Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 23

JULY 1191

Acre, Outremer





Conrad deliberately kept his distance, for he was sorely tempted C to lay rough hands upon the other man. “And that is it? You leave me clinging to the cliff ’s edge and just walk away?” Philippe regarded him coldly. “You have not been turned out to beg your bread by the side of the road, Conrad. A sizable French contingent is remaining in Outremer.” His jaw clenched at that, for he’d not expected such mass defections. Only his cousins, the Bishop of Chartres and the Count of Nevers, had agreed to return with him to France; the rest were so determined to honor their oaths that they were even willing to fight under Richard’s command. “The war goes on,” he said tersely, “so I do not see why you have cause for complaint.”

“Do you not? With Richard as my sworn enemy, what chance do I have of gaining the crown now?”

“And why is he your ‘sworn enemy’? Because you were foolish enough to deny him entry into Tyre. Are you so surprised that you reap what you sow?”

“I would never have done that had I thought you were going to creep away like a thief in the night!”

Philippe’s fury was all the greater because he knew this was what others were thinking; Conrad was just the only one who dared to say it to his face. But he had no intention of letting himself be swayed by their condemnation; the sooner he was out of this hellhole and on his way home, the better. “You are right about Richard,” he said, with grim satisfaction. “He is not a man to forget a wrong done him. So I would suggest that you waste no time seeking him out. If you humbly beg his pardon for having offended him, he may forgive you—or not. In either case, it is no longer my concern.”

Conrad yearned to wrap his hands around the French king’s throat and squeeze. He managed to hold on to the last shreds of his self-control as Philippe brushed past him and walked to the door, not once looking back—as if he were already forgotten, of no consequence. After the door closed, he erupted and cleared the table with a wild sweep of his arm, sending goblets, flagon, and tray flying. He could take no pleasure, though, in the damage done, for the costly glassware belonged to the Templars, not Philippe.



THE CITADEL’S GREAT HALL was crowded with men. Conrad’s face was stony, his body rigid with rage, but he showed no hesitation, striding toward the dais with a firm step, his head high. As he knelt before Richard, a murmur swept the hall, for few had ever expected to see the proud Marquis of Montferrat abase himself in public. Henri watched with a frown, wishing it had not come to this. He knew Richard was taking satisfaction from Conrad’s submission, but as badly as he took losing, he was usually a gracious winner, and his demeanor was regal this day, his expression impossible to read. The de Lusignans were not as diplomatic; Guy and his brothers and his nephew Hugh had gathered by the dais, openly exulting in their enemy’s humiliation. Henri found their gloating distasteful. He respected Joffroi and Amaury de Lusignan, even if he did not like them, for they were good soldiers and not as lacking in common sense as Guy. He did not fault Guy’s courage, but courage alone did not make a man fit to rule, and in his opinion, Guy could not be forgiven for the debacle at Ḥaṭṭīn.

“I want to talk to you.” Balian d’Ibelin materialized at his side and jerked his head toward a side door. Following after him, Henri emerged into a courtyard aglow with sunlight, the morning already promising blazing heat. He perched on the edge of the fountain, but Balian was pacing, unable to keep still. Henri had known few men as easygoing as Balian; he could not remember ever seeing his friend truly angry. He was certainly angry now, though, all but giving off sparks, a banked fire suddenly roaring into full blaze.

“I want you to tell me why,” he said, and even his usual lazy drawl was gone, his words sharp enough to cut.

“The de Lusignans are Richard’s vassals back in Poitou. He felt obligated to—”

“Ballocks! We both know he supported Guy because the French king supported Conrad. Just as we know Philippe backed Conrad because he was sure Richard would back Guy. No wonder it took them so long to reach Outremer, given how many old grievances they were dragging along. My question was for you, Henri. Why did you switch sides? When you arrived last year, you allied yourself with Conrad, not Guy. What changed your mind?”

“Richard.”

Balian studied him. “The money he gave you?”

That brought Henri to his feet; Balian might be a friend but that did not mean he could offer insults with impunity. “You know me better than that, or at least I thought you did. My honor is not for sale. Richard wants Guy as king, not Conrad, and I want what Richard does. It is as simple as that. Nor am I the only one to have a change of heart. The Knights Hospitaller did, too, and for the same reason. Richard is the man with the best chance of defeating Saladin and recapturing the Holy City. Can you deny it?”

