Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 30

JANUARY 1192

Ascalon , Outremer





When they were told there would be no attack upon Jerusalem, the army’s morale plummeted. Men had been willing to endure severe hardships if their sacrifice would mean the recapture of the Holy City. Now they were shocked, bewildered, and angry to be told they were returning to the coast, for their suffering suddenly seemed pointless. Richard was no less troubled, feeling that he’d let them down even as he’d saved their lives. He did what he could for them, providing carts to transport all the sick and wounded back to Jaffa, and the eyewitness chroniclers took note of it. Ambroise reported that many of “the lesser folk” would have been left behind if not for the English king, and the author of the Itinerarium acknowledged that the ailing would otherwise have died since they were unable to care for themselves. But they also reported that each man “cursed the day he was born,” that the heartbroken soldiers could not be comforted.

When the dispirited, bedraggled army reached Ramla, it fell apart. Most of the French refused to serve under Richard’s command any longer and scattered, some heading to Jaffa, others to Acre, some even vowing to join Conrad at Tyre. Henri and his men remained loyal, though, and they accompanied Richard on a grim march to Ascalon along roads so mired in mud that they’d become death traps. Battered by the worst weather of the winter—snow, hail, and icy, torrential rains—they finally reached Ascalon on January 20. There the exhausted men sought shelter midst the wreckage of this once thriving city, the storms so intense that Richard’s galleys dared not enter the dangerous harbor for more than a week. Just as their food was running out, the raging sea calmed enough for a few ships to land and unload provisions. The weather soon turned foul again, and when supply galleys attempted another landing, they were dashed upon the rocks, most of their crews drowning.

Richard somehow managed to keep the crusaders from utter despair, and put them to work clearing away the stones and rubble. They all shared the labor, the king, his lords, bishops, and knights joining the men-at-arms in carrying away rocks and debris and slabs of sandstone. After hiring local masons out of his own dwindling funds, Richard then sent word to Hugh of Burgundy, urging the French not to abandon the crusade. Hugh was also pressured by some of his own men, those who’d not decamped for Acre or Tyre, and reluctantly agreed to come to Ascalon, although he refused to commit his troops beyond Easter. Richard was infuriated with Hugh’s intransigence, but he took what he could get.



HENRI HAD TAKEN some of his disheartened knights to Jaffa for a few days of rest and recreation with the whores who’d relocated from Acre. While there, he visited with Joanna and Berengaria, assuring them that Richard would fetch them as soon as they’d made more progress in the rebuilding. He made it sound as if all was going well at long last, in part because he did not want them to worry and in part because he was an optimist by nature. But when he returned to Ascalon, he discovered that Richard and Hugh’s fragile détente had already ruptured. The French duke had asked Richard for another loan, and when the English king refused, Hugh had gone back to Jaffa in high dudgeon, heading along the coast road just as Henri’s galley had cruised south.



THE DAY AFTER Henri’s return to Ascalon, Richard decided to reconnoiter Dārūm, a Saracen castle twenty miles to the south; if the crusaders could control both Ascalon and Dārūm, they’d be able to clamp a stranglehold upon Salah al-Dīn’s supply lines to Egypt. Henri volunteered to come along, and seized his first opportunity to learn the gory details of Hugh and Richard’s latest quarrel.

“So . . . what happened? Say what you will of Hugh, he has brass ballocks. I can scarcely believe he dared to ask you for more money. The man has done his utmost to thwart you at every turn!”

“He claimed his men were insisting upon being paid and he did not have the money. I told him I could not afford to give him any more. He’s not repaid a denier of the five thousand silver marks I lent him at Acre, and I’m already covering three-quarters of the cost of rebuilding Ascalon. He did not want to hear that, said he was going to Acre and we could go to Hell.”

Henri said nothing and they rode in silence for a time. He did not like Richard’s uncharacteristically calm recital of yet another desertion; his uncle should be raving about Burgundy’s sheer gall, drawing upon his considerable command of invective and obscenities to curse the duke till the end of his wretched days. To Henri, Richard had always been a force of nature, immune to the fears and misgivings that preyed upon lesser men. But it seemed to him now that the English king was being worn down by the constant strife with his own allies, losing heart and hope, and that alarmed Henri exceedingly. What would befall them if Richard gave up the fight and went home as Philippe had done?

He was racking his brain for a conversational gambit that might dispel his uncle’s morose mood, and when his gaze fell upon Richard’s sleek dun stallion, he had it. “I hear you were busy adding to your legend whilst I was in Jaffa,” he said breezily. “I was in camp less than an hour ere I was told about your latest adventure. But surely the part about jumping over that boar cannot be true!”

As he’d hoped, Richard took the bait, for he was never averse to boasting about his exploits. “Well, actually it is,” he said with a smile. “I rode out with some of my knights to scout around Blanchegarde. On our way back, we encountered a very large wild boar. It stood its ground, making ready to attack. I used my lance as if it were a hunting spear and embedded it in the beast’s chest. But it broke in half and the boar charged right at me. So I did the only thing I could—I spurred Fauvel and he soared over it as if he had wings. The only damage done was a rip to his rear trappings where the tusks caught the material. That gave me time to draw my sword and when it charged again, I struck it in the neck, which stunned it enough for me to complete the kill.”

