CHAPTER 37
AUGUST 1192
Jaffa, Outremer
As the distant walls of Jaffa came into view, Henri found himself tensing, just as he had three weeks ago, not knowing what he’d find. Then, he’d feared that the city had fallen; now he feared that his uncle had died during his brief trip to Caesarea, for it had soon become obvious that Richard was gravely ill, so ill that he’d dispatched Henri to convince the French to join them at Jaffa. Henri had done his best, employing all of his eloquence and powers of persuasion; he’d thought it was a hopeful sign that they’d ventured as far as Caesarea, and he could see that some of the French knights wanted to answer the summons. But the Bishop of Beauvais was now in command, Hugh of Burgundy having returned to Acre after falling ill, and Beauvais forbade them to join Richard at Jaffa. Few dared to defy him, for he wielded the French king’s name like a club and they all knew he’d pour poison into Philippe’s ear upon their return to France. So Henri was sailing back to Jaffa with just a handful of men, those who had the courage to value their crusading vows more than their king’s favor. While he was not surprised that Guillaume des Barres was one of them, he was surprised that Jaufre of Perche was one, too, and as he glanced at the young count standing beside him at the gunwale, he wondered if Jaufre realized he’d made a dangerous enemy in the bishop.
“How bad is it?” Jaufre asked, his eyes tracking the sleek forms of several dolphins keeping pace with their galley; every now and then there’d be a silvery splash as they leaped clear of the water. “I’m guessing things must be dire indeed if the king was willing to swallow his pride and seek French aid again.”
“We cannot lose Jaffa,” Henri said resolutely. “Some of the poulain lords arrived by galley in the past fortnight, but we are still greatly outmanned. We have less than three hundred knights, and Saladin’s army is growing by the day. He has gotten reinforcements from Mosul and our spies say more are expected from Egypt. We’ve been trying to repair the town walls, but so many are sick. And they’ve all been shaken by the king’s illness. . . .”
“Does Saladin know the king is ailing?”
Jaufre’s naïve question earned him a wry smile from Henri. “He probably knew it ere Richard did. The man has more spies than there are priests in Rome. Richard has been yearning for pears and plums, all he seems able to eat, so Saladin has been sending baskets of fruit and snow from Mount Hermon to ease his fever. If Beauvais and Burgundy knew that, they’d see it as proof that my uncle and the sultan are partners in a vast conspiracy to conquer Christendom for Islam.”
“They do not care about proof,” Jaufre said, with enough bitterness to show Henri that some of the French crusaders were very unhappy with their commanders. By now they were approaching the harbor and Henri felt a vast relief when he saw men waving and smiling at the sight of his blue, white, and gold banner, for there was none of the panic that he’d have seen on their faces if his uncle had died while he was at Caesarea.
SOME OF THE SOLDIERS still camped in tents, convinced that the air of Jaffa was unhealthy. But Richard had been moved into the castle for greater safety; they feared the ailing king might have proven to be an irresistible target for his Saracen foes. As Henri was escorted into his uncle’s chamber, he came to an abrupt halt, for the atmosphere was stifling. Despite the summer’s heat, several coal braziers were smoldering, and one glance at the blanketed figure in the bed was enough to explain it. The cycle had begun again—severe chills, to be followed by a high fever and sweating. Richard was shaking so badly that his teeth were chattering, but he put out a trembling hand to beckon Henri forward.
“No . . . luck?” The voice did not sound like Richard’s at all, slurred and indistinct.
“I’m so sorry, Uncle. I truly tried. But Beauvais ordered them in Philippe’s name to remain in Caesarea. Whilst I doubt Hugh of Burgundy would have been any more reasonable, he’d gone back to Acre after taking sick.” Hoping it might cheer Richard up, Henri embellished the truth, saying that he’d heard Burgundy had been “puking his guts out” and had made the trip to Acre “clutching a chamber pot as if it were the Holy Grail.”
The corner of Richard’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, but he closed his eyes then and Henri took the hint. He knew his uncle did not like others to see him so sick, so helpless, and he thought that was one reason why Richard had forbidden him to let Berengaria and Joanna know of his illness. He’d said Jaffa was much too dangerous for them, and Henri could not dispute that. But as Richard’s condition worsened, Henri feared that his uncle’s wife and sister might be denied the chance to bid him a final farewell. After exchanging glances with Master Besace, who merely shrugged his shoulders, indicating Richard was in God’s Hands, Henri made a quiet departure.
THEY’D GATHERED in a tent close to the Jerusalem Gate to hear Henri’s report: the poulain lords Balian d’Ibelin, Hugues de Tiberias and his brother William; the Grand Masters Robert de Sablé and Garnier de Nablus; and the men closest to Richard—André de Chauvigny, the Earl of Leicester, and Hubert Walter, the Bishop of Salisbury. While they’d been expecting bad news, a gloomy silence still fell once Henri was done speaking.
“There are rumors that Saladin means to make another assault on Jaffa now that the English king is incapacitated,” Garnier de Nablus said bleakly. “Under the circumstances, it would be astonishing if he did not, yet if he does, God help us all.”
“His men showed they had no stomach for fighting,” Leicester pointed out, but without much conviction.
“They had no stomach for fighting Richard,” Balian corrected. “Since he’s bedridden, they might recover some of their lost courage. Moreover, Saladin has fresh troops now, the reinforcements from Egypt.” Balian paused, looking around at the circle of grim faces. “We need to make peace—for all our sakes. And there is only one way to do it. I’m guessing most of you are chess players, no? Well, any chess piece except the king can be sacrificed, and I think it is time to sacrifice one. We must give up Ascalon if we have any hope of winning this game.”
