Lionheart (59 page)

“I’ve been told they ride as if they’ve been born in the saddle.”

“You’ve been told true, my lord king. They are fine horsemen and the horses they breed are as good as any to be found in Christendom. Their steeds are as agile as cats, as swift as greyhounds, and because their armor is lighter than ours, they can outrun us with infuriating ease.”

Richard nodded, remembering how Isaac Comnenus had outdistanced them again and again, invincible as long as he was mounted on Fauvel. “If they are not as well armored as our knights, then we’d have the advantage in hand-to-hand combat. So the key to victory would be to hold back until we are sure we can fully engage them.”

“Just so,” Balian agreed. “But few commanders can exert that sort of control over their men. Even such disciplined warriors as the Templars have been known to break ranks under constant attack by mocking foes who hover just out of range, such tempting targets that they can no longer resist hitting back.”

“Tell us more about their armor,” Richard directed, and Balian did, thinking that at least this arrogant English king was willing to learn about his foes; all too often, newcomers to Outremer assumed that, just as theirs was the one true religion, so, too, were they inherently superior to infidel Turks on the battlefield.

They stopped to eat when Garnier de Nablus arrived, and then began to study a map of the route Richard intended to take once they rode out of Acre, along the coast south toward Jaffa. Jacques d’Avesnes had been in Outremer long enough to have heard a number of legends and folklore, and when Baldwin de Bethune asked about a river marked on the map, Jacques was only too happy to share one of the more lurid stories. It was called “Crocodile River,” he declared, in memory of two knights attacked and eaten by crocodiles when they’d been foolhardy enough to go swimming. The joke was on Jacques, though, for what he’d assumed to be a myth turned out to be true; Balian and Guy confirmed the origin of the name and that there were indeed such creatures lurking in that river. None of Richard’s men had ever seen a crocodile, and after hearing a description of these fearsome beasts, they were quite content to keep it that way. Only Richard was intrigued, wondering how one could be killed, and his friends exchanged glances, hoping they’d not be asked to accompany him on his crocodile hunt.

They moved on to a discussion of the man who stood between them and the recovery of Jerusalem. Balian knew the sultan far better than anyone Richard had met until now, and he pelted the
poulain
lord with questions. Was it true Saladin was a Kurd? That he had more than a dozen sons? That Saladin was not really his name? Balian was quite willing to satisfy his curiosity, for he was always pleased when European Franks showed themselves open to learning about his homeland. Saladin was indeed a Kurd, not a Turk or Arab, he confirmed, and Kurdish was his native tongue, although he was also fluent in Arabic. He might well have that many sons, for Muslims had multiple wives and
harims
as well. And Saladin was a misnomer, referring to one of his
laqabs
, or titles, Salah al-Dīn, which translated as “Righteousness of the Faith.” In the same way, the Franks called his brother “Saphadin,” a contraction of one of his titles. Saif al-Dīn or “The Sword of Religion.” But the Saracens knew him as al-Malik al-’A
^-
dil. “Their
isms
or given names, what we’d call their ‘Christian names,’” he said with a grin, “are Yusef and Ahmad. So the greatest of all Muslim rulers bears the biblical name of Joseph!”

Richard and his friends were astonished that Saladin shared the name of a revered Christian saint. But when Balian began to explain that Muslims did not consider Christians to be outright pagans, calling them and Jews “People of the Book,” Guy could keep quiet no longer. He’d been fuming in silence, deeply offended by Balian’s presence in their midst, and now he gave an exclamation of mock surprise, marveling that Balian seemed so knowledgeable about such an accursed religion. “Your good friend Renaud of Sidon speaks Arabic well enough to read that blasphemous book of theirs and men have long suspected him of secretly converting to their vile faith. I wonder now if you, too, were tempted to apostasy during your many visits to Saladin’s court.”

The other men tensed, for such an insult could well have led to killing back in their homelands. Balian merely smiled. “How kind of you to worry about the state of my soul, my lord Guy. No, I have not embraced Islam. And whilst I have indeed often visited the sultan’s court, it was always as an emissary, as when I was seeking to save Jerusalem after your defeat at Ḥaṭṭīn. I must admit that Saladin has never failed to show me great hospitality, as he does to all his foes. He told me that when you were brought to his tent after the battle, he offered you a cool drink and felt the need to reassure you that you would not be harmed, saying that ‘Kings do not kill other kings’ since you were so obviously distraught and in fear of your life.”

That was a memory still haunting Guy’s sleep. He jumped to his feet, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. But Richard had anticipated that, for Guy’s was an easy face to read, and he clamped his hand down on the other man’s wrist before he could unsheathe his blade. “I would take it greatly amiss if you were to shed blood in front of my wife and sister,” he said, sounding like a host rebuking a guest for a lapse of manners; his fingers, though, were digging into Guy’s flesh with enough force to leave bruises.

