Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 32

MAY 1192

Plains of Ramla , Outremer





On May 2, Richard had another of his celebrated narrow escapes. He’d been camped with a small force at La Forbie south of Ascalon and they awoke to find themselves under a surprise dawn assault. Snatching up his sword and shield, Richard charged out of his tent, and he and his knights were able to beat back the attack. Later that day, he sent the Templars to reconnoiter around Dārūm, where they came upon a number of Saracens reaping barley. They took over twenty prisoners and escorted them to Ascalon to assist in the repair of the city walls; both the Templars and Hospitallers relied upon slave labor for building projects. Meanwhile, Richard rode north into the plains of Ramla, where he spent the day chasing off Saracens and fretting why he’d not heard anything yet from Tyre. Common sense told him that Conrad would cooperate now that the kingdom was his. He could not utterly banish a few lingering qualms, though, fearing that the French would try to persuade the marquis to hold aloof, for he was convinced that Burgundy and Beauvais would rather sabotage him than defeat Saladin. He had no doubts whatsoever that Philippe, taking his ease back in Paris, was praying fervently that the war would end in a spectacular failure.

They were only about ten miles from Jaffa, but he decided to pass the night on the plains, and they were setting up camp when telltale puffs of dust were sighted on the horizon. Shading his eyes against the glare of the setting sun, Richard watched as the riders came into view, hoping that this might be the word he’d been awaiting. But the new arrival was even more welcome than a messenger from Tyre. As André dismounted, Richard smiled, more relieved than he’d ever admit that his cousin had safely completed that long and arduous journey to Rome.

A few of his knights had brought down a gazelle, and as the men gathered around their campfires to eat, André shared with Richard what he’d learned at the papal court. The news was not good. On his way back to France, the French king had been spreading stories that Richard was hand in glove with Saladin. In January, he’d met with the Holy Roman Emperor, and from what André had heard, they’d passed much of that meeting maligning Richard. Philippe had also attempted to get the Pope to absolve him of the oath he’d sworn not to attack Richard’s domains while he was in the Holy Land.

“The Pope refused,” André said, “for that was a bit too blatant even for him.”

“‘Even for him’? You think he favors the French?”

“It is not that. He is very elderly, almost as old as God, and has neither the backbone nor the desire to offend powerful rulers like Philippe or Heinrich. But some of his cardinals were outraged that Philippe would even contemplate warring upon a man who’d taken the cross, so Celestine was emboldened to deny Philippe’s petition.” André paused to stab a piece of meat with his knife. “We made for Jaffa since I did not want to chance the harbor at Ascalon, and that’s where I was told you were roaming around out here, adding to your collection of Saracen heads. I also heard that Guy is out and Conrad is in.” Dropping his facetious tone then, he gave Richard a searching look. “The word from England must be truly terrible if you’ve embraced that whoreson in Tyre.”

“It was and is,” Richard admitted. “They probably told you in Jaffa about the prior of Hereford’s news. And two more letters came last week, this time from Will Marshal and the Archbishop of Rouen, both warning me that it may cost me dearly if I tarry in Outremer. . . .” Richard paused, having heard a guard’s shout that riders were coming in. Handing André his plate, he got to his feet. “Mayhap this is Henri’s messenger. If Conrad still balks at joining the army, so help me Christ—” He got no further, having recognized the man on a lathered bay stallion.

Well aware that he was bringing Richard shocking news, Henri had not wanted to hit him with it all at once, and had been mentally rehearsing his account all the way from Tyre. But at sight of his uncle, it was forgotten. Sliding from the saddle, he ran toward Richard, breathlessly blurting out, “Conrad is dead, they are blaming you, and they want me to marry his widow!”



THE TENTS USED on scouting missions were much smaller and Spartan than the spacious pavilions set up back at Ascalon. Richard and Henri sat cross-legged on the blankets that served as the king’s bed, shadows encroaching upon the feeble light cast by a single oil lamp. Richard had been stunned to hear of Conrad’s murder, although at first he’d seen it only in terms of his own need to depart Outremer as soon as possible. He’d taken the news that the French were blaming him much better than Henri had expected, saying dismissively that no one who knew him would believe so outrageous a falsehood. Henri was not as sanguine, for he feared those who did not know Richard could be susceptible to lurid tales of this sort, and his uncle had as many enemies as the Caliph of Baghdad had concubines. But that was a worry for another time; now he could only focus upon his own crisis of conscience, for that was how he saw the Draconian choice being forced upon him.