The other poulains were nodding in vigorous agreement, but Richard’s men looked dubious. Henri was the one to give voice to their misgivings, admitting that he was not sure Richard would ever agree.
“We cannot hold it without Richard,” Balian said bluntly. “So unless he plans to renounce his own domains and remain here to defend it, it makes no sense to let Ascalon wreck this last chance of peace.” He paused again, this time looking directly at Henri and André. “You must convince your king. If he will not consent, the best we can hope for is that the war goes on. But I think it is much more likely that we’ll all die in the ruins of Jaffa, unable to fend off another Saracen assault.”
RICHARD’S CHILLS had given way to the expected fever, and his doctors were doing all they could to bring his temperature down, coaxing him to sip wine laced with betony, bathing his burning skin with water cooled by the snow from Mount Hermon. Henri, André, and Hubert Walter had gathered in a far corner of the chamber, watching the doctors’ efforts as they continued a low-voiced debate about what to do. André thought it best to wait until Richard’s fever broke, for he’d become delirious as it peaked earlier in the week. But Henri and the bishop feared that time was running out even as they argued, and they eventually prevailed.
Approaching the bed once the doctors were done, they were relieved that Richard still seemed lucid, and they took turns trying to persuade him that Ascalon must be sacrificed. It was far more important to Saladin than it was to them; he’d never make peace as long as Franks controlled the route to Egypt. Without Richard, it could not be defended. If peace were not made soon, they risked another attack on Jaffa, risked being stranded in Outremer till the following spring, risked the survival of both kingdoms—Jerusalem and England. Richard listened in silence and at last turned his head aside on the pillow, whispering, “Do as you think best. . . .” Overjoyed, they thanked him profusely and hastened off to send word to the Saracens that Ascalon’s fate was now open to negotiation.
Richard was not left in peace for long; the doctors returned, insisting he must be bled, and he did not have the strength to object, wanting only for them all to go away and let him be. He dozed for a time, awoke with another throbbing headache. Feeling as if his body were on fire, he sought to throw off the sheet and discovered he had more visitors. The French king and his brother Johnny were standing by the bed, regarding him with smug smiles.
We thought you’d want to know what has been happening back home, Big Brother, although you’ll not like it much. I am going to wed Alys, keeping her in the family, Johnny said with a grin. And I am thinking of taking Joanna as my queen now that you’ll not be around to object, Philippe confided. But the weddings will have to wait until after we lay claim to Normandy, of course. And England will soon be mine, too, Johnny boasted, for none will dare to defy me once they hear you died in the Holy Land. Richard told them to go away; they just laughed at him. And then Johnny did go, but Philippe still leaned over the bed, whispering in his ear. Your little brother will be a lamb to the slaughter, Lionheart. How long do you think it will take me to strip Johnny of every last acre? I’ll have Normandy, Anjou, Brittany, even your beloved Aquitaine in the time it takes for your body to rot in an Outremer grave. Your Angevin empire will soon be a French one and there is naught you can do to prevent it.
Richard cried out and his doctors were there at once, stopping him as he attempted to get up, telling him he must stay in bed. Did they not see Philippe and Johnny? Did they not hear the laughter? He tried to tell them, but talking was too much of an effort, and he let them lay him back against the pillows. His head was pounding; so was his heart, sounding as loud in his ears as the Saracen war drums. Had they launched another attack? When he closed his eyes, he could see that dead Templar, propped up in bed, sword in hand. Where was his sword? He struggled to sit up, looking around wildly for it. But the chamber was filling with shadows and he could see nothing beyond the bed.
Is this what you want, Richard? A familiar figure emerged from the darkness, holding out Joyeuse, the sword Maman had given him on his fifteenth birthday, when he’d been invested as Duke of Aquitaine; he’d named it after Charlemagne’s fabled weapon, said to have flashed lightning in the heat of battle. He reached for it, but his brother pulled it away before his fingers could touch the enameled pommel. What good will a sword do you when you are as weak as a mewling kitten? Geoffrey sat on a nearby coffer, tossing the sword aside. You were so pleased when you heard I’d been trampled in that tournament. Very shortsighted of you, Richard. You’d have been better off with me as your heir, much better off.
As if you’d not have connived for my crown, too! You’d never have been satisfied with a duchy if a kingdom was in the offing.
He had no energy for speech, but he did not need it, for Geoffrey seemed to pluck his words from the air, saying with a sardonic smile, Yes, but I would have been willing to wait. Face it, Richard, you’ll never make old bones. Other men lust after women. You lust after Death, always have. You’ve been chasing after her like a lovesick lad, and sooner or later she’ll take pity and let you catch her. So I could afford to wait. But Johnny had to entangle himself in Philippe’s web, the damned fool.
You entangled yourself in Philippe’s web, too, Richard reminded him. If you had not been plotting with the French, you’d not have been at Lagny when that tournament was held.
You know why I turned to Philippe. I got tired of Papa treating us like his puppet princes, tired of him dangling that accursed crown before us like a hunter’s lure. So did you, remember? You did me one better, too, doing public homage to Philippe for all your fiefs “on this side of the sea” whilst Papa looked on, dumbfounded. But you could safely make use of Philippe, for you knew you could outwit him and outfight him. So could I. Johnny cannot, as he’ll soon learn to his cost. Ah well, you’ll be dead by then, so mayhap it will not matter so much.
