Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 28

OCTOBER 1191

Camp of Al-Ᾱdil, Near Lydda, Outremer





Bahā’ al-Dīn had been with his sultan at Latrun. When he received the summons from Salah al-Dīn’s brother,he presumed it meant there’d been new developments in the ongoing talks with the English king. Once he was escorted into al-’ Ᾱdil’s tent, his surmise was confirmed, for it was to be a rare private audience; the only other person present was Sani’at al-Dīn ibn al-Nahhal. The latter was al-’Ᾱdil’s scribe, and so trusted despite his unusual background—he’d converted to Islam from Christianity—that he’d been the one conducting the negotiations on his lord’s behalf.

Ordinarily, Bahā ’ al-Dīn would have been offered a cooling drink, an iced julab. But this was the twenty-ninth day of Ramadan, their month of fasting, and Muslims were expected to refrain from eating or drinking from sunrise to sunset. So after greetings were exchanged, Bahā’ al-Dīn sat cross-legged on cushions and politely waited to learn the reason for his presence. They spoke casually for a time about various subjects: the welfare of their respective families, the escape from Acre of one of their emirs, who’d climbed down a rope from a privy window, and the troubling news that the local peasants were providing the Franks with large quantities of food. But al-’Ᾱdil soon got to the point of the visit.

“You are familiar with the first offer made by the English king?”

“I am, my lord,” Bahā’ al-Dīn assured him. Richard had sent a remarkably candid letter to Salah al-Dīn, saying that both sides were suffering great losses and they needed to find a way to end the war. He’d asked for the lands west of the River Jordan and the city of Jerusalem. He’d further argued that the True Cross ought to be returned, as “to you it is nothing but a piece of wood, but it is very precious in our eyes.” Salah al-Dīn had rejected all three demands, insisting that the Holy City was more sacred to Muslims, “for it was the place of our Prophet’s journey and the place where the angels gathered.” The lands in question belonged originally to them, and the possession of the cross “is a great advantage to us and we cannot give it up except we could thereby gain some advantage to Islam.” The talks had stalled after that and Bahā’ al-Dīn was quite curious to find out what the infidels were offering now.

“We’ve often agreed that the Franks are a predictable people,” al-’Ᾱdil said with a faint smile. “But that cannot be said of the English king, for he has come up with a truly surprising proposal. He suggests that we resort to a tried-and-true method of making peace—a marriage.”

Bahā’ al-Dīn was astonished. It was true that in the Christian and Muslim worlds, wars were often settled by marital alliances. But this was a holy war, both to the Franks and the Saracens. “Whose marriage, my lord?” he asked warily.

Al-’Ᾱdil’s dark eyes shone with amusement. “Mine. The English king has offered me his sister, the widow of the King of Sicily.”

Bahā ’ al-Dīn prided himself on his inscrutability; that was an essential skill for a diplomatic envoy and a useful one for any man who must deal with princes. But his discipline failed him now. He gasped audibly, his mouth ajar, so obviously flabbergasted that the other men burst out laughing. “Surely he was joking!”

Al-’Ᾱdil glanced toward his scribe, indicating that he should be the one to answer. “It is not always easy to tell with him, my lord, for he has a bantering manner, often speaking half seriously, half in jest. But I do not think this was a joke.”

“If so, it is a remarkably detailed joke,” al-’Ᾱdil commented. “The Lady Joanna would be crowned Queen of Jerusalem, which would become the capital of our realm. My brother would give me the lands between the River Jordan and the sea, making me its king, and Richard would give his sister the coastal cities of Acre, Jaffa, and Ascalon as her dowry. Jerusalem would have no Christian garrison, just priests and monks, but Christians would be free to visit or dwell there. The villages would be given to the Templars and the Hospitallers, and my wife and I would hold all the castles. Our new kingdom would still remain part of the sultan’s dominions. Their holy cross would be returned to them, and there would be an exchange of prisoners on both sides. And after the peace treaty was signed, Richard and the Franks from beyond the sea would return to their own lands. Presumably, then, we would all live in peace.”

