Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 31

APRIL 1192

Acre, Outremer





After lingering a few days at Tyre to enjoy the revelries, Henri and his delegation had sailed to Acre to lay the groundwork for Conrad and Isabella’s coming coronation. Here, too, they’d been welcomed as heroes, so great was the universal relief that their kingdom would have a strong hand on the helm once Richard returned to his own lands. Henri and the knights accompanying him planned to depart for Ascalon by week’s end, for they were eager to bring Richard good news for a change, a promise that Outremer’s new king would soon be leading an army south to join him. But on this Wednesday afternoon, a lavish feast had been given in their honor and they were more than willing to embrace all the pleasures, comforts, and sins that Acre had to offer before returning to the harsh realities of holy war.

Henri had not enjoyed such a delicious repast in months. After the last course had been served, he rose to salute his hosts. He had a felicitous way with words and offered a graceful tribute to the governors Stephen Longchamp and Bertrand de Verdun, to Bishop Theobald, Acre’s elderly prelate, and to the other churchmen beaming at him down the length of the linen-clad tables. He singled out the leaders of the Pisan colony for special praise, much to Morgan’s amused approval; he thought Henri had a surprisingly deft political touch for one so highborn. Every now and then, Henri reminded him of his dead lord, Geoffrey, for Morgan had first pledged his loyalties to Richard’s brother, the most complex and subtle of the Devil’s Brood.

Having expressed his appreciation for their hospitality, Henri raised high one of the ruby-red glass goblets that had once adorned the table of the Saracen commander al-Mashtūb. “Fortune’s Wheel can spin with a vengeance. But some men seem blessed, destined to soar whilst others fall. Let us drink to the Marquis of Montferrat and his lovely consort, the Lady Isabella. May they rule well and long over your kingdom and may their child be a son.”

Not all of the guests had heard that Isabella was pregnant and Henri’s toast created quite a stir. He was kept busy for some moments answering the excited questions coming his way, confirming that the marquise was indeed with child, and confirming, too, a rumor heard by the Bishop of Bethlehem, who wanted to know if it was true that Conrad had asked God to approve his elevation to the throne.

“Yes, my lord bishop, he did. Upon being told that he was to be king, he first gave thanks to the Almighty. He then raised his hands toward Heaven and declared, ‘I beg You, Lord, that You allow me to be crowned only if You judge me worthy to govern Your kingdom.’ It made a profound impression upon his audience, who were deeply moved by his piety,” Henri said blandly. But once the trestle tables had been taken apart and the guests began to mingle, he offered a more worldly critique for Morgan and Otto de Trazegnies. “Conrad has a natural flair for high drama, one that even Richard might envy. Little wonder my uncle Philippe was so discontented at Acre, a waning moon trying to compete with two blazing suns.”

They both joined in his laughter, but then glanced around to make sure they’d not been overheard, for some of the guests might have felt Henri’s comments were indiscreet. While most would have agreed that Conrad and Richard were adroit scene-stealers who thrived on center stage, it was not something to be said aloud. Henri was in high spirits, though, and in no mood to be circumspect. “Do you know how I see Conrad’s coronation? As a golden key, opening a door that has been bolted and locked for months. Now that he and my uncle will finally be working together, they’ll soon compel Saladin to accept peace terms. We may well be able to sail for home ere the first frost!” He started to add the formulaic “God willing,” but moved by mischief, he went with a murmured “Inshallah” instead.

Otto was accustomed to Henri’s insouciance and merely rolled his eyes. Morgan was no longer paying attention, looking toward the far end of the hall. “I wonder what is going on,” he said. “Stephen Longchamp and Bertrand de Verdun just dashed for the door as if they’d been told the palace is afire.”

Henri shrugged. “As long as the city is not under assault again, I refuse to worry. And since it is now Conrad’s by right, we need not fear him swooping down in another stealth attack. Did I tell you that the Saracen commander has finally been freed? Bertrand said he managed to pay his ransom.”

“That is passing strange.” Morgan was still gazing over Henri’s shoulder. “Why would Balian d’Ibelin follow us to Acre? He knows you brought Conrad’s instructions for the coronation, does he not?”