Christ Jesus, Geoffrey, of course it matters! Furious, Richard thrashed about, trying to free himself from his sheets. If you’ve come only to mock me, go back to Hell where you belong!
Purgatory, not Hell, Geoffrey said and laughed before fading back into the blackness. Richard called out to him, but he got no answer. He was alone.
AFTER CONFIRMING that there were only three hundred knights with Richard, Salah al-Dīn met with his council and it was agreed to attack Jaffa or, failing that, Ascalon. By August 27, he was at Ramla, making ready for the assault. But it was then that he got two messages that changed his plans. Abū-Bakr reported that Richard had asked al-’Ādil to broker a peace, requesting to be indemnified for his expenses if he had to surrender Ascalon. Salah al-Dīn halted their march and instructed his brother, “If they will give up Ascalon, conclude a treaty of peace.” The next day the emir Badr al-Dīn Dildirim al-Yārūqī brought word that he’d been approached by the Bishop of Salisbury, who told him that Richard would be willing to yield Ascalon without compensation. Salah al-Dīn was uneasy about making peace, confiding in Bahā’ al-Dīn that he feared their enemy would grow strong again now that they had a secure foothold along the coast. But he had no choice, he said, for his men were war-weary, homesick, and had shown at Jaffa that they were no longer dependable. After meeting again with his council on Sunday morning, August 30, the sultan sent an envoy to the English king with a draft of the peace treaty.
“NO,” RICHARD SAID, shaking his head stubbornly. “I did not agree to yield Ascalon without compensation. I would never do that!”
There was a shocked silence, the other men looking at one another in dismay. “You did, Uncle.” Henri approached the bed, picking up the document that Richard had crumpled and flung to the floor. “André and the bishop and I . . . we came to you and explained why Ascalon had to be sacrificed—”
“No! I would not do that.”
“Richard . . . it happened as Henri says. You do not remember . . . not any of it?”
Richard’s eyes searched André’s face, then shifted to Hubert Walter. “No . . . I agreed to this? You swear it is so?” When all three of them assured him it was, he sank back against the pillows. It was very disturbing, even frightening, to think he’d made such an important decision and had no memory of it. When he glanced up again, he saw that the sultan’s envoy was becoming agitated, asking Humphrey de Toron what had gone wrong. “Humphrey . . . tell him that if I said it, I will honor my word. And tell him to say this to Saladin—that I accept the terms and understand that if I receive any compensation for Ascalon, it will be because of his generosity and bounty.”
The envoy was ushered out, obviously greatly relieved that there was to be no eleventh-hour surprise. By unspoken assent, the other men left, too; only Henri and André remained. “This is my fault, Uncle,” Henri said unhappily. “André insisted that we ought not to ask you until your fever broke. But I feared to wait—”
“It is your kingdom, Henri. It was your decision to make as much as mine.” Richard could not remember ever feeling so exhausted or so disheartened. “I need to sleep now. . . .” He hoped it would come soon, stilling the questions he could not answer, the insidious voice asking what he’d truly accomplished here. So many deaths, and all for what?
WHEN RICHARD AWOKE, it was still light, so he could only have slept for an hour or so. One of his doctors was quickly hovering over the bed, asking if he would like some soup or fruit. He made himself say yes, for he knew he had to eat to regain his strength. He was frightened by his weakness; it was as if he’d become trapped in a stranger’s body, not the one that had served him so well for nigh on thirty-five years. A quartan fever recurred every third day, so he ought to be feverfree today, but he was not. If he died here at Jaffa, what would become of his kingdom? What of Berenguela, left a young widow in a foreign land so far from home? Or Joanna? Had he lost the Almighty’s Favor by failing to take Jerusalem? Ought he to have tried, even knowing how many men would die in the attempt? “Give me a sign, O Lord,” he whispered. “Let me know that I was not wrong. . . . ”
He tried to eat the food the doctors brought to him, but his stomach rebelled and he could swallow only a mouthful or two before he was fighting back nausea. He asked for music, for that had always been a source of comfort, but the harpist’s melodies sounded melancholy and mournful, even though he’d requested something lively. He finally slept again, a shallow, uneasy sleep that gave him little rest, and awoke to find his nephew standing by the bed.
“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” Henri said. “I have news you’ll want to hear.”
Richard doubted that, almost told Henri to come back on the morrow. But the younger man’s eyes were shining; he did not look like the bearer of yet more bad tidings. “What?”
“I had a message tonight from Isabella. She says that Hugh of Burgundy died at Acre five days ago.”
Richard stared at him. “I think,” he said, “that I’ve just gotten my sign.” Henri did not know what that meant, but it did not matter; his uncle was smiling, the first real smile he’d seen on Richard’s face since he’d been stricken with the quartan fever.
ON SEPTEMBER 1, Salah al-Dīn’s envoy, al-Zabadānī, came to Jaffa with the final draft of the treaty, waiting in a tent outside the town until Richard was carried out to meet him on a litter. He was too ill to read it, but said, “I have made peace. Here is my hand.” A truce was to begin on the following day, to last three years and eight months. The terms were very similar to those discussed in the past, with the crusaders to hold the coastal areas from Jaffa to Tyre. The peace was to include the Prince of Antioch, the Count of Tripoli, and Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān, leader of the Assassin sect. Ascalon was to be razed to the ground and to remain so for the duration of the truce. Richard’s reliance upon the sultan’s generosity was not misplaced; Salah al-Dīn compensated him for the money he’d expended at Ascalon by agreeing that the Franks and Saracens would share the revenues of Ramla and Lydda. Both sides would be able to move freely, to resume trade, and Christian pilgrims would be given access to Jerusalem. The two armies mingled and Bahā’ al-Dīn reported that “It was a day of rejoicing. God alone knows the boundless joy of both peoples.”