Bahā’ al-Dīn found himself agreeing with al-Ᾱdil; this was exceptionally explicit for a joke. Surely it was not a serious offer, though. So what did the English king hope to gain by it? Was this a test of their will to continue the war? Or something more sinister? Were the Franks seeking to drive a wedge between the sultan and his brother? Seeing that al-’Ᾱdil was waiting for his response, he equivocated, saying with a smile, “But would you be willing to wed an infidel, my lord?”

“Well, this infidel is said to be quite beautiful,” al-’Ᾱdil said with a smile of his own. “And the Qur’an does allow a man to wed a chaste woman amongst the People of the Book, though a Muslim woman cannot marry out of her faith, of course. I do not know if the Christians’ holy book permits such marriages. I would be surprised if so. But all of this comes as a surprise, no? Say what you will of the English king, he is far more interesting than most of the infidels. Can you imagine Guy de Lusignan or Conrad of Montferrat making such an outrageous proposal?”

“They may not have available sisters conveniently at hand,” Bahā ’ al-Dīn pointed out, and they all laughed. He was not misled, though, by al-’Ādil’s wry, mocking tone. The sultan’s brother was a shrewd player in that most dangerous of games, the pursuit and acquisition of power, deftly balancing his own ambitions against his loyalty to Salah al-Dīn. He was not a man to be easily outwitted or beguiled, and was naturally suspicious of this extraordinary offer. But Bahā’ al-Dīn could see that he was intrigued, too, possibly even tempted by it, and why not? What man would not want a crown of his own?

“What is your wish, my lord?” he asked cautiously. “Should this be passed on to the sultan?”

“We have no choice. Even if we could be sure it was a ruse, we’d still have to inform my brother, for if nothing else, it is a revealing glimpse into the English king’s mind. I have summoned Alam al-Dīn Sulaymān ibn Jandar, Sābiq al-Dīn, and several other emirs to join us after the noon prayers so we may discuss it. Then I want you to go to the sultan and tell him this—that if he approves of the proposal, I will agree to it. But if he rejects it, say that the peace talks have reached this final point and he is the one who thinks they should not be pursued further.”

“I understand, my lord,” Bahā’ al-Dīn said, for indeed he did. Al-’Ādil was treading with care, as well he should. He was the sultan’s most trusted adviser. But he was also a potential threat, for he was far more capable than any of Salah al-Dīn’s sons, and despite the deep abiding affection between them, the sultan must occasionally wonder if his brother’s loyalties would be as steadfast after his death. “I understand,” he repeated, thinking that this infidel English king was more subtle than they’d realized and, therefore, more dangerous.



“YOU DID WHAT???”

“Joanna, will you let me explain? And for God’s sake, lower your voice.” It was not easy to find privacy in an army camp; Richard had done the best he could, seeking out his sister in her own tent and dismissing her ladies and servants. But his precautions would be for naught if she continued shrieking at him like a wrathful fishwife.

“Explain?” she echoed incredulously. “What possible explanation could you offer that I’d accept?”

Before he could respond, the tent flap was drawn aside. “Richard? Joanna? Whatever is wrong? I could hear the shouting all the way outside!”

Richard was not pleased by Berengaria’s intrusion, preferring to discuss this alone with his sister. But he could hardly dismiss her as he had Joanna’s attendants, and even if he’d tried to do so, he suspected that Joanna would, in her present contrary mood, insist that her sister-in-law remain.

“Do you want to tell her, Richard, or shall I?” Joanna glared at her brother, looking eerily like their mother in one of her imperial rages. “Your husband has bartered me to Saladin’s brother! He has proposed peace terms based upon my marriage to al-’Ādil.”

“Richard!” Berengaria was staring at him, horrorstruck. “How could you?”

“You make it sound as if I offered to trade you for a couple of camels! All I did was to suggest that a marital alliance might be one way of ending the war. I did not—”

“You were outraged when Philippe flirted with me at Messina, would never have even considered a marital alliance with France. But now you are content to marry me off to an infidel, an enemy of our faith? I think you have well and truly lost your mind!”