“No. He may well retake Jerusalem. But what happens then? He goes home. So do you, Henri. So do all of you, leaving us to hold on to what you’ve won. Now you tell me this. Who has the best chance of that? Conrad? Or the hero of Ḥaṭṭīn?”

Henri’s defensiveness ebbed away. “We forget sometimes,” he conceded, “that Outremer is more than the Holy Land. For you, it is home. I’ll admit Conrad would make a better king than Guy. But I’ve already tried to persuade Richard of that, tried and failed. What more would you have me do?”

“On the morrow, Conrad and Guy are to argue their claims before the two kings and the high court of Outremer. Conrad fears that he will not get a fair hearing and Richard may even seek to take Tyre away from him. Men respect you, Henri. God knows why, but they do,” Balian added, with a glimmer of his usual humor. “Conrad needs someone to speak up for him. I am asking you to be that man.”

Henri started to say that Philippe would surely do so, if only to thwart Richard. Yet who’d listen to him now that he’d besmirched his honor? “I doubt that they’ll heed me,” he said at last. “But I will do what I can.” And Balian had to be content with that, a reluctant promise from a man young enough to have been his son.



GUY HAD ARGUED that a crowned and anointed king could not be deposed without offending the Almighty, and Conrad had countered that Guy’s claim died with Sybilla, and the rightful Queen of Jerusalem was now his wife, Isabella. They’d then withdrawn reluctantly while their fate was decided by the English and French kings and the lords and prelates of Outremer.

It was now late afternoon and it was obvious to all that they’d reached an impasse, for Richard wanted Guy, and Philippe wanted Conrad, and neither one was willing to compromise. Frustrated and angry, their throats sore from shouting, their tempers just as raw, the men finally agreed to pause in their deliberations, sending out for food and wine. The fruit, bread, and cheese went largely untouched, but the wine was disappearing at an alarming rate. Just what they needed, Henri brooded, for if the debate had been so rancorous whilst they were sober, it might even turn violent once they were in their cups.

Balian had made a passionate speech on Conrad’s behalf, but he’d been shouted down by Guy’s partisans, as had Renaud, the Lord of Sidon. And when Garnier de Nablus, the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller, had spoken up for Guy, Conrad’s supporters responded just as rudely. The men had paid the two kings the respect due their rank by hearing their arguments without such heckling, but it was obvious to Henri that neither Richard nor Philippe had changed any minds. And although he’d deliberately not glanced in Balian’s direction, he could feel the older man’s dark eyes upon him, silently reminding him of his promise.

Setting down his wine cup, he sought out the most respected of the prelates, the Archbishop of Tyre. Joscius was acclaimed for his powers of persuasion, having managed the miracle of getting both Philippe and Richard’s father, Henry, to take the cross; Henri wanted to draw upon his eloquence in support of a compromise, assuming he could manage a miracle of his own and turn two balky royal mules into docile beasts of burden. Joscius was one of Conrad’s adherents, but he was a realist, too. After getting his assent, Henri squared his shoulders, then crossed the hall and asked for a private word with Richard.

As soon as they’d settled into a window alcove, Henri said bluntly, “Uncle, I suspect that you’ll eventually prevail, but it is likely to be a Pyrrhic victory. Conrad is not one to slink away with his tail between his legs. Whatever we agree here, he is not going to put aside his claim to the crown—”

“What claim?” Richard said scornfully. “He abducted Isabella, plain and simple, then forced her to wed him even though he had left a wife behind in Constantinople. But in the eyes of God, she is still wed to Humphrey de Toron. Moreover, the marriage is invalid because it is incestuous as well as adulterous—Conrad’s brother was once wed to Isabella’s sister Sybilla, and that relationship alone would damn their union under canon law.”

Henri waited patiently until Richard paused for breath. “I agree the marriage is dubious at best. But it is a done deed and none of your fuming is going to change that. Have you asked yourself why so many highborn lords and churchmen were willing to swallow such a bitter brew? I know—you’ll say some were bribed. Mayhap that is true, but it is also true that they were desperate to pry the crown away from Guy, and who can blame them? Would you want to follow the man who’d led them to the Horns of Ḥaṭṭīn?”