Henri burst out laughing. “You make it sound like just another hunt. But I can tell you for certes that not one man in a hundred would have dared to jump over an enraged boar! That is quite a feat of horsemanship, Uncle, even for you.”

“Let’s give credit where due, Henri . . . to Fauvel.” Richard leaned over to pat the stallion fondly, and Henri laughed again, pleased that he’d been so successful in raising his uncle’s spirits. But it was then that one of their scouts came into view, with several Saracens in close pursuit.

They reined in at sight of the crusaders, wheeled their mounts, and made a hasty retreat. The scout, one of the Templar turcopoles, headed toward Richard. “There is a large infantry force camped outside the walls, my lord king, between the castle and the village. There seemed something odd about them, though, so I came closer to see—too close, obviously,” he said with a wry smile. “I cannot be sure, for I was still some distance away when I was spotted. But I think they are Christian prisoners.”

“Let’s go find out, then,” Richard said, and signaled to his knights to array in battle formation. Riding stirrup to stirrup, lances couched, they soon saw Dārūm Castle looming against the horizon. There were a number of white tents and smoldering campfires, some Saracen horsemen milling about in obvious agitation, but no sign of any Christian captives. “God curse them, we’re too late,” Richard swore. “They were taken into the castle.” For an angry moment, he considered an assault upon it, but they had no siege engines with them. At least they could exact vengeance on behalf of the prisoners, and they charged their foes, shouting the battle cry of the English Royal House.

The Saracens rode out to meet them, an act of undeniable courage, yet a foolhardy one, too, for they were badly outnumbered. When the fighting was done, several Muslims were dead and twenty of them had been compelled to surrender. While all were disappointed that they’d missed a chance to rescue some of their Christian brethren, the knights were pleased that they’d profit so handsomely from this scouting mission, already counting the horses seized and speculating about the ransom demands. Richard was puzzled, though, that the castle garrison had not sallied forth to join in the fray. He was searching the battlements for signs of activity when one of his men let out a shout, pointing toward the village.

It had appeared deserted, for its inhabitants, both Muslims and Christians, had either fled at their approach or barricaded themselves in their houses. But now the door of the church opened and men burst out, laughing and weeping. Some of them had managed to cut their bindings; others were still roped together. They were ragged and dirty and gaunt, but they were also euphoric, all talking at once, thanking God and Richard for their deliverance. When he dismounted, he was mobbed, and it took a while before he could make himself heard above the din.

“Choose one to speak for you,” he ordered. “Are any of my soldiers amongst you?”

A few men shouldered their way toward him, identifying themselves as sergeants captured during a foraging expedition near Ramla in December. Gesturing at the others, they said these were men taken during the siege of Acre, unlucky pilgrims, and local Syrians.

“All Christians, though, my lord, even the ones who follow the Greek Church,” one of the sergeants assured him. “We’ve been held in Jerusalem, forced to labor for the infidels, digging ditches and strengthening the city walls. They no longer needed us for that and we were being taken to Egypt to be sold in the slave markets there. . . .” His voice thickened. “I admit I’d given up hope. But God had not forsaken us. . . .” He choked up then, unable to continue, and Richard raised a hand for silence.

“I do not understand why you were not taken into the castle. How did you get away from your guards?”

“It was because of you, sire.” Richard knew this new speaker was a soldier, too, just by the look of him; he bore too many visible scars to be a civilian. He’d obviously been a prisoner for some time, for he was noticeably thinner than the sergeants captured near Ramla. But his smile was bright enough to rival the sun. “They recognized your banner, came racing back into camp screaming, ‘Malik Ric! Malik Ric!’ The next thing we knew, most of our guards bolted. They mounted their horses and fled into the castle, leaving us to fend for ourselves. You ought to have heard what the other Saracens called them, the ones who had the guts to stay and fight you!” He laughed hoarsely, and gratefully accepted a wineskin from one of the knights. “So we ran—stumbled is more like it—and took shelter in the church, where some of us were able to cut our bonds.”

Others were pressing forward, eager to tell their stories, too, to bear witness. Many of them were weeping joyfully and it proved contagious; some of the knights had begun to tear up, too. Henri shoved his way to Richard’s side, unashamedly swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. He was not surprised to see that his uncle was one of the few not overcome with emotion. He’d beckoned to several of the turcopoles, was instructing them to take word back to Ascalon that they’d be returning with twenty Saracen captives, some wounded knights, and at least a thousand freed prisoners, so they’d need horses and carts sent out to meet them. Turning toward Henri, he said, “I want to get us away from the castle ere some of those fugitive guards have second thoughts and decide they’d rather face me than explain their flight to Saladin.”

