Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 20

JUNE 1191

Siege of Acre, Outremer

��





Morgan had taken part in sieges before, but he’d never seen anything like the encampment at Acre. Two years had transformed it into a good-sized city, with tents and pavilions as far as the eye could see. It had an odd air of permanence, for cook-shops and baking ovens had been set up, as had public baths; bathing was an important aspect of daily life in the sultry climate of Outremer. There were even several hospitals, operated by the Knights Hospitaller. Like all the towns Morgan had known, this one was crowded and chaotic, its makeshift streets thronged with off-duty soldiers and their women. Morgan was accustomed to seeing females in an army camp, but they were always whores. Here there were wives, too, and even children, darting between tents as they played or ran errands, their youthful laughter somehow jarring in this place where men lived so intimately with Death.

Vendors wandered about, hawking their wares. Pigs rooted in the piles of garbage and chickens fluttered underfoot, for the winter’s famine was long past. Dogs once more roamed the camp. Men were lining up before the laundresses’ tents to be deloused, having their wounds treated by physicians and surgeons, heading for the latrine trenches, being waylaid by prostitutes, and scolded by priests fighting a losing battle to keep sin at bay. The siege had its own markets, stables for horses, pens for livestock, a large cemetery where so many crusading hopes had ended. But something was missing, something integral to city life and, after a moment, Morgan realized what it was. Bells normally chimed the canonical hours, pealing to call Christ’s Faithful to Mass and to elicit prayers for the dying, to celebrate births and marriages and festivals, the days echoing with shimmering, melodic sound from dawn till dark. Here at the siege of Acre, Mass was held in tents or in the open air, and with no churches, there were no bells.

The camp was far from quiet, though. Each time the siege engines sent rocks thudding toward Acre, men cheered. There were exchanges of insults and catcalls between the besiegers and the Saracen garrison up on the city walls. Raucous songs drifted from open tents, where some were still celebrating Richard’s arrival the night before. Voices carried on the wind, laughter and curses and the shrill cries of hawks; Morgan would later learn that the Turks used pigeons to convey messages to Saladin, and the crusaders unleashed hawks to try to bring them down.

To Morgan, the strangest aspect of Acre’s siege was that the enemy was only three miles away, camped in the nearby hills at Tell al-’Ayyāḍiyya. Whenever the crusaders launched an assault upon the city, the garrison beat drums to alert Saladin, who would then attack the camp to draw them off. But the besiegers were well protected by fortifications and double ditches, and so far the Saracens had been unable to break through their defenses. Men were sure, though, that the stalemate would end now that Richard was here, and his welcome had been a jubilant one, lasting well into the early hours of dawn.

Morgan bought a handful of dates from a vendor and was heading for Richard’s royal pavilion when he heard his name called. Smiling, he reversed course. He’d met the Count of Champagne during his service with Richard’s brother Geoffrey, and a mutual liking had developed. Henri of Champagne was standing with a tall man in his middle years, whom he introduced now as Hubert Walter, the Bishop of Salisbury. Morgan was pleased to meet the prelate, for he’d emerged as one of the heroes of the siege, and he was flattered, too, to be addressed as “Cousin” by Henri; they were not really kinsmen, being linked to Richard on his father’s and mother’s side, respectively. As they exchanged banter now, Morgan found himself studying the other man in puzzlement; something seemed unfamiliar about Henri, but he was not sure what it was.

The young count caught his scrutiny and grinned. “I look different, I know. Whilst I am still a handsome devil, I did not have these ringlets when you last saw me. I lost my hair after a bout with Arnaldia last winter, and when it grew back, it was as curly as a lamb’s fleece!”

Morgan resisted the impulse to tease Henri about his “lamb’s fleece” and asked instead about Arnaldia, for he’d never heard of this ailment. Henri’s smile faded. “I was stricken with a high fever, every bone in my body wracked with pain. I recovered, by God’s Grace, but many others were not as fortunate. It struck down the Count of Flanders just a week ago, and it looks likely now to claim my uncle, the Count of Perche.”