“Balian is here?” Henri turned toward the door, no less puzzled than Morgan. But as he got his first glimpse of Balian’s face, his mouth suddenly went dry. He’d seen such a benumbed, dazed expression before. His mother had looked like that when she’d come to tell him that his father was dead and their world forever changed.

Balian was trailed by the two governors, whose stricken faces were attracting as much attention as the poulain lord’s unexpected appearance. Ignoring the questions and comments that churned in his wake, Balian headed straight for Henri. Already sure that he did not want to hear whatever the older man had come to tell him, Henri forced himself to step forward.

Balian seemed to have aged decades in the few days since Henri had last seen him. “There is no easy way to bring news like this, so I’ll just say it straight out. Conrad is dead. He was murdered yesterday afternoon by two Assassins.”



BALIAN’S SHOCKING REVELATION had unleashed turmoil that bordered on hysteria, for many believed that the Kingdom of Jerusalem had died when Conrad drew his last breath. Leaving Bishop Theobald and the other prelates to try to calm the crowd, the governors escorted Balian from the hall as soon as he’d given a terse account of Conrad’s murder. Followed by Henri and the knights who’d accompanied him to Tyre, they retreated to the greater privacy of the solar. Once wine had been fetched by frightened servants, they staggered toward the closest seats like men whose legs could no longer sustain the weight of their bodies. Otto de Trazegnies and William de Caieux slumped onto a nearby bench and Morgan withdrew into a window alcove, almost as if he hoped he could somehow distance himself from the looming disaster. Bertrand de Verdun was no longer a young man and he collapsed into a high-backed chair that he ought to have offered to Balian or Henri, but protocol was the last thing on his mind at that moment. Stephen Longchamp appropriated one of the wine flagons, apparently intending to drink himself into blessed oblivion. Balian sank down on a wooden coffer, staring into the depths of a gilt cup as if it held answers instead of spiced red wine. Henri hovered beside him, too restive to sit still, wanting to demand answers and yet dreading to hear them. He managed to wait until Balian had drained his cup, for it was obvious that the other man was utterly exhausted, physically and emotionally, and then he said, “Tell us the rest, Balian, what you did not tell the men in the hall. Give us as much detail as you can. Mayhap then we can begin to believe it.”

Balian set his cup down upon the carpet. “Isabella had gone to the baths,” he said dully, as if struggling to comprehend how such a mundane matter could have such monumental consequences, “and when she did not return by midday, Conrad decided he could wait no longer. He said to tell her he’d gone to dine with the Bishop of Beauvais. He had only two knights with him, none of them wearing their hauberks. He . . . he never worried about his physical safety, no more than your English king does. When he got to Beauvais’s house, he found that the bishop had already eaten. Beauvais offered to have a meal prepared, but Conrad refused, saying Isabella ought to be back by then and he’d go home to eat with her.”

While Balian was looking directly at Henri, his eyes seemed focused upon a scene far from the solar at Acre’s royal palace. “It happened after he’d passed the archbishop’s dwelling. As he turned into a narrow street near the Exchange, he saw two men waiting for him. They would have looked familiar, Christian monks who’d attached themselves to our households��mine and Renaud de Sidon’s—and when one of them approached with a letter, he likely assumed it was from me or Renaud.”

Balian paused to press his fingers against his throbbing temples. “When he reached down for the letter, the killer stabbed him. At the same time, the second Assassin leapt onto his horse and plunged a dagger into his back. I was told it happened so fast that no one could have saved him. He was carried back to the citadel, still breathing, but it was obvious his wounds were mortal. . . .”

“Was there time to give him the Sacrament of the Faithful?” When Balian nodded, Henri exhaled a ragged breath, grateful that at least Conrad had been shriven of his sins. “What happened to his attackers? And how can you be sure they were Assassins?”

“One of them was slain on the spot. The other fled into a nearby church, where he was seized and turned over to the Bishop of Beauvais. Under torture, he admitted he’d been sent by the Old Man of the Mountain. He was then dragged through the streets to his death.” Balian picked up his wine cup again, seemed surprised to find it empty.

Henri refilled it for him. “I do not understand. Why did the Assassins seek Conrad’s death? Had they a grievance against him?”

