Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 24

AUGUST 1191

The Citadel, Acre





Richard ran his hand lightly over the stallion’s withers and back, smiling when Fauvel snorted. “You want to run,I know. Mayhap later,” he promised, reaching for a curry comb. The horse’s coat shone even in the subdued lighting of the stable, shot through with chestnut highlights. It was an outrage to think of Isaac Comnenus astride this magnificent animal. “Of course it could have been worse,” he assured the destrier, “for at least Isaac could ride. What if you’d belonged to the French king? Not that he’d have ever had the ballocks to mount you.”

“Malik Ric?”

He swung around, startled, for he’d not heard those soft footsteps in the straw. He liked Anna, admiring the girl’s spirit, and he gave her a smile over his shoulder as he began to comb out Fauvel’s mane. She overturned an empty water bucket, perching on it as if it were a throne. “Why not let a groom do that?”

“When I was not much younger than you, lass, I asked a knight named William Marshal that very question, and he told me a man ought to know how to take care of what was his. I suppose it stuck with me.” After a comfortable silence, he confided, “Also, it helps to get him familiar with my scent, and takes my mind off my troubles.”

“What troubles?”

“The missing hostages, for one. I sent the Bishop of Salisbury and the Count of Dreux to Tyre to bring them back to Acre, but they’ve not returned yet. Negotiations with Saladin, for another. He has been harder to pin down than a river eel,” he added darkly, for the delay in satisfying the terms of the surrender was sowing more and more suspicions in his mind. Setting the comb aside, he looked around for his hoof pick. Finding it on a nearby bench, he turned back toward Fauvel, only to halt in horror, for Anna was no longer sitting at a safe distance; she was in the stall now with the stallion, a battlefield destrier bred for his fiery temperament.

“Anna, do not make any sudden moves. Slowly back out of the stall.”

She looked astonished, and then amused. “No danger! Fauvel . . . he knows me,” she insisted, and held out her hand. The horse’s nostrils quivered and then he plucked the lump of crystallized sugar from her palm, as delicately as a pet dog accepting a treat from a doting mistress.

Richard exhaled a deep breath, for he of all men knew the damage a destrier could inflict upon human flesh and bones. “Do not push your luck, lass,” he warned, torn between anger and relief. “Stallions are as unpredictable as women. I’d rather not have to tell my wife and sister that you were trampled into the dust because of my carelessness.”

The expression on her face indicated she was clearly humoring him. But after giving Fauvel one last pat, she slipped out of the stall. Taking her place, Richard saw that she’d untied the stallion’s halter and he resecured it, swearing under his breath. It was only when she giggled that he realized she’d understood his cursing. “Your French seems to have improved dramatically since we left Cyprus, Anna.”

She smiled impishly. “I learn French long ago, when my brother and I are hostages for my papa in Antioch. But after we are set free, he wants us to speak only Greek, so I forget a lot. . . . It comes back now I hear it all the time.”

Richard busied himself inspecting Fauvel’s legs. When the stallion raised his hoof upon command, he pried manure from the frog with his pick, looking for any cracks or signs of injury. Joanna had told him that Anna occasionally talked about her mother, who’d died when she was six, and her brother, who’d not long survived their arrival on Cyprus, but she never spoke of her father. Richard had no desire whatsoever to discuss Isaac with her. Yet the image of her sneaking into the stables to give treats to her father’s stallion was undeniably a poignant one. He supposed he could let her visit Isaac at Margat Castle if it meant so much to her. It would be safe enough to sail up the coast now that Saladin’s fleet had been captured at Acre. “Do you miss your father, Anna?” he asked at last, hoping this was not a kindness he’d regret.

“No.”

The finality of that answer took him by surprise. He made no comment and, after some moments, she said, “My papa . . . he is good to me. But he is not good to my mama, to Sophia, to others. His anger . . . it scare me sometimes. . . .”

Richard could well imagine it did. What was it Sophia had said at Kyrenia . . . that Anna had not had “an easy life”? His silence was a sympathetic one, but she misread it. “Malik Ric . . . you think I am not a . . . a dutiful daughter?”

The incongruity of this conversation was beginning to amuse him. “I’d be the last man in Christendom to lecture you about filial duty, Anna. Ask Joanna sometime about my father and me. As far back as I can remember, we were like flint and tinder.”

Pleased that he was not disapproving, she eagerly obeyed when he asked her to hand him a sponge, and watched in fascination as he cleaned around Fauvel’s ears and muzzle, for she could not imagine Isaac ever grooming his own horse. “May I ask you, Malik Ric? They say you lead your men south. Why not toward Jerusalem?”

“It is too dangerous to head inland from Acre, lass, and too long, more than one hundred fifty miles through the hills of Ephraim. If we march along the coast toward Jaffa, my fleet can sail with us, carrying all the provisions we’ll need. Best of all, Saladin cannot be sure what target I am aiming for, Ascalon or Jerusalem.”