“I am indeed sorry to hear that,” Morgan said, for he’d become friendly with the count’s son Jaufre during their time in Sicily. As he fell in step beside Henri and the bishop, he hoped the Count of Perche was still lucid, able to be told that Jaufre’s wife Richenza had made him a grandfather. Henri was telling him of others who’d died during the siege, a bleak litany, and he dutifully made the sign of the cross. By now they were approaching Richard’s pavilion, and he came to a sudden stop, staring at the huge crowd milling about the tent. “What in the world . . . ?”

“They are waiting to pay their respects to the king,” Henri explained, “and to offer their services. They’ll have a long wait, though, for Richard is not within. When he finally went off to bed, he quite sensibly chose his queen’s bed and is still in her tent.”

“Some of the men have already approached the king,” Bishop Hubert added. “Last night both the Genoese and the Pisans sought him out. He accepted the Pisans, but not the Genoese, as they’d pledged themselves to the French king.”

“The French king will not be happy to hear that the Genoese tried to defect,” Morgan said cheerfully, remembering Philippe’s grimacing smile as he’d bade Richard welcome.

“No, indeed he was not,” Henri confirmed. “But he is far more wroth with me for my defection.”

“You will be fighting under King Richard’s banner?” When Henri nodded, Morgan grinned, delighted to have the count and his men in their ranks. “It could not have been easy for you, though, being Philippe’s blood-kin and his vassal.”

“Actually, I rather enjoyed telling him,” Henri said, with a cool smile. “You see, I was in danger of running out of money, for my expenses have been considerable since my arrival at the siege. I paid fifteen hundred bezants alone for a trebuchet, only to have it burned by the Saracens within days.”

“You were very generous, too, in helping me to feed the common soldiers, those most in danger of starving during the famine,” the bishop interjected, and Henri shrugged, accepting the praise with his usual nonchalance.

“I went to Philippe last month, asking him for a loan so I could pay my men. My loving uncle agreed to lend me one hundred marks, provided that I pledge Champagne as collateral for the debt.” Henri’s mouth twisted. “I daresay I could have gotten better terms if I’d approached Saladin. Last night I asked my other uncle for aid. Richard at once promised me four thousand pounds of silver, four thousand bushels of wheat, and four thousand salted pigs for my men. In truth, I would have gone over to Richard even had he not been so generous, for no man knows war better than he does. But Philippe made it very easy for me.”

Glancing over at the throng of men gathered before Richard’s tent, Henri smiled slyly. “That’s a sight sure to spoil Philippe’s day. And wait till word gets out how much Richard is paying. Even the Saracens will be clamoring to enter his service.” Seeing that neither Bishop Hubert nor Morgan understood, he grinned broadly. “Last night Richard asked me what Philippe was paying his knights. When I said three bezants a week, he decided to offer four.”

Morgan laughed, but the bishop shook his head. “Mayhap I can get him to change his mind, for that would be provoking Philippe needlessly.”

Henri’s eyes held a mischievous blue-green glint. “Actually, my uncle Richard is doing him a favor. Now when knights begin to desert Philippe in droves, he can save face by claiming it is merely a matter of money and not because men would rather fight under Richard’s command.”

“I rather doubt,” the bishop said dryly, “that Philippe will see it that way.”



AS HENRI MADE HIS WAY toward Richard’s pavilion, he gazed up gratefully at the starlit sky, as the day had been one of searing summer heat. Although darkness had fallen, the siege engines were still being manned by torchlight, for Richard had his men working shifts of eight hours, enabling the trebuchets to be operated around the clock and giving the beleaguered enemy garrison no respite. His uncle had been at Acre only five days, yet Henri could feel a new energy in the camp, a rejuvenated sense of confidence. He’d watched with amusement as Richard easily assumed command of the siege; even Conrad of Montferrat had felt compelled to offer a perfunctory apology for turning the English king away from Tyre, blaming it on a miscommunication, an excuse that no one believed, least of all Richard. Henri regretted the hostility between the two men, for he thought that Conrad would make a much more effective king than Guy de Lusignan, even if he had acquired his claim by that highly dubious marriage. He wondered now if he might be able to bring his uncle around to his way of thinking, then smiled at the very notion, knowing how unlikely that was.