“Yes . . . last year he’d seized a merchant ship belonging to Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān and then refused to return the cargo and crew. Conrad could be stubborn, and threats made him balk all the more. I’d warned him that one day his pride would play him false, but of course he just laughed. . . .” Balian’s voice trailed off, and the other men remembered that his was a double loss, as much personal as political, for Conrad had been wed to his stepdaughter.

Balian took several deep swallows before continuing. “You’d best brace yourselves, for you are not going to like what comes next. Beauvais and Hugh of Burgundy are claiming that ere he died, the second Assassin confessed that Conrad’s murder had been done at the behest of the English king.”

As Balian expected, that got an explosive reaction. They were all on their feet within seconds, bombarding him with infuriated denials, raging against the French accusations so loudly that he thought the men below in the hall could hear. He said nothing, for it seemed easier to let their fury burn itself out; he was too tired to engage in a shouting match. When they at last paused for breath, he said, “I did not say I believed it, Henri. As it happens, I do not. I cannot say I share your conviction that Richard would not be capable of such a crime. I grant you he’s much more likely to commit his own killings, but men do sometimes act in ways that we’d not expect. What they never do, however, is act against their own interest. Your English king is desperate to get back to his realm ere he loses it, desperate enough to embrace Conrad’s kingship. Not only does he not benefit by Conrad’s death, it is a disaster for him.”

They subsided, somewhat mollified, and Bertrand de Verdun then suggested Saladin as a far more likely candidate than Richard. Balian started to remind them that Saladin had no motive, either, for he had accepted Conrad’s peace terms just days ago, but he remembered in time that they were unaware of this. As soon as he’d learned that he was to be king, Conrad had sent an urgent message to Saladin, saying that he and Richard were no longer enemies and a full-scale war was inevitable now unless the sultan made peace, a threat Saladin had taken seriously. Balian had assumed Conrad meant to break the news upon his arrival at Ascalon. It would be greeted with great relief by the poulains and most likely by Richard, too, for the terms were similar to those he himself had offered Saladin, and a peace settlement would free him to return to defend his own kingdom. The common soldiers, those still burning with holy zeal to retake Jerusalem, would have felt betrayed, of course, but Conrad would not have lost any sleep over their anguish. This was the most bitter of Balian’s regrets, that they’d come so close to ending this accursed war on terms both sides could live with, only to see those hopes bleed to death along with Conrad.

He would have to tell Henri about Conrad’s secret dealings with Saladin of course, but not now. “Saladin had no reason to arrange Conrad’s murder,” he said, “for he knew Conrad preferred to settle the war over the bargaining table, not the battlefield.” When Otto de Trazegnies then offered up Guy de Lusignan as a plausible suspect, Balian could only marvel at how little these newcomers knew of his world. “Can you truly imagine Guy as the mastermind behind a conspiracy like this? He has not the brains, no more than Humphrey de Toron has the ballocks. Besides, your king has cleverly defanged the de Lusignan snakes by giving them Cyprus. Moreover, the Assassins are not routiers; their daggers are not for hire to the highest bidder.”

Balian hesitated and then decided it was best not to hold back, for they would have to know. “That is what the French are saying, though,” he admitted. “Not only are they blaming Richard for Conrad’s death, they are also alleging that he sent four Assassins to France to murder Philippe.” This set off another infuriated outburst, and again he waited until their indignation had run its course. “You’ve not heard all of it,” he warned. “Conrad’s body was not yet cold ere Beauvais and Burgundy demanded that Isabella yield Tyre to them, claiming it in the name of the French king.”

“Christ Almighty!” Henri stared at the other man in horror. “Are you saying that the French now control Tyre?”

“No, rest easy, they do not. Isabella told them that she was willing to turn Tyre over to Philippe—as soon as he returned from France to claim it.”

They stared at him in astonishment and Henri gave a shaken laugh. “Good for her!” After a moment to reflect, he said, “I suppose I ought to be thanking you.”