They’d brought wine and plates of roast venison into the tent; the food remained untouched but they’d not been neglecting the wine. Reaching for his cup, Richard said, “That would be a sight to behold, though—Philippe skulking around Paris, as jumpy as a stray cat, sure Assassins were lurking around every corner. He is just fool enough to believe it.” He regretted indulging in that bit of black humor, though, when he glanced over at Henri’s unhappy face. He’d never seen his nephew, usually so high-spirited and carefree, as distraught as this.

“Well, that is neither here nor there. Obviously we need to talk about this offer of a crown. Do you want to tell me what you think of it, Henri?”

“I’d rather hear what you think first, Uncle.”

“Fair enough. You’d be a good king, Henri, most likely a better one than Conrad. So yes, I would like to see you accept it. But I’d advise against the marriage. Unfortunately, that is not an option open to you, is it? The lady comes with the crown. Even if the poulain lords were desperate enough to agree, any man she later married would be eager to advance a claim to your throne, following in Conrad’s footsteps.” Richard shook his head before saying dryly, “A pity she could not be reconciled with Humphrey de Toron, surely the only soul in all of Outremer who has no interest whatsoever in becoming king.”

Henri knew why he had such misgivings about wedding Isabella. Curious to learn why his uncle harbored misgivings, too, he said, “I confess it surprises me to hear you say this, for Isabella is your cousin.”

“I do not blame the girl for her predicament; none of it is her doing. And how can I not admire her for standing up to Burgundy and Beauvais like that? But my greater loyalty is to you, lad, and I fear such a marriage would be invalid under canon law. The aforementioned Humphrey is alive and well and still her husband in God’s eyes, for that so-called annulment was a farce from first to last. If you wed her, Henri, you risk having your children declared illegitimate, for your marriage to Isabella would be no more valid than Conrad’s.”

“Truthfully, that is not a worry of mine, Uncle, for who would challenge the marriage? The bishops of Outremer supported the annulment and are the ones urging me now to wed Isabella. They are a pragmatic lot, the poulains. But it is more complicated than even you know. Isabella is pregnant.”

“Ah . . . I see. No wonder you are so uncertain. If she gives birth to a son, he’ll inherit the throne. Of course she may have a daughter, in which case any son of yours would take precedence.”

“Are you suggesting I go ahead and roll the dice?” Henri asked, with such a sad smile that Richard felt a stab of pity.

“It is understandable that you might be reluctant to marry the girl under the circumstances. But leave that for now. Let’s talk about the crown. I do not sense any great enthusiasm for that, either. Why not?”

“It would mean lifelong exile, Uncle. Most likely I’d never see my mother again, or my brother and sisters.” Henri gnawed on his lower lip, not sure how candid he could be. But his uncle ought to understand if any man could, for all knew the close bond he had with Eleanor. “I was not yet fifteen when my father died. I assume you know the story? He was seized by the Turks on his way back from the Holy Land, held for ransom, and finally freed after my mother persuaded the emperor of the Greeks to pay it. We were so overjoyed when he finally came home.... But his health had been ravaged by his stay in prison and he died soon afterward. My mother took it very hard, and she said she’d have to rely upon me to be the man in the family, to help her protect my little brother and sisters. If I were not to come back to Champagne, I think it would break her heart. . . .”

Richard was not at his best in discussions like this; he preferred to deal with emotions by ignoring them. He was very fond of his sister, though, and he suspected Henri was right, for Marie was fiercely devoted to the welfare of her children. A thought occurring to him then, he brightened. “Might it not console her to know you now ruled a kingdom?”

Henri gave him another sad smile. “The Counts of Champagne consider themselves the equal of kings, so she’d not see that as much of an elevation.”

No son of the Duchess of Aquitaine could argue with that, but Richard tried. “You may just need some time. My sisters were all sent away when they were very young to wed foreign princes, but they’d been taught that would be their fate and so did not think to question it. For you, it is different, of course. You expected to rule Champagne till the end of your earthly days. But once you’ve come to terms with it, it might be easier . . . ?”