When one of his knights entered the stables soon afterward, he found Richard kneeling in the dirt outside Fauvel’s stall, drawing a map for Anna with his dagger as he explained that Ascalon controlled the road to Egypt. The man didn’t even blink, though, for Richard’s men were used to his free and easy ways. “The Duke of Burgundy has arrived, my liege, says he needs to see you straightaway.”

Grimacing, Richard got to his feet and started toward the door. When Anna didn’t move, he stopped and beckoned. “I’m not about to leave you alone with Fauvel, lass. You might get it into your head to take him for a ride.” She widened her eyes innocently, and he smiled. But he made sure she followed after him.



THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY was looking without favor at one of Joanna’s cirnecos. When a servant brought in wine and fruit, he grabbed a goblet, draining it in several swallows. Richard leaned back in his seat, watching the older man with speculative eyes. He’d known Hugh for years, but this was the first time he’d ever seen the duke fidgeting like this, obviously ill at ease.

Putting his cup down, Hugh wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Will we be ready to head south as soon as Saladin honors the surrender terms?”

“Yes. The ships are loaded already.”

“We’ll have trouble dragging the men out of the bawdy houses and taverns,” Hugh prophesied gloomily. “Half of our men have not drawn a sober breath in weeks, and the other half would be drunken sots, too, if they were not so busy whoring the night away.”

Richard was not happy, either, with the drunkenness and debauchery that had ensnared his army after the fall of Acre. He’d never worried about the morals of his men, leaving that to the priests to sort out. But this was no ordinary war and it was unseemly for soldiers of Christ to be sinning so blatantly, for surely such brazen behavior was displeasing to the Almighty. Moreover, it would be no easy task to get their minds focused upon the hard campaign ahead, not after weeks of carousing and self-indulgence. Perversely, though, he refused to admit that he shared Hugh’s concern, instead saying flippantly, “Soldiers whoring and drinking ? Who’d ever have expected that?”

Hugh scowled, first at Richard and then at the hound sniffing his leg. “Do you think it was wise to accede to Saladin’s demand, agreeing to let him pay the money due in three installments? He might well take that as a sign of weakness.”

Richard set his own cup down with a thud. “If he does,” he said coldly, “he’ll soon learn how badly he’s misread me. If we’d insisted that all two hundred thousand dinars be paid when the True Cross and the Christian prisoners are handed over to us, we would have to release the garrison to Saladin then and there. And how am I to do that when so many of them are still in Tyre? By agreeing to this compromise, I gained us the time we need to pry them away from that whoreson Montferrat, and you well know this, Hugh. You raised no objections at the time. So why are you blathering on about it now? Why are you here? Whatever you’ve come to say, for Christ’s sake, spit it out, man!”

Hugh half rose, then sank back in the chair. “I need money to pay my men. Can I get a loan from you to do that? I’ll be able to repay it with our share of the two hundred thousand dinars.”

“You’re saying Philippe sailed off without leaving you the funds to provide for your army?” Richard shook his head in disgust. “Why should that surprise me? But I’d not count upon getting much of that ransom if I were you. Philippe gave his half of Acre and the hostages to Conrad, remember?”

Hugh jumped to his feet. “Are you saying you will not lend me the money?” Richard did not like it much, but he had no choice under the circumstances. “Will five thousand silver marks be enough?”

“Yes.” Looking everywhere but at Richard’s face, Hugh mumbled a “Thank you” that sounded as if it were torn from his throat.

“My lord king?” Richard and Hugh had been so intent upon each other that they’d not heard the soft knock upon the door. “The Bishop of Salisbury has just returned from Tyre. Will you see him now?”

“Send him in at once. That is the best news I’ve heard in weeks.”

But Richard’s pleasure did not survive his first glimpse of Hubert Walter’s face. “I am deeply sorry, my liege,” the bishop said somberly, “but we failed. The French king had already sailed, and Conrad was determined to thwart us at every turn. He said he will not return to Acre because he does not trust you. Far worse, he refused to turn the hostages over to us. He said he would agree only if he would get half of the True Cross when we recovered it.”

For a rare moment, Richard and Hugh were in total accord, both men infuriated by Conrad’s effrontery. “And how are we supposed to recover the True Cross without his accursed hostages?” Richard raged. “But if that is how he wants it, so be it. I will go to Tyre myself, see if he is quite so brave face-to-face.”

“My lord, I would advise against that,” the bishop said hastily. “Saladin would be only too happy to see us fighting amongst ourselves. The French king led us into this labyrinth, so let the French lead us out. I think the Duke of Burgundy ought to be the one to go to Tyre and confront Conrad. You are the commander of the French forces now,” he said, turning his steady gaze upon Hugh. “Are you going to allow the marquis to put the war at risk?”

Hugh’s jaw jutted out. “I’ll go,” he said, and then looked toward Richard, in grudging acknowledgment of the English king’s authority now that Philippe had left Outremer.

“Very well. See if you can talk some sense into him. But if he still balks, give him this message from me,” Richard said, spacing his words out like gravestones. “Tell him that if I have to come to Tyre to collect the hostages, he’ll regret it till the end of his earthly days.”