When he was ushered into Richard’s tent, he saw that they were just finishing their evening meal. Richard had quickly adopted the local custom of dining at low tables while seated upon cushions. His wife did not look as comfortable as he did, sitting upright, her skirts carefully tucked around her ankles. She smiled at the sight of Henri, for he was a favorite with all of the women. Joanna smiled, too, and Richard beckoned him over, signaling for Henri to be served wine and a dish of syrup mixed with snow. Henri was happy to lounge on the cushions and display his greater familiarity with the Holy Land, explaining that this was a delicacy of Saracen origin; the snow was brought down from the mountains in carts covered with straw.

The final course was a platter heaped with figs, carobs, and clusters of a local fruit that few of them had ever seen before—its soft flesh encased in a greenishyellow skin. They were known as “apples of paradise,” Henri said, gallantly peeling one for Joanna and then for Berengaria. Because of its suggestive shape and size, it had another name among the soldiers, “Saracen’s cock,” but he refrained from sharing that bit of bawdy army humor, sensing that Richard’s queen would not find it amusing. Instead, he leaned over and asked, low-voiced, if the rumors were true.

“You mean about my squabble with Philippe this afternoon? So word is already out?”

“Well, apparently you were shouting at each other loudly enough to be heard back in Cyprus.”

“I suppose we were,” Richard conceded, with a tight smile. “Philippe wants us to launch a full attack on the morrow. I reminded him that some of my ships are still at Tyre, waiting for favorable winds, and they are carrying most of my siege engines. It makes sense to wait until they reach Acre. Why risk men’s lives today when victory seems more assured on the morrow? But of course he would not heed me, for if I say ‘saint,’ he has to say ‘sinner.’ So he’s going ahead with his plan, the damned fool. I’ll set my soldiers to guarding the camp, but I am not letting them fight under his command. Not that they’d want to—most men would not follow Philippe out of a burning building.”

That evoked a burst of laughter from his audience, save only the Bishop of Salisbury, who suppressed a sigh, knowing it was inevitable that Richard’s quip would reach Philippe’s ears. Richard noticed Hubert’s disapproval and elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “I know, my lord bishop, I know. You’re thinking I ought to be more circumspect. You may be right, but what fun would that be?” Midst another wave of laughter, he rose to his feet, remembering in time to kiss Berengaria’s hand before inviting Henri along on his final circuit of the camp that night.

They were accompanied by André and a number of the knights; others soon tagged along, so that their walk began to resemble a procession. Richard kept up a rapid fire of questions aimed at Henri. Had he heard that Jaufre’s father had been given the Sacrament of the Faithful? Had he been told that Baldwin de Bethune’s father was also grievously ill? Did Henri know that he’d been bequeathed Philip of Flanders’s trebuchet, much to Philippe’s vexation? Henri soon stopped trying to answer, for they were constantly being interrupted by men eager to greet the king, seek a favor, report a breach of discipline, or bring an act of bravery to Richard’s notice.

They spent over an hour observing the trebuchets in action. This was a new weapon in siege warfare, in which a long beam pivoted on an axle, the shorter arm holding a heavy counterweight, the longer arm, or verge, attached to a sling. Richard watched with a critical eye as the verge was winched down and huge rocks were loaded into the sling, telling Henri that he’d brought stones from Sicily which were much harder than the softer limestone found in the Holy Land. He was hands-on in all that he did, and he could not resist the temptation to release the hook himself. As the counterweight plunged downward, the verge shot up and the sling cracked like a whip, emitting a high-pitched humming sound. All the men followed its trajectory intently as the rocks hurtled toward the city, cheering when they slammed into the walls in a cloud of dust and rubble. Told that Philippe had named his primary trebuchet “Bad Neighbor,” Richard joked that they ought to call his “Worse Neighbor,” laughing when his soldiers suggested other, more obscene names.