Richard’s silence told Henri that he would not. Before he could shift the strategic ground from a defense of Guy to an attack on Conrad, Henri said quickly, “Conrad’s friends do not believe your concern for Isabella is genuine. I know it is. They forget that you have more reason than any man in this hall to be protective of Isabella, for she and your father had the same grandfather, Count Fulk of Anjou. But it is too late to save your cousin from a marriage she did not want, Uncle. By seeking to punish Conrad after the fact, you’ll only be depriving her of her birthright—the crown of Jerusalem.”

Richard frowned, for he’d never considered it in that light. “I cannot just abandon Guy,” he said, “for whether I like him or not, I am his liege lord and owe him my protection.”

“I know. I also know that the de Lusignans are no more likely than Conrad to accept defeat with goodwill, and nothing could be more disastrous for Outremer than a civil war. We have to find a way to accommodate them both.”

Richard grinned. “Good luck with that! Even if I agree—and you’ve got the Devil’s own tongue, lad—what about Philippe? Since when has he ever listened to common sense or reason?”

“He has his moments,” Henri said, which evoked a hoot of skeptical laughter from Richard. Then he squared his shoulders again and strode over to beard the other lion in his den.

Philippe’s greeting was decidedly cool. “If you are bearing a message from Richard, I have no interest in hearing it.”

Henri ignored the suggestion that he was acting as the English king’s lackey. “The message is mine, Uncle. I told him what I am now telling you—that we need to find a compromise, a way to accommodate the claims of both Conrad and Guy. Richard is willing to consider that. It is my hope that you will, too.”

“No,” Philippe said, and would have turned away had Henri not stood his ground.

“I ask you to hear me out, Uncle, if not for my sake, for my lady mother, your sister.”

Philippe was not moved by this appeal to their shared blood; he’d never liked his sister Marie, who’d supported the Count of Flanders in one of his rebellions. “It would be a waste of my time and your breath, Henri. I’ll never agree to crown Richard’s puppet prince. Go back and tell him that.”

“As I said, Uncle, I am not doing Richard’s bidding in this. I seek only to patch together a peace between Conrad and Guy, for we have no hope of defeating Saladin unless we do. So I am indeed sorry that you remain so adamant—and somewhat surprised, too, that you’d put Conrad’s interests ahead of the needs of France.”

Philippe’s eyes glittered suspiciously. “And just how am I doing that?”

“I should think it would be obvious,” Henri said innocently. “Your doctors insist that you return to your own lands straightaway, for they fear it would be the death of you if you do not, no? But you’ll be unable to leave Outremer until this is settled. And you know how stubborn Richard is. He’ll never agree to crown Conrad, so this dispute may well drag on for weeks, even months.” He was about to remind Philippe that if he could not sail before the autumn, he’d be forced to remain in the Holy Land until the following spring. He saw, though, that there was no need. His uncle’s expression was inscrutable, for like Richard, he could wield his court mask as a shield if the need arose. But Henri had caught it, that brief, betraying flicker of alarm, and he hid a triumphant smile, sure now that Philippe would rather spend a year in Purgatory than another month in Acre.



WHEN THE RIVAL CLAIMANTS and their supporters were ushered into the hall, there was a marked difference in their demeanors. Conrad and his men looked tense, the de Lusignans smug. Joanna had seized the opportunity to slip in with them and immediately headed for Henri. Linking her arm in his, she teased, “I do not see any blood on the floor. Does this mean you actually reached a decision acceptable to all?”

“To the contrary,” he confided. “We reached one sure to infuriate both sides equally, but that was the best we could do.”

Before she could interrogate him further, the Archbishop of Tyre rose from his seat upon the dais and signaled for quiet. “I must insist that you remain silent until I am done. It is the decision of the kings of the English and the French and the high court that Guy de Lusignan shall remain king for the remainder of his life. Upon his death, the crown will pass to the Lady Isabella and her husband, the Marquis of Montferrat. Royal revenues are to be shared equally between King Guy and the marquis. Because the marquis kept Tyre from falling to Saladin, he is to be given hereditary possession of Tyre, Sidon, and Beirut. In recognition of his prowess during the siege, Joffroi de Lusignan is to have Jaffa and Ascalon once they, like Sidon and Beirut, are reclaimed from the Saracens. Should it be God’s Will that King Guy, the marquis, and his wife all die whilst King Richard is still in Outremer, he shall have the right to dispose of the kingdom as he sees fit, by virtue of his blood-kinship to the Lady Isabella.”

