, for it was a remarkable feat to seize a castle in just four days, especially with such a small force. Those like Hugh, who took no pleasure in hearing of Richard’s exploits, prudently kept silent, aware that a lack of enthusiasm would seem like the worst sort of sour grapes, and Richard soon found himself surrounded by admiring knights; to Hugh’s annoyance, many of them were French.

They could see the evidence of the brief siege all around them. The gate was smashed, the broken wood blackened by fire. The walls had been seriously damaged by the trebuchets Richard had brought from Ascalon. Hugh was not surprised when some of Richard’s knights boasted that their king had pitched in when they carried the dismantled siege engines over a mile from the beach, and when they said that he’d taken personal command of one of the trebuchets, Hugh muttered, “He would.”

No one paid him any heed, for Richard was explaining that he’d noticed a weakness during an earlier scouting mission. The deep ditch before the great tower was cut out of natural rock on one side, but on the other, it was reinforced with a layer of paving. Richard put his sappers to work, renegade Saracens from Aleppo whom he’d hired at Acre, and they soon broke through the paving, then stuffed the tunnel with combustible matter and set it afire, causing part of the tower wall to collapse. After they’d destroyed a Saracen mangonel mounted on top of the keep, the garrison sent three men out to seek terms. First they’d asked if they could have a truce while they consulted with Saladin, and then they offered to surrender the castle if they and their families could depart in freedom. “I told them,” Richard said coolly, “to defend themselves as best they could,” making clear his disdain for foes who’d yield so easily.

Henri blinked. While commanders often insisted upon an unconditional surrender, especially if they’d been put to the time and trouble of storming a castle or town, he would have accepted the qualified surrender offer had he been in Richard’s place. He forgot sometimes how ruthless his uncle could be when it came to waging war. Thinking unwillingly of the Acre garrison, he said, “What happened when you took the castle?”

“They did not offer much of a fight.” Richard sounded both disapproving and disappointed. “When we broke through yesterday, they fled into the keep, and soon offered to surrender unconditionally. We took about three hundred prisoners.” Richard gestured toward the castle, and Henri saw a group of men lined up in the bailey, hands bound behind their backs, surrounded by guards.

The others had begun to exclaim indignantly, for Richard had just revealed that the garrison had hamstrung all of their horses when defeat seemed inevitable; to knights, deliberately crippling a horse was a far worse sin than slaying a man. But Henri continued to study the prisoners. A much smaller group huddled nearby, looking forlorn and frightened, the wives and children of the garrison. Henri knew he was not supposed to feel pity for them; they were the enemy, after all. But he did. As hard as war could be for soldiers, it was always harder for the noncombatants, for the women, the young, the elderly. At least back home, there were periods of peace when people could go about their daily lives, not fearing that men would swoop down upon their villages and towns, burning and looting and killing. He wondered if there would ever be peace in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Somehow he doubted it.

With an effort, Henri shook off these dismal thoughts; it was both dangerous and hurtful to keep making comparisons between Champagne and Outremer, the world he’d lost and the one thrust upon him. His uncle was still accepting congratulations from the other men, who were delighted to learn that they’d found and freed forty Christian prisoners in the castle dungeon. After some of the French lords began to praise Richard, too, Hugh forced himself to mumble a grudging “Well done.” He was unable to resist adding, “You always did have the Devil’s own luck.”

“A man does not need luck when he knows what he is doing,” Richard shot back, and then glanced toward Henri. “We’d planned to celebrate Pentecost on the morrow and send the prisoners and wounded on ahead to Ascalon. Does that meet with your approval?”

Henri was startled to be treated as an equal; he’d have to get used to that, too. “And Dārūm?”

“That is up to you. Dārūm is yours now.”

Henri was taken aback. “Mine? That is most generous of you, Uncle!”