Richard remained seriously ill, Bahā’al-Dīn repeating a rumor that he’d died. On September 9, he sailed to Haifa and then on to Acre to convalesce. He sought to pay the French back by asking Salah al-Dīn to allow only those Christian knights who bore letters from him or Henri to visit Jerusalem. But the sultan wanted as many crusaders as possible to fulfill their holy vows, knowing they’d be less likely to return then, and he ignored Richard’s request. Three pilgrimages were organized, one led by André de Chauvigny and another by the Bishop of Salisbury. The latter was accorded the honor of a personal audience with Salah al-Dīn, who told him that Richard had great courage but he was too reckless with his own life. While many of his soldiers and knights took advantage of the peace to worship at the Holy Sepulchre, Richard did not.
ANDRÉ WAS HOLDING COURT, regaling a large audience with his account of his pilgrimage to Jerusalem. “It almost ended ere it began,” he said, “for the men we’d sent on ahead to get safe conducts from Saladin stopped at Toron des Chevaliers and fell asleep. The rest of our party assumed they’d reached Jerusalem and we passed them by as they slept. When we realized we were arriving without advance warning, we sent word hastily to al-’Ādil and he dispatched an escort to protect us, rebuking us for our rashness.” He’d charitably not mentioned the names of the errant envoys, but Pierre de Préaux, William des Roches, and Gerard de Furnival flushed uncomfortably, knowing many were aware they were the culprits. They were grateful when Berengaria distracted attention from them by asking André why they’d needed safe conducts, for she thought the Holy City would be open to all pilgrims.
“Well, we are more than pilgrims, my lady. We’re the men who defeated Saladin’s army at Acre, Arsuf, and Jaffa, and many of them still bear grudges. We were told some of them entreated the sultan to let them take vengeance for the deaths of their fathers, brothers, and sons. But he refused to allow it, giving al-’Ādil the responsibility of making sure that Christians would be safe during their stay in the Holy City.”
André then told them of his visit to the most sacred site in Christendom, the Holy Sepulchre; and as he described the two-story chapel with Mount Calvary above and Golgotha below, Berengaria had to fight back tears. When André said that Saladin had allowed the Bishop of Salisbury to see the True Cross, she bit her lip, thinking that the sultan would surely have done as much for Richard and his queen. André and the other men had seen all the places so familiar to her from her readings of Scriptures: the rock upon which the body of the Lord Christ had lain, the Mount of Olives, the Church of Mount Sion where the Blessed Mary had died and was assumed into Heaven, the room where the Last Supper had taken place, the Valley of Jehosaphat, the Pool of Siloam, where the Saviour had restored a man’s sight. Places she would never get to visit.
She bowed her head so none would notice her distress, but it was then that André leaned over and urged her husband to make the pilgrimage, too. “There is still time, Cousin,” he said, “to change your mind.” Richard merely smiled and shook his head, but for just a heartbeat, his defenses were down and his naked yearning showed so plainly on his face that Berengaria caught her breath. So he did want to see the Holy City! Why, then, would he not go?
LYING IN BED beside Richard, Berengaria was still thinking of his earlier unguarded moment in the great hall. There were two explanations circulating about Richard’s refusal to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem—that he was still too sick to make the trip or that it was too dangerous. It was true that he was not fully recovered, although he tried to hide it as best he could. She saw how exhausted he was when he went to bed at night, how little he ate, how easily he tired during the day. They’d only begun sharing a bed again in the past few days and he’d not yet made love to her; she was content to cuddle, but his forbearance was further proof that he was still convalescing. She knew, though, that he’d never have let ill health keep him from traveling to the Holy City; like most soldiers, he was accustomed to fighting through pain. And the other rationale was no more plausible. It was ludicrous to think that the man who’d ridden out alone to challenge the entire Saracen line to combat would of a sudden be so concerned for his own safety. She’d reluctantly concluded that a pilgrimage to Jerusalem was simply not that important to him, and her resentment began to fester, for in denying himself that privilege, he was denying her, too. She was Richard’s queen; how could she go without him?
But she had been given a glimpse into his heart earlier that evening, and she was now sure it was not lack of interest. “Richard?” When he turned toward her, she shifted so she could look into his eyes. “I need to talk with you. It is important.”
He propped himself up on his elbow. “Why do women always want to have these talks when a man is half asleep?” he grumbled, but she saw the smile hovering in the corner of his mouth. “All right, little dove. You have my full attention.”
“Why did you not go to Jerusalem?”
He was quiet for so long that she was not sure he was going to answer. “I did not deserve to go, Berenguela. I had not earned that right. When I took the cross, I pledged to free the Holy City from the Saracens, and in that, I failed.”
Her throat tightened, for beneath her tranquil surface, her emotions were surging at flood tide. Guilt that she’d so misjudged him. Pride that he would not accept from the infidels what he could not get through God’s Grace. Frustration that he confided so little in her, that after sixteen months of wedlock, they were still strangers sharing a bed, that the only intimacy he seemed able to offer was carnal. Unspoken anger that he’d kept her away from Jaffa when he could have been dying. Fear that was with her every moment of every day, the dread that she would become a widow ere she could truly become a wife. She’d been telling herself for months that their life would be different once they returned to his domains, that their real marriage would begin then. But she’d been badly shaken to learn he’d been so desperately ill and had chosen to keep her in ignorance. It had raised doubts she was unwilling to confront, even to acknowledge.