Balian shook his head. “No, it was none of my doing, for I was not there. They took care to seek her out whilst neither I nor my wife nor Renaud of Sidon were with her, doubtless expecting to easily intimidate her into submission. But much to their surprise, they discovered that even kittens have claws. Having reminded them that Philippe had deserted Conrad and turned his back on God’s kingdom, Isabella declared that she meant to obey her husband’s dying wish—that she surrender Tyre only to Richard or the rightful lord of the land.”

The other men exchanged startled looks. Was Conrad capable of such deathbed generosity, putting the welfare of the kingdom before the sea of bad blood that lay between him and the English king? Had he even been capable of expressing such sentiments? “I’ll not deny that comes as a surprise,” Henri conceded. “You made it sound as if Conrad was well nigh dead by the time he was taken back to the castle, beyond all mortal concerns.”

A smile flickered across Balian’s lips, one of paternal pride. “I daresay Beauvais and Burgundy have their doubts, too. But who is to call the bereaved widow a liar? She said Conrad gave her these secret instructions ere he died, and how are they to prove otherwise? Isabella then shut herself up in the castle and put the garrison on alert.”

Henri suddenly remembered that it was the Bishop of Beauvais who’d wed Isabella to Conrad. Beauvais ought to have remembered that, too, he thought, and felt a surge of sympathy for this beleaguered girl. He’d always been impressed by her beauty, but until now he’d not realized that she had such courage. God knows she’d need it in the dark days to come. She’d already been forced into one unwanted marriage, and it was all too likely to happen again. A young, pregnant woman could not rule a war-torn land on her own. She’d need another husband as soon as possible, need to be wed again with indecent haste, for political necessity always triumphed over propriety. He hoped she’d be given some small say in the matter, although he thought it unlikely. But whom could they choose? Who would be acceptable to all warring factions and yet also be capable of defending the kingdom as stoutly as Conrad would have done?

“What now, Balian?”

The older man shook his head wearily. “We can only deal with one crisis at a time. Right now the greatest danger lies in Tyre, for the people are on the verge of panic and the French will grasp any opportunity to seize control of the city. I want you to come back with me to Tyre, Henri. Mayhap your presence will reassure the citizenry and remind Beauvais and Burgundy that Conrad may be dead but Richard of England is still a force to be reckoned with.”

“When do you want to leave?”

“Now,” Balian said, and that succinct reply, so fraught with urgency, told them more about the poulain baron’s state of mind than a torrent of words could have done. They were teetering upon the edge of the abyss and who would know it better than a man born and bred in Outremer?



TO BALIAN AND HENRI’S mutual frustration, the winds had died down, delaying their voyage for hours. They considered riding the thirty miles to Tyre but by then twilight was approaching and it made more sense to keep waiting for favorable winds, as a ship under sail could cover three times that distance in a single day. They were eventually able to raise anchor that night. The winds continued to be contrary, however, becalming them at the midway point, and so it was almost sunrise before their galley was within sight of Tyre’s formidable walls and soaring towers. The massive iron chain was lowered to allow them entry into the harbor, and they were soon at the wharf by the Sea Gate. The castle was situated on the eastern harbor mole, and Henri’s gaze kept coming back to it; he wondered if Isabella was still abed, if she dreaded each dawning day now as one sure to bring more trouble and grief.

Henri politely declined Balian’s offer of hospitality, not wanting to intrude into a house of mourning, and instead chose to return to the archbishop’s palace, where he’d lodged on his earlier visit. Rather than wait while a servant was sent to Balian’s stable to fetch horses, they decided to walk, glad to be on firm ground after so many hours aboard ship. The city was beginning to stir, people opening their shops, street vendors preparing to start their rounds, windows being flung open and voices echoing on the early-morning air. But there was none of the usual bustle and cheer, and the subdued atmosphere reminded Henri of a town under siege.

The archbishop’s palace was unusual in that it was not situated near the Cathedral of the Holy Cross; instead it was next to the hall of the Genoese commune, so after passing the church of St Mark, they turned west. By now the streets were not as deserted and they soon attracted attention. Suddenly people were flocking around them, bursting out of their shops and houses, cheering and laughing. Henri was not surprised that the despairing citizens of Tyre would embrace Balian as their savior. All knew he’d saved the inhabitants of Jerusalem from Saladin’s wrath after the battle of Ḥaṭṭīn, so it made sense that they’d feel more secure if he was in the city. Their emotional welcome showed Henri just how raw their nerves were, how badly they’d been shaken by Conrad’s murder.