Even the French were impressed by such a magnanimous gesture, except for Hugh, who looked as if he wanted to spit into the dust at Richard’s feet. Richard was obviously taking a grim pleasure in the other man’s vexation. But when he turned again to Henri, grey eyes searching blue ones, he was conveying a message that went beyond mere words. “After all,” he said, “this is your kingdom now, is it not?”

Henri held his gaze. “Yes,” he said, “it is.”

IN LATE MAY, one of Richard’s spies warned him that the Saracens were fortifying a stronghold with the euphonious name Castle of the Figs. The garrison fled at his approach, though, and by May 29, he was camped near a reed-choked river about twelve miles south of Ascalon. It was here that another messenger from England found him. John d’Alençon was the Archdeacon of Lisieux, a former vice chancellor of England, a man Richard trusted, and the news he brought was deeply disturbing.

The archdeacon’s report made it sound as if England was descending into chaos. Richard’s half-brother Geoff was still feuding bitterly with the Bishop of Durham, rejecting the efforts of Eleanor and the council to make peace between them. Richard’s exiled chancellor, Longchamp, had laid an interdict upon his own diocese after the Archbishop of Rouen had confiscated the revenues of his bishopric of Ely, and the people were suffering greatly, for no Masses could be said, no confessions heard, no weddings performed, and bodies were left unburied in the fields. Eleanor had intervened, persuading the archbishop to restore Ely’s revenues to Longchamp and insisting that Longchamp revoke the interdict and lift the excommunication he’d placed upon the archbishop. But the situation remained volatile, made worse by the arrival of two papal legates who laid the duchy of Normandy under interdict after being refused entry by Richard’s seneschal, and then took refuge at the French court.

Even more alarming was the archdeacon’s account of the ongoing conspiracy between the French king and Richard’s own brother. Philippe had attempted to launch an invasion of Normandy, thwarted only by the reluctance of his French barons to attack the lands of a crusader. After Eleanor had prevented John from joining the French king in Paris, John then seized two royal castles, Windsor and Wallingford, and continued to circulate rumors that Richard was dead, which made men loath to antagonize the man likely to be their next king. The archdeacon had also brought letters from Eleanor, the Archbishop of Rouen, and the council, conveying the same urgent plea—that Richard return home as soon as possible, for he was in danger of losing his throne if he did not.

Richard was badly shaken by these latest warnings. It seemed as if all was slipping away, both in Outremer and his distant, beleaguered domains. He was convinced the French were determined to sabotage any chances of a military victory against the Saracens, and now his own kingdom was in grave peril. For a man accustomed to being in command, it was intolerable to feel so helpless, to be at the mercy of forces beyond his control. He responded by withdrawing into a dark, brooding silence, saying nothing about his intentions, and that silence only fed his army’s unease. Many soldiers blamed Richard for his unwillingness to lay siege to Jerusalem, but only the French commanders wanted him to depart, for few believed victory was possible without him. When rumors spread throughout the camp that he planned to go home, morale plummeted.

RICHARD HAD BEEN SECLUDED in his tent for several days, wrestling with the competing demands of king and crusader, fearing they might be irreconcilable. If he remained in the Holy Land, he could lose his crown. But how could he violate the sacred oath he’d sworn to Almighty God? He’d always been very decisive, both on and off the battlefield, quick to assess risks and reach conclusions, never one for second-guessing himself. But now he was faced with an impossible choice and, for the first time in his life, he did not know what to do.

He’d prayed for guidance, to no avail. God had given him no answers. Instead he was confronted with more bad news, delivered by Henri, André, and the Bishop of Salisbury.

Richard had never seen his nephew so angry. “Last night the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais held a secret council with the other lords, including some of your vassals from Poitou, Anjou, England, and Normandy. None of us were invited, for obvious reasons, nor were the Templars, the Hospitallers, or any of the poulain barons. They decided that they will march upon Jerusalem whether you stay or not, Uncle. They then leaked word of their decision to the army, and men reacted as you’d expect—with great joy.” Shaking his head, Henri said bitterly, “They are going to lay siege to the Holy City even if it means they all die in the attempt and, unforgivably, even if Outremer dies, too. They may well have doomed every man, woman, and child in the kingdom and we did not even have a say in it.”