AUGUST 11 was the day when Salah al-Dīn was to turn over the True Cross, the 1,600 Christian prisoners, and the first installment of the two hundred thousand dinars. Joanna and Berengaria had ambivalent feelings about this momentous occasion. They rejoiced, of course, in the return of the Cross, in infidel hands since the Battle of Ḥaṭṭīn, and they were glad that so many men would regain their freedom. But the day’s events would also bring them one step closer to the resumption of the war, and the women were dreading what was to come—being left isolated at Acre, not knowing from one day to the next if Richard still lived.

There was to be a celebratory feast after the exchange had been made, and they’d borrowed Henri’s cook to handle the elaborate menu. But as the hours passed without word, both women began to feel uneasy, sensing that something had gone wrong. Their premonitions were soon confirmed. Richard returned to the citadel in a fury, the men with him just as angry. He was in no mood for a meal or for explanations, saying tersely that Saladin had refused to honor the agreed-upon terms before disappearing into the solar for what was obviously a council of war. Berengaria and Joanna hastily looked around the hall for someone who could tell them what had happened and would also be willing to discuss military matters with women. They finally decided upon Humphrey de Toron, and he soon found himself out in the courtyard as the sun blazed its farewell arc toward the western horizon.

Berengaria let him escort her to a marble bench, but Joanna couldn’t wait. “Richard said you were to interpret for the Saracen envoys, Lord Humphrey, so you must have been in the midst of it all. Was Saladin there? What went amiss?”

“We knew Saladin would not attend, but we’d expected his brother, al-’A-dil, to speak for him. He did not come either, though, which was a pity, for we might have been able to reason with him. As it was, the message Saladin sent was an uncompromising one. He sought to impose new conditions ere he’d fulfill his part of the bargain. He wanted us to free the Acre garrison now instead of waiting until the final two payments were made. King Richard refused.”

“What else could he do? The Duke of Burgundy has not returned from Tyre with the hostages yet. Do you think Saladin knew this?”

“I am sure he did, Lady Joanna. Both sides have more spies than a dog has fleas. He offered to provide more hostages if the garrison were freed now, but wanted hostages from us if we insisted upon holding on to the garrison, saying he needed proof that we would indeed free them once all the ransom was paid. Your brother refused this, too. He reminded the sultan that Acre had surrendered to the Christian forces and the loser does not get to dictate terms to the winner. When he demanded that Saladin honor the pact as agreed upon, the Saracens went off to consult with their lord. He sent word back that he was not willing to turn over the Cross, the prisoners, or the money unless we either freed the garrison now or handed over hostages of our own. After that, the meeting ended in acrimony and mutual accusations of bad faith.”

“But we already have Saracen hostages—the Acre garrison,” Berengaria pointed out. “It does not make sense to release them and then replace them with other hostages. I do not see how that benefits Saladin. Do you, Joanna?”

“No, I do not.” Joanna had begun to pace. “But a delay would be very much to his benefit. The longer he can keep Richard and our army at Acre, trying to resolve these issues, the more time he has to refortify the coastal cities and castles. Richard thinks that is his real objective. You know the man, Lord Humphrey. Do you agree?”

As she looked intently into his face, Joanna was struck anew by how very handsome this man was; his dark eyes were wide-set, his skin smooth and clean-shaven, his full mouth shaped for smiles and songs. But he would not make a good husband for a queen; his beauty could not compensate for the lack of steel in his spine. He was a poulain, though, born and bred in the harsh splendor of the Holy Land, and she thought that made his opinion worth hearing.

Humphrey seemed to be weighing his words, like a man striving to be fair. “Yes, it is indeed in the sultan’s interest to delay as long as possible. He knows how desperately we want the True Cross, and he may well think that we will let him drag the negotiations out because there is so much at stake for us.”

Joanna’s eyes searched his. “Yet you still say he is a man of honor?”

“I do, my lady,” he said firmly, but then he gave her a charming, rueful smile.

“But it has been my experience that honor is often the first casualty in war. Saladin deserves our respect, is a finer man in some ways than many of my Christian brethren. He is still our enemy, though, and he is pledged to what they call the ‘lesser jihad,’ war against the infidel. I’ve always found it interesting that their holy men preach that Muslims who fight in the jihad will be granted admission to Paradise, just as the Holy Father promises that those who take the cross will be absolved of their sins.”

They both were staring at him. “Surely you are not equating Christianity with beliefs offensive to God?” Berengaria said, with unwonted sharpness in her voice.

“No, of course not, Madame.” Humphrey was accustomed to having to offer such reassurances, for his was a world in which intellectual curiosity was not viewed as a virtue, not when both Christians and Muslims were convinced that theirs was the only true faith. “I am simply trying to understand Saracen thinking. We are sure we are doing God’s bidding, yet Saladin is sure of that, too. He is not by nature a cruel or heartless man. But he will do what he thinks necessary to expel us from the Holy Land.”

“Just as my brother will do what he must to recover Jerusalem,” Joanna said proudly. “And he will prevail, for God truly is on our side.”