Balian was on his feet now, too. “I think it is time I departed, my lord,” he was saying calmly, when a knight burst into the hall, calling out for the king.

Recognizing one of the Préaux brothers, Richard gestured for him to approach. “What have you come to tell me, Guilhem?”

Guilhem knelt, struggling to catch his breath. “My liege, the French king is gone! He and the marquis sailed for Tyre within the hour.”

Good riddance
, Richard thought, but he contented himself with saying only that the French king’s departure was hardly a surprise. “I did not know he’d planned to leave today, but I suppose he decided to take advantage of the Arsuf winds.”

“Sire, you do not understand,” Guilhem burst out, his the unhappiness of a man forced to bring his king very unwelcome tidings. “He took with him the most important of his Saracen hostages!”

“He did what?” Richard drew an audible breath, then whirled to face Balian. “Did you know about this treachery?” Balian swore he had not and Richard grudgingly gave him the benefit of the doubt. If the man had known about this latest double-dealing by Philippe and Conrad, he’d hardly have come willingly to the citadel, after all. By now others were clustering around them, all talking at once, but the men parted to allow Richard’s queen to pass through.

“My lord husband, what is wrong?”

“Philippe has stolen some of the hostages.” Seeing, then, that she did not understand the significance of the French king’s action, he added, “I have to be able to turn over all of the hostages to Saladin upon payment of the ransom. I cannot very well do that if they are thirty miles up the coast at Tyre.”

Berengaria was loath to believe that a Christian king would deliberately sabotage their pact with Saladin, even one as untrustworthy as Philippe. “Why would he do that, Richard?” she asked softly. Few people had ever awakened his protective instincts, but in the face of such innocence, he found himself wanting to shield her from the wickedness of the world and he made an effort to master his fury, saying that it was doubtless a misunderstanding of some sort.

It was obvious to Berengaria that this was far more serious than a mere “misunderstanding,” but she realized that Richard was trying to spare her worry and so she acted as though she believed him. By now Joanna had joined them, and as soon as she was alone with her sister-in-law, she said quietly, “This was done with malice and evil intent, was it not?”

Joanna nodded grimly. “Philippe’s parting gift to Richard—a well-placed dagger in the back.”

PHILIPPE STAYED IN TYRE only two days and then sailed for home, leaving the hostages in Conrad’s custody. Midst all the turmoil over the French king’s repudiation of his crusader’s vows, few noticed when the Duke of Austria also sailed for Tyre. Unlike Philippe, Leopold had been a fervent crusader; this was his second visit to the Holy Land. But now he turned his back upon Outremer and returned to his own lands, bearing a very bitter grievance.

CHAPTER 24

AUGUST 1191

The Citadel, Acre

Richard ran his hand lightly over the stallion’s withers and back, smiling when Fauvel snorted. “You want to run,I know. Mayhap later,” he promised, reaching for a curry comb. The horse’s coat shone even in the subdued lighting of the stable, shot through with chestnut highlights. It was an outrage to think of Isaac Comnenus astride this magnificent animal. “Of course it could have been worse,” he assured the destrier, “for at least Isaac could ride. What if you’d belonged to the French king? Not that he’d have ever had the ballocks to mount you.”

“Malik Ric?”

He swung around, startled, for he’d not heard those soft footsteps in the straw. He liked Anna, admiring the girl’s spirit, and he gave her a smile over his shoulder as he began to comb out Fauvel’s mane. She overturned an empty water bucket, perching on it as if it were a throne. “Why not let a groom do that?”

“When I was not much younger than you, lass, I asked a knight named William Marshal that very question, and he told me a man ought to know how to take care of what was his. I suppose it stuck with me.” After a comfortable silence, he confided, “Also, it helps to get him familiar with my scent, and takes my mind off my troubles.”

“What troubles?”

“The missing hostages, for one. I sent the Bishop of Salisbury and the Count of Dreux to Tyre to bring them back to Acre, but they’ve not returned yet. Negotiations with Saladin, for another. He has been harder to pin down than a river eel,” he added darkly, for the delay in satisfying the terms of the surrender was sowing more and more suspicions in his mind. Setting the comb aside, he looked around for his hoof pick. Finding it on a nearby bench, he turned back toward Fauvel, only to halt in horror, for Anna was no longer sitting at a safe distance; she was in the stall now with the stallion, a battlefield destrier bred for his fiery temperament.

“Anna, do not make any sudden moves. Slowly back out of the stall.”