Richard’s own temper had caught fire as he’d listened. “So be it, then. If that is their decision, I now know what mine will be. They can neither take nor hold Jerusalem, the fools! Why should I sacrifice my own kingdom for nothing?”

None of them argued with him. As much as Henri wanted to, he could not. He was convinced that Hugh of Burgundy could no more defeat Saladin than he could fly to the moon. Whatever hopes they had of success would end when Richard sailed for home. Yet how could he ask his uncle to remain when none would heed his voice? Even if victory was impossible in Outremer, the Angevin empire could still be saved. But not if Richard remained in the Holy Land.

THE ARMY MOVED NORTH to Bethgibelin, camping by the stark ruins of a Hospitaller castle. Here the men encountered swarms of the tiny flies they called “cincelles” and “flying sparks.” The insects swarmed incessantly, stinging every inch of exposed flesh and raising such lumps that their victims resembled lepers; despite the searing heat, the soldiers wrapped themselves in cloths and masked their faces to fend off these winged assaults. Yet the men remained determined to reclaim Jerusalem from the infidels, while Richard remained tormented by doubts, for he’d soon begun to question a decision made in anger. Could he truly turn his back upon the Holy Land? Could he sail away as Philippe had done, abandoning Henri and his Christian brethren to a war they could not win? Was that what God would want him to do?

A solitary figure had been keeping vigil for hours outside Richard’s tent, swatting ineffectively at the flies, refusing to leave his post even for meals or to answer nature’s call. Father William had entered the English king’s service when he was Count of Poitou, and when Richard had taken the cross, William had done so, too, for the army would need chaplains, and what better death could a man have than to die in the Holy Land, doing God’s Work? He had been devastated by Richard’s refusal to besiege Jerusalem. It was far worse, though, to think Richard would abandon them, abandon their sacred quest, abandon the Almighty and the Lord Christ, and as he watched over the king’s tent, he wept.

When Richard finally emerged, his attention was drawn to the chaplain, just as William had hoped. But he lost his nerve then, and agreed to speak candidly only if the king promised him that he’d not be angry. Having extracted an impatient reassurance from Richard, the chaplain still hesitated, searching for the right words. “My lord king, it is the talk of the camp that you intend to leave us. May that day never come. God forbid that mere rumors keep you from conquering the Holy Land, for we fear that would bring you eternal disgrace.”

He saw Richard stiffen and momentarily faltered. Emboldened when the king did not rebuke him, he pressed on. “Lord king, I entreat you to remember all that God has done for you. Never did a king of your age accomplish such glorious deeds.” The words were coming quickly now, slurring in his haste to get them said. He reminded Richard of his past victories as Count of Poitou, spoke of how Richard had taken Messina and seized the island of Cyprus and sank that great Saracen ship. Such triumphs were proof of divine favor, as was his miraculous recovery from the scourge of Arnaldia, which had killed so many others. “God has committed the Holy Land to your protection. It is your responsibility alone, now that the French king has cravenly run away. You are the sole defender of Christendom. If you desert us, you will have abandoned it to be destroyed by our enemies.”

He fell silent then, tears continuing to streak his face, swollen from multiple cincelle bites, his eyes fastened imploringly upon his king. His disappointment was almost too much to bear when Richard turned away without answering.

ON THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON the army reached Ascalon and made camp in the orchards outside the city walls. Henri then met privately in Balian’s tent with some of the other poulain lords and the Templar and Hospitaller Grand Masters, holding a strategy session in which they all urged Henri to try to convince Richard to stay. When he balked, they politely but firmly reminded him that his first loyalties now must be given to Outremer. He returned to his own pavilion at sunset in a grim frame of mind, only to find Joanna and Berengaria anxiously waiting for him. Richard was always closemouthed, Joanna conceded; she’d never seen him like this, though. He was obviously greatly troubled, but he’d brushed aside all their questions and concerns, pulling back like a turtle retreating into its shell. “What has happened, Henri? What do we need to know?”