There were so many in the street now that they were unable to make much progress. Glancing at the other man, Henri essayed a small joke. “Since you’re Tyre’s new patron saint, you might try parting the crowd like Moses parted the Red Sea.”

Balian turned to stare at him. “They are not cheering for me, Henri. If Tyre has a new patron saint, it is obviously you.”

Henri started to scoff, but then he listened more closely and, to his astonishment, they were indeed shouting his name. Before he could ponder this unexpected development, a priest broke through the throng, seized his hand, and kissed it fervently. “You are our salvation, my lord count, the answer to our prayers! Tell us you’ll save our city and our kingdom!”

Henri was rarely flustered, but he was now, and he extricated his hand with difficulty from the priest’s frantic grip. As he studied the eager faces of the men and women surrounding them, a memory stirred—Dārūm and the freed prisoners mobbing Richard, acclaiming him as their savior. An alarming suspicion was taking form in the back of his brain even before he heard a man cry out in a loud, booming voice, “Promise us, my lord, promise you’ll wed our queen and be our next king!”

It took them almost an hour to reach the archbishop’s dwelling, fighting their way through crowds every step of the way. Archbishop Joscius hastened out into the courtyard to bid them welcome, and it was only when they’d been ushered inside that Henri could draw an unconstricted breath. His heart twisted with pity for these poor, despairing souls, but he was aware, too, of an instinctive unease, and he told the archbishop that he needed to rest for a few hours ere he went to make his condolence call upon the Lady Isabella. The archbishop was a gracious host even in the face of calamity, and Henri and his squire were soon escorted to one of the best bedchambers in the palace. His need had been for solitude, not sleep, but he’d been awake for fully a day and night, and once Lucas had helped him remove his boots, he stretched out on the bed.

While he hadn’t meant to sleep, he soon slipped into that shadow state between the borders of slumber and wakefulness, and although he would remember none of his dreams, he knew they’d not been pleasant. He had no idea how much time had passed when he opened his eyes to find Lucas bending over him, reporting that the archbishop needed to speak with him as soon as possible.

Henri was still groggy and stumbled to the table, where a basin and towel had been laid out for his use. Splashing his face with cold water, he shrugged when Lucas announced dolefully that he could not find a brush. Henri prided himself upon lacking vanity, although Joanna had once pointed out that only the good-looking could afford to be indifferent to appearance. Remembering his aunt’s astute observation now, he smiled, for she’d been right, of course; he’d been blessed with his share of his grandmother Eleanor’s beauty, and since childhood, he’d known there were almost as many advantages in being pleasing to the eye as there were in being highborn. But he did want to look presentable when he called upon the Lady Isabella and he was attempting to smooth his curly, fair hair with the palm of his hand when another knock sounded on the door.

“Tell them I’ll be down straightaway, Lucas.” A soft cry of surprise from his squire spun him around, his scabbard not yet buckled. The boy stepped aside, hastily making an obeisance as the Archbishop of Tyre moved into the chamber, followed by Balian and at least a dozen others. Henri instantly recognized the undeniably ugly visage and intelligent dark eyes of Renaud Garnier, Lord of Sidon, one of the kingdom’s most powerful barons. Beside him stood two men Henri had met on his prior visit, Aymar de Lairon, whose recent marriage had made him Lord of Caesarea, and Rohard, son of the newly deceased Pagan, Lord of Haifa. Behind them were Ansaldo Bonvicino, Conrad’s chancellor; Atho de Valentia, the citadel’s castellan; and Guglielmo Burone and Bonifacio de Flessio, the most influential members of the local Genoese commune, as well as several bishops and a few men unfamiliar to Henri.

After greeting them, Henri asked warily, “What is so urgent that it could not wait until I came down to the great hall?”

“Our need is more than urgent, my lord count.” Archbishop Joscius had apparently been chosen as their spokesman. Coming forward, he put a hand on Henri’s arm and then said, in the grave, sonorous tones reserved for the pulpit, “We have come to offer you a crown, a bride, and a kingdom.”

