Lionheart (52 page)

Next they went to inspect the huge belfry that was being constructed for an assault upon the walls. Richard had spared no expense and it would be over one hundred feet high when completed, with three stories, inner stairs, and wheels, covered in ox hides soaked in vinegar as protection against fire arrows. Eventually, Richard drew Henri aside for a private word, as private as any exchange could be in the midst of thousands.

“Tell me about Saladin,” he said, and Henri obliged, confirming the general view that the sultan was a man of honor even if he was an infidel. To prove it, he recounted one of the best-known stories of Saladin’s gallantry. The Lord of Nablus, Balian d’Ibelin, had been one of the few to escape capture at Ḥaṭṭīn, having fought his way free. His wife and children had taken refuge in Jerusalem, and when Saladin lay siege to the Holy City, Balian asked him for a safe conduct so he could rescue his family. Saladin agreed, upon condition that he passed but one night in the city. Upon Balian’s arrival, though, he was entreated by the desperate townspeople to take command, for there were no lords of rank left. Balian felt honor bound to stay and help defend Jerusalem, but he was ashamed of breaking his oath and wrote to Saladin, explaining the circumstances. Saladin not only forgave Balian, he dispatched men to escort Balian’s wife, children, and household to safety at Tyre.

Henri liked Balian very much and was tempted to praise his friend’s success in saving the citizens, for he’d been able to convince Saladin to spare them from the sort of bloody massacre that had occurred when the crusaders had first taken Jerusalem in 1099. But Balian was an ally of Conrad of Montferrat, and thus already suspect in Richard’s eyes. Henri chose, instead, to relate a more recent occurrence.

“Our defensive ditches have so far kept Saladin’s army out, but not thieves, I am sorry to say. An unguarded tent is an irresistible target, and about a fortnight ago, a woman’s infant was stolen. She was distraught, and came to us, weeping. We could do little, of course, so I told her that Saladin had a merciful heart and she had our permission to seek his help. I had a dragoman escort her to the Saracen lines, where he translated her plea. Mayhap moved by her tears, they took her to see Saladin. After hearing her story, he sent men to search for the baby. Upon learning that it had been sold in a local market, he ordered the purchase price to be paid to the buyer and he himself handed the child over to its mother, then saw that she was safely returned to our camp.”

“He is indeed a worthy foe,” Richard said approvingly. They’d paused near the belfry, their companions following at a discreet distance at the king’s orders. Raising his hand to keep them out of hearing range, Richard reached over and grasped his nephew’s arm. “I want to get a message to Saladin, Henri. Can you arrange that?”

He was pleased when Henri merely nodded, showing no surprise, for Philippe had reacted as if he’d proposed a colloquy with the Devil himself. “Good. Now can you recommend an interpreter? Someone I can wholeheartedly trust?”

“Well, Balian speaks some Arabic, but I suppose his friendship with Conrad disqualifies him,” Henri said wryly. “I would suggest that you use Humphrey de Toron, for his Arabic is excellent, and you need have no fears about his loyalties. I daresay he loathes Conrad even more than Guy does.”

“He seemed rather soft-hearted to me and weak-willed, too, for what man would let his wife be stolen away with such ease? But if you trust him, Henri, then that is enough for me. Send him to Saladin on the morrow with this message—that I seek a face-to-face meeting with him.”

“I will make the arrangements as soon as possible. I assume you want to take the measure of the sultan for yourself?”

“Of course. To judge a man’s true nature, you need to look him in the eye. I admit I am curious, too, for there are almost as many legends circulating about Saladin as there are about me,” Richard said with a grin. “And who knows? Mayhap we could reach an understanding. If he is willing to compromise, we could get what we seek without a war.”

Henri was startled. “You’d bargain with Saladin?”

“Why not? You yourself said he is a man of honor, so we ought to be able to trust him to hold to the terms of a peace treaty.”

“I am sure he would. But many men in this camp would think the mere suggestion of negotiations with the Saracens is rank heresy.”

“But not you,” Richard murmured, and when Henri echoed, “No, not me,” he surprised the younger man by saying, “A pity you are my nephew and not my brother, lad. I’d worry far less about England if you and not Johnny or Arthur were my heir.”

“Well, mayhap you could adopt me,” Henri jested, using humor to conceal his pride at being paid such a great compliment. “Uncle . . . I maybe borrowing trouble, and God knows we have more than enough of that already. But whenever I’ve spoken with Philippe in the past week, he seems more concerned about the future of Flanders than he does about the recovery of Jerusalem. Do you think that he would dare to abandon the siege and return to France so he could claim Philip’s domains?”

Now it was Richard’s turn to be startled. “No,” he said, after a long pause. “Philippe took the cross, swore a solemn oath to reclaim the Holy City. Not even he would betray such a sacred vow.”

While Henri was relieved by Richard’s certainty, he realized that he was not utterly convinced. “I am sure you are right,” he said, solemnly and not entirely truthfully, adding a “God willing” under his breath, for the French king’s defection could deal a death blow to their chances of regaining control of the Holy Land.