“I think the Almighty will honor your sacrifice,” she said softly, and he leaned over, brushing his lips against her cheek. But she lay awake long after he fell asleep, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes as she wept silently for Richard, for herself, and for the Holy City that neither of them would get to see.
SEPTEMBER 29 WAS THE DAY chosen for the departure of Richard’s wife, sister, and most of the fleet, which Richard had placed under André’s command. Once they reached Sicily, the women would continue their journey overland to avoid the winter storms. André and Leicester would then sail on to Marseille, the same route Richard planned to take once he was able to leave Acre. Berengaria and Joanna had bidden farewell to Isabella at the palace, for her pregnancy was so far advanced that even the short trip to the harbor was beyond her. Escorted by Richard and Henri, they arrived at the wharfs to find a large crowd had assembled to see them off. The women were glad to be going home, although they were uneasy about the long sea voyage ahead of them, none more so than Joanna. She was putting up a brave front, but it was belied by her pallor and the brittle edge to her laughter. Richard was watching his sister with troubled eyes, and as soon as she moved away, he leaned over to murmur in Berengaria’s ear. “Irlanda is no sailor, suffers more grievously from seasickness than anyone I’ve ever known. I’m relying upon you to take care of her, little dove.”
“I will do my best,” she promised, tilting her head so she could look up into his face. She knew why he was not sailing with them; he’d explained that he had important debts still to settle. But she wished so very much that he was not remaining behind. Like his soldiers, she felt safer in his company, and she knew Joanna did, too. And it would be months before they’d be reunited, months in which she could do naught but worry about him. Their departure was dangerously close to the end of the sailing season; it would be even more dangerous for him if he delayed by another week or two.
And he had more to fear than storms at sea. As a man who’d taken the cross and fought for Christ in the Holy Land, he was under the protection of the Church, but she feared that would matter little to his enemies . . . and he had so many. The French king. The Holy Roman Emperor. The Duke of Austria, said to still be nursing a grudge over his dishonored banner at Acre. The brother of Conrad of Montferrat, who’d been told that Richard was responsible for Conrad’s death. The Count of Toulouse, an old foe who was conspiring with the French to do Richard harm. And the Bishop of Beauvais, who’d already sailed and would be slandering Richard with every breath he drew. Like the trail of slime that marked a snail’s passing, Beauvais would be leaving venom in his wake as he moved from court to court, and she was not sure the truth could ever catch up to all those lies.
“I wish you were coming with us, Richard.”
“I would if I could, Berenguela. But you’ll be safe with André and Leicester, and Tancred will provide you with a large escort on your way to Rome.” Richard knew she was shy of public displays of affection, but when he kissed her, she returned the embrace with unexpected ardor, hoping that last night God had finally heeded her prayers and let her conceive. If she could depart the Holy Land with his child in her womb, it would be proof of divine favor, proof that the Almighty was not wroth with Richard for his failure to take Jerusalem.
Berengaria and Joanna were not the only ones to be worried that Richard was delaying his departure. Mariam was very unhappy about it, too, for Henri and Joanna had asked Morgan to wait and sail with Richard, both of them concerned that he was still suffering from the aftereffects of that near-fatal bout of quartan fever. Morgan was trying to coax her into a better humor, joking that it was for the best. “If we sailed together, think how difficult it would be for me, cariad, having you close at hand and yet out of reach. I’d be like a man parched and half mad with thirst, chained to a keg of Saint Pourçain wine and not being able to drink a drop of it.”
Mariam was not mollified, but they’d already had this argument and she did not want their last words to be quarrelsome. Morgan squeezed her hand, and then turned as Joanna approached. “Keep my brother out of trouble, Cousin Morgan,” she said, with strained playfulness. He promised that he would, even though he thought that was a task beyond his capabilities. But he knew she was nervous that Richard would be traveling without André, who was probably the only man able to rein in the king’s more reckless impulses.
The lighters were waiting to ferry them out to their ships. But Joanna had been entrusted with a private message for Humphrey de Toron and she drew him aside to say that Isabella had heard he’d accepted Guy de Lusignan’s invitation to settle in Cyprus and she wished him happiness in his new life. “Thank you, Lady Joanna,” he said, and she found herself thinking again that he was a remarkably handsome man, with one of the saddest smiles she’d ever seen.
Most of the farewells had already been said. André and Richard joked as if they were not facing dangers as daunting as any they’d confronted in the Holy Land, and no one listening to their banter would ever have suspected that Richard might be sailing home to a lost kingdom, a realm in ruins. Henri kissed all the women with great gallantry and Joanna nearly wept, for it was unlikely she’d ever see him again. Richard hugged his sister so tightly that she thought he might have cracked a rib, kissed his wife, and promised they’d all be together to celebrate Christmas or, at the latest, Epiphany. “If Philippe took four months to get home, I can damned well do it in three,” he said with a smile, and lifted Berengaria into the lighter before she could ask if he truly meant that.
The barge rocked as it rode the waves out to their waiting ship, and Joanna started to look greensick. Berengaria reached over and squeezed her hand, all the while gazing back toward shore. The sky was free of clouds and the wind blew steadily from the southeast, a Jerusalem wind, surely a good omen. But she’d begun to tremble, chilled by a sudden sense of foreboding, the fear that this would be her last memory of Richard: standing on the Acre wharf next to Henri, smiling and waving farewell.