“I never said I intended to marry you off to al-’Ādil! I simply said I’d suggested it to him. And as I tried to tell you, I have three very compelling reasons for making such a proposal.” Seeing that she finally seemed willing to hear him out, he said hastily, before she changed her mind, “First of all, Saladin is about eight years older than his brother and not in the best of health, so he likely expects to die first. Secondly, al-’Ādil has proved himself to be a man of great abilities, as skilled at statecraft as he is at winning battles. He is highly regarded by Saladin’s emirs and the sultan well knows it. Finally, Saladin’s first-born son is just one and twenty, his other sons much younger, and none of them have so far shown al-’Ādil’s gift for command. From all I’ve heard, there is a close bond between the brothers. But Saladin would have to be a saint, assuming Muslims have them, for him not to worry about what happens to his empire after his death.”

Pausing, he saw that his wife still looked aghast. Joanna, though, was listening. “Go on,” she said. “So you are seeking to stir up discord between Saladin and his brother. How does this marriage proposal do that?”

“Because it is not one al-’Ādil can dismiss out of hand, for it would make him a king. And you a queen, in case you’re interested.” Seeing that she was not amused by his attempt at humor, he continued, telling her of the peace terms he’d proposed to al-’Ādil. “So you see,” he concluded, “this marriage proposal is actually a trap of sorts.”

“With me as bait,” she said tartly. “You expect Saladin to accept this offer?”

“No, I expect him to refuse.”

“You’d best hope that he does, Richard,” she warned, “for I would never consent to it.”

“Not even to become Queen of Jerusalem, irlanda?” he teased, and she frowned.

“Not even to become Queen of Heaven. I am not about to join a harim. Yes, I know that Muslims can have four wives, Richard. I grew up in Sicily, remember?”

“But you’d be a queen, which would surely give you greater status than his other wives,” he said and ducked, laughing, when she snatched up a cushion and threw it at him.

While Berengaria was greatly relieved that Richard had not truly intended to marry Joanna to an infidel Saracen, she was troubled that he was treating it so blithely instead of with the seriousness it deserved. “I do not understand. Why would Saladin’s brother believe you could dispose of the Jerusalem crown as you pleased? And why would he believe that the other Christian lords would accept this?”

Richard patiently explained that no one but Guy wanted him to remain as king and Isabella could be said to have forfeited her right to the crown because of her bigamous marriage to Conrad. “And whilst some of the poulains might balk, most of the men who’d taken the cross would not, for they could then visit the Holy City and its shrines, fulfill their vows, and go home.”

Joanna had listened intently, her eyes narrowing. “So,” she said, “you offer al-’Ādil a crown, Saladin refuses it, al-’Ādil feels cheated, and they begin to regard each other with suspicion. Is that how it is supposed to go, Richard?”

“More or less,” he agreed. “Needless to say, this cannot become common knowledge. By the time Burgundy and Beauvais got through with it, they’d have me converting to Islam and launching a jihad to set all of Christendom ablaze.”

Joanna waited until he’d kissed them both and made ready to depart. “Just out of idle curiosity, Richard, what happens if Saladin and al-’Ādil accept your proposal ? What will you do then?”

He paused, his hand on the tent flap. “I’ll think of something,” he said with a grin and disappeared out into the night.

Once he was gone, Berengaria sat down wearily on Joanna’s bed. “Sometimes I fear Richard can be too clever for his own good,” she confessed. “I see the value in sowing suspicions between Saladin and his brother, but if word of this got out . . .” The mere thought of that was enough to make her flinch. “I expected the war against the Saracens to be so much more . . . straightforward. Instead it is like a quagmire, poisoned with petty rivalries, personal ambitions, and shameful betrayals. The French hate Richard. The poulains are at one another’s throats. Guy is not fit to rule, but Richard supports him anyway because of his feuding with the French king. Philippe not only abandoned a holy war, he is likely to launch attacks on Richard’s lands in Normandy in utter defiance of the Church. And Conrad is the worst of the lot, for he is actually willing to side with the infidels against his fellow Christians. It is all so ugly, Joanna.”