Next they went to inspect the huge belfry that was being constructed for an assault upon the walls. Richard had spared no expense and it would be over one hundred feet high when completed, with three stories, inner stairs, and wheels, covered in ox hides soaked in vinegar as protection against fire arrows. Eventually, Richard drew Henri aside for a private word, as private as any exchange could be in the midst of thousands.

“Tell me about Saladin,” he said, and Henri obliged, confirming the general view that the sultan was a man of honor even if he was an infidel. To prove it, he recounted one of the best-known stories of Saladin’s gallantry. The Lord of Nablus, Balian d’Ibelin, had been one of the few to escape capture at Ḥaṭṭīn, having fought his way free. His wife and children had taken refuge in Jerusalem, and when Saladin lay siege to the Holy City, Balian asked him for a safe conduct so he could rescue his family. Saladin agreed, upon condition that he passed but one night in the city. Upon Balian’s arrival, though, he was entreated by the desperate townspeople to take command, for there were no lords of rank left. Balian felt honor bound to stay and help defend Jerusalem, but he was ashamed of breaking his oath and wrote to Saladin, explaining the circumstances. Saladin not only forgave Balian, he dispatched men to escort Balian’s wife, children, and household to safety at Tyre.

Henri liked Balian very much and was tempted to praise his friend’s success in saving the citizens, for he’d been able to convince Saladin to spare them from the sort of bloody massacre that had occurred when the crusaders had first taken Jerusalem in 1099. But Balian was an ally of Conrad of Montferrat, and thus already suspect in Richard’s eyes. Henri chose, instead, to relate a more recent occurrence.

“Our defensive ditches have so far kept Saladin’s army out, but not thieves, I am sorry to say. An unguarded tent is an irresistible target, and about a fortnight ago, a woman’s infant was stolen. She was distraught, and came to us, weeping. We could do little, of course, so I told her that Saladin had a merciful heart and she had our permission to seek his help. I had a dragoman escort her to the Saracen lines, where he translated her plea. Mayhap moved by her tears, they took her to see Saladin. After hearing her story, he sent men to search for the baby. Upon learning that it had been sold in a local market, he ordered the purchase price to be paid to the buyer and he himself handed the child over to its mother, then saw that she was safely returned to our camp.”

“He is indeed a worthy foe,” Richard said approvingly. They’d paused near the belfry, their companions following at a discreet distance at the king’s orders. Raising his hand to keep them out of hearing range, Richard reached over and grasped his nephew’s arm. “I want to get a message to Saladin, Henri. Can you arrange that?”

He was pleased when Henri merely nodded, showing no surprise, for Philippe had reacted as if he’d proposed a colloquy with the Devil himself. “Good. Now can you recommend an interpreter? Someone I can wholeheartedly trust?”

“Well, Balian speaks some Arabic, but I suppose his friendship with Conrad disqualifies him,” Henri said wryly. “I would suggest that you use Humphrey de Toron, for his Arabic is excellent, and you need have no fears about his loyalties. I daresay he loathes Conrad even more than Guy does.”

“He seemed rather soft-hearted to me and weak-willed, too, for what man would let his wife be stolen away with such ease? But if you trust him, Henri, then that is enough for me. Send him to Saladin on the morrow with this message—that I seek a face-to-face meeting with him.”

“I will make the arrangements as soon as possible. I assume you want to take the measure of the sultan for yourself?”

“Of course. To judge a man’s true nature, you need to look him in the eye. I admit I am curious, too, for there are almost as many legends circulating about Saladin as there are about me,” Richard said with a grin. “And who knows? Mayhap we could reach an understanding. If he is willing to compromise, we could get what we seek without a war.”

Henri was startled. “You’d bargain with Saladin?”