Henri told them about the dire news from England and then about the decision to march on Jerusalem. He had just finished when a summons came from Richard. Joanna and Berengaria accompanied him; he wasn’t about to rebuff his aunt and decided it was up to Richard to dismiss the women if he did not want them present. Richard did not seem disturbed to see them; he did not even seem surprised. Seeing his uncle through Joanna and Berengaria’s eyes, Henri could understand why they were so worried. Richard looked haggard, even haunted, like a man who’d become a stranger to sleep. His gaze flicked from face to face, his own face inscrutable, his thoughts shielded. When he did not speak, Henri prompted, “You wanted to see me, Uncle?”

Richard nodded then, almost imperceptibly. “I have decided not to return to England. Whatever messages come, whatever happens, I pledge to remain in the Holy Land until next Easter.”

Henri felt a great surge of relief, followed by guilt. Joanna’s emotions were less ambivalent; she did not think it was fair that Richard should be asked to sacrifice so much more than the other crusaders. Berengaria crossed to her husband’s side, looking up at him with a smile so joyful that she seemed to be glowing; at that moment, Henri thought she was beautiful. “Does this mean you will be laying siege to Jerusalem, Richard?”

“Yes,” he said, sounding very weary. “I will tell the others tonight and then have my herald proclaim it to the rest of the camp on the morrow.”

Henri kept silent, not sure what to say. Nor did he meet his uncle’s eyes, for he knew what he’d see in them. It would have been like looking into his own soul on the night he’d returned to Tyre, knowing his choices were illusory, knowing he was trapped.

RICHARD DISPATCHED HENRI to Acre to corral the last of the deserters and to find reinforcements in Tyre and even Tripoli, for if they were going to march on Jerusalem, they would need every single soldier they could round up. Because Richard did not think it was safe for the women to remain at Ascalon without him, he asked Henri to escort them back to Acre. He then led the army to Bait Nūbā, the village that was just twelve tantalizing miles from the Holy City. There they set up camp to await Henri’s return and to fend off Saracen raids and hit-and-run attacks.

THEY’D BEEN AT BAIT NŪBĀ two days when one of Richard’s spies reported that Saracens were lying in ambush at the spring of Emmaus. Richard set out at dawn with some of his knights, took their foes by surprise, and in the fight that followed, twenty Turks were slain and Salah al-Dīn’s own herald captured. When the surviving Saracens retreated, Richard set off in pursuit. He was mounted on Fauvel and soon overtook a man on a rangy bay stallion. Fauvel screamed a challenge, lengthening stride, and the Saracen swung his horse around to meet the attack. He charged, wielding a spear that was deflected by Richard’s shield, and took the full thrust of the king’s lance. Reining Fauvel in, Richard leaned from the saddle to make sure the other man was dead. When he looked up, his eyes widened. “Jesu!”

It was then that André caught up with him. He’d seen Richard go chasing off after the Saracens and followed, for even Richard’s lethal skills could be overcome by sheer numbers. Pulling up alongside his cousin, he barely spared a glance for the body sprawled nearby; in the fifteen years he’d fought at Richard’s side, Death had ridden with them so often that they’d come to take its presence for granted. He was more concerned with Richard’s odd immobility; he seemed frozen, scarcely breathing.

“Richard? Are you hurt? I do not see any blood. . . .”

“Look,” Richard said huskily, never taking his eyes from the dream-like vision that seemed to be floating on the horizon, shimmering in a golden haze of heat.

André raised his hand to shield the glare. “Is that . . . ?”

“Yes . . . it is Jerusalem.” Richard had not expected to be so moved, yet as he gazed at those distant limestone walls and towers, it struck him with utter and awful certainty that this was as close as he’d ever get to that most holy and hallowed of cities, the cradle of Christendom. His eyes filled with tears, which André tactfully pretended not to see.