She looked astonished, and then amused. “No danger! Fauvel . . . he knows me,” she insisted, and held out her hand. The horse’s nostrils quivered and then he plucked the lump of crystallized sugar from her palm, as delicately as a pet dog accepting a treat from a doting mistress.

Richard exhaled a deep breath, for he of all men knew the damage a destrier could inflict upon human flesh and bones. “Do not push your luck, lass,” he warned, torn between anger and relief. “Stallions are as unpredictable as women. I’d rather not have to tell my wife and sister that you were trampled into the dust because of my carelessness.”

The expression on her face indicated she was clearly humoring him. But after giving Fauvel one last pat, she slipped out of the stall. Taking her place, Richard saw that she’d untied the stallion’s halter and he resecured it, swearing under his breath. It was only when she giggled that he realized she’d understood his cursing. “Your French seems to have improved dramatically since we left Cyprus, Anna.”

She smiled impishly. “I learn French long ago, when my brother and I are hostages for my papa in Antioch. But after we are set free, he wants us to speak only Greek, so I forget a lot. . . . It comes back now I hear it all the time.”

Richard busied himself inspecting Fauvel’s legs. When the stallion raised his hoof upon command, he pried manure from the frog with his pick, looking for any cracks or signs of injury. Joanna had told him that Anna occasionally talked about her mother, who’d died when she was six, and her brother, who’d not long survived their arrival on Cyprus, but she never spoke of her father. Richard had no desire whatsoever to discuss Isaac with her. Yet the image of her sneaking into the stables to give treats to her father’s stallion was undeniably a poignant one. He supposed he could let her visit Isaac at Margat Castle if it meant so much to her. It would be safe enough to sail up the coast now that Saladin’s fleet had been captured at Acre. “Do you miss your father, Anna?” he asked at last, hoping this was not a kindness he’d regret.

“No.”

The finality of that answer took him by surprise. He made no comment and, after some moments, she said, “My papa . . . he is good to me. But he is not good to my mama, to Sophia, to others. His anger . . . it scare me sometimes. . . .”

Richard could well imagine it did. What was it Sophia had said at Kyrenia . . . that Anna had not had “an easy life”? His silence was a sympathetic one, but she misread it. “
Malik Ric
. . . you think I am not a . . . a dutiful daughter?”

The incongruity of this conversation was beginning to amuse him. “I’d be the last man in Christendom to lecture you about filial duty, Anna. Ask Joanna sometime about my father and me. As far back as I can remember, we were like flint and tinder.”

Pleased that he was not disapproving, she eagerly obeyed when he asked her to hand him a sponge, and watched in fascination as he cleaned around Fauvel’s ears and muzzle, for she could not imagine Isaac ever grooming his own horse. “May I ask you,
Malik Ric
? They say you lead your men south. Why not toward Jerusalem?”

“It is too dangerous to head inland from Acre, lass, and too long, more than one hundred fifty miles through the hills of Ephraim. If we march along the coast toward Jaffa, my fleet can sail with us, carrying all the provisions we’ll need. Best of all, Saladin cannot be sure what target I am aiming for, Ascalon or Jerusalem.”

When one of his knights entered the stables soon afterward, he found Richard kneeling in the dirt outside Fauvel’s stall, drawing a map for Anna with his dagger as he explained that Ascalon controlled the road to Egypt. The man didn’t even blink, though, for Richard’s men were used to his free and easy ways. “The Duke of Burgundy has arrived, my liege, says he needs to see you straightaway.”

Grimacing, Richard got to his feet and started toward the door. When Anna didn’t move, he stopped and beckoned. “I’m not about to leave you alone with Fauvel, lass. You might get it into your head to take him for a ride.” She widened her eyes innocently, and he smiled. But he made sure she followed after him.

THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY was looking without favor at one of Joanna’s cirnecos. When a servant brought in wine and fruit, he grabbed a goblet, draining it in several swallows. Richard leaned back in his seat, watching the older man with speculative eyes. He’d known Hugh for years, but this was the first time he’d ever seen the duke fidgeting like this, obviously ill at ease.

Putting his cup down, Hugh wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Will we be ready to head south as soon as Saladin honors the surrender terms?”

“Yes. The ships are loaded already.”

“We’ll have trouble dragging the men out of the bawdy houses and taverns,” Hugh prophesied gloomily. “Half of our men have not drawn a sober breath in weeks, and the other half would be drunken sots, too, if they were not so busy whoring the night away.”

Richard was not happy, either, with the drunkenness and debauchery that had ensnared his army after the fall of Acre. He’d never worried about the morals of his men, leaving that to the priests to sort out. But this was no ordinary war and it was unseemly for soldiers of Christ to be sinning so blatantly, for surely such brazen behavior was displeasing to the Almighty. Moreover, it would be no easy task to get their minds focused upon the hard campaign ahead, not after weeks of carousing and self-indulgence. Perversely, though, he refused to admit that he shared Hugh’s concern, instead saying flippantly, “Soldiers whoring and drinking ? Who’d ever have expected that?”