Joanna wondered if she’d ever been as innocent as Berengaria, as trusting of men and their motives. Most likely not, she decided, but then it would have been difficult to cling to innocence in a family known as the Devil’s Brood. She sat beside her sister-in-law on the bed, thinking about her father and brothers. It was not just Richard; they’d all been too clever by half, so sure they could outwit their enemies and get their own way by sheer force of will. And where had it gotten them? Papa died alone and abandoned, cursing the day he was born. Hal had been no better than a bandit in his last weeks, raiding churches to pay his routiers. Geoffrey’s plotting with the French king had brought suffering upon his wife and children, for his untimely death had made them pawns in the struggle between Brittany and its more powerful neighbors. Johnny had already proven that he could not be trusted, betraying the father who’d sacrificed so much for him. As for Richard, not only did he have his full share of the Angevin arrogance, he had a reckless streak that she found deeply disturbing, for what could be more reckless than contemplating a marital alliance with an infidel prince? Why was it that Maman seemed to be the only one to learn from past mistakes?

“Joanna . . . you look so troubled.” Berengaria reached over and squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand. “Not that I blame you for being distraught about this scheme of Richard’s. He ought to have found another way, ought not to have entangled you in it. Even knowing that he never intended for you to wed Saladin’s brother, it still had to be disturbing . . .” She did not finish the thought, faltering at the skeptical expression on Joanna’s face. “Surely you do not think he was lying? I cannot believe he’d ever coerce you into a godless marriage. He loves you dearly, Joanna.”

“I know he does. I never feared that he’d try to wed me to al-’Ādil against my wishes. Mind you, most men are all too willing to accept female sacrifice for the greater good, but my happiness does matter to Richard. Yet you are deluding yourself, Berengaria, if you think this is merely a sleight-of-hand to deceive Saladin and al-’Ādil. Had I reacted differently, had I been excited at the prospect of becoming Queen of Jerusalem—and there are women who’d wed the Antichrist if there was a crown in the offing—I’d wager Richard would have begun to take the marriage proposal somewhat more seriously. If he thought I was willing to make the match, he’d have been willing to see it done.”

“I do not believe that,” Berengaria said stoutly, doing her best to ignore the insidious inner voice whispering that Joanna knew Richard better than she ever would. “He said it was just a stratagem. What would make you think otherwise?”

“Because it is so well thought out, so thorough. Because he believes that if the Kingdom of Jerusalem is to survive, it is necessary to come to terms with Saladin. Because those terms are fair enough that both sides could live with them. Because he sees the Saracens as his enemies, but not as evil incarnate the way most of his army does. Because he truly seems to respect al-’Ādil and probably thinks he’d be a good husband to me, aside from the small matter of his infidel faith and other wives, of course.”

Joanna’s smile was sardonic, but a smile nonetheless, for she was beginning to see the perverse humor in it all. It was obvious that her sister-in-law did not, though; Berengaria looked so dismayed that she regretted having been so candid. But was it so bad if Richard’s halo tarnished a bit? If Berengaria was to find contentment as an Angevin queen, she needed to become more of a realist, both about their world and the man she’d married.

Patting the younger woman reassuringly on the shoulder, she said, “It does not matter what Richard might or might not have done had I shown myself willing to consider the match. I am not, so that puts an end to it.”