The women withdrew soon afterward, leaving Humphrey alone in the courtyard. He wished he could share their certainty. But he did not think Joanna and Berengaria understood how cleverly the sultan was boxing the Christians in. How could the English king give up an opportunity to recover the True Cross? Saladin could have found no better bait than the holiest relic in Christendom. Yet they could not remain in Acre much longer without jeopardizing the entire campaign. Moreover, if the Saracen garrison were not ransomed, what was to be done with them? He sat down on the rim of the fountain, watching as the sky began to redden. He would normally have taken pleasure in such a splendid sunset, for he had an artist’s eye as well as a poet’s soul. But tonight he could think only of the day’s troubling impasse and the danger it posed to his homeland.



THE NEXT DAY, the Duke of Burgundy returned from Tyre with the rest of the Saracen hostages, Conrad having grudgingly yielded to Hugh’s angry denunciations and Richard’s ominous threats. Two days later, Richard set up camp outside the city walls. Messages continued to go back and forth between the two sides, but their mutual mistrust prevented them from reaching an accommodation, and the stalemate dragged on.



TUESDAY, AUGUST 20, dawned with brilliant blue skies and sweltering summer heat. The men gathered in Richard’s pavilion were already sweating despite the early hour. The waiting had begun to wear upon their nerves, and there were several testy exchanges before Richard took command of the council, demanding silence so he could speak.

“We can wait no longer,” he said, pitching his voice so all could hear. “Saladin is playing us for fools. He will continue to delay and equivocate and do all in his power to put off a reckoning, because every day we remain at Acre is a day we’ve lost and he’s won. He is using this stolen time to strengthen Jaffa and Arsuf and Caesarea, and could be expecting reinforcements from Egypt for all we know. In two months the rainy season begins, and I’ve been told campaigning is well nigh impossible then because the roads turn into quagmires. So if we do not move soon, we risk being anchored at Acre until the spring. You know what a setback like that would do to our army. If we let Saladin outwit us like this, they’ll say all those deaths in the past two years had been in vain. They’ll be loath to trust us again, and who could blame them?” He did not bother to elaborate, sure that his audience already knew what a detrimental effect a winter at Acre would have upon camp morale. How many would have any stomach for fighting after months of gambling, quarreling, whoring, and drinking?

He paused then, waiting for a response. No one disputed him, though, not even the French lords, who’d usually argue with him over the most insignificant trifles. None wanted to lose this God-given opportunity to regain the Holy Cross and free so many Christian prisoners. Nor were they happy to forfeit so much money, for Richard’s generosity was almost as legendary as his bravado and they’d been sure the ransom would be shared, enabling them to pay their men and cover their expenses. This was no small consideration, for many a crusader had bankrupted himself by taking the cross. But they were soldiers, too, and like Richard, they could see that remaining at Acre was not an option. Nothing mattered more than the success of the crusade, not even the sacred fragment of the Holy Cross or those unhappy men languishing in Damascus dungeons.

Richard let his gaze move challengingly from Hugh to the Bishop of Beauvais. Beauvais looked as if he were biting his tongue, wanting to protest from sheer force of habit. Hugh’s shoulders were slumped, his chin tucked into his chest, his slouching body proclaiming his bitter disappointment over the loss of the ransom. Feeling Richard’s eyes upon him, Hugh glanced up and said sarcastically, “Are you asking our opinions? That is a first. Naturally you’d choose the one time when only a half-wit could disagree with you. The fact is that we have no choice, and every man in this tent knows it.”

The Germans had either died in the siege or gone home with Duke Leopold. There were numerous Flemings still with the army, though, and Jacques d’Avesnes spoke for them now, agreeing that they could not afford to wait any longer. Guy de Lusignan, his brothers, the Grand Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers, a Hungarian count, and several bishops had their say then, echoing what had already been said, and Richard thought that this was likely the first and last time that they’d all be in such unanimity. He’d not really expected arguments, but was relieved, nonetheless, to be spared the usual rivalries and prideful posturing.

It was Henri who asked the obvious question. “What do we do, then, with the Acre garrison?”

“What can we do?” Richard said grimly. “There are only four choices, none of them good ones. We cannot spare enough men to guard nearly three thousand prisoners, and I am not about to leave them in the same city with my wife and sister unless I could be sure they had no chance of breaking free. Nor can we take them with us on our march south. We do not even have the food to feed several thousand extra mouths, for Saladin has deliberately devastated the countryside to keep us from living off the land. We cannot just turn them loose, not without risking a riot from our own men. Many of them were not happy with the surrender, feeling they’d earned the right to storm the city and take vengeance for the deaths of their friends and fellow soldiers. If we free so many Saracens to fight again without getting so much as a denier, they’ll be outraged and, once again, who could blame them? That leaves us but one choice as I see it—we execute them.”

None could fault his logic, but not all of them were comfortable with the decision, for the Saracens had fought bravely and surrendered in the belief that their lives would be spared. Henri was the only one to express these regrets aloud, though. “A pity, for they showed great courage during the siege. Had they not been infidels, I’d have been proud to fight alongside any of them.”