MORGAN , WARIN FITZ GERALD , Pierre de Préaux, and a few other knights and Templars had been out scouting and decided to detour to Ramla before heading back to Bait Nūbā, for the former site had a cluster of barrel-vaulted cisterns. As they approached, they were startled to see dozens of white tents set up near the castle ruins. Advancing warily, they were delighted to discover that this was Henri’s camp; he was on his way to Bait Nūbā with fresh troops from Tyre and truants from Acre. Morgan was not surprised that Henri had been more successful than Guy in conscripting the sluggards; the count’s easy affability concealed a strong will. They were happy to accept Henri’s invitation to stay the night, and they repaid Henri’s hospitality by catching him up on all that had occurred since his departure for Acre.

They gave him the most momentous news first—that it had been decided not to besiege Jerusalem. During a heated council the week before, Richard had argued passionately against it, as he’d done in the past, citing the threat to their supply lines, the scale of the city’s defenses, and the danger that they’d be trapped between the Jerusalem garrison and Saladin’s army. The French had responded as they’d done in the past, too, and accused Richard of caring only for his own honor and glory. He’d been honest about that, Morgan told Henri, candidly admitting he did not want to be blamed for another Ḥaṭṭīn and the loss of the kingdom. He accused the French in turn of seeking his disgrace and insisted he would not sacrifice his army in a rash enterprise that had no hope of success. They countered that it was not his army. He again urged an attack upon Egypt or Damascus, insisting that was the strategy best calculated to bring Saladin back to the bargaining table. And the French rejoinder was that Jerusalem was not negotiable.

“It was,” Morgan said, “basically the same argument we’ve been having since last September at Jaffa. This one did have a different ending, though. It was agreed upon to choose a jury of twenty men, whose decision would be binding upon all. They selected five Templars, five Hospitallers, five poulains, and five French lords. Richard insisted that the men who actually lived in Outremer ought to have the greater say. Of course he knew what the verdict would be—fifteen to five in favor of launching an attack upon Egypt. And of course the Duke of Burgundy was furious that he’d been outmaneuvered and repudiated the agreement, saying it was Jerusalem or nothing.”

“The king did his best to win them over,” Warin chimed in, “offering his fleet for the expedition, pledging to pay for seven hundred knights and two thousand men-at-arms out of his own coffers, even promising to assume the expenses of French knights. All to no avail. And when word got out, the common soldiers were distraught, outraged that Jerusalem would be denied them yet again.”

Henri could not help sympathizing with them even though he was sure Richard was in the right. It would have been better never to have raised their hopes, and he could not help wondering if his uncle had ever really intended to assault Jerusalem. But he felt a touch of shame upon hearing what Morgan said next, that Richard had declared before the vote that he’d not desert the army even if they insisted upon the siege. He would not take command, though, saying he refused to lead men to their deaths when it served for naught. No, Henri decided, it was unfair to accuse Richard of bad faith. Their quest had been doomed before Richard and Philippe even reached Outremer, poisoned by the embittered rivalry between the two kings, the two countries. But as tragic as this outcome was for the soldiers who’d been willing to offer up their lives for the Holy City, it was a blessing for the kingdom. Their army would not be sacrificed in vain, and even if the French deserted them, there was still hope of reaching a settlement with Saladin, who had his own troubles.

“I suppose Burgundy is now threatening to pull out and go back to France,” Henri said, making a face. No, they told him, the army had been temporarily distracted from their feuding by the arrival of one of Richard’s spies, a native Syrian who went by the name “Bernard.” He brought news that set the entire camp into an uproar. A supply caravan was on its way from Egypt to Jerusalem, laden with treasure, weapons, and thousands of horses and camels. It would be an incredibly rich prize if they could take it, and its loss would deliver a great blow to Saladin. Richard had ridden out that very night to intercept it, taking five hundred knights and a thousand men-at-arms, as well as the French. They laughed at Henri’s startled expression, explaining that Hugh of Burgundy had actually agreed to take part in the raid, but only if the French were allotted fully a third of the booty.