It was not that easy for Berengaria, and she later found herself lying awake until dawn, watching the man asleep beside her. How could it even have occurred to Richard to suggest such an unholy alliance? Why was he so willing to treat with these pagans as if they were Christian princes? How could he not see that he was making needless trouble for himself? She never doubted that he was a devout son of the Church, but he had enemies beyond counting who were eager to believe the worst of him. There was so much about these Angevins that she would never understand, and that included Joanna, who, like Richard, could find unseemly amusement in matters of the utmost gravity. Her husband stirred in his sleep, and she carefully tugged at the long strand of hair trapped under his shoulder; she did not braid it on the nights he shared her bed, knowing he preferred it loose. Reminding herself sternly that she was far more fortunate than most wives, she stretched out and closed her eyes. But she still felt unsettled, perplexed, and suddenly very lonely, for she could hear the echoes of her beloved brother Sancho’s voice, giving her that gentle warning back in Pamplona. They are not like us, little one. Indeed they were not.



WHEN BAHĀ’ AL-DīN carried Richard’s proposal to Salah al-Dīn, the sultan at once accepted it, for he was convinced the English king would never carry it out, that his latest gambit was either a joke or a deceitful trick. Richard responded with a regretful message that Joanna was resisting the marriage, but he hoped to persuade her there was no other way to end the war. Although the Saracens remained highly skeptical, the secret negotiations resumed.



RICHARD CONTINUED to give his family, friends, and army reasons to fear for his safety; encountering some Saracen scouts near Jaffa, he forced a battle, killing an emir, taking prisoners, and shrugging off criticism afterward. The following day, All Hallow’s Eve, he entrusted Jaffa and his women to the Bishop of Evreaux and the Count of Chalons, and moved the army four miles to Yāzūr, where he camped midway between the Casal of the Plains and Casal Maen, two Templar fortresses that had been razed by Salah al-Dīn. He instructed the Templars to repair the first castle while he set about rebuilding the second one, and despite daily harassment by the Saracens, they made enough progress to excite his men, who were impatient to begin the march upon Jerusalem and saw this as a first step.



SIX DAYS LATER, a small group of squires ventured out to forage, guarded by Templar knights. They had filled bags with fodder and were collecting firewood when a troop of Bedouin horsemen came swooping down upon them. The Templars came to their aid, but they were outnumbered and soon found themselves surrounded. The knights then resorted to a desperate maneuver, dismounting and standing back to back as they prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible; their order prided itself upon never surrendering or paying ransom. It was then that André de Chauvigny and fifteen of his household knights arrived upon the scene, drawn by the commotion. Their charge temporarily scattered the Saracens, but they surged back in greater numbers, and the Franks realized this was a battle they were not going to win.



TWO MILES AWAY, Richard was supervising the rebuilding of the stronghold at Casal Maen, pleased by his men’s enthusiasm for their task. It helped that the days were cooler now, although still much warmer than November temperatures back in their homelands. They were lugging bags of sand and lime and barrels of water toward a trough, making ready to mix a new batch of mortar when the sentries began to yell for the king.

The boy seemed unhurt, but he was reeling from fatigue and had collapsed upon the ground as soon as he’d blurted out his news. He was too weak to rise as Richard broke through the throng of men encircling him, panting so heavily that his narrow chest heaved as if he were having convulsions. Richard could barely hear his gasping words, and one of the first sentries to reach the squire stepped forward. “An attack by the Turks, sire, near Ibn Ibrak. He said there were too many of them for the Templars. Then other knights rode up, but they are outnumbered, too. It sounds as if they need help straightaway.”

“Get him water,” Richard ordered, his eyes searching the crowd of bystanders for knights who were already armed. He directed the Earl of Leicester and the Count of St Pol to lead a rescue mission, and then ran toward his tent, calling for his squires. They armed him with record speed. It still took awhile, though, for him to summon his own knights and fetch their horses, so by the time they rode out of camp, they dreaded what they might find.

It was to be even worse than they’d feared. They could already hear the familiar clash of weapons, the screams that indicated men and horses were dying up ahead. As they galloped toward the clamor, they were hailed by several Flemish squires from the foraging party, who’d been hiding in the underbrush by a dry riverbed. The youths were almost incoherent and none of them spoke fluent French, but they managed to communicate the one word that mattered, “Ambush.” The attack upon the Templars had been bait for a trap, and Leicester and St Pol had ridden right into it.