“Why not? You yourself said he is a man of honor, so we ought to be able to trust him to hold to the terms of a peace treaty.”

“I am sure he would. But many men in this camp would think the mere suggestion of negotiations with the Saracens is rank heresy.”

“But not you,” Richard murmured, and when Henri echoed, “No, not me,” he surprised the younger man by saying, “A pity you are my nephew and not my brother, lad. I’d worry far less about England if you and not Johnny or Arthur were my heir.”

“Well, mayhap you could adopt me,” Henri jested, using humor to conceal his pride at being paid such a great compliment. “Uncle . . . I maybe borrowing trouble, and God knows we have more than enough of that already. But whenever I’ve spoken with Philippe in the past week, he seems more concerned about the future of Flanders than he does about the recovery of Jerusalem. Do you think that he would dare to abandon the siege and return to France so he could claim Philip’s domains?”

Now it was Richard’s turn to be startled. “No,” he said, after a long pause. “Philippe took the cross, swore a solemn oath to reclaim the Holy City. Not even he would betray such a sacred vow.”

While Henri was relieved by Richard’s certainty, he realized that he was not utterly convinced. “I am sure you are right,” he said, solemnly and not entirely truthfully, adding a “God willing” under his breath, for the French king’s defection could deal a death blow to their chances of regaining control of the Holy Land.



PHILIPPE INSISTED UPON launching an attack upon Acre on June 14. Not only were his men repulsed, Salah al-Dīn’s brother Malik al-’A-dil, called Saphadin by the crusaders, almost succeeded in breaking through their defensive fortifications. They were driven back with heavy losses on both sides. Guy de Lusignan’s brother Joffroi enhanced his reputation as a “man of prowess” by leading a counterattack upon the Saracens, killing ten men with his own hand. Three days later, Philippe’s siege engines were destroyed by the Acre garrison’s Greek fire. The trebuchets had been poorly guarded, many of the crew having defected to Richard, and Philippe blamed Richard for the loss. He was so enraged that he made another attack the next day, but this one, too, ended in failure. Camp morale was boosted, however, by the arrival of the rest of Richard’s ships, bringing reinforcements and siege engines, and a grudging peace was patched up between the French and English kings.



PHILIPPE WAS NOT the only one unhappy to be at the siege. Berengaria was utterly miserable. At first it had been a great relief to escape the close confines of their ship, to be back on firm ground again. Separate tents were set up for Joanna and her women, for Berengaria and her household, for Sophia, Anna, and their attendants, and they settled in to await Richard’s arrival. These round pavilions were very spacious compared to the canvas tent that had sheltered them on their buss; they were decorated in bright stripes of red and gold, with costly carpets, cushions, and screens that gave an illusion of privacy. After their accommodations on the buss, they were a vast improvement, but a tent was still a comedown for a young woman who’d grown up in palaces. And beyond the fragile boundaries of her pavilion, reality had never been so raw, so immediate.

As soon as she stepped outside, she was assailed by noise, by dust, stifling heat, swarming insects, and the fetid odors wafting from the latrine pits. She knew, of course, of those women who bartered their bodies for coins or bread, but she’d never expected to see their sinning at such close range. It seemed to her that the camp was filled with whores, some of them surprisingly pretty. Drunkards, beggars, men loud and quarrelsome—they’d all been part of life in Navarre, but she’d been insulated by stone walls, by her father’s knights, by her privileged status. There were no such protective barriers at the siege of Acre.

She had only to emerge from her tent to become the cynosure of all eyes. And while she was accustomed to the attention guaranteed by her high birth, this was somehow different. All were avidly curious about the Lionheart’s Spanish bride, and if not for the efforts of her household knights, she’d have been in danger of being mobbed, for people were eager to see her close at hand, to admire her fine silk gowns and soft skin untouched by the hot Outremer sun, to ask for alms. While they seemed friendly enough, she still felt as if she were on constant display, like the royal cheetahs paraded on jeweled leashes in Joanna’s stories about life in the palaces of Palermo.