“If that man had not been so highly born, he’d have made a good outlaw,” Morgan said with a grin. “But at least for now, the excitement over the caravan has united us, for Richard promised that the spoils would be shared with all, whether they took part in the raid or stayed behind to guard the camp.”

“So now we’re waiting with bated breath to hear if it was successful. The timing has to be perfect. Fortunately, our king is good at this sort of thing.” Warin laughed and began to tell Henri the rest of their news, what he blithely described as “the usual bloodshed.”

“We had two fierce skirmishes with the Saracens,” Warin reported between bites of bread. “The first one occurred on June twelfth when the Saracens lured some French troops away from camp. Things were going badly for them until the Bishop of Salisbury and the Count of Perche rode to their rescue. The second one began when the Turks ambushed one of our supply caravans from Jaffa.” He paused to finish his food before relating a sad story about Baldwin de Carew, who’d been unhorsed in the battle and commandeered his squire’s mount, only to see the squire struck down and beheaded soon thereafter.

Henri had no liking for Baldwin, who’d been one of the two knights who’d broken formation at Arsuf, forcing Richard to commit to a premature charge. Henri would have offered his own horse to his uncle in a heartbeat; he’d even do it for Philippe, who was his liege lord. But he hoped he’d not accept another man’s horse, knowing it could mean the other man’s death. Because he considered Morgan, Warin, and Pierre to be friends, he felt comfortable enough to say as much. They looked at him in surprise before Morgan reminded him, as gently as possible, that he’d be shirking his royal duty to refuse such an offer, for a slain king was the worst of calamities. Henri frowned into his wine cup, wondering how long it would take for him to feel at ease with his new rank.

By now the meal was done, but they lingered by the fire, savoring the simple pleasures of wine and conversation. They commiserated with Pierre de Préaux, whose heroic brother Guilhem remained in captivity, for Saladin still refused to ransom him, and Henri good-naturedly endured the usual bridegroom jests. They were lamenting the recent deaths of two knights from snakebites when the sentries warned that riders were approaching.

They got quickly to their feet, reaching for weapons in case it was a Saracen raid. But they soon heard cries of “The king!” and so were ready to welcome Richard and his men when they rode into the camp. There was no need to ask if the ambush had been successful, for it looked as if thousands of beasts—camels, horses, mules, asses, and donkeys—were being herded by downcast Saracen drovers. The pack animals were heavily laden, and Richard’s elated knights were eager to boast of their plunder. They told Henri that they’d seized gold, silver, brocaded silks, spices, sugar, purple dye, wheat, barley, flour, Saracen mail shirts, weapons, and large tents, all intended for Saladin’s army at Jerusalem. They’d captured almost four thousand camels, they bragged, and as many mules and donkeys, also taking five hundred prisoners and killing many, men now lost to the sultan. It was, they proclaimed to Henri with what he thought was pardonable pride, a great victory for the Franks, a great defeat for the Saracens.

Henri soon realized that Richard was not joining in the jubilation. He answered questions readily enough, accepted their compliments with a smile, and agreed that it had been an outstanding success. But he seemed to be doing what was expected of him, not really sharing in the rejoicing. His behavior was so out of character to Henri that he seized the first opportunity to draw Richard aside for a private word.

“The celebrating is likely to go on far into the night. Even the French are well satisfied; it is the first time I’ve seen Burgundy smile in months. So why are you not better pleased about it, Uncle?”

“I am pleased,” Richard insisted, and Henri shook his head.

“You ought to be triumphant. You dealt Saladin a grievous wound, gained enough pack animals for a campaign in Egypt, and gave the Saracens another story to tell around their campfires about Malik Ric.”

“But it has changed nothing, Henri. I could have captured every blessed beast from Dārūm to Damascus and it would not matter, for the French will never agree to a campaign in Egypt and I cannot convince them of their folly.”