Richard spurred Fauvel toward the sounds of combat, the others strung out behind him. Ahead of him was a surging mass of men and horses, a wild mêlée in which it was obvious that the Franks were greatly outnumbered. As Richard drew rein, his knights caught up with him, crying out in horror at the sight meeting their eyes. One glance was enough to tell them that the embattled knights were doomed, but they could not dwell upon that now, for they owed a greater duty to their king than to their cornered comrades. Gathering around Richard, they began to urge him to retreat, arguing that they did not have enough men to rescue the others and if Richard died in a futile attempt to save them, their hope of defeating Saladin would die with him.

Richard angrily cut off their entreaties. “I sent those men out there, promising that I would follow with aid. If they die without me, may I never again be called a king.” And with that, he couched his lance and charged the Saracens, shouting the battle cry of the English Royal House, “Dex aie!”

He impaled the first man to challenge him, flinging him from the saddle with such force that he was dead before he hit the ground. Dropping his broken lance, Richard then unsheathed his sword and urged Fauvel into the fray again, attacking so furiously that the enemy soldiers shied away, seeking easier prey. By now his men knew he was there, fighting with them, and not for the first time the presence of a king turned the tide of battle. They rallied, seizing the momentum Richard had given them, and drove the Saracens back, long enough for them to manage a retreat from the field.

It was not a victory, but for the men sure they were facing death or capture, it was even sweeter—a reprieve, a rescue against overwhelming odds. When word spread of Richard’s defiant vow that he’d never let them die alone, even those who usually disapproved of his bravura exploits were impressed, and to the disgust of Richard’s most implacable foes, the November 6 battle burnished the growing legend of the Lionheart even more brightly.



RICHARD HAD so exhausted himself with his exertions, though, that he had to be bled by his physicians the next day, and so it was not until the following day that he was able to meet with al-’Ādil at the latter’s camp.



ANDRÉ AND HENRI were among the very few whom Richard had taken into his confidence about the proposed marital alliance, and they accompanied him to the meeting. André was not completely comfortable to be drinking and eating with men who may have been among those seeking to kill him two days ago at Ibn Ibrak, but the bizarre aspects of the event appealed to Henri’s quirky sense of humor and he enjoyed himself thoroughly.

Al-’Ādil welcomed the English king and his companions as graciously as if they were esteemed allies and not men who’d shed so much Saracen blood. Richard had earlier sent al-’Ādil a magnificent stallion, and the sultan’s brother now reciprocated with seven camels and a splendid, spacious tent. The Saracens took the obligations of hospitality seriously and Henri would later tease Joanna that she’d be well fed if she married al-’Ādil, for he set a sumptuous table. He explained that he could not offer them wine, as it was haraam, forbidden by the Qur’an, but they were served delicious fruit drinks cooled with snow and rosewater julabs. His guests politely hid any disappointment over the lack of wine and complimented the variety of dishes put before them, grateful that al-’Ādil had remembered they could eat no meat, it being a Friday, and savoring cuisine they’d never tasted before: yogurt, couscous, a fried pistachio crepe called qatayif. Richard had brought samples of the food found on Frankish tables, assuring his host that he’d included no meat dishes since he knew their dietary laws held that animals had to be ritually slaughtered. Henri thought there was always some rivalry in any encounter involving royalty, and it amused him that his uncle and al-’Ādil seemed to be vying with each other to show how well they’d prepared for this occasion.

Humphrey de Toron was again acting as interpreter, seated between Richard and al-’Ādil so they could converse easily. He had one awkward moment early on, when Richard protested about his men being ambushed at a time when the two sides were conducting peace talks and al-’Ādil responded with a matter-of-fact reminder that they were at war, mentioning that they’d lost three Mamluks dear to Salah al-Dīn at Ibn Ibrak. Humphrey knew Richard had himself killed one of them during the battle, but he thought it wise to keep that to himself ; nor did he translate al-’Ādil’s comment about the slain men.