PHILIPPE INSISTED UPON launching an attack upon Acre on June 14. Not only were his men repulsed, Salah al-Dīn’s brother Malik al-’A
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dil, called Saphadin by the crusaders, almost succeeded in breaking through their defensive fortifications. They were driven back with heavy losses on both sides. Guy de Lusignan’s brother Joffroi enhanced his reputation as a “man of prowess” by leading a counterattack upon the Saracens, killing ten men with his own hand. Three days later, Philippe’s siege engines were destroyed by the Acre garrison’s Greek fire. The trebuchets had been poorly guarded, many of the crew having defected to Richard, and Philippe blamed Richard for the loss. He was so enraged that he made another attack the next day, but this one, too, ended in failure. Camp morale was boosted, however, by the arrival of the rest of Richard’s ships, bringing reinforcements and siege engines, and a grudging peace was patched up between the French and English kings.

PHILIPPE WAS NOT the only one unhappy to be at the siege. Berengaria was utterly miserable. At first it had been a great relief to escape the close confines of their ship, to be back on firm ground again. Separate tents were set up for Joanna and her women, for Berengaria and her household, for Sophia, Anna, and their attendants, and they settled in to await Richard’s arrival. These round pavilions were very spacious compared to the canvas tent that had sheltered them on their buss; they were decorated in bright stripes of red and gold, with costly carpets, cushions, and screens that gave an illusion of privacy. After their accommodations on the buss, they were a vast improvement, but a tent was still a comedown for a young woman who’d grown up in palaces. And beyond the fragile boundaries of her pavilion, reality had never been so raw, so immediate.

As soon as she stepped outside, she was assailed by noise, by dust, stifling heat, swarming insects, and the fetid odors wafting from the latrine pits. She knew, of course, of those women who bartered their bodies for coins or bread, but she’d never expected to see their sinning at such close range. It seemed to her that the camp was filled with whores, some of them surprisingly pretty. Drunkards, beggars, men loud and quarrelsome—they’d all been part of life in Navarre, but she’d been insulated by stone walls, by her father’s knights, by her privileged status. There were no such protective barriers at the siege of Acre.

She had only to emerge from her tent to become the cynosure of all eyes. And while she was accustomed to the attention guaranteed by her high birth, this was somehow different. All were avidly curious about the Lionheart’s Spanish bride, and if not for the efforts of her household knights, she’d have been in danger of being mobbed, for people were eager to see her close at hand, to admire her fine silk gowns and soft skin untouched by the hot Outremer sun, to ask for alms. While they seemed friendly enough, she still felt as if she were on constant display, like the royal cheetahs paraded on jeweled leashes in Joanna’s stories about life in the palaces of Palermo.

Her ladies were even more discontented, complaining constantly that the soldiers were too familiar, that they could not sleep at night because of the bombardment of the trebuchets, that the camp was infested with lice and fleas and terrifying, huge, hairy spiders. While Berengaria soon grew tired of their whining, she could not blame them for their misery. They’d never expected to hear the screams of wounded or dying men, the wailing of their grieving wives and bedmates. Not a day passed without sad processions to the cemetery. Soldiers were struck by rocks launched from Saracen trebuchets and pierced by the arrows of Saracen bowmen. They died in vain assaults upon the city walls, coughed up blood in the hospital tents, burned with fever that blistered their skin and lips, crying out to God or absent loved ones as their lives ebbed away, far from the hallowed walls of Jerusalem. Nor were women and children spared when Death stalked the siege. They, too, died of the bloody flux and tertian fevers and Arnaldia, and Berengaria had seen the bodies of a woman and infant unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, crushed under plummeting stones hurled by the enemy’s trebuchets. While she knew that her life was in God’s Hands, she was beginning to realize how much Richard had put her safety at risk by taking her with him to the Holy Land.

She’d hoped that his presence would banish some of her qualms, for his supreme self-confidence was contagious. But that had not proved to be the case, mainly because she’d seen so little of him. She’d known that they’d not be lodged in the same tent; even in palaces, kings and queens had their own quarters. She’d expected, though, that he’d want to share her bed as often as possible; they were newlyweds, after all. And she’d hoped that they could have evening meals together, establishing a small island of calm midst the turmoil of this alien sea. Yet in the sixteen days since Richard’s arrival at Acre, she’d found herself relegated to the perimeters of his world, treated as an afterthought. He’d come occasionally to her bed, but rarely met her for meals, and usually seemed distracted, focused upon the siege to the exclusion of all else, including his lonely young bride.

She’d tried to be understanding, telling herself that her needs were unimportant when compared to the fate of Acre and Jerusalem. Then he’d stopped coming to her tent at all; it had been four days now without even a message from him. She’d have suffered in silence. That was not her sister-in-law’s way, though, and Joanna had insisted that they go to him if he would not come to her, pointing out that she was his wife and queen, not a concubine to be ignored with impunity. Berengaria had allowed herself to be persuaded, for Joanna could be as forceful as her brother, albeit with more finesse.

A glorious sunset was flaming into the sea, and the sky seemed streaked with fire as they made their way toward Richard’s pavilion. They were welcomed enthusiastically by his household knights, who were happy to put aside their worries and flirt with Joanna and Berengaria’s ladies; despite her youth, Anna had quickly become a camp favorite. But Richard was obviously not pleased to see them, his greeting so terse that Morgan took it upon himself to confide quietly to Berengaria that the king had gotten bad news that day. There had been a rebellion in Cyprus, led by a monk claiming to be kin to Isaac Comnenus. It had been quickly put down, the would-be emperor summarily hanged, but that it had happened at all was troubling, evidence that their occupation of the island would not be as easy as first thought. And this afternoon a message had arrived from Saladin, refusing Richard’s request for a personal meeting.