Henri took no comfort in that possibility. Never see his beloved Champagne again? Trade its lush greenwoods and river valleys for this arid, inhospitable land with its searing summers and noxious maladies? Trade the family he loved for a life with an unwilling wife and another man’s child? “I must sound like such a fool,” he mumbled, “whining about having a crown and a beautiful woman forced upon me. Thank you, Uncle, for hearing me out without laughing in my face.”

With that, he started to rise. Richard waved him down again. “We are not done yet, lad. I understand now why the prospect of a kingship brings you so little joy. So let’s talk about Isabella. Why are you so loath to wed her? Is it because of the baby? Do you fear you might not be able to care for another man’s son?”

Henri was grateful for Richard’s blunt speaking. “That is part of it, yes. But it is not just that. Conrad did not care that he had an unhappy, unwilling wife. I do. Mayhap it would not matter so much if we were back in Champagne, but here . . .”

“I thought you said you’d been assured she was willing to wed you?”

“What else are they going to say, Uncle? Tell me she has taken to her bed, weeping, cursing her lot in life? How can she be willing? Christ, this is the second time she’d be wed against her will! For all I know, she still loves Humphrey de Toron.”

“I find that highly unlikely,” Richard said, with unkind candor. “I take it, then, that you have not talked to Isabella yet?”

Henri looked somewhat embarrassed. “No, I insisted upon leaving straightaway, saying I could make no decision until I’d consulted with you. I suppose I should have gone to see her ere I left, but in truth, I did not want to face her. I did not know what to say. . . .”

Neither did Richard. “It seems to me,” he said after a long pause, “that she might well see you as a considerable improvement over Conrad. So . . . you’ve told me why you are reluctant. Tell me now why you would consent.”

“For the same reason you are still here in Outremer, Uncle, even though you now know your own kingdom is at great risk.”

After that, they lapsed into silence, each man preoccupied with thoughts that were none too pleasant. “I have not been much help, have I?” Richard said at last, and Henri gave him his first real smile.

“No, not much,” he agreed. “I do not suppose you’d be willing to forbid me . . . ?” It was a joke, but not entirely. “I am sorry, Henri,” Richard said, with a rueful smile of his own. “No one can make that decision for you.”

“I know. . . .” Henri leaned back so that he was cloaked in shadows. “But you do think I ought to accept it.”

“Yes,” Richard said, “I do.”



TWILIGHT IN THE HOLY LAND never lingered, offering a brief interlude between the dramatic acts put on by daylight and darkness. On this Monday in early May, it unobtrusively slipped onstage after a sunset that had been magnificent even by Outremer standards, spangling the cresting waves in crimson and gilding the occasional cloud in a crown of gold. Dusk soon muted those garish, resplendent colors, a soft lilac haze blurring the outlines of the shore. But by the time Henri’s galley was within sight of Tyre, the sky was shading from dark blue to ebony and he could hear the city’s churches ringing in Compline.

The iron chain had already been stretched across the harbor, but it was lowered with record haste as soon as the ship’s master identified his passengers. Some of Henri’s knights nudged one another and grinned, already anticipating the royal privileges that their lord would soon be enjoying. Others were subdued and silent, those already in mourning for their lost homeland. Henri meant to offer them all a choice, just as Richard had done, but he knew a strong sense of duty would compel many of them to stay with him. It was a two-edged sword, able to cut both ways—duty.

Morgan had joined him in the bow, and they watched together as a star streaked toward the distant horizon. “If you died tomorrow,” Morgan said in a low voice, “they would still find a husband for the Lady Isabella.”

“And I should be happy about that because . . . ?”

“I was just reminding you that being the ‘ideal choice’ and being the ‘only choice’ are not one and the same.”

“I know . . . but I cannot disappoint Richard and God, too. Mayhap one of them, but both?” Henri glanced at the Welshman, a smile coming and going as fast as that shooting star, and his wan attempt at humor brought an unexpected lump to Morgan’s throat.

Henri sent a messenger to the archbishop to request horses, for he hoped to avoid a repetition of that earlier mob scene. Curfew had not yet rung and as word spread of his arrival, crowds began to gather. But he was not kept waiting long. Many torchbearing riders soon came into view, and Henri resigned himself to a royal procession through streets thronged with cheering citizens. As they approached the archbishop’s palace, Henri could not help looking toward a nearby narrow lane, deep in shadows now, for it was there that Conrad had met the untimely death that would change the lives of so many.