Otherwise, he thought the discussions were conducted with remarkable cordiality. He’d not expected the two men to have such a rapport, but for this one day at least, what they shared—a love of horses and hawking, a mutual respect for each other’s courage and battle skills, a similar ironic sense of humor—was enough to bridge the great gap that separated Christians and Muslims, men sworn to holy war and jihad.

They had a lively conversation about horse breeding and the different riding styles of the Franks and the Saracens, followed by a discussion of hunting; Richard was fascinated to learn al-’Ādil used trained cheetahs. Eventually, of course, the talk turned to a more controversial topic—the marriage proposal.

“I was desolate,” al-’Ādil said blandly, “to hear that your lovely sister is loath to become my wife.”

“All is not lost,” Richard assured him. “But she does have qualms about wedding a man not of her faith. Mayhap there is a way to resolve this, though. Would you consider becoming a Christian?”

Al-’Ādil nearly choked on his julab, but recovered quickly. “Mayhap the lady would consider becoming a Muslim,” he parried, and when his gaze met Richard’s, they shared a smile of perfect understanding.

“Alas, there have been further complications,” Richard confided. “Our bishops and priests are adamantly against the match, so it will be necessary to secure the approval of the Pope in Rome. It will take about three months to get his response, but if he consents and my sister is happy about it, then well and good.”

“And if he refuses?”

“We can still get it done. My sister, as you know, is a widow, and so we need papal consent for her marriage. That is not true, however, for a virgin maid. So I could offer you my niece as a bride. She is very young still, but of high birth, the child of my brother and the Duchess of Brittany.”

“I will pass your message on to my brother,” al-’Ādil promised, and Humphrey sighed with relief, hoping this would be the end of the marriage talk, for he’d been hard put to remain impassive as Richard lied about the supposed outrage of their clerics, none of whom knew anything about the marriage proposal, and then proceeded to rewrite Church canon law to suit his own purposes. Despite his fluency in Arabic, Humphrey had not often been called upon as a translator in such highlevel conferences, and he feared he might inadvertently give something away by his reaction to what was said. It was fortunate, he thought, that al-’Ādil and Richard were having too much fun with their verbal swordplay to pay him any mind.

Al-’Ādil finished his drink. “I hope we can come to terms, Malik Ric. For if we do not, the sultan may have to listen to other offers.”

Richard wished he knew precisely what that Judas in Tyre was offering. “Tell me this, my lord. Would you ever disavow your God?”

Al-’Ādil was no longer smiling. “No, I would not.”

“Nor would I. But a man who’d turn upon those of his own faith is doing just that. So why would you or your brother trust such a man?”

“An interesting question,” al-’Ādil said noncommittally. “I will pass that on to the sultan, too.”

“If we could meet as I’ve requested, I could ask him that myself,” Richard suggested.

“Ah, but as my lord brother has told you, kings ought not to meet with other kings until peace has been made between them.”

“Yet you and I are meeting.”

“I am not a king,” al-’Ādil pointed out amicably.

“You could be, if you accept my peace terms.”

The other man merely laughed, and clapped his hands, for Richard had earlier expressed an interest in hearing Saracen music. Much to the surprise of the Franks, their entertainment proved to be a young woman, carrying a harp. Richard had been told the Saracens were very protective of their women, shielding them from the eyes of other men, and he was curious about her appearance, unveiled, in their midst. He leaned over to ask Humphrey if there was a tactful way to find out, but the poulain had no need to put such a question to al-’Ādil, for he already knew the answer. “She is a slave, my liege,” he explained, so nonchalantly that Richard and his companions exchanged glances, reminded again that the Christians of Outremer were closer in some ways to the Saracens than to their European brethren.

Richard was delighted with the girl’s songs, and the visit ended on a high note, with an exchange of compliments and a promise to meet again. On the ride back to their camp, Henri speculated aloud about the lovely slave’s fate, suggesting that one of them ought to buy her and grinning when Richard asked if he’d have been so sympathetic had she not been so fair. He retaliated by teasing his uncle about his offer of a substitute bride, wondering aloud whom Constance of Brittany would find more objectionable as a husband for her young daughter—a Saracen or an Englishman.