Her ladies were even more discontented, complaining constantly that the soldiers were too familiar, that they could not sleep at night because of the bombardment of the trebuchets, that the camp was infested with lice and fleas and terrifying, huge, hairy spiders. While Berengaria soon grew tired of their whining, she could not blame them for their misery. They’d never expected to hear the screams of wounded or dying men, the wailing of their grieving wives and bedmates. Not a day passed without sad processions to the cemetery. Soldiers were struck by rocks launched from Saracen trebuchets and pierced by the arrows of Saracen bowmen. They died in vain assaults upon the city walls, coughed up blood in the hospital tents, burned with fever that blistered their skin and lips, crying out to God or absent loved ones as their lives ebbed away, far from the hallowed walls of Jerusalem. Nor were women and children spared when Death stalked the siege. They, too, died of the bloody flux and tertian fevers and Arnaldia, and Berengaria had seen the bodies of a woman and infant unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, crushed under plummeting stones hurled by the enemy’s trebuchets. While she knew that her life was in God’s Hands, she was beginning to realize how much Richard had put her safety at risk by taking her with him to the Holy Land.

She’d hoped that his presence would banish some of her qualms, for his supreme self-confidence was contagious. But that had not proved to be the case, mainly because she’d seen so little of him. She’d known that they’d not be lodged in the same tent; even in palaces, kings and queens had their own quarters. She’d expected, though, that he’d want to share her bed as often as possible; they were newlyweds, after all. And she’d hoped that they could have evening meals together, establishing a small island of calm midst the turmoil of this alien sea. Yet in the sixteen days since Richard’s arrival at Acre, she’d found herself relegated to the perimeters of his world, treated as an afterthought. He’d come occasionally to her bed, but rarely met her for meals, and usually seemed distracted, focused upon the siege to the exclusion of all else, including his lonely young bride.

She’d tried to be understanding, telling herself that her needs were unimportant when compared to the fate of Acre and Jerusalem. Then he’d stopped coming to her tent at all; it had been four days now without even a message from him. She’d have suffered in silence. That was not her sister-in-law’s way, though, and Joanna had insisted that they go to him if he would not come to her, pointing out that she was his wife and queen, not a concubine to be ignored with impunity. Berengaria had allowed herself to be persuaded, for Joanna could be as forceful as her brother, albeit with more finesse.

A glorious sunset was flaming into the sea, and the sky seemed streaked with fire as they made their way toward Richard’s pavilion. They were welcomed enthusiastically by his household knights, who were happy to put aside their worries and flirt with Joanna and Berengaria’s ladies; despite her youth, Anna had quickly become a camp favorite. But Richard was obviously not pleased to see them, his greeting so terse that Morgan took it upon himself to confide quietly to Berengaria that the king had gotten bad news that day. There had been a rebellion in Cyprus, led by a monk claiming to be kin to Isaac Comnenus. It had been quickly put down, the would-be emperor summarily hanged, but that it had happened at all was troubling, evidence that their occupation of the island would not be as easy as first thought. And this afternoon a message had arrived from Saladin, refusing Richard’s request for a personal meeting.

“Saladin replied that kings do not meet unless an agreement has been reached, saying it is not good for them to fight after meeting and eating together. He said an agreement must be made first, and of course that is impossible. King Richard was sorely disappointed, for he very much wanted to judge the sultan for himself.”

Berengaria glanced over at her husband, who was sprawled on cushions, studying a map of Outremer. Feeling guilty for imposing her petty concerns upon a man who bore the burdens of a holy war upon his shoulders, she stopped in front of him, saying with a smile, “I can see this is not a good time for a visit, my lord husband, so we’ll not tarry.” She hesitated, then, for such boldness did not come easily to her. But according to what Joanna had told her, she was at her most fertile now that her flux was past, and she was sure Richard was as eager as she to beget a child. “Will you . . . will you be coming to me tonight?”