Some of the other men nodded in agreement, but Guy de Lusignan, the Templars, and the Hospitallers were enraged. Several of them began speaking at once, drowning one another out, until Garnier de Nablus prevailed by sheer lung power. Glaring at Henri, he said wrathfully, “Courage, you say? I’ll tell you about courage, about the two hundred and thirty-four Templars and Hospitallers who were butchered by Saladin two days after the battle at Ḥaṭṭīn. Not only did he put these brave Christian knights to death, he set their accursed holy men and Sufis to do it, men who’d never even wielded a sword before. Save your pity for them, my lord count, not for pagans whose hands are wet with the blood of our brethren!”

The vehemence of the Hospitaller Grand Master’s attack took Henri by surprise, but he didn’t back down. “I mourn those good men, too, my lord Garnier. But courage is worthy of admiration, and I think the Saracens who held Acre for two years deserve to have their bravery acknowledged, especially if they are facing death and eternal damnation.”

“I agree with my nephew,” Richard interjected before any of the other Templar and Hospitaller knights could chime in. “They are indeed brave men. But they are also our enemies and their lives were forfeit as soon as Saladin refused to honor the terms of the surrender.” He glanced then toward Hugh. “Half of these men were claimed by your king, my lord duke. Do you agree that they must be put to death?”

Hugh nodded. “I do not see that we have any other choice. But what of the commanders and the emirs taken when the city fell? Surely we are not going to kill them, too? Some of them might well be rich enough to pay their own ransoms.”

“I agree,” Richard said. “We will keep those men at Acre, for they can be used, too, to barter for some of our prisoners at a later date.”

There was one man present who’d been shocked by the decision to slay the garrison. Humphrey de Toron did not approve of killing men who’d surrendered in good faith, even if it was their own sultan’s actions that doomed them. He’d long known he was not suited for warfare, even before he’d taken part in the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn. It was not that he did not understand the reasons for reaching this decision. But he knew he could never have summoned the ruthlessness to put so many men to death in cold blood.

“We are in agreement, then?” Richard glanced around the tent. “Does anyone have something else to say? If there is another way, speak up now.”

Humphrey kept his eyes averted, shamed by his silence even as he told himself none would have heeded him. No one else spoke, either, agreeing it was a military necessity. Some were glad, though, that they did not have to be the ones to make the decision, and were glad, too, that Richard was willing to take that final responsibility and do what must be done. Scriptures might hold that “Blessed are the merciful,” but mercy could be a dangerous indulgence in a war against the enemies of God.



SOON AFTER MIDDAY, Richard led his troops out onto the open plain southeast of Acre. Saladin’s advance guard had been watching from the hill at Tell al-’Ayyāḍ iyya, but they now retreated a safer distance to Tell Kaysān, disturbed and puzzled by this sudden maneuver. Once Richard’s knights had lined up in battle formation facing their Saracen foes, the city gates were swung open and the hostages were marched out, bound to one another by ropes. The sight of the garrison caused confusion and alarm in the Saracen ranks, and riders were dispatched to Saladin’s camp at Saffaram, for they did not know what the Franks meant to do.

Neither did the captive men of the Acre garrison. That was painfully obvious to Morgan, for he was close enough to see their faces as they were herded out onto the plain. Their emotions ran the gamut from rage to fear to hope, with some bracing for the worst and others believing that a deal had finally been struck for their release. No matter how many times Morgan reminded himself that these were infidels, his sworn enemies, he could not suppress a surge of pity as they passed by; most Welshmen had an instinctive sympathy for the underdog, being such underdogs themselves. Thankful that the killing would be done by the men-at-arms, he rode over to where Richard, Hugh of Burgundy, and Guy de Lusignan had reined in. “My liege,” he said when his cousin glanced his way, “are you sure the Saracens will attack?”

Richard looked from the prisoners to the men watching from the heights of Tell Kaysān. “We would if it were Christians being killed,” he said, “and they will, too. But it will be too late.”

Morgan marveled that he sounded so dispassionate, so matter-of-fact about the deaths of so many men, but he remembered then that Richard had shown no pity to routiers captured when his brothers Hal and Geoffrey had led an army into Poitou. No one mourned the deaths of mercenaries who sold their swords to the highest bidder. Many had been scandalized, though, when he’d also executed some of Geoffrey’s Breton knights. Richard had been indifferent to the criticism and protests, for when he fought, he fought to win. Morgan looked back at the Saracen prisoners, wishing that Saladin had been better informed about the mettle of the man he was now facing.

Morgan tensed then, for Richard had drawn his sword from its scabbard, holding it aloft so that the sun silvered its blade. It was a dramatic scene—the mounted knights with couched lances, the garrison encircled now by shouting and cursing men-at-arms, eager to begin, for there’d been no trouble finding volunteers for this task—and Morgan realized it had been deliberately staged out in the open like this, sending a message to Saladin that his bluff had been called, but not in the way he’d expected. When Richard’s sword swept downward, a trumpet blared, and then their soldiers rushed forward, weapons raised. Within moments, the plain resembled a killing field: blood soaking the ground, bodies sprawled in the sun, screams of pain mingling with despairing pleas to Allah. Mariam had taught Morgan a few Arabic phrases, so he knew the Saracens were dying with the name of their God on their lips, and he was surprised by the sadness he now felt, sorry these doomed men would be denied salvation and the redeeming love of the Holy Saviour.