Archbishop Joscius was waiting to welcome him, as were Balian, Renaud of Sidon, and the chancellor, Ansaldo. Henri had expected as much, sure the archbishop would send word to them even before he dispatched an escort to the harbor. At first Joscius was preoccupied with playing the host, offering to have a meal prepared for Henri and his men. Henri politely declined for himself, but accepted on behalf of his travel companions. When Joscius began to make the usual courteous queries about Henri’s voyage, Ansaldo could contain himself no longer and demanded eagerly, “Well? Did you see the English king?”

Henri hadn’t the heart to drag out the suspense and told them then what they were so desperate to hear, that Richard had given his consent. They were too seasoned as diplomats to show the intensity of their relief. It was more subtle, an easing of a rigid posture, a soft expulsion of a held-in breath—except for Ansaldo, who said fervently and forthrightly, “Thank Almighty God!” That broke the tension and Henri soon found himself surrounded, knights, canons, priests, and servants all jockeying to get closer, wanting to share in so significant a moment in the history of their kingdom.

Henri had to acknowledge their congratulations, well wishes, and expressions of gratitude, and it was a while before he could request that the archbishop send a messenger to the castle. “Please convey my respects to the marquise and ask if I may call upon her on the morrow.” Feeling then that he’d done his duty, he confessed to fatigue from his journey and was escorted up to his bedchamber by the archbishop himself.

Privacy was always at a premium in their world and he realized that it was an even rarer luxury for a king. This night might be the last time he would be free of constant scrutiny, able to be alone with his thoughts. After sending his squire down to the hall to eat, he sat on the edge of the bed. It was too early to sleep and he could not very well ask the archbishop to lend him a book when he’d just pleaded exhaustion. Finally, inspiration struck and he opened the door quietly, following the stairwell up to the roof.

As he expected, it was laid out like a sky-top garden, with benches, large flowering planters, and even a trellised arbor to provide shade from the sun. Sitting on a bench, he gazed up at the sky. The moon was in its last quarter and the roof was bathed in a silvery glow. The Holy Land seemed to have more than its share of stars, those remote, pale lights “offering mankind our only earthly glimpse of infinity.” The thought wasn’t Henri’s, but the musings of a childhood tutor. He hadn’t thought of Master Roland in years, but his memories of Champagne were close to the surface tonight.

He soon rose and began to pace. His eye was caught by a flash of color, and when he squinted, he could make out the triangular shape of a yellow sail. For a time he watched that distant vessel, speculating upon its destination. Was it heading for Cyprus and Guy de Lusignan’s new kingdom? Or the fabled city of Constantinople ? Mayhap even France? Two months from now, God willing, it could be dropping anchor in the harbor at Marseille. He was trying to remember how many miles lay between Marseille and his capital city of Troyes when the door banged behind him.

“My lord count, we were so worried! We could not imagine where you’d gone.” The man hastening toward him was vaguely familiar and, after a moment, Henri recognized Archbishop Joscius’s steward. Henri’s normally equable temper had begun to fray around the edges in the past week and he opened his mouth to send the steward away. He wasn’t given the chance, though. “I am so sorry to disturb you, my lord, but you have a visitor!”

Henri’s brows rose. “At this hour? Say that I’ve retired for the night and suggest he come back on the morrow.”

“But . . . but my lord, it is the queen!”

Henri said a very rude word under his breath, for the last person he wanted to see tonight was Balian’s strong-willed wife. It was nigh on twenty years since King Almaric’s death had left Maria Comnena a young widow, but Henri thought she remained convinced her handsome dark head was still graced with a crown. His mouth tightened and he started to say that his instructions stood. He remembered just in time that Maria would soon be his mother-in-law. “I will, of course, see Queen Maria,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Tell her that—”

“No, my lord, it is the Lady Isabella!”

The steward’s consternation would have been comical under other circumstances ; it was obvious he thought Isabella had committed a serious breach of etiquette. Henri had hoped to put off this meeting until the morning, but he was not truly surprised that his plans had gone awry; that seemed to be the developing pattern of his new life in Outremer. “Tell the marquise that I will be down to the hall straightaway.”