He glanced up, his grey eyes appearing so dark and opaque that she felt as if she were gazing upon a stranger. “No,” he said, “I think not,” and turned back to the map.

Berengaria felt as if she’d been slapped. Mortified, she called to her attendants, not daring to look around for fear that she’d see pity on the faces of those close enough to have heard his rebuff. Actually, few had heard their low-voiced exchange. But one who did was enraged. “You go on, dearest,” Joanna said. “I’ll follow shortly.”

Berengaria’s ladies complied at once. Joanna’s women were reluctant to leave, enjoying their verbal sparring with Richard’s knights. But after looking at their mistress’s glittering green eyes, they hastened to obey, too. Only Anna balked and she was quickly nudged toward the tent’s entrance by her stepmother and Mariam. Joanna waited until they’d departed, pondering her next move. She could ask to speak to Richard in private, behind one of the screens. But what if he refused?

“Get the men’s attention for me, Morgan,” she said. Giving her a curious look, he did so, very effectively, by banging upon a drum. Once she was sure all eyes were upon her, Joanna gave them her most engaging smile. “I am sorry to evict you, gentlemen. But I need to speak alone with my lord brother, the king.”

There were at least fifty knights and lords present, and few of them looked happy at being so abruptly dismissed. Richard’s head had come up sharply; for a moment, Joanna feared that he’d countermand her. Whatever he saw in her face changed his mind, though. Getting to his feet as the men exited, he strode toward Joanna, towering over her and obviously angry.

She was not in the least intimidated. “How dare you treat that sweet girl like one of your camp whores?” she spat, even in her fury remembering to keep her voice pitched for his ears alone.

He seemed taken aback by her vehemence. His own temper still smoldered, though, and he said testily, “I do not know what you are talking about, Joanna. Nor do I have time for this.”

“You need not have time for me, Richard. But you owe it to your wife to make time for her. She’s not seen you in days! Do you know what it cost her to come to you like this? And then you dismissed her as if she—”

“If I wanted a woman tonight, I’d only have to snap my fingers. But I have more important matters on my mind.”

“Oh, yes, that is what men always say. Your ‘matters’ are so much more consequential than any womanly concerns. I know what you are about to tell me, that you cannot be expected to pay heed to a wife in the midst of a war. But why is she in the midst of it, Richard? Because you put her there!”

Richard was unaccustomed to being called to account and he did not like it in the least. “I had no choice, given the circumstances!”

“You most certainly did! We left Messina on Wednesday in Holy Week. Are you telling me you could not have waited four more days to sail? You could have married Berengaria on Easter, then sent her back to your domains under a safe escort, as you did for Maman. Instead, you chose to take her with you. There are only two explanations for doing so—that you were too besotted with your betrothed to want to be separated from her or that you were keen to get her with child as soon as possible. I think we can safely say that you are not madly in love. So that means you want an heir straightaway. That is certainly reasonable, for Johnny’s past record does not inspire great confidence. But Berengaria cannot conceive unless you do your part, Richard.”

“What happens between my wife and me does not concern you, Joanna.”

“Oh, yes, it does! You were the one who asked me to accompany her, Richard, remember? I did as you bade, have gotten to know her well in these past weeks. She has shown courage in the face of very real dangers and great hardships, and never once has she complained. Even now I daresay she is taking upon herself the blame for your bad manners—”

“That is enough.” Even though he kept his voice low, his words resonated with fury. “I’ve heard you out, but I have no more time for nonsense like this. Stop meddling, Joanna. Do you understand?”

They glared at each other and then she dropped down in a deep, mocking curtsy. “Yes, my lord king, I understand. Have I your leave to withdraw?” He gestured impatiently; waving her away, she thought, as he would brush aside a pesky fly. Raising her chin, she stalked out of the tent without a backward glance.

Her women were gone, but some of her household knights had remained to escort her safely back to her own pavilion. Morgan had stayed behind, too, although after a quick glance at her face, he made no attempt at conversation and they walked on in silence.