A faint, sardonic smile tugged at the corner of the archbishop’s mouth. “Now,” he said dryly, “you may express your admiration at the Solomon-like wisdom of our decision.”

Conrad’s first reaction was relief that he’d not been cut out entirely as he’d feared, followed by frustration, for how likely was it that he’d outlive his younger rival? Guy looked pleased and then puzzled. “But what if I remarry and have children? Surely they’d take precedence over the marquis’s questionable claim.”

“No,” the archbishop said, allowing himself a hint of satisfaction, “they would not.”

Guy gasped. “Are you saying I’ll have only a life interest in the crown?”

“That’s more than you deserve,” Renaud of Sidon said with a sneer, and that was all it took. Both sides began to rail at the unfairness of the terms, exchanging insults and threats with a bitterness that did not bode well for acceptance of the decision. Only Joffroi de Lusignan seemed content with the outcome, watching his brother rave and rant with the detached amusement of a future Count of Jaffa.

Richard finally had to intervene and shout the protests down, with some help from Archbishop Joscius. Philippe paid no heed to the turmoil. Instead he beckoned to Conrad, who obeyed, but took his time in doing so. They conferred for a few moments, and then Philippe rose, getting ready to depart.

Balian at once made his way over to Conrad’s side. At his low-voiced query, Conrad leaned closer, saying in the Piedmontese dialect, “Philippe is giving me his half of Acre and his share of the ransom for the Saracen hostages.”

Balian was surprised, not having expected such a generous gesture from the French king. “You think Philippe is feeling a pang or two of guilt?”

Conrad gave a snort of disbelief. “Since when are you such an innocent? He did it for one reason and one reason only—in hopes that I will make life as difficult as possible for the English king after he’s left Outremer.” He looked past Balian then, watching Richard with the single-minded intensity of an archer tracking his target. “And by God, I will do my best to oblige him.”

Philippe’s knights had reached him by now. But as they turned to go, Richard called out in a loud, commanding tone, “My lord king!” When Philippe halted, he said, “We are not yet done. I assume you remain set upon leaving Acre.” He got an almost imperceptible nod in grudging response, and then signaled to André, who came forward with an ivory reliquary. “I must ask then that you swear upon these holy relics that you will honor the protection the Church gives men who’ve taken the cross, and wage no war against my lands whilst I am doing God’s Work in Outremer.”

Philippe’s eyes, always pale, took on the colorless glaze of winter ice. “Indeed I will not! You insult me by even asking for such an oath.”

“I am sorry you take it that way. But I must insist.” Richard’s face was impassive, but his body language conveyed another message altogether, his legs spread apart, his arms folded across his chest, his very posture a challenge in itself. “If you refuse, you raise some very ugly suspicions. Why would you balk if you do not have evil intent?”

“I ‘balk’ because I find it offensive that you think there is a need for such an oath!” Glancing around the hall, Philippe saw that once again Richard had managed to get public opinion on his side. Well, so be it! He swung around, intending to stalk out, only to find his path blocked by his own lords.

“You’ll shame us all if you refuse,” Hugh of Burgundy hissed. “For the love of Christ, take the damned oath!”

“The duke is right, my liege,” Jaufre said, with an impressive display of quiet courage. “I am sure you’d never invade the English king’s domains whilst he is fighting for the Holy City. But it will look bad if you refuse.”

“Take the oath, Uncle,” Henri urged, as softly as Jaufre but with less deference. “Not for Richard’s sake, for your own. Why plant needless seeds of doubt in other men’s minds?”

Philippe looked from one man to another, saw the same grim resolve and defiant disapproval on all their faces. “Very well,” he snapped. “I’ll take his bloody oath. And you, my lord duke, and you, my lord count, may stand surety for my good faith.” Neither Hugh nor Henri appeared happy about that, and he took a small measure of satisfaction in their discomfort. But not enough to compensate for yet one more humiliation inflicted upon him by the accursed English king.

Striding over to André, he made no effort to hide his fury as he placed his hand upon the holy reliquary and swore a solemn oath that he’d do no harm to Richard’s lands as long as the other monarch remained in Outremer. After announcing that the Duke of Burgundy and Count of Champagne would act as guarantors, he departed immediately thereafter, as did Conrad and his partisans, followed by the French lords, further evidence of the deep divisions still rending the crusading army.