Turning in the saddle, he saw that Richard was paying no heed to the slaughter going on behind him, keeping his eyes upon the distant figures of his Saracen foes. They were reacting as expected, with horror, shock, and rage, screaming threats none could hear, brandishing swords and bows, their stallions rearing up as they caught the scent of blood. “Here they come,” Richard said suddenly, and Morgan wheeled his horse around to see the Saracen advance guard racing toward them in a desperate rescue mission that would be, as Richard had predicted, too late.

Again and again Saladin’s outnumbered men tried to break through the ranks of armor-clad knights. Again and again they were repulsed. The battle raged throughout the afternoon as more Saracens arrived, dispatched from Saladin’s camp at Saffaram once he’d learned what was happening. Men died on both sides, and as usual, Richard was in the very thick of the fight. Morgan and his other household knights did their best to stay at his side, often horrified to find him surrounded by the enemy. He always cut his way free, dealing death with each thrust of his sword, now bloody up to the hilt. At last the Saracens abandoned their futile attempts to save men already dead. By then the sun was low in the sky and the plain was strewn with bodies. Richard’s men took their own dead and wounded back to Acre, leaving behind the human cost of the miscalculation and mistrust between enemies, twenty-six hundred men bound in ropes and drenched in their own blood.



RICHARD AND HIS KNIGHTS stopped at the city’s public baths to wash off the blood and soak their aching bodies in hot water before continuing on to the citadel. Richard was in no hurry to reach the palace, for he did not know what sort of reception he’d get from Berengaria. He thought Joanna would understand why the killings were necessary, as he was sure their mother would have understood. But he knew many women were skittish about bloodshed, and his sheltered wife was more tenderhearted than most. In the aftermath of battle, his blood was usually still racing, for the intoxication of danger was often more potent than the strongest of wines. Tonight, though, he felt only exhaustion and a dulled, dispirited anger that it should have come to this. He was in no mood to justify his actions, and by the time he strode into the great hall, he was already on the defensive.

Nothing went as he’d expected, though. Berengaria was not even there, having gone to attend Vespers at Holy Cross Cathedral. Joanna had not accompanied her sister-in-law, but she seemed oddly subdued, a reticent, silent stranger instead of the supportive sister he’d hoped to find. One of her ladies-in-waiting, the Sicilian Saracen whose name he could never recall, fled the hall as soon as he entered, casting him a burning glance over her shoulder. And the newly elected Bishop of Acre, whom he’d invited to stay at the palace, offered to absolve him of his sins, which he took as an implied criticism of the day’s executions. Instead of having a meal in the great hall, he headed for his bedchamber, his squires in tow.

Once Jehan and Saer had removed his hauberk, he finally felt able to draw an unconstricted breath. He was too tired to wonder why the weight of his armor, practically a second skin, should have seemed so heavy tonight. He was usually too impatient to wait while they disarmed him, but now he let them do all the work, remaining immobile as they took off the padded gambeson he’d worn under his hauberk; his legs were already bare for he’d not replaced his mail chausses at the baths. Handing his scabbard and sword to the boys, he was giving them unnecessary instructions about cleaning the blood from the blade when the door burst open and his wife rushed in. Flushed and out of breath, she started to apologize for not having been there when he arrived, but stopped when she realized that he was not really listening to her.

His squires read his moods better than Berengaria, and departed in such haste that they forgot to take his hauberk for cleaning. Finding a towel, Richard sat on the bed and began to rub his thinning hair, still damp from the baths. She hovered beside him uncertainly, at last asking if he was hungry. She was stunned when he lashed out without warning, saying he was surprised she did not want him to fast as penance for his many sins.

“Why would I want that?”

“Why do you think?” he snapped, discovering that there was a relief in finding a target for his unfocused rage. “I know you think what I did today was monstrous. At least have the courage to admit it!”

“Are you a soothsayer now, able to read minds?” she snapped back, and he looked up in surprise, for he’d never seen her lose her temper before. “I do not know why you are seeking to quarrel with me, Richard, but it is manifestly unfair to blame me for something I neither thought nor said!”

“So what are you saying, then?” he said skeptically. “That you are proud of me for this day’s work?”

“No, I can take no pride or pleasure in what you call ‘this day’s work.’ Any more than you can. But it would never occur to me to find fault with you over it, for why would I presume to contradict you about a military matter? You know war as I do not, Richard. If you say this had to be done, that is enough for me.”

“It did have to be done. Nor do I regret it, for I could see no other way.”