“What an amazing day, Uncle.” Henri was so exhilarated that he embraced the older man exuberantly, undeterred by the fact that they both were splattered with blood and mud. “I was so happy when Acre fell, but I think this is an even more glorious victory. When I’m an old man, I’ll be bouncing my grandsons on my knee and boring them to tears as I relate yet again the story of the great Dārūm rescue!”

Richard glanced at Henri, then at the jubilant men still clustered around them. “It was a good day’s work,” he acknowledged. “But do you know why we were successful?”

To the freed prisoners, it was a puzzling question, for they thought the answer was obvious—God had wrought a miracle on their behalf. Richard’s knights agreed with them, although they felt they’d also benefited from the growing legend of Malik Ric. But when they said as much, Richard shook his head.

“We prevailed,” he said bitterly, “because there were no French here to hinder us.”



RICHARD’S NEXT MOVE was an attempt to reach an understanding with Conrad of Montferrat, again asking the marquis to join the army. Conrad flatly refused to come to Ascalon. He did consent, though, to talk with Richard, and it was agreed that the two men would meet at Casal Imbert, halfway between Tyre and Acre.



ANDRÉ WAS NOT THERE to insist that Richard take a safe escort with him on his way to the rendezvous with Conrad. He’d been gone for more than a fortnight, having volunteered to make a risky January sailing to Italy. Since he could not fight whilst his blasted arm healed, he’d grumbled, he might as well do something useful and see what he could learn at the papal court. Richard was reluctant to let him go; in the parlance of soldiers everywhere, he and André had always had each other’s backs. But his need for information was urgent, especially now that Philippe was back in France, and he could not very well object to the dangers of the sea voyage when André faced equal dangers on a daily basis in Outremer. So he’d agreed, but his cousin’s absence was one more discontent in this winter of so many.

After passing a few days in Jaffa with his wife and sister, he headed north, accompanied by a large contingent of knights and a sizable force of Templars, for he’d learned that his nephew could be as blunt-spoken as André when it came to berating him for taking needless risks. Their coastal journey stirred memories of their march to Arsuf nigh on six months ago; to all of them, it seemed much longer.

By February 19, they’d reached Caesarea. Back in September, it had been deserted, its mainly Muslim population fleeing before the approaching crusader army. Salah al-Dīn had not ordered it razed, though, as he had with Ascalon and other castles and towns in Richard’s path, and they found that it was partially occupied again, some of those abandoned houses and shops claimed by the native-born Christians. It had once been home to five thousand people; it was only a ghost now of its former self, but the town was slowly coming to life and Richard’s men were delighted with its rebirth. For one night at least, some of them could sleep under roofs in real beds, even visit the baths and wash off the grime and muck of a very muddy road.

Henri was one of the first to enjoy the baths, luxuriating in the sweating room that was heated by a furnace, the hot air coming in through earthenware pipes. He’d quickly embraced the Frankish custom of frequent bathing, but he’d discovered he was more prudish than he’d realized and he’d never been willing to have a bath attendant shave his pubic hair as some of the poulains did; now he instructed the man only to remove his beard. Afterward, he wandered about the streets, for this ancient city had been founded before the birth of the Lord Christ. He went into the church of St Peter, and struck up a conversation with one of the canons, who told him the pagan temple of Jupiter had once stood on this site, and then a mosque that had been the scene of a bloodbath when the city had been captured by the Christians over ninety years ago; it was now the cathedral of the Archbishop of Caesarea. As he left the church, a light rain began to fall, and that dampened his interest in further sightseeing.

Despite the rain, Henri was in good spirits when he reached the castle, looking forward to food cooked in a kitchen instead of over a campfire. Unfortunately, Lent had begun, but he was assured they’d have fresh fish, not the salted herring that dulled so many Lenten appetites. They had just been served an eel pie, with oysters and scallops also on the menu, when the meal was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of Stephen Longchamp, brother of Richard’s chancellor and one of Acre’s co-governors.

He did not wait to be formally announced, hastened toward the dais and knelt. “Thank God I found you, my liege! We knew you were on the way to meet Conrad, but we did not know how far you’d gotten and I feared having to sail as far as Jaffa.”

Richard gestured for him to rise. He’d already pushed his trencher aside, for Longchamp’s news was obviously urgent. Knowing the other man’s weakness for verbosity, he said, “Never mind that. Tell me what is wrong, Sir Stephen.”

“You must get to Acre straightaway, my lord, for the city is under attack!” Richard’s gasp was echoed down the length of the table. He’d been braced for bad tidings, but nothing as bad as that. “How can that be? Saladin has dispersed the bulk of his army till the spring campaign!”

“Not Saladin, my liege. Acre is under siege by that whoreson Conrad of Montferrat and his lackey, Burgundy.”

By now the hall was in an uproar and Richard had to shout them down. Like his father, he could bellow with the best when the need arose, and a tense silence ensued as Longchamp began to speak again.

“You know how much animosity there is between the Genoese and the Pisans, my liege. They’re always at one another’s throats, eager to take offense at the slightest excuse. I think their feuding goes back to—”

“No history lessons, Sir Stephen,” Richard interrupted impatiently. “Just tell us what happened.”