Henri had remained behind. Seeing that Richard had been cornered by the aggrieved Guy de Lusignan, he came to his uncle’s rescue with a fabricated message from Guy’s brother Amaury. Richard had been listening to Guy’s complaints with rapidly dwindling patience, and sighed with relief as the latter reluctantly went off in search of his kinsman. “The more time I spend with Guy,” he muttered, “the more I marvel that my cousin Sybilla stayed loyal to him until the day she died. Neither sister had the best of luck with their husbands, did they?”

Accepting a silver-gilt goblet from a wine bearer, he sprawled in the nearest chair. “Jesu, but I am bone-weary of dealing with all these petty squabbles and rivalries. I have no doubts that Conrad and Guy would rather fight each other than the Saracens.” Slanting a fond, playful look toward his nephew, he said, “You need not worry, lad, about standing surety for Philippe. I’ll not blame you when he breaks his oath. Hellfire, I’ll not even blame Hugh of Burgundy, and blaming Hugh is one of my minor pleasures in life!”

“I assumed you’d not hold me to account,” Henri said with a smile, “but I am sure Hugh will be relieved to hear that.” Taking a swallow from his own wine cup, he regarded the other man pensively. “Are you so sure, Uncle, that Philippe will wage war upon you? He did swear upon holy relics, albeit after some coaxing.”

“He vowed, too, to take the cross and what oath could be more sacred than that?” Richard drained his goblet with a grimace that had nothing to do with the taste of the wine. “If he could not keep faith with God, why would he keep faith with me?”



THE LAST DAY OF JULY was not as oppressively hot, for the Arsuf winds had sprung up, blowing from the south. As Henri and Balian and their men rode through the thronged streets, Henri marveled at the resiliency of this coastal city, already rebounding from nearly two years under siege; signs of economic activity were everywhere, and carpenters and masons had more work than they could handle. As he passed the thriving markets, the crowded bathhouses and brothels, Henri thought it was easy to forget that a bloody war was waiting to resume beyond Acre’s newly repaired walls. The same illusory sense of peace prevailed at the citadel. As they entered the great hall, they encountered a scene of domestic tranquility, which Henri had rarely, if ever, associated with his uncle.

Richard and a number of lords were gathered around a table covered with maps, but the presence of women kept the hall from resembling a battle council. Anna was holding court in a window-seat, surrounded by young knights eager to improve her French, under her stepmother’s vigilant eye. Mariam was playing chess with Morgan, but the looks they were exchanging indicated another game was under way. Joanna and Berengaria were chatting with the Bishop of Salisbury, while the palace cooks hovered nearby, waiting to discuss the week’s menu. There were even dogs underfoot, Joanna’s Sicilian cirnecos mingling warily with Jacques d’Avesnes’s huge Flemish hounds. All that was lacking were a few wailing babes or shrieking children, Henri thought, feeling an unexpected yearning for the cool greenwoods and lush vineyards of his native Champagne.

To Balian, there was no incongruity between this serene family tableau and the coming brutal campaign, for the poulains knew no other way of life; they never forgot the precarious nature of their hold upon this ancient land as sacred to Islam as it was to Christianity. He was more concerned with the unwelcoming expression on the English king’s face. “I knew this was a mistake, Henri. I ought not to have let you talk me into it.”

“It was not a mistake,” Henri insisted. “Give me a moment and I’ll prove it.” Taking Balian over to introduce him to Joanna and Berengaria, he left his friend exchanging pleasantries with the women and hastened toward Richard, who was moving to intercept him, scowling. Before his uncle could challenge Balian’s presence, he took the offensive. “Yes, Balian d’Ibelin is Conrad’s adviser and friend. In fact, they are kin by marriage since Isabella is Balian’s stepdaughter. But I invited him here because you said you wanted to learn more of Saracen battle tactics and he is the ideal teacher. Not only did he grow to manhood fighting the Turks and often distinguished himself in combat, he was at Ḥaṭṭīn.”

“So were Guy and Humphrey de Toron.”

“Despite his training as a knight, Humphrey is no soldier. As for Guy, I suppose his experience could be useful—note whatever he advises and then do the opposite.”

Richard could not dispute Henri’s barbed assessment of Guy and Humphrey. Nor were there that many Ḥaṭṭīn veterans available for questioning, for hundreds had been slain on the field and the best fighters, the Templars and Hospitallers, had all died after the battle, executed by Saladin. “Well, as long as he’s here . . .” he said ungraciously and Henri went off, grinning, to fetch Balian.