“There is no need for that.” This voice came from the stairwell, and as both men spun around, Isabella stepped from the shadows onto the roof. Henri was the first to recover and came forward swiftly, kissing her hand with his most courtly flourish. She murmured, “My lord count,” and then dismissed the steward with a smile. He made a sound like a strangled squawk and Henri realized he was appalled that they’d be alone and unchaperoned. Just then, another form emerged from the stairwell, and the steward’s shoulders sagged in relief at the sight of Isabella’s lady-in-waiting. Reassured that the proprieties would be observed, he bowed and hastily withdrew. Isabella introduced her companion as the Lady Emma, saying fondly that Emma had been with her since her childhood. Emma reminded Henri of Dame Beatrix, his aunt Joanna’s mainstay, ever poised to guard her lamb from prowling wolves, and when he smiled at her, he was faintly amused by her cool response. She would not easily be won over; sheepdogs never were. He was expecting her to hover protectively by Isabella’s side, but when Isabella suggested they sit upon a marble bench, Emma took a seat some distance away.

Isabella seemed to sense his surprise. “I trust Emma with all my secrets, with my very life,” she said matter-of-factly, and he realized she was reassuring him that Emma would be telling no tales or relating choice gossip about anything she saw or heard on the roof this night.

“You are fortunate to have such a faithful confidante,” he said, thinking that at least she’d had one ally in Conrad’s household. He’d occasionally felt a few conscience pangs for the part he’d played in bringing that marriage about. He’d been convinced by Balian and Conrad that it was a matter of Outremer’s very survival, but he was still chivalrous enough to feel sympathy for that eighteen-year-old girl, tearfully insisting that she loved her husband, did not want to be separated from him. He’d been pleased, then, by what he’d seen when he’d dined with Conrad and Isabella before his departure for Acre. They’d appeared comfortable together, and he’d noticed no overt signs of stress in Isabella’s behavior toward her husband. Even though it had gotten off to the worst possible start, he thought their marriage seemed no worse than many and probably better than some; at least he’d hoped so. In their world, women were always the ones to make the concessions, and he supposed that was true even for queens.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I ought to have seen you ere I left to consult my uncle. That was not only bad manners, it was cowardice.”

“I was not offended,” she assured him, “truly I was not. Like me, you’d been tossed without warning into deep water and you were struggling to stay afloat.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and then said, “Mayhap I ought to be apologizing to you? For coming to you like this, I mean. No one wanted me to do it. Not my mother, nor Balian, for certes not the archbishop. When I was announced, he looked dumbstruck, and even tried to convince me to return to the castle, saying it was not proper for me to seek you out like this. I think it makes them nervous when I show that I have a mind of my own,” she said with a smile, and Henri caught his breath.

When she’d emerged from the stairwell, his first impression was one of fragility and loss. She was clad in a plain, dark-blue gown with a high neckline, wearing no jewelry but her wedding band, her hair covered by a simple linen wimple. Her skirts hid any evidence of pregnancy, for she was still in the early stages; Henri was intensely aware that she was with child, though, and that made her seem even more vulnerable in his eyes. But then she’d smiled, a bewitching, luminous smile that gave him a glimpse of the young woman beneath the somber widow’s garb, and suddenly he saw her not as a tragic figure, not as his fellow victim in a bizarre twist of fate, but as a very desirable bedmate.

“I am glad you came,” he said, with enough sincerity to bring a faint flush to her cheeks.

“I had to . . . Henri. I know you do not want to stay in Outremer.” When he started to speak, she stopped him with a light touch of her hand. “I understand, for this is my home, not yours. And I also understand your reluctance to wed me. How could you not have misgivings about such a marriage—a reluctant wife carrying another man’s child, not the best of beginnings.”

Her lashes swept down for a moment, and then she raised her head and met his eyes without artifice or coquetry. “I cannot ease your yearning for Champagne. But at least I can ease your mind about me. I am not being compelled to marry you, Henri. I will not deny that I am being urged to it on all sides. But I am in a stronger position than I was when they insisted I wed Conrad. The laws of our realm offer me protection against an unwanted marriage, for the Assizes provide that a widow may not be forced to wed for a year after her husband’s death. So at the risk of being shamelessly bold, you need not fear that I’ll be an unwilling wife.”