Joanna was still furious. It was so unfair. Why did men have so much control and women so little when it came to carnal matters? For all the Church’s preaching about the marriage debt, it was a joke, not a claim wives could make, as Berengaria had learned tonight. With each passing month, people would measure her waist with their eyes, and they’d soon be bandying around the one word that every queen dreaded to hear—barren. Joanna knew her mother had been slurred by that accusation for most of her marriage to the French king, even though Eleanor herself had pointed out that she could hardly cultivate soil without seed. Joanna knew, too, that many of her Sicilian subjects had blamed her for failing to give William another son and heir. She’d sometimes wondered what she was supposed to do—hire men to waylay him as he headed for his harim? At least Berengaria was spared that humiliation. She was being neglected for a war, not for seductive Saracen slave girls.

Joanna stopped so abruptly that Morgan bumped into her, causing her to stumble. He quickly apologized, but she never heard him. Dear God. Was this about William, not Richard? Yes, he’d been churlish to Berengaria, had hurt her, unwittingly or not. But did his rudeness justify such rage? As soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer. She had overreacted, her anger fueled by memories of a young girl’s humiliation years ago, bewildered and resentful and compelled to bury that anger so deep that it only surfaced after William’s death.

Morgan was puzzled by her immobility, the distant, inward look in her eyes. Wisely he said nothing, waiting to see what she would do. So did the other knights. Joanna had forgotten their presence entirely. Turning on her heel, she headed back toward her brother’s pavilion. She was relieved to find Richard was still alone, although surprised that he’d not summoned his men back after her departure. He was leaning against the cushions, his eyes closed, and for the first time she realized how exhausted he looked, which exacerbated her sense of remorse. With all he had to deal with, he’d not needed to deal with her ghosts, too.

“Richard,” she said, and his eyes snapped open, his mouth drawn into a taut line at the sight of her. Before he could order her away, she said quickly, “I come in peace. I still think you were in the wrong. But the greater wrong was mine. I was indeed meddling, just as you charged, and I am very sorry.”

She was half expecting him to resume berating her, for she’d given him good reason to be vexed with her. Or else he would react with feigned disbelief, joking that this humble, meek female could not possibly be his willful, sharp-tongued sister. To her dismay, he merely nodded, accepting her apology with an indifferent twitch of his shoulders. She did not want to have to confide in him, to tell him about William’s Saracen slave girls. But if she must, she would, and she sat down beside him. “Richard, I truly am sorry. Are you that wroth with me?”

“No,” he said at last. “You are your mother’s daughter, after all.”

Relieved to catch a glimmer of a smile, she smiled, too. “I am willing to grovel a bit if that will amuse you,” she offered, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. She drew back at once, her eyes wide. “Richard, you are burning up!” Ignoring his attempt to pull away, she put her hand upon his forehead; his skin was hot and dry and she was close enough now to see that his eyes had a glazed sheen. “How long have you been ailing? Are you thirsty? Able to eat?”

“I’ve had no appetite for a few days,” he admitted, “and I’ve not been sleeping well. But it is only a fever, Joanna. Men get them all the time.”

She was already on her feet, though. He grabbed for her ankle, missed, and scowled. “I do not need to see a doctor!”

“Yes,” she said, “you do!” Pulling the tent flap back, she spoke to someone beyond his range of vision, summoning his chief physician, Master Ralph Besace. He slumped against the cushions in frustration, knowing what he now faced: being poked and prodded and bled and hovered over by his doctors, his wife, his sister, and his friends, all of whom would be underfoot day and night, making bloody nuisances of themselves and flinching if he so much as sneezed.

“Damnation, woman—” He cut himself off, though, when she turned back and he saw the fear on her face. “You need not fret so,” he said, more gently. “God did not lead me to Acre only to die of a fever.”

She quickly agreed, saying that he was surely right, that such fevers were common. But this is Outremer, Outremer where fevers are often mortal, where men die with terrifying ease, even kings.