“Well, their latest street brawl got out of hand, and suddenly they were fighting in earnest. Bertrand de Verdun and I did what we could to restore order, of course. But—” Catching Richard’s warning eye, Longchamp hastily condensed his narrative. “The Genoese got the worst of it and barricaded themselves in their quarter of the city. What we did not know was that they’d sent one of their galleys up the coast to Tyre, seeking assistance from Conrad. And then Hugh of Burgundy arrived. The Genoese decided not to wait for Conrad and hurried out to the camp he’d set up outside the walls.”

He paused, rather enjoying being the center of such undivided attention. “Burgundy was only too willing to assault the city. The Pisans were too quick for him, though. As he was arraying his troops, they attacked him first. His horse was slain in the skirmish and he was thrown head over heels into a mud hole.” A reminiscent smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “The Pisans then retreated back into the city and slammed the gates shut. But the next morning Conrad’s fleet sailed into the outer harbor. We’ve held out for three days so far, and the Pisans entreated us to send word to you that we need help. So . . . I set out to find you,” he concluded. “The Caesarea harbor is so dangerous that I almost continued on, for I was not sure that you’d gotten this far yet. Thank God I did not pass on by!”

By now no one was paying any attention to him. Richard was already on his feet. At first incredulous, he was now so outraged that some of the men had begun to give him space, almost as if he were radiating heat. “Saladin will laugh himself sick when he hears this,” he said, practically spitting the words. His eyes raking the hall, he beckoned to Robert de Sablé, the Templar grand master, and to Henri, then glanced back at Longchamp. “I want you to return to Acre tonight, tell them that I will be there on the morrow.”

Longchamp’s face fell at the prospect of more hours onboard ship, but he dutifully agreed. After a moment to reflect, though, he frowned in perplexity and said to the closest man, who happened to be Henri, “How can he get there so quickly? It is nigh on forty miles between Caesarea and Acre.”

Henri looked wistfully at the tables holding the first course of their meal. “We’ll be riding all night,” he said with a sigh, and then hurried to catch up with his uncle.



AS HE PROMISED, Richard reached Acre the next day. But by then word had spread that he was on the way, and he discovered that the siege was over. Conrad and Hugh had decided discretion was the better part of valor and hastily retreated to Tyre. Richard set about patching up a peace between the Pisans and Genoese, and managed it by a combination of eloquence, logic, and threats. He then insisted that Conrad meet him at Casal Imbert as originally planned. Conrad had never lacked for temerity and agreed.

Richard’s success with the Pisans and Genoese was not repeated at Casal Imbert. Conrad again refused to join the army at Ascalon, and in Richard’s view, he added insult to injury by citing the defection of the French as one reason for his lack of cooperation. Richard returned to Acre in a rage and called a council, which deprived Conrad of his half of the kingdom’s revenues. This was an empty gesture, though, for it could not be enforced as long as Conrad retained the support of the French and most of the poulain lords. In fact, it would later backfire upon Richard, for Conrad would retaliate in a way that was far more effective.

Richard ended up remaining at Acre through March, wanting to make sure that the port city would not be vulnerable to another surprise attack. He also renewed negotiations with Salah al-Dīn, requesting that al-’��dil be sent to engage in peace talks, offering terms based upon a partition of the kingdom and the Holy City which were very similar to those he’d posed back in November; no mention was made this time of a marriage between Joanna and al-’Ādil. The talks were so amicable that just before Palm Sunday Richard knighted one of al-’Ādil’s sons, and Salah al-Dīn and his council were inclined to accept these terms.

But the talks were abruptly broken off when Richard left Acre unexpectedly in late March. His spies had alerted him that he was not the only one struggling with internal dissension. Salah al-Dīn’s troops were even more war-weary and disgruntled than Richard’s soldiers, for they’d been fighting much longer. More significantly, Richard had learned that Salah al-Dīn’s great-nephew was threatening rebellion, apparently on the verge of joining forces with one of the sultan’s enemies, the Lord of Khilāt.

Richard decided, therefore, to bide his time and see what developed, hoping that Salah al-Dīn’s increasing vulnerability would compel him to accept peace terms more favorable to the Franks, for he knew Ascalon was a huge boulder on the road to peace, with neither man willing to surrender claims to it. Stopping off at Jaffa, Richard collected his wife and sister and returned with them to Ascalon. Easter was the most important festival on the Christian calendar and he meant to celebrate it in grand style, setting up special tents to provide food and entertainment for his soldiers. But three days before Easter, Conrad exacted payment for that council condemnation, sending an envoy to Ascalon to demand that the remaining French troops join him and the Duke of Burgundy at Tyre.



RICHARD WAS HOARSE, for he’d been pleading with the departing knights for over an hour, to no avail. Some looked shamefaced, others obviously miserable, but they felt they had no choice. Conrad had reminded them that their king had appointed Hugh of Burgundy as commander of the French forces and this was a direct order, one given in Philippe’s name. Even Richard’s offer to pay for their expenses did not sway them, and he withdrew to his tent, discouraged by this latest setback. Henri found him alone soon afterward, a rare state for a king, slumped on a coffer, his head in his hands.