“Then you have no reason for regret,” she said quietly, and he reached out, catching her wrist and drawing her toward him. Taking that gesture as the closest he’d come to an apology, she sat beside him on the bed. He was clad only in his shirt and braies, and as he pulled the shirt over his head, she caught her breath at the sight of the darkening contusions on his ribs and thighs. In battle, he acted as if he were immortal, but here was proof that his body was as vulnerable as any other man’s to a sword thrust or crossbow bolt. Noticing how heavy-lidded his eyes looked, she got to her feet.

“I have some ointment in one of my coffers. I am going to put it on your bruises and then I’ll have food sent up.” Not waiting for his response, she hastened across the chamber to look for the salve. By the time she found it, he’d lain back on the bed and the slow rise and fall of his chest told her he slept. Sitting beside him, she began to apply the ointment with gentle fingers.



SLIPPING OUT A SIDE DOOR into the courtyard, Joanna headed toward a bench under a flowering orange tree. Even in the shade, the heat was searing, but she’d become accustomed to hot weather during her years in Sicily. She wanted time alone to sort out the confused welter of feelings unleashed by the massacre of the Acre garrison, and she assumed few others would be willing to venture outside when the noonday sun was at its zenith.

She needed to figure out why she was disturbed by the deaths. They were soldiers, after all, enemies of the True Faith. She’d heard Richard and his men talking about the dangers of delaying their march south, and so she understood why he’d done it. Why, then, was she so uncomfortable with it? It would have helped if she could have discussed her feelings openly, but that was not possible. Mariam would have been her usual confidante. Mariam was too distraught, though, to be objective. Joanna knew that they’d only end up quarreling, for she’d feel compelled to defend Richard from Mariam’s outrage. The practical Beatrix saw it in starkly simple terms—the garrison’s lives were forfeit because Saladin failed to ransom them, so what more was there to say? And Berengaria’s loyalties as a devoted wife and devout Christian were so actively engaged that she was unwilling to discuss the deaths at all.

Joanna’s expectations of solitude proved to be illusory. No sooner had she settled herself on the bench than Jacques d’Avesnes arrived to see Richard. Detouring across the courtyard, he asked her to look after his Flemish hounds while he was away with the army. Then Guilhem de Préaux came out to offer her a cup of iced fruit juice and syrup, shyly expressing his concern that she risked sunstroke in such heat. Morgan was the next to appear. Looking pleased to find her alone, he hastened over to ask how Mariam was faring.

“She is . . . unwell,” Joanna said carefully, for Mariam’s position could become precarious if she seemed too sympathetic to the Saracens.

Morgan understood what she was really saying. “Do you think she will see me, Madame? As a Welshman, I also hear the whispers of the blood.”

Joanna nodded. “Go to her, Cousin Morgan. It will do her good to unburden her heart to one whom she can trust.”

As Morgan went to find Mariam, Joanna heard footsteps and turned to see Henri approaching with Balian d’Ibelin. “Aunt Joanna, you’ll be fried to a crisp out here,” Henri chided, leaning over to kiss her cheek. She greeted him warmly, Balian coolly, and expressed concern when she saw Henri was limping. He assured her it was a minor matter, confessing sheepishly that a horse had stepped on his foot after the battle. “And the worst of it is that it was my own horse!” Joanna laughed dutifully while Henri and Balian bantered about his injury, relieved when they continued on toward the great hall. Alone at last, she leaned back, closing her eyes.

She had little time for reflection, though. Soon afterward, a shadow fell across her face and she looked up to see Balian standing there. “Are you leaving already?” she asked, summoning up a few shreds of courtesy even though she had no desire to entertain a man so closely allied to Conrad of Montferrat.

“It did not take long to relay my message to the English king—that I am returning to Tyre.”

Joanna stiffened, regarding him with sudden suspicion. “You are not going south with the army? Why?”

“Because I am not welcome here, Madame,” he said forthrightly. “I’ve grown weary of fending off the de Lusignans’ insults and malice. And your lord brother made his own feelings clear by not inviting me to that council yesterday. I doubt that I could have changed their minds, but I would have liked the opportunity to try.”

“You do not approve of the killing of the garrison?”

She bristled, so obviously ready to charge into battle on her brother’s behalf that he fought back a smile. “I think it was a mistake, my lady.”

“Why?” she asked warily. “My brother felt that it was necessary and I trust his judgment, am sure he was right.”

“Yes . . . but you are still not happy about it, are you?”

Her mouth dropped open. How could this man, a stranger, know what she’d confided to no one? “Why do you say that?” she demanded. “You do not know me, after all!”

“I know you came to womanhood in Sicily.”

Joanna stared at him. “Why does that matter?”

“It means you grew up with Saracens. You got to know them as people, not just as infidels or enemies. You are not like so many who come here after taking the cross, horrified to find that we have adopted some Saracen customs, that we cooperate with them at times. From what I’ve heard of Sicily, it is more like Outremer than France or England. So your background practically makes you an honorary poulaine, my lady,” he said with a smile.

“I’d never thought of it in that light,” she admitted. “We had palace servants who were supposedly Christian, though all knew their hearts and souls were still Muslim. My husband looked the other way, saying a good man was a good man, whatever his faith. But few at Acre could understand such a view; they’d have seen his tolerance as the rankest heresy.”