AFTER STOPPING at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross to offer prayers to St Michael, whose day it was, invoking his protection for their fleet, Richard and Henri returned to the palace in a somber mood. As soon as they dismounted in the courtyard, Balian d’Ibelin appeared in the doorway of the great hall. “I was just about to send for you, Henri. Isabella’s birth pangs have begun.”
Henri gasped and dashed up the steps, darting past Balian into the hall. Following more slowly, Richard stopped beside the poulain lord. “I thought she was not due for another month?”
Balian shrugged. “The midwives may have miscalculated. Or the baby may have decided to come early.”
Richard knew little of the birthing chamber, but Henri had told him that Balian had four children with his Greek wife. “Are Isabella and the baby in danger?”
“Early births pose more of a risk to the baby, but it is always dangerous,” Balian said quietly, “always. Maria had planned to be at Acre with Isabella when her confinement began, and I’d feel much better if she were here,” he confessed. “But wishing will not make it so. We’d best go inside, for Henri will have need of us. It is likely to be a very long day.”
MEN WERE NOT PERMITTED in the birthing chamber, but that did not keep Henri from making numerous trips abovestairs to plead for news from the midwives. Emma would come out, tell him cryptically that all was proceeding as it ought, disappear back inside, and Henri would return to the hall to pace and fret. Richard tried to occupy him with a chess game, but he was too distracted to concentrate for long. After he pushed away from the table and headed yet again for the stairs, Balian came over.
“The lad has the attention span of a sand flea right now. I was the same way when Maria was giving birth to our first. Fortunately, it does get easier. May I sit, my lord? I’ve something to say to you.”
Richard gestured to a chair, somewhat warily. Balian had given Henri his full support as soon as he and Isabella were wed, but he’d stayed aloof from the crusade while Conrad lived, and Richard remembered that all too well. “I am listening.”
“I thought you ought to know what the Bishop of Beauvais is saying about you.” Richard’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. “I’m well aware of the lies he’s been spreading—that I am responsible for Conrad’s death, that I sent Assassins to France to murder Philippe, that I am in league with Saladin and the Devil to betray Christendom to the Saracens. I’d not be surprised if he is claiming that I’m a secret Muslim, too.”
“But do you know he is also accusing you of poisoning Hugh of Burgundy?”
“Good God Almighty!” Richard shook his head incredulously. “It is a wonder they are not blaming me for the murder of Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral!”
“Or the Great Flood or the expulsion from Eden,” Balian suggested dryly, and they found that sharing a laugh dispelled some of the lingering tension between them. “Above all, they are saying that you accomplished nothing, that your campaign was a failure because you did not recapture the Holy City. I daresay they’ll find men to believe that. But not in Outremer. Ere your arrival, the Kingdom of Jerusalem consisted only of the city of Tyre and a siege camp at Acre. Because of your efforts, our kingdom now stretches along the coast from Tyre to Jaffa, we will have an opportunity to strengthen our defenses, Saladin no longer controls Ascalon, and Christian pilgrims can worship again at the Holy Sepulchre. That may not sound like much to lazy French burghers back in Paris, but it means a great deal to those who call Outremer home.”
Henri and André had been telling Richard this, too, but he discovered now that it meant more coming from a man who was not his friend.
AS WORD SPREAD that Isabella was in labor, poulain lords began to arrive at the palace and a palpable air of tension overhung the great hall. Henri was too focused upon his own unease to notice, but Richard did. He knew what they feared and were murmuring among themselves: What would happen to their kingdom if Isabella’s child was stillborn and she did not survive? It was a realistic fear, for the birthing chamber could be as dangerous for a woman as the battlefield was for a man. And although Henri had wed their queen, he was not an anointed king, for he’d not yet been crowned. Isabella had not, either, but she had a bloodright to the throne; Henri did not.
Richard found that their anxiety was contagious, and after a cursory supper that went largely uneaten, he slipped out of the hall. Twilight had yielded to night and the air was cool against his skin. The waning moon had not yet risen but the courtyard was bathed in starlight. He sat down upon a marble bench, frustrated by his lingering fatigue; when would he feel like himself again? Not wanting to think of Isabella’s ongoing ordeal, nor of his fleet, now at the mercy of the unforgiving Greek Sea, he welcomed a diversion, the appearance of one of Jacques d’Avesnes’s Flemish hounds. Joanna had taken her cirnecos with her; Jacques’s big dogs had been spared the sea voyage when Isabella and Henri offered to adopt them. Richard fondled the hound’s drooping ears, but the dog’s presence was stirring hurtful memories of Jacques and all the men who’d died in Christ’s Name, gallant ghosts hovering in the shadows, reminding him how many would not be coming home.
He raised his head at the sound of footsteps. Henri was coming toward him, holding a lantern. He did not need it, though, for his smile alone could have illuminated the entire courtyard. “Isabella is resting,” he said, “after giving birth to a beautiful baby girl.”
Richard’s relief momentarily rendered him speechless. “I am so glad, Henri, so glad for you both!”
“I wanted you to be the first to know, but as soon as the others in the hall saw my face, there was no need of words.” Henri set the lantern down on the bench, but he was too wrought up to sit. “We’re going to name her Maria after both our mothers. I always thought newborn babies were red and wrinkled and bald. Yet Maria looks like a little flower, with a feathery cap of dark hair like Isabella’s.”