“We are talking of a crown, Henri. What woman would not want to be Queen of Jerusalem?”

“Aunt Joanna,” Henri retorted, and they both laughed.

Humphrey was close enough to hear their conversation, but he found no humor in it. He’d been stunned when Richard had first confided in him, and then euphoric, for this was the first glimmer of hope he’d been given in two years. If Joanna were to wed al-’Ādil and become queen, then Isabella’s claim would be superseded. Since Conrad had twice discarded wives when they no longer were of use to him, surely it was possible that he might repudiate Isabella, too, if she could not secure him the crown. For a fortnight, Humphrey had allowed himself to believe in miracles—the restoration of his wife and his stolen life. But he’d slowly come to doubt the sincerity of Richard’s offer, and he’d found the sudden mention of the king’s niece to be troubling. It was true that Saracen girls could be wed at very young ages, with consummation usually postponed until she’d begun her flux, just as in Christian realms, so a marriage between al-’A-dil and the little Breton princess could still quash Conrad’s claim to the throne. He had not been reassured, though, by the tone of the colloquy between Richard and al-’Ādil, for it had not seemed to him that either man was taking the marriage proposal seriously.

Humphrey did not dare to question Richard directly about his intentions, but he’d always found the Count of Champagne to be very affable, and upon their return to Yāzūr, he sought Henri out. “May I ask you something, my lord count? Do you think the Lady Joanna’s marriage to al-’Ādil will ever come to pass?”

Henri had an unease of conscience where Humphrey was concerned. He’d supported Conrad’s marriage to Isabella because he’d been convinced by the poulains that the kingdom was doomed as long as Guy de Lusignan ruled over them. He could not help pitying Humphrey, though, for it had been obvious to anyone with eyes to see that he’d been in love with his beautiful young wife. It was obvious, too, what had motivated Humphrey’s question, and he hesitated, finally deciding that honesty was the greater kindness now.

“No,” he said, “I do not.” He turned away, then, giving Humphrey the only solace he could—privacy to grieve for a shattered dream.



THE FRENCH WERE NOT the only ones displeased by Richard’s cordial dealings with the sultan and his brother; many of his soldiers were also unhappy about it, and after his day-long visit with al-’Ādil, some were emboldened to speak out, saying it was not proper for a Christian king to exchange gifts and courtesies with the enemies of God. When he became aware of the growing criticism, even from men who’d always admired his prowess on the battlefield, Richard was both frustrated and angry, but he realized the danger in letting this sore go untreated. If it was allowed to fester, it could undermine his command. He chose to reassure his army with his sword, by adopting a bloody custom that had long been followed by both sides in the Holy Land. The chronicler of the Itinerarium Peregrinorum et Gesta Regis Ricardi would report approvingly that “To remove the stain of disgrace which he had incurred, he brought back countless enemy heads to display that he had been falsely accused and that the gifts had not encouraged him to be slow in attacking the enemy.” But although he’d calmed the furor for now, the backlash had brought home to Richard a disturbing truth—that a holy war was indeed unlike other wars and he could not rely upon this motley mix of crusaders to give him the unquestioning loyalty he’d come to expect from his own vassals and lords.



THREE DAYS AFTER Richard’s meeting with al-’Ādil, Salah al-Dīn summoned his brother and his emirs to a council of war at Latrun. He told them that Conrad had offered to take Acre from the Franks in return for Sidon and Beirut and a guarantee of his possession of Tyre. He then informed them of Richard’s latest peace proposal. When he asked for their views, they concluded that if peace were to be made, it was better to make it with Malik Ric, for they were more likely to be betrayed by Conrad and the Syrian Franks. It was agreed to send word to the English king that they were not willing, though, to accept his niece in lieu of his sister as a bride for the sultan’s brother. The peace talks continued then, but so did the killing.