Henri took a quick backward step, his eyes narrowing. But it was Balian he addressed. “Is this why you wanted me to come to Tyre? Did you know this would happen?”

Balian was neither disturbed nor defensive. “I did not lie to you, Henri, when I told you why you were needed here. But yes, I did hope you would be acclaimed by the people, and I make no apologies for that. We do not have the luxury of mourning Conrad and I make no apologies for that, either, not when the very survival of our kingdom is at stake.”

“And Isabella does not get to mourn, either? Does she know that you are planning to marry her off within days of her husband’s funeral?”

Balian gave Henri an odd smile, one that managed to convey sadness, sympathy, and an implacable resolve. “She knows,” he said, and Henri shook his head angrily, for anger was the safest of the emotions he was struggling with.

“Why could you not be honest with me, Balian? Why could you not tell me that the lot of you had decided I’d make a satisfactory suitor for Isabella’s hand?”

“Would you have come back if he had?” the archbishop asked. “We needed a chance to talk with you, to make you see that you are not just a ‘satisfactory suitor.’ You are the only one whom we can rally around, the only one deemed worthy by us all. You are a man of courage and common sense, a man of good birth and—”

The archbishop was not often interrupted, but Conrad’s chancellor was growing impatient that they’d not yet gotten to the heart of the matter. “That is all well and good,” Ansaldo Bonvicino said brusquely. “Yes, men respect you, Count Henri, and you’ve proven yourself in battle, so you can be trusted to lead an army. But none of that makes you indispensable. What does is the blood flowing in your veins. You are the nephew of two kings, the one man able to command the support of both the English and the French. You are known to stand high in Richard’s favor, but you’d also be acceptable to the Duke of Burgundy, for you are the son of Philippe’s sister. Even after peace is made with Saladin, we will need the continued support of the other Christian kingdoms, need money and men. And we are much more likely to get it if you are the one ruling over us.”

Not all of them were pleased with Ansaldo’s interference. They would have preferred that the case be made by their urbane, eloquent archbishop. They looked to him now to repair any damage done by the other man’s brash candor, and Joscius was quick to step into the breach.

“I’ll not deny that your kinship to the kings of France and England is important to us. But we’d not seek you out if we did not think you’d make a good king, for we cannot afford another Guy de Lusignan. In you, my lord count, we are confident we will have a ruler able to meet the great challenges that lie ahead. I understand that you did not expect this. None of us did. But God’s Will is not always comprehensible to mortal men. ‘For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face.’ We can only do our best, and for now that means arranging a marriage between you and the Lady Isabella, our queen.” He smiled then, giving Henri a look that was both avuncular and earnest. “In truth, you are being offered a remarkable gift—the Kingdom of Jerusalem and a wife who is highborn, beautiful, and biddable.”

Henry could not deny there was truth in what the archbishop had just said. But at the moment he felt more like a fox run to earth by baying hounds than a man who’d had a “remarkable gift” bestowed upon him. “I will need time to think upon it,” he said, and then he saw a glimmer of light in this dark tunnel. “I could not accept the crown without my uncle’s consent, so I must talk to Richard ere I can give you an answer.”

There was murmuring from some of the men, but the archbishop was wise enough to know Henri could not be coerced or pressured into cooperating. “We can send a message to the English king within the hour.”

“No, I must tell him myself,” Henri insisted, “and I ought to leave straightaway so no time will be lost.”

This was not well received. The jut of Henri’s chin and the taut line of his mouth did not encourage argument, though, and they reluctantly acquiesced, even more reluctantly departed the chamber. Joscius, Balian, and Ansaldo lingered after the others had gone so that each man could deliver one last appeal. The chancellor reminded Henri that most men would thank God fasting for such an opportunity. Balian sought to assure Henri that Isabella was indeed willing to wed him. But it was Joscius’s final comment that would stay with Henri, haunting his peace in the days to come.

“What you decide, my lord count, will matter far beyond the borders of our kingdom. It will affect all of Christendom, for the loss of the Holy Land would inflict a grievous wound upon Christians everywhere. I know you feel overwhelmed at the moment. But if you entreat the Almighty, I am sure He will give you the answers you seek and make His Will known to you.”