Several hours later, Richard was glad he’d heeded his nephew. He was still mistrustful of Balian, who was too close to Conrad for his comfort and who was wed to a woman who could teach Cleopatra about conniving, Maria Comnena, a daughter of the Greek Royal House and former Queen of Jerusalem. But he’d forgotten about Balian’s dangerous Greek wife once the poulain began to talk about war in Outremer.

Balian confirmed all that Richard had been told about Turkish battle tactics. “The Saracens do not fight like the Franks,” he said, speaking to Richard as one soldier to another while ignoring the hostile glares he was getting from Guy. “They know they cannot withstand a charge by armed knights, and so they do their best to avoid it. They remain at a distance, for they have mastered a skill unknown to Franks—they can shoot a bow from horseback, on the run. When our knights attack, they retreat and regroup. When Franks are on the march, they swarm us like black flies, bite, and flit out of reach, again and again until our knights are so maddened they can endure it no longer. They break formation and charge, which is what the Saracens have been waiting for. Indeed, they are most dangerous when they appear to be in retreat, for too often our men lose all caution in the excitement of the chase, and by the time they realize they have been lured into an ambush, it is too late.”

“I’ve been told they ride as if they’ve been born in the saddle.”

“You’ve been told true, my lord king. They are fine horsemen and the horses they breed are as good as any to be found in Christendom. Their steeds are as agile as cats, as swift as greyhounds, and because their armor is lighter than ours, they can outrun us with infuriating ease.”

Richard nodded, remembering how Isaac Comnenus had outdistanced them again and again, invincible as long as he was mounted on Fauvel. “If they are not as well armored as our knights, then we’d have the advantage in hand-to-hand combat. So the key to victory would be to hold back until we are sure we can fully engage them.”

“Just so,” Balian agreed. “But few commanders can exert that sort of control over their men. Even such disciplined warriors as the Templars have been known to break ranks under constant attack by mocking foes who hover just out of range, such tempting targets that they can no longer resist hitting back.”

“Tell us more about their armor,” Richard directed, and Balian did, thinking that at least this arrogant English king was willing to learn about his foes; all too often, newcomers to Outremer assumed that, just as theirs was the one true religion, so, too, were they inherently superior to infidel Turks on the battlefield.

They stopped to eat when Garnier de Nablus arrived, and then began to study a map of the route Richard intended to take once they rode out of Acre, along the coast south toward Jaffa. Jacques d’Avesnes had been in Outremer long enough to have heard a number of legends and folklore, and when Baldwin de Bethune asked about a river marked on the map, Jacques was only too happy to share one of the more lurid stories. It was called “Crocodile River,” he declared, in memory of two knights attacked and eaten by crocodiles when they’d been foolhardy enough to go swimming. The joke was on Jacques, though, for what he’d assumed to be a myth turned out to be true; Balian and Guy confirmed the origin of the name and that there were indeed such creatures lurking in that river. None of Richard’s men had ever seen a crocodile, and after hearing a description of these fearsome beasts, they were quite content to keep it that way. Only Richard was intrigued, wondering how one could be killed, and his friends exchanged glances, hoping they’d not be asked to accompany him on his crocodile hunt.

They moved on to a discussion of the man who stood between them and the recovery of Jerusalem. Balian knew the sultan far better than anyone Richard had met until now, and he pelted the poulain lord with questions. Was it true Saladin was a Kurd? That he had more than a dozen sons? That Saladin was not really his name? Balian was quite willing to satisfy his curiosity, for he was always pleased when European Franks showed themselves open to learning about his homeland. Saladin was indeed a Kurd, not a Turk or Arab, he confirmed, and Kurdish was his native tongue, although he was also fluent in Arabic. He might well have that many sons, for Muslims had multiple wives and harims as well. And Saladin was a misnomer, referring to one of his laqabs, or titles, Salah al-Dīn, which translated as “Righteousness of the Faith.” In the same way, the Franks called his brother “Saphadin,” a contraction of one of his titles. Saif al-Dīn or “The Sword of Religion.” But the Saracens knew him as al-Malik al-’A-dil. “Their isms or given names, what we’d call their ‘Christian names,’” he said with a grin, “are Yusef and Ahmad. So the greatest of all Muslim rulers bears the biblical name of Joseph!”