“Uncle . . .” Not wanting to intrude, the younger man hesitated. “You sent for me? I can come back later. . . .”

“No, come in. I promised the French knights that I’d provide them with an escort to Acre, and I want you and the Templars to see them safely there.” Richard straightened up and accepted the wine cup Henri was holding out. “Over seven hundred knights lost, plus their squires, their men-at-arms, crossbowmen, their horses and weapons . . . Christ Jesus, Henri, the timing could not be worse. I truly thought we had a chance to put enough pressure upon Saladin to exact better terms. But now this.... Even men like Guillaume des Barres and the Montmorency lad feel obligated to return to Tyre rather than disobey a direct order from their king and liege lord. They apologized profusely, promising to return if they can persuade Hugh to release them. That is about as likely as my taking holy vows.”

Richard paused to drink, but even the wine tasted sour. He was putting the cup aside when an awful thought struck him and his hand jerked, spilling liquid as red as blood. “What of your knights, Henri? I know you’ll stay with me, but will your men?”

“They will, Uncle,” Henri assured him, “they will. I’ve never been so proud of them, for they laughed at Conrad’s command. ‘Yes, Philippe is our king,’ they said, ‘but our liege lord is Count Henri and we take our orders only from him, not the damned Duke of Burgundy.’ Bless them all, for nary a one was willing to heed Hugh or Conrad. Of course, they know I’ll protect them from the French king’s wrath.” Assuming we ever get back to France. Henri left that thought unsaid. There were times when his beloved Champagne seemed as far away as the moon in the heavens, but he did not think his uncle needed to hear that now. If he felt so discouraged at times, how much worse it must be for the man who bore the burden of command upon his shoulders.

“Thank God,” Richard said. That was all, but to Henri those two words spoke volumes about his uncle’s state of mind. Wishing André was here, for he always seemed to know what Richard needed to hear, he sat down on the carpet at Richard’s feet, his eyes searching the older man’s face. Henri had suspected for some time that the hellish Outremer climate and the constant stress were having a detrimental impact upon his uncle’s health, sapping some of his energy and stamina. He could see now that Richard’s color was too high, a flush burning across hollowed cheekbones, and his eyes were very bright, obvious evidence that he was running a fever. But he was not likely to admit it, and so Henri bit back the words hovering on his lips. As hard as it was to keep silent, he could only hope that Richard did confide in Master Ralph Besace, his chief physician.

“What I cannot understand,” Richard said after a brooding silence, “is why so many of the local lords can stand aloof from this war. How can men like Balian d’Ibelin and Renaud of Sidon refuse to fight with us when their very world is at stake?”

“Uncle . . .” Henri paused, marshaling his thoughts. He’d not been able to help Richard bridge that great gap separating him from so many in his army. Men inflamed with holy zeal were bound to mistrust their commander’s pragmatism, and too often Richard had failed to take that into account. Would he have any more luck now in addressing what he saw as his uncle’s one major mistake since arriving in the Holy Land?

“Whilst it is true that to the French, this war is about you more than Saladin, that is not true when it comes to the poulains. To them, it is all about two men and only two men—Conrad of Montferrat and Guy de Lusignan. I think you erred in backing Guy, Uncle.” Seeing Richard’s head come up sharply, he said quickly, “I know you do not like to hear that. And I am not defending Conrad. He’ll never be a candidate for sainthood. But it is a crown he seeks, not a halo, and the very qualities that may damn him to Hell—his ruthlessness, his lack of scruples, his ambition—make him a good choice to rule over a troubled land like Outremer. The poulains see his flaws as well as you do. But they need a strong king, a man who will be able to defend his kingdom to the death if need be, and they trust Conrad as they cannot trust Guy. They know that Guy is a puppet king, your puppet, and he can be propped up only as long as you are here to support him. Once you leave, he’ll collapse like a punctured pig’s bladder, and that is why they have held ‘aloof ’ as you put it. Guy will never be forgiven for Ḥaṭṭīn, Uncle. It is as simple as that.”

“There is nothing ‘simple’ about life in Outremer,” Richard scoffed. But Henri was heartened by that relatively mild response, and he dared to hope he’d planted a seed that might eventually take root, for he was convinced that peace with the Saracens would not ensure the survival of Outremer—not if Guy de Lusignan was still its king on the day they departed its shores for their own homelands.



ON APRIL 15, Richard finally got a message from his chancellor, carried by the prior of Hereford. Soon thereafter, he met with Henri, the Earl of Leicester, and the Bishop of Salisbury, men who stood high in his confidence, and they remained secluded for much of the afternoon. By now Joanna and Berengaria had learned of the prior’s arrival, and they grew more and more uneasy as the hours passed. Richard had already gotten unwelcome news earlier in the week—word of a rebellion in Cyprus against the heavy-handed rule of the Templars. They had put down the revolt, but the situation on the island remained volatile; the Templars had made themselves quite unpopular, so this was just one more worry for Richard to deal with. The women fervently hoped that the news from England would not be troubling, too. They took turns reassuring each other that Eleanor was quite capable of maintaining peace in her son’s kingdom, but they both knew that Philippe’s return was akin to setting a wolf loose in a flock of defenseless sheep.