Henri could not dispute that. “At least you’ve kept them from besieging Jerusalem.”

“And half the army will never forgive me for it.”

Henri started to speak, then stopped himself, for he could not dispute that either.

RICHARD DISTRIBUTED the camels to his knights and the donkeys to the men-at-arms, and the chroniclers reported that all rejoiced. The euphoria did not last long, though, and soon some were complaining because such a large number of pack animals had sent the price of grain soaring. But the underlying cause of their discontent was the decision not to besiege Jerusalem, and the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais seized the opportunity to argue again for an assault upon the Holy City. The debate ended when Richard’s Syrian spies reported that Salah al-Dīn had poisoned the wells and destroyed all the cisterns within two leagues of Jerusalem in anticipation of a siege, for no army could hope to prevail without water. The French then set up their own camp apart from the others, and Hugh wrote a satiric song about Richard, annoying the latter so much that he retaliated in kind and composed a mocking song of his own. By now it was obvious to all that such deep divisions could not be healed, and the decision was made to withdraw from Bait Nūbā and head back to Jaffa. It was July 4, the fifth anniversary of the calamitous Christian defeat at Ḥaṭṭīn.

HENRI SPURRED HIS STALLION to catch up to Richard. The day was utterly still, with not even a vagrant breeze, the sky devoid of clouds or birds and leached of color; it seemed almost white to Henri every time he squinted up at the blinding blaze of the sun. The heat was brutal, but they no longer needed to fear burns and peeling; by now even men as fair-skinned as Richard and Henri were deeply tanned. He could hear the drone of insects, the plodding of hooves, but no other sounds, for the army was marching in eerie silence. He found himself thinking that it was as if these thousands of unhappy men had become ghosts, trapped in a waking dream. He knew it was not a good sign when he was getting so morbidly fanciful and he glanced over at his uncle. “What now?” he asked, his mouth and throat so dry that the words emerged as a croak.

Richard kept his eyes on the road ahead. “We reopen talks with Saladin,” he said, “and hope that he is as war-weary and discouraged as we are.”

HUMPHREY DE TORON was very busy for a fortnight, going back and forth between Jaffa and Jerusalem. Richard and Salah al-Dīn had been able to agree upon the basic terms fairly quickly, for they were not that different from those Richard had originally proposed to al-’Ādil. The land was to be divided, with the Saracens retaining the “mountain castles” and the Franks holding on to Richard’s coastal conquests, with the area in between to be shared by both. Salah al-Dīn and his council were willing to give Richard the Holy Sepulchre and to allow Christian pilgrims free access to Jerusalem, the sultan promising “to treat your sister’s son like one of my own sons.” But Ascalon was to be the rock upon which the peace negotiations foundered, for Salah al-Dīn insisted that Ascalon be destroyed, and Richard was not willing to agree to this.

RICHARD HAD DISPATCHED Humphrey back to Jerusalem in one last attempt to reach an accord. Learning that Richard had returned to Jaffa that afternoon, Henri was heading for the castle. It heartened him to see how much progress the city had made in the nine months since they’d ridden into desolate ruins. Once they’d rebuilt the walls, many of the former residents came back; at least the Christians did. It was Henri’s hope that the day would come when Saracens and Franks could once more dwell in the towns and countryside in relative harmony, for the kingdom could not survive without cooperation between the various peoples who laid claim to its hallowed, blood-soaked soil. It had happened before, so why not again? Henri tried to convince himself that eventually they’d have to end the war, if only because both sides were too exhausted to keep fighting. But by then, what would be left of Outremer?

There was a reassuring air of normalcy about the recovering city: women marketing, children playing in the streets, vendors hawking their wares on spread-out rugs. There was also a thriving traffic in sin. The contingent of prostitutes who’d followed the crusaders from Acre to Jaffa had stayed even after the army left, for there were always plenty of soldiers there—men convalescing from wounds and sickness, deserters, those in need of a brief respite from the war. Leaning out of upper-story windows, some of these ladies of ill repute called out to Henri and his escort as they rode by, promising all sorts of carnal delights for the right price. Henri just laughed and called back, “Sorry, sweethearts, I’m a married man now,” but a few of his knights cast wistful looks over their shoulders as they passed.