Henri very much wanted to believe her. “I know you have a strong sense of duty. You proved that when you agreed to marry Conrad.”

“I am so glad you understand that!” She leaned toward him, that enchanting smile flashing again. For all that she’d been twice wed, she still seemed like an innocent, and he felt sure she did not realize the impact her physical proximity was having upon him. “Not everyone does,” she confided. “I loved Humphrey, did not want to leave him. But I was not browbeaten into agreeing to marry Conrad as so many think. Yes, I was greatly pressured by Conrad, by my mother, my stepfather, Archbishop Joscius, almost all of our lords and bishops, even the papal legate. I did not yield, though, until I realized that this was the only way to strip Guy de Lusignan of his kingship.”

“I think you showed commendable courage . . . Isabella.”

“I never expected to be queen. Why would I, for my sister had two children already and was still young enough to have many more. I was content with Humphrey and the life we had together. But the deaths of Sybilla and her daughters changed everything.”

“Just as Conrad’s death has.”

She nodded. “At least he died happy. He so desperately wanted to be king. I’m glad he had those few days. . . .”

Henri was surprised both by the sentiment and by the ironic undertones, coming from a girl with the face of an angel. “Conrad . . . you and he were able to . . .” He did not know how to ask so probing and personal a question, but he needed to know. If she’d been maltreated, it might well affect their own marriage.

“Yes,” she said simply. “When I agreed to marry him, I realized that I could not do so with hatred in my heart. It was not always easy, not at first. But I did my best to be a dutiful wife and if I could not give him more, I do not think he missed it. He had what he wanted most, a claim to the crown. It may be that our child might have brought us closer together. He very much wanted a son.”

Now that they’d come to it—the baby in her womb that was both a blessing and a curse—he did not know what to say, not sure how honest he dared to be. How much easier it would have been if only she’d not been pregnant!

Isabella proved to be the braver of the two. “We need to talk about it, Henri, about the fact that I am with child, Conrad’s child.” Instinctively her hand moved to her abdomen, a protective gesture that caught at his heart. “The welfare of my baby matters even more to me than the welfare of my kingdom. Not many men would be willing or able to accept another man’s child. I know it can be done, though, for Balian did it. I was just five when he married my mother and he always treated me as if I were his flesh-and-blood, even after they had their own children. Conrad could never have done that, not when a crown was at stake. But I think . . . I hope you can, Henri. The others chose you for your courage and royal blood, your kinship to the kings of England and France. What matters more to me is that you are honorable and have a good heart.”

They were very close now on the bench. Her eyes looked almost black against the whiteness of her face, and he found himself thinking that a man could drown in their dark depths. “Isabella . . .”

“I know you think we are both trapped,” she said softly, “and I suppose we are. But if you wed me, I promise you this—that I’ll do all in my power to make sure you never regret it.”

He reached for her hand, entwining their fingers together. How fearful she must have been and how brave she was now, putting her pride aside to offer herself to him like this. He could see the pulse throbbing in her slender throat, and suddenly knew he could not bear to think of her wedding another man, one who might not treat her and her baby with the kindness, tenderness, and respect they deserved.

“I will be honored to wed you, Isabella,” he said, and when she lifted her face, heartbreakingly lovely in the moonlight, he kissed her soft cheek, her closed eyelids, and then those full red lips. He’d meant it to be a pledge, a reassurance, but her mouth was so sweet and her body flowed into his arms so naturally that he forgot she was so newly widowed, forgot she was pregnant, forgot all but the passion that blazed up between them with an intensity, a hunger he’d not experienced before. When he finally ended the embrace, he saw that she was as shaken as he was. Her dark eyes were starlit, her breathing uneven. “This is not the destiny either of us expected,” he said. “But it is one we can forge together.”



ON TUESDAY, MAY 5, 1192, Henri and Isabella were wed in Tyre by a French bishop, a week to the day after Conrad of Montferrat’s assassination. Henri at once set about mustering an armed force to assist Richard in an assault upon Dārūm Castle. When he and the Duke of Burgundy moved the army to Acre, the chronicler of the Itinerarium reported that “The count took his wife with him, as he could not yet bear to be parted from her.”