They’d been discussing whether to wait further or to seek Richard out; Berengaria did not want to risk interrupting his council and Joanna wanted to head straight for his tent. The debate was ended by Richard’s sudden arrival. One glance at his face and they both tensed, for it was as if they were looking at an engraved stone effigy, utterly devoid of expression.

“Good—you’re both here,” he said, and his voice, too, was without intonation.

“I’d not want to have to tell this twice. Send your ladies away.”

Once they were alone, Richard seemed in no hurry to unburden himself. He sat down on the edge of Berengaria’s bed, only to rise restlessly a moment later. By unspoken consent, both women remained quiet, waiting for him to begin. At last he said, “Prior Robert brought a rather remarkable letter from my chancellor . . . my former chancellor, I should say, since Longchamp was deposed and sent into exile last October. I’ll spare you the depressing details, for they do none of the participants much credit. My brother Geoff crossed over to Dover in mid-September and Longchamp saw that as a breach of his oath to remain out of England whilst I was gone, claiming not to believe that I had absolved Geoff of that oath. The chancellor was not in Dover at the time, but his sister is wed to the constable of Dover Castle and they took it upon themselves to order Geoff’s arrest. He of course refused to submit and instead took refuge in St Martin’s Priory, which they encircled with armed men. He then proceeded to excommunicate the Lady Richeut and all others who were participating in this siege of the priory. This impasse lasted for several days, ending when Richeut and that idiot she’d married sent armed men into the priory to take Geoff out by force. He resisted and they dragged him, bleeding, through the town to the castle, with him hurling excommunications left and right like celestial thunderbolts.”

They’d listened, openmouthed, to this incredible story. Berengaria was appalled that they’d dared to lay hands upon a prince of the Church. It sounded almost farcical to Joanna, but she saw the serious implications, too, and marveled that a man as clever as Longchamp could have made such a monumental miscalculation. “What happened, then, Richard?”

“What you’d expect. When word got out of Geoff’s arrest, people were horrified, all the more so because it stirred up memories of Thomas Becket’s murder in Canterbury Cathedral. With that one foolish act, Longchamp united all of the other English bishops against him. And Johnny was suddenly aflame with brotherly love for Geoff, whom he’d detested up until then, sending knights to Dover to demand Geoff’s release. With the entire country in an uproar, Longchamp finally realized how badly he’d erred and he ordered Geoff freed on September 26. By then it was too late. He’d managed to transform Geoff into a holy martyr for Mother Church, giving Johnny all the weapons he needed to bring Longchamp down. The final outcome was inevitable. Urged on by Will Marshal and the other justiciars, the Archbishop of Rouen produced the letters I’d given him in Sicily, which authorized him to depose the chancellor if Longchamp ignored their advice—as indeed he had. It got so ugly that Longchamp took refuge in the Tower of London and seems to have lost his head altogether for a time. He tried to flee England disguised as a woman, only to be caught, shamed, and maltreated. He eventually was allowed to sail for Flanders, where he wasted no time in appealing to the Pope. The Pope reacted with predictable outrage, for Longchamp is a papal legate, after all, and at Longchamp’s urging, he proceeded to excommunicate the Archbishop of Rouen, the bishops of Winchester and Coventry, and four of the other justiciars, amongst others.”

“Dear God!” This exclamation was Joanna’s; Berengaria was speechless.

“You’ve not heard the half of it yet,” Richard said, and for the first time they could see the fury pulsing just beneath his surface composure. “I think the lot of them have gone stark, raving mad. Let’s start with our new archbishop. Once Longchamp had gone into exile, Geoff went to his see in York, where he resumed his feuding with the Bishop of Durham, Hugh de Puiset. When Durham refused to come to York to make a profession of obedience, Geoff publicly excommunicated him. Durham ignored the anathema and so did Johnny, who chose to celebrate Christmas with Durham. So Geoff then excommunicated Johnny for having eaten and drunk with one who must be shunned by other Christians.”

“Richard . . . can you trust what the prior says, though? If he was sent by Longchamp, naturally he’d try to cast Geoff and Johnny and his enemies in the worst possible light.”

Richard had been pacing back and forth. At that, he turned toward his sister with a smile that held not even a hint of humor. “Prior Robert is adept at swimming in political waters. He did indeed carry Longchamp’s letter. But he also brought one from our mother, having alerted her that he would be making that dangerous journey from France to Outremer on Longchamp’s behalf. I do not ordinarily approve of such blatant self-seeking, but in this case, I am glad the prior was so eager to curry favor with both sides. I might otherwise have doubted Longchamp’s vitriolic account of Johnny’s double-dealing with Philippe.”

Joanna winced, for she’d truly hoped that her younger brother would not fall prey to the French king’s blandishments. “What did Johnny do?”