“Our time in the Holy Land has been very different from what we expected it to be. But surely the greatest surprise is that you’ve become a father,” Richard said, smiling, and Henri laughed aloud.
“If any soothsayer had predicted that in Outremer, I’d wed a widowed, pregnant queen, I’d have thought him madder than a woodhound!” Henri laughed again, before saying, “I have a confession, Uncle. I’d been praying that Isabella would give birth to a daughter, not a son.”
“You ought not to feel guilty about that, Henri, for it is only natural that you’d want to see a son of your own as king one day.”
“I think I could have loved Conrad’s son, for I’d be the only father he’d ever know. But what if I were wrong, if I came to resent him for taking precedence over my blood sons? It just seemed so much easier—and safer—if only she’d have a girl. Of course I did not let Isabella know I had these doubts.” Henri perched on the end of the bench, still so energized that he seemed like a golden hawk about to take flight at any moment. “But when the midwives finally let me in to see her, she confided that she’d been praying for a daughter, too!”
Richard decided that his cousin Isabella was either deeply in love with his nephew or a very clever young woman; either way, he thought their chances for a good marriage were excellent. “As you say, lad, easier and safer. And I’ll wager that by the time I come back to Outremer, you’ll have a son of your own to show me.”
“ ‘Come back’? You mean that, Uncle?”
“Of course I do.” Richard was surprised by Henri’s surprise. “I did not fulfill my vow to retake Jerusalem. Nor did we make peace. We agreed to a truce that will last for only three years and eight months. Did you truly think I’d leave you on your own to fend off the Saracens when war resumes?”
Henri was overwhelmed. “You have no idea how much that means to me! I thought that when you sailed for home, our farewell would be final. You believe Jerusalem could be taken?” He tried to dampen down his excitement, then, for he owed his uncle honesty. “But could you come back without putting your own realm in jeopardy?”
“We could not take Jerusalem because the Saracens were united, as they had not been when it first fell to the Christians. Had we not faced Saladin, had we not been subverted at every turn by Burgundy and Beauvais, our chances for success would have improved dramatically. Saladin is a great prince, but as he himself pointed out to me, he is not a young one, and his brother is far more capable than any of his sons. By the time I return, his empire might well be torn asunder. As for my own empire, it will not be easy, but it can be safeguarded. I’ll start by putting the fear of God into Johnny. Then I’ll teach Philippe that there is a high price to be paid for treachery.” Richard’s face had hardened as he thought of his disloyal brother and the unscrupulous French king. But after a moment, he smiled at his nephew. “With you as my ally instead of Conrad and without the French to hinder us, think what we can accomplish!”
PIERRE AND JEAN DE PRÉAUX had delayed their departure as long as they could, anguished by the prospect of having to leave Outremer with their brother still a Saracen prisoner. They’d even discussed remaining until the following spring, but they both had families of their own back in Normandy. They’d reluctantly decided to sail with Richard when he left, and that day was fast approaching. Richard had been busy settling all of his outstanding debts and arranging for a horse transport for Fauvel and his Arab stallions. He’d had a public crier proclaim that his creditors should present themselves at the palace and he’d made sure that payments were made to the garrison at Ascalon, to masons for work done on Jaffa’s walls, to merchants for supplies provided to his army. After being told by Baldwin de Bethune that Richard expected to leave by week’s end, the Préaux brothers paid their own debts and informed the innkeeper that they’d be vacating their chamber in two days. They were heading for the market to buy St Denys medallions, for they’d be sailing on his name day, when the summons came from the king.
They hastened to the palace, hope flickering. In the past Richard had twice managed to relay to them messages from their brother, and at Jaffa, he’d promised to ask al-’Ādil to pass on a message to Guilhem. As painful as it was to leave without knowing his fate, it would be even worse if they had to depart without bidding him a word of farewell. Upon entering the great hall, they were told Richard was awaiting them in the solar and they hurried into the stairwell. To their surprise, Richard himself opened the door. Jean’s view was partially blocked by his brother’s shoulder. He thought he saw Henri standing behind Richard and he wondered why they had not thought to ask the count to get a message to Guilhem; he was known to have a good heart, after all, and he’d have the time that Richard did not. But it was then that his brother shocked him by pushing past Richard into the solar. Mortified by such a breach of protocol, Jean started to stammer an apology on Pierre’s behalf. Richard just laughed and swung the door open wide, enabling Jean to see the man caught up in Pierre’s bear hug. With a hoarse cry of disbelief, Jean lunged forward so he, too, could embrace Guilhem.
What followed was bedlam, with all three brothers talking at once, laughing and weeping and pounding one another exuberantly on the back, while Richard and Henri watched, smiling. Guilhem was noticeably thinner; his once-round face now had angles and hollows. He looked older, too, to their searching eyes. But his humor had not changed, nor had his hearty, loud laugh. “Who’d ever have thought,” he joked, “that your little brother would turn out to be worth a king’s ransom!”
“Actually an emir’s ransom,” Henri corrected with a grin, “or ten emirs, to be precise. My uncle freed ten highborn Saracens to gain Guilhem’s release.”
Guilhem’s grateful brothers began to acclaim Richard for his generosity, marveling that he’d have given up such a vast sum for a Norman knight, one who’d merely been doing his duty to protect his king. For Richard, this had been a debt of honor, one that had to be repaid, no matter the cost, and he brushed aside their emotional praise, explaining that he’d said nothing in case the negotiations failed at the eleventh hour. He’d also wanted to surprise them, looking forward to their joy when Guilhem was restored to them. Their reunion was all he could have hoped for; never had he seen three men as happy as the Préaux brothers were on this October afternoon in the royal palace at Acre. But as he looked at their tearstained, blissful faces, he was taken aback by what he felt—a sharp prick of envy.