When they reached the castle, Henri was told Richard was abovestairs in the solar, and he headed in that direction. But as he opened the door to the stairwell, he found himself face-to-face with Humphrey de Toron. They both came to an abrupt halt. Henri had done his best to avoid just such an encounter, and he’d been so successful that he suspected Humphrey had been dodging him, too.

Deciding the least awkward approach would be to ignore the obvious, Henri said, as nonchalantly as he could, “I’d heard you were back from Jerusalem. Is Saladin still demanding that we raze Ascalon to the ground?”

“I regret so. With neither of them willing to compromise on this, the chances for peace do not look good. I did what I could to persuade the sultan, explaining the vast sums King Richard had spent on Ascalon, but to no avail. . . .”

Humphrey sounded as if he were blaming himself for the failure of the negotiations, and Henri wished he could assure him that he’d done the best he could under difficult circumstances, but he feared that Humphrey would take it as condescension. “My uncle has complete faith in you,” he said at last. He would have continued up the stairs then, but Humphrey was still blocking his way.

“Is she . . . well?” he asked, no longer meeting Henri’s gaze.

“Yes, she is.” Henri would have preferred to leave it at that, but he understood Humphrey’s concern. Deciding he owed it to the other man to ease his mind if he could, he said, “She is no longer troubled by early-morning sickness and her midwives have assured her that she is young and healthy and the pregnancy and birth ought to go as expected.”

Humphrey had lashes a woman might have envied, long and thick, veiling his eyes. But he could not control his face. Henri thought, Hellfire and damnation, and suppressed a sigh. “Humphrey . . . ”

Humphrey’s head came up. “No,” he said, “I do not blame you. The man I blame is dead and deservedly so.” He started to squeeze past Henri, but then stopped, the words coming out low and fast, as if escaping of their own will. “I will pray the child is a girl. I would not want to see a son of Conrad of Montferrat rule over Outremer.”

He didn’t wait for Henri’s response, was already gone before Henri said, very softly, “Neither would I.” He stood there for a time, thinking upon the odd turns and twists of fate that had brought him and Humphrey de Toron to this moment, and then took the stairs two at a time, his spurs striking sparks upon the stone grooves of the steps.

Richard and André were alone in the solar. “I was about to send word to you,” Richard said. “It will not be to your liking, though.”

“I know. I just met Humphrey de Toron downstairs. He said Saladin would not budge about Ascalon.”

“Neither will I,” Richard said, his voice flat and hard, “so the talks are done. On the morrow I want to send three hundred knights to Ascalon to strengthen its defenses and to destroy Dārūm. Is that acceptable to you, Henri?”

“Of course.” Henri looked around for a wine flagon, didn’t see one. “What is your plan?”

“Are you so sure I have one?”

“You always do.”

That earned him a fleeting smile from his uncle. “As it happens, I do. There is only one coastal port still under Saladin’s control. So let’s take it away from him.”

“Beirut?” Henri considered for a heartbeat or two and then smiled. “Beirut it is.”

“I thought you’d like that idea,” Richard said dryly. Glancing over at André, he explained, “I daresay my nephew would agree to lay siege to Constantinople as long as it meant we’d be heading to Acre first.”

Understanding then, André grinned. “Of course, his bride is waiting for him at Acre!” Shaking his head in mock regret, he said, “Ah, youth . . . when a man is utterly in thrall to his cock.”

They both laughed, but Henri did not mind their teasing. He knew there was no malice in it. And because he was a secret romantic at heart, he even felt a twinge of sympathy for his uncle, sorry that Richard would never be as eager to be reunited with Berengaria as he was to see Isabella again.