“Philippe offered Johnny his unfortunate sister Alys and all of my lands in France in return for his allegiance. Johnny was untroubled by the inconvenient fact that he already had a wife, and was planning to sail for France when Maman arrived in the nick of time. She kept him in England by threatening to seize all of his English castles and estates as soon as he set foot on a French-bound ship.”

Berengaria was shocked by John’s disloyalty, for she could not imagine either of her brothers ever committing such a shameful act of betrayal against one of their own blood, much less a king who’d taken the cross. But as she struggled to think of a way to offer Richard comfort, she could not help remembering Sancho’s warning. They are not like us, little one.

Joanna was not shocked, merely saddened. “When did Prior Robert leave France?” she asked, and Richard gave her a grimly approving look, for she’d gone unerringly to the heart of the matter.

“In February,” he said, “so God alone knows what has happened since then. Maman made it quite clear that Johnny cannot be trusted now that Philippe has begun to whisper treasonous inducements in his ear. She says others have been loath to oppose Johnny, for they fear I will not be coming back; it seems half of England is convinced I’m sure to die in the Holy Land. And Longchamp has made a bloody botch of things. I ought to have listened to her about him. But I valued his loyalty so much that I overlooked his arrogance and unpopularity. To her credit, Joanna, she refrained from saying ‘I told you so.’ She did say that I need to come home—and soon. She fears that if I do not, I may not have a kingdom to come back to.”

Berengaria could not suppress a gasp, stunned that Richard’s mother would urge him to abandon the crusade. “But if you leave, Richard, there is no chance of recovering Jerusalem!”

Joanna was more concerned with the loss of the Angevin empire. She started to speak, stopping herself before the words could escape, for this was a decision only Richard could make. “What will you do?” she asked quietly, and he glanced toward her, for a brief moment dropping his defenses and letting her see his anguish.

“I do not know,” he admitted. “God help me, I do not know.”



AFTER A SLEEPLESS NIGHT, Richard called a council meeting the next day. As the men crowded into his tent, he could see from their faces that they’d heard the rumors sweeping the camp; they looked apprehensive. “Most of you have heard that I’ve had word from England,” he said. “The news was very troubling. My kingdom is in turmoil, threatened by the French king and my own brother. I do not know how much longer I can remain in the Holy Land. But I will not compel any man to act against his conscience. Each one of you can decide for yourself whether you wish to return home with me or stay in Outremer.”

Even though some of them must have been anticipating an announcement like this, they all reacted with dismay, insisting that the war could not be won without him and entreating him to stay. Richard let them have their say before responding. “I will not just walk away. I promise you that. If I do have to return to my own domains, I will pay for three hundred elite knights and two thousand men-at-arms to stay in Outremer. I do not want to depart whilst the war continues. But I may have no choice, not if my kingdom is at stake.”

Eventually the protests died down, but he could still see reproach and recrimination in the faces surrounding him. He’d wondered which of the poulains would be the first to raise the issue of kingship. As it turned out, it was the Grand Master of the Hospitallers, Garnier de Nablus. “We do understand, my liege,” he said, “that you find yourself torn between your obligations. One of my Spanish knights ofttimes quotes an old proverb: ‘Entre la espada y la pared.’ That is where you find yourself now, between the sword and the wall. You must do as God directs. But ere you go, we must know who will lead us once you’re gone.”

There was a sputtered objection from Guy de Lusignan, who hastily reminded them of the Acre agreement that had recognized him as king for life, with Conrad and Isabella as his heirs. No one paid him any mind.

“I know,” Richard said. “I think you ought to discuss it amongst yourselves, for it should be a decision made by the men who’ll have to live with it, not those who’ll soon be on their way home. So that my presence will not inhibit a candid exchange of opinions, I will leave whilst you deliberate.”



RICHARD HAD HEADED in the direction of Berengaria’s pavilion, but at the last moment he veered off. He knew his wife would not berate him or even implore him to remain, but her brown eyes would reveal her bewilderment and her deep disappointment. His sister offered a safer harbor and he made for her tent, instead.

“I told them,” he said tersely, “and now they are deciding their future once I’m gone.”

He was obviously in no mood for conversation, so Joanna did not press him further. Beckoning to one of her knights, she gave him low-voiced instructions, all the while watching as her brother slouched on her bed, absently petting the Sicilian hound who’d hopped up beside him. The knight was soon back, having retrieved a musical instrument from Richard’s tent. “Here,” Joanna said, “occupy yourself with this.”

Richard was strumming a melancholy little melody when Henri entered and pulled up a stool. “What is that . . . not a lute?”

“It is called an oud. Al-’Ādil gave it to me after I expressed interest in Saracen music.”

Henri leaned closer to see. “You do not pluck the strings with your fingers like a harp?” Richard explained that a quill was used for the oud. His face was hidden, his head bent over the oud, and Henri watched him for a while, not sure what would better serve his uncle—silence, sympathy, or candor. Finally deciding upon the latter, he said, “You know they will choose Conrad?”

“I know.”

“And . . . and you are all right with that?”