Richard and his friends were astonished that Saladin shared the name of a revered Christian saint. But when Balian began to explain that Muslims did not consider Christians to be outright pagans, calling them and Jews “People of the Book,” Guy could keep quiet no longer. He’d been fuming in silence, deeply offended by Balian’s presence in their midst, and now he gave an exclamation of mock surprise, marveling that Balian seemed so knowledgeable about such an accursed religion. “Your good friend Renaud of Sidon speaks Arabic well enough to read that blasphemous book of theirs and men have long suspected him of secretly converting to their vile faith. I wonder now if you, too, were tempted to apostasy during your many visits to Saladin’s court.”

The other men tensed, for such an insult could well have led to killing back in their homelands. Balian merely smiled. “How kind of you to worry about the state of my soul, my lord Guy. No, I have not embraced Islam. And whilst I have indeed often visited the sultan’s court, it was always as an emissary, as when I was seeking to save Jerusalem after your defeat at Ḥaṭṭīn. I must admit that Saladin has never failed to show me great hospitality, as he does to all his foes. He told me that when you were brought to his tent after the battle, he offered you a cool drink and felt the need to reassure you that you would not be harmed, saying that ‘Kings do not kill other kings’ since you were so obviously distraught and in fear of your life.”

That was a memory still haunting Guy’s sleep. He jumped to his feet, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. But Richard had anticipated that, for Guy’s was an easy face to read, and he clamped his hand down on the other man’s wrist before he could unsheathe his blade. “I would take it greatly amiss if you were to shed blood in front of my wife and sister,” he said, sounding like a host rebuking a guest for a lapse of manners; his fingers, though, were digging into Guy’s flesh with enough force to leave bruises.

Balian was on his feet now, too. “I think it is time I departed, my lord,” he was saying calmly, when a knight burst into the hall, calling out for the king.

Recognizing one of the Préaux brothers, Richard gestured for him to approach. “What have you come to tell me, Guilhem?”

Guilhem knelt, struggling to catch his breath. “My liege, the French king is gone! He and the marquis sailed for Tyre within the hour.”

Good riddance, Richard thought, but he contented himself with saying only that the French king’s departure was hardly a surprise. “I did not know he’d planned to leave today, but I suppose he decided to take advantage of the Arsuf winds.”

“Sire, you do not understand,” Guilhem burst out, his the unhappiness of a man forced to bring his king very unwelcome tidings. “He took with him the most important of his Saracen hostages!”

“He did what?” Richard drew an audible breath, then whirled to face Balian. “Did you know about this treachery?” Balian swore he had not and Richard grudgingly gave him the benefit of the doubt. If the man had known about this latest double-dealing by Philippe and Conrad, he’d hardly have come willingly to the citadel, after all. By now others were clustering around them, all talking at once, but the men parted to allow Richard’s queen to pass through.

“My lord husband, what is wrong?”

“Philippe has stolen some of the hostages.” Seeing, then, that she did not understand the significance of the French king’s action, he added, “I have to be able to turn over all of the hostages to Saladin upon payment of the ransom. I cannot very well do that if they are thirty miles up the coast at Tyre.”

Berengaria was loath to believe that a Christian king would deliberately sabotage their pact with Saladin, even one as untrustworthy as Philippe. “Why would he do that, Richard?” she asked softly. Few people had ever awakened his protective instincts, but in the face of such innocence, he found himself wanting to shield her from the wickedness of the world and he made an effort to master his fury, saying that it was doubtless a misunderstanding of some sort.

It was obvious to Berengaria that this was far more serious than a mere “misunderstanding,” but she realized that Richard was trying to spare her worry and so she acted as though she believed him. By now Joanna had joined them, and as soon as she was alone with her sister-in-law, she said quietly, “This was done with malice and evil intent, was it not?”

Joanna nodded grimly. “Philippe’s parting gift to Richard—a well-placed dagger in the back.”



PHILIPPE STAYED IN TYRE only two days and then sailed for home, leaving the hostages in Conrad’s custody. Midst all the turmoil over the French king’s repudiation of his crusader’s vows, few noticed when the Duke of Austria also sailed for Tyre. Unlike Philippe, Leopold had been a fervent crusader; this was his second visit to the Holy Land. But now he turned his back upon Outremer and returned to his own lands, bearing a very bitter grievance.