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the bench. She nodded, for he was very tall and she was getting a crick in her neck, having to look up at him. Sitting down beside her, he said, “We’ve often encountered this problem with men arriving from the western kingdoms, as eager to kill infidels as they were to visit the holy sites. They took as gospel the words of St Bernard of Clairvaux, who preached that Christians should glory in the death of a pagan, for it glorifies Christ himself. When they discovered that we sometimes lived in peace with Saracens, that friendships were not unknown, that one of our kings consulted physicians in Damascus for his ailing son, they were convinced that we were false Christians, even apostates.”

“What you said about St Bernard . . . Richard does not believe that,” she insisted and was pleased when he did not dispute her.

“I know, and I confess I was surprised. I’d heard he was the first Christian prince to take the cross, so I’d assumed he was afire with holy zeal. I’d not expected him to be so interested in the Saracens, so genuinely curious. No, I do not doubt that his decision yesterday was a military one. I still regret it.”

“What else could Richard have done?” she asked, but without her earlier hostility ; she truly wanted to know what he thought.

“He could not stay much longer at Acre; I agree with that. And he was justified to act when Saladin did not pay the ransom. But I think he ought to have sold the men as slaves instead of putting them to death.”

Joanna was startled. “That would not have occurred to Richard, for slavery is no longer known in western kingdoms. I remember being shocked by the slave markets in Palermo, for I’d never encountered anything like that before.”

“But it is known in the east. The Saracens sell captives into slavery all the time, and that is what they expected Richard to do if it came to that. I am not saying they’d have been happy about it. They’d have understood, though.”

Joanna felt a fleeting regret, wondering if things might have been different had Balian taken part in yesterday’s council. The sun had shifted and they were losing the shade, but she was not ready to go, for this poulain lord was a very interesting man, not at all what she’d expected. What a pity he was so closely allied to Conrad of Montferrat, for he’d have made a much more valuable ally for Richard than those infernal de Lusignans. At least now she understood why she’d been so uncomfortable about the killings of the garrison. Without even realizing it, she’d been seeing these Saracen soldiers as men, too, men who’d surrendered in good faith, men with mothers, wives, children.

“I heard some of Richard’s knights saying that Saladin deliberately sacrificed the garrison, that the two hundred thousand dinars were worth more to him than the lives of those soldiers, who were not men of rank, after all. Do you believe that?”

“Only Saladin could answer that with certainty, my lady. But based upon my experience with him, I’d say no. Yes, he probably needed the money more than the men to continue the war, and may have had trouble raising so much in such a short time, too. I do not think, though, that he expected your brother to do what he did. You must remember that he does not know Richard yet, is accustomed to facing foes like that dolt de Lusignan. So it is only natural that he’d test this unknown English king, and I daresay he got more than he’d bargained for.”

Rising then, he kissed her hand. “It has been a pleasure, my lady Joanna. God keep you safe.”

He’d taken only a few steps before she rose, too. “My lord, wait!” As he turned back toward her, she said, “I have one last question for you. I gather your objections to the killing of the garrison are political, not personal, no?”

He looked surprised and then faintly amused. “That is so, Madame. They were brave men, yes. But in my years on God’s Earth, I’ve seen many brave men die, some of them by my sword. Blood does not trouble me. What does is the future of our kingdom. Your brother will be going home eventually. For me, this is home, and so it matters more to me if the wells are poisoned.”

“Is that what you think Richard did—poisoned the wells?”

“Only time will tell. I fear that in the long run, the killing of the Acre garrison will be one more grudge borne against the Christians. It is over ninety years since Jerusalem was taken and the Muslims and Jews in the city massacred, yet to hear Saracens speak of it, you’d think it happened yesterday. But in the short run, it might well work to your brother’s benefit. After yesterday, how many Saracen garrisons will be willing to hold firm when they hear Malik Ric is marching on their castles or towns?” He suspected this had occurred to Richard, too, but kept that suspicion to himself. “If you truly want to aid Outremer, my lady, persuade your brother that Guy de Lusignan could not be trusted to govern a bawdy house or bordel.” And having coaxed an answering smile from the English king’s sister, he left her alone in the sun-drenched courtyard, marveling that she’d found a kindred spirit in one of Richard’s enemies.



FROM THE CHRONICLE of Bahā’ al-Dīn, discussing the slaughter of the Acre garrison : “Various motives have been assigned for this massacre. According to some, the prisoners were killed to avenge the deaths of those slain previously by the Muslims. Others say that the King of England, having made up his mind to try and take Ascalon, did not think it prudent to leave so many prisoners behind in Acre. God knows what his reason really was.”



FROM A LETTER written by King Richard to the Abbot of Clairvaux: “However, the time having expired, and the stipulation which he had agreed to being utterly disregarded, we put to death about two thousand six hundred of the Saracens whom we held in our hands, as we were bound to do, retaining a few of the more noble ones, in return for whom we trusted to recover the Holy Cross and certain of the Christian captives.”