Richard’s shoulders twitched in a half-shrug. “You recently reminded me that Guy is a puppet king at best, and could not hope to survive without my support. Since I do not know how much longer I dare remain in Outremer, that can no longer be ignored.”

“It is the right decision, Uncle.”

“Only time will tell. But compared to the other choice I’m facing, this was a relatively easy one.”

“Of course the de Lusignans will not take it well.”

“No,” Richard agreed, “I do not suppose they will.” He said no more, and Henri decided not to probe any further. He yearned to know what Richard would decide to do, for it would affect them all, but he was not sure his uncle even knew, not yet.

The poulain lords determined the fate of their kingdom with surprising speed; within an hour, the two Grand Masters, Hugues de Tiberias, and his younger brother were being ushered into Joanna’s pavilion. “We have discussed it, my lord Richard, and we are all of one mind, save only Humphrey de Toron and the de Lusignans. We want Conrad of Montferrat as our king.”

Richard nodded. “I expected as much.”

“And you accept our decision?”

“I said I would, did I not?”

“Yes, my liege, you did.” Hugues de Tiberias hesitated. “As you know, I am no friend to Conrad. But under the circumstances, it was the only choice we could make.”

Richard nodded again and they soon withdrew, so obviously relieved that Henri thought Conrad would begin his reign with one great advantage always denied Guy—a united kingdom. Richard had picked up the oud again, signaling that he had no interest in discussing it further, and Henri took the hint. But almost as soon as the men had departed, Guy de Lusignan burst into the tent, trailed by his brothers, Joffroi and Amaury.

“How could you let this happen? How could you abandon me like this?”

“I did all I could for you, Guy. But I could not change the fact that none of them wanted you as king. I am not going to ‘abandon’ you, though.”

“What . . . you mean to give me a stipend? I am not one of your knights to be paid wages or a pension now that I’m no longer of any use. I am an anointed king!”

“No,” Richard said, “you were a king. But I have more in mind than a stipend. I cannot give you the kingdom of Jerusalem. I can give you Cyprus.”

Guy’s mouth dropped open. “Cyprus? But you sold it to the Templars.”

“You’ve heard of the rebellion in Nicosia on Easter Eve? Well, Robert de Sablé told me that they have decided the island is more trouble than it’s worth to them. They’d agreed to pay me one hundred thousand bezants and so far have paid forty thousand of that sum. If you reimburse them the forty thousand, Cyprus is yours.”

Guy’s brothers were listening avidly, eyes gleaming, the sort of predatory glint that Henri had seen in the eyes of falcons when they first sighted their quarry. But Guy seemed more ambivalent, his face displaying both interest and uncertainty. “I cannot afford one hundred thousand bezants,” he objected, earning himself scowls from both Joffroi and Amaury.

“If you can come up with the forty thousand for the Templars, that will be enough.”

This was such a generous offer that Guy’s brothers began to lavish praise upon Richard, thanking him profusely. Guy’s gratitude was more restrained. “Thank you, my liege,” he said. “But it is just that—” He gave an odd “oof ” sound then, and Henri realized he’d been elbowed sharply in the ribs by Amaury. He refused to be silenced, though, glared at his brother, and then looked earnestly at Richard. “I appreciate your kindness, I do. I just find it hard to accept—knowing that Conrad has won. He is the least worthy man in Christendom to wear a crown, sire, for he is deceitful, selfish, puffed up with pride, and ungrateful—yes, ungrateful! Did you know I saved his life once? During the siege of Acre, he was unhorsed and I came to his rescue—me, the man he betrayed!”

This time both of his brothers stepped in, interrupting his harangue with more expressions of appreciation, and then practically dragging Guy away, as if they feared Richard might change his mind at any moment. Once they were gone, Henri smiled at his uncle. “That was adroitly done. Not only do you placate Guy, you give his quarrelsome brothers a reason to stay away from Poitou!”

“Not Joffroi; from what I’ve heard, he is thinking of renouncing his lordship of Jaffa and going home once the war is over. But with a little luck, Amaury will put down roots in Cyprus with Guy . . . provided that they do not make the same mistakes the Templars did.”

Joanna had been a very interested witness to the scene with the de Lusignans. Leaning over, she gave Richard’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You ought to be proud of what you did today. Now you can go home with a clear conscience, sure that Outremer is in the hands of a capable king.” Wrinkling her nose, she added, “Not a likable one, but he is what they need.”

Richard inclined his head. Reaching again for the oud, he glanced over at his nephew. “You can be the one to let Conrad know he’s gotten his accursed crown.”

“I’ll leave on the morrow.” Henri thought this would be an enjoyable mission, for it was always pleasant to be the bearer of glad tidings, and Tyre would erupt in joyful celebrations, revelries that would put both Christmas and Easter in the shade. “Now that Conrad is to be king, the rest of the poulains will join us, Uncle. He might even be able to bestir the French into fighting again.”

“That is what I am counting upon,” Richard said. “This is Conrad’s kingdom now. So it is time he defended it. And then, God willing, I can go home.”