After they eventually left, so euphoric they practically seemed to float down the stairs, Richard and Henri shared gratified smiles. Richard then surprised his nephew by asking him if he was close to his younger brother. “I’d say so,” Henri confirmed. “I am much older than Thibault, of course; he was born when I was thirteen. So that gave me the opportunity to play the wise elder brother, which I enjoyed enormously,” he said, with a reminiscent chuckle. “And when our father died two years later, I suppose I became even more protective of Thibault. He’s a good lad, wanted so badly to come with me to the Holy Land. . . .” A shadow crossed his face, but his homesickness was forgotten when Richard began to speak of his own brothers, for he’d never heard his uncle mention them before.
“Hal was no ‘wise elder brother,’ for certes. He could not find water if he fell into a river. Even worse, he was as malleable as wax, swayed by the slightest breeze. Had he ever become king, it would have been catastrophic for all but the French king. Now my brother, Geoffrey . . . he was too clever by half and, as far back as I can remember, we were at odds. Mayhap it was because we were so close in age—just a year between us—but we were always rivals, never friends.”
Richard moved to the trestle table, reached for a wine flagon, and then changed his mind. “With Johnny, it was different. He was nine years younger, and I did not see him much as we grew up, for he spent several years being schooled at Fontevrault Abbey. My parents may have been considering a career in the Church for him; if so, he’d have been spectacularly ill-suited for it. The one time our father entrusted him with any authority—sending him to govern Ireland when he was eighteen—he made an utter botch of it. And when he was seventeen, he joined Geoffrey in invading Aquitaine. I blamed our father for that, though. He’d told Johnny that Aquitaine was his if he could take it away from me. When Geoffrey and Johnny then tried, he hastily recalled them, insisting he’d never meant to be taken seriously. I’ve sometimes wondered if he said that, too, to the knights who murdered Thomas Becket after he’d raged about being shamefully mocked by‘a lowborn clerk.’”
Henri was fascinated, for his uncle’s turbulent family feuding had always been off-limits, and since he was kin to Richard on his mother’s side, he didn’t have personal knowledge of the Angevins’ internecine warfare. “But you were very generous to Johnny once you became king,” he interjected, unable to resist adding, “more than he deserved,” for he’d always viewed John with a jaundiced eye. “You gave him a great heiress and lands worth four thousand pounds a year!”
“And my mother had misgivings about that,” Richard admitted. “But our father had played the same damnable games with Johnny that he had with the rest of us, so I felt he deserved a chance to show he could be trusted.”
“And he showed you.” Henri was not usually so harshly judgmental, but he thought John’s sin—betraying the man who was his brother, his king, and a crusader in God’s Army—was beyond forgiving.
Richard nodded grimly. “Yes, that he did.”
ON FRIDAY, OCTOBER 9, Richard was ready to go home. The vast army that he’d led to Sicily, Cyprus, and the Holy Land had been decimated by illness and war. Galleys would have been swamped in heavy winter seas, so he’d given the ones that were still seaworthy to Henri, and planned to sail in a large buss. It could hold hundreds of men, but as Henri looked at that lone ship, it seemed like a great comedown from Richard’s spectacular arrival at Acre sixteen months ago, and he thought his uncle would be dangerously vulnerable to the violent storms that roiled the Greek Sea at this time of year—and to a host of enemies, some earned, some not, all eager to see him brought low.
He sought to hide his concern, forcing himself to smile as Richard kissed Isabella and then gave him a quick, casual embrace, as if he were merely sailing down the coast to Jaffa. Henri’s studied nonchalance did not deceive his wife. Isabella had been dreading this day, knowing how hard it would be for him, knowing how deep-rooted was his ambivalence about his new life in Outremer. He gamely sought to make her believe that he was content, but the fact that in five months he’d done nothing to arrange a coronation spoke volumes to her. It had not escaped her, either, that Henri continued to call himself the Count of Champagne, and she spent a great amount of time trying to find ways to make him feel less of an exile in a foreign land. She’d blessed Richard for promising to return, and it had occurred to her that once Thibault came of age, there was no reason why Henri’s mother should not come to visit. She was known to be devout, and for Christians, a pilgrimage to the Holy Land was what the hajj to Mecca was to Muslims. Giving Henri a searching look as he watched Richard’s lighter row out toward the waiting ship, she vowed that she’d make him happy in this new life that had been forced upon him.
“Henri . . . I want us to be honest with each other, to share the deepest secrets of our hearts. You can tell me anything, can tell me when you yearn for home—”
He tightened his arm around her, stopping her words with a gentle finger against her lips. “I am home, my love.”
THEY’D CHOSEN to depart at dusk so they could sail by the stars. Earlier that day, it had been overcast, but brisk winds had scattered the clouds. As the buss raised anchor and headed out of the harbor, most of the men on deck were looking toward the horizon, where the sky was streaking with the dying rays of the setting sun. But Richard kept his eyes upon Acre, slowly disappearing into the distance. “Outremer,” he said softly, “I commend you to God. May He grant me the time I need to come back to your aid.” He stayed where he was, not moving until darkness swallowed up the shore and all he could see was the endless, rolling sea and the glittering stars, brilliant and cold and eternal.