Hugh scowled, first at Richard and then at the hound sniffing his leg. “Do you think it was wise to accede to Saladin’s demand, agreeing to let him pay the money due in three installments? He might well take that as a sign of weakness.”

Richard set his own cup down with a thud. “If he does,” he said coldly, “he’ll soon learn how badly he’s misread me. If we’d insisted that all two hundred thousand
dinars
be paid when the True Cross and the Christian prisoners are handed over to us, we would have to release the garrison to Saladin then and there. And how am I to do that when so many of them are still in Tyre? By agreeing to this compromise, I gained us the time we need to pry them away from that whoreson Montferrat, and you well know this, Hugh. You raised no objections at the time. So why are you blathering on about it now? Why are you here? Whatever you’ve come to say, for Christ’s sake, spit it out, man!”

Hugh half rose, then sank back in the chair. “I need money to pay my men. Can I get a loan from you to do that? I’ll be able to repay it with our share of the two hundred thousand
dinars
.”

“You’re saying Philippe sailed off without leaving you the funds to provide for your army?” Richard shook his head in disgust. “Why should that surprise me? But I’d not count upon getting much of that ransom if I were you. Philippe gave his half of Acre and the hostages to Conrad, remember?”

Hugh jumped to his feet. “Are you saying you will not lend me the money?” Richard did not like it much, but he had no choice under the circumstances. “Will five thousand silver marks be enough?”

“Yes.” Looking everywhere but at Richard’s face, Hugh mumbled a “Thank you” that sounded as if it were torn from his throat.

“My lord king?” Richard and Hugh had been so intent upon each other that they’d not heard the soft knock upon the door. “The Bishop of Salisbury has just returned from Tyre. Will you see him now?”

“Send him in at once. That is the best news I’ve heard in weeks.”

But Richard’s pleasure did not survive his first glimpse of Hubert Walter’s face. “I am deeply sorry, my liege,” the bishop said somberly, “but we failed. The French king had already sailed, and Conrad was determined to thwart us at every turn. He said he will not return to Acre because he does not trust you. Far worse, he refused to turn the hostages over to us. He said he would agree only if he would get half of the True Cross when we recovered it.”

For a rare moment, Richard and Hugh were in total accord, both men infuriated by Conrad’s effrontery. “And how are we supposed to recover the True Cross without his accursed hostages?” Richard raged. “But if that is how he wants it, so be it. I will go to Tyre myself, see if he is quite so brave face-to-face.”

“My lord, I would advise against that,” the bishop said hastily. “Saladin would be only too happy to see us fighting amongst ourselves. The French king led us into this labyrinth, so let the French lead us out. I think the Duke of Burgundy ought to be the one to go to Tyre and confront Conrad. You are the commander of the French forces now,” he said, turning his steady gaze upon Hugh. “Are you going to allow the marquis to put the war at risk?”

Hugh’s jaw jutted out. “I’ll go,” he said, and then looked toward Richard, in grudging acknowledgment of the English king’s authority now that Philippe had left Outremer.

“Very well. See if you can talk some sense into him. But if he still balks, give him this message from me,” Richard said, spacing his words out like gravestones. “Tell him that if I have to come to Tyre to collect the hostages, he’ll regret it till the end of his earthly days.”

AUGUST 11 was the day when Salah al-Dīn was to turn over the True Cross, the 1,600 Christian prisoners, and the first installment of the two hundred thousand
dinars
. Joanna and Berengaria had ambivalent feelings about this momentous occasion. They rejoiced, of course, in the return of the Cross, in infidel hands since the Battle of Ḥaṭṭīn, and they were glad that so many men would regain their freedom. But the day’s events would also bring them one step closer to the resumption of the war, and the women were dreading what was to come—being left isolated at Acre, not knowing from one day to the next if Richard still lived.

There was to be a celebratory feast after the exchange had been made, and they’d borrowed Henri’s cook to handle the elaborate menu. But as the hours passed without word, both women began to feel uneasy, sensing that something had gone wrong. Their premonitions were soon confirmed. Richard returned to the citadel in a fury, the men with him just as angry. He was in no mood for a meal or for explanations, saying tersely that Saladin had refused to honor the agreed-upon terms before disappearing into the solar for what was obviously a council of war. Berengaria and Joanna hastily looked around the hall for someone who could tell them what had happened and would also be willing to discuss military matters with women. They finally decided upon Humphrey de Toron, and he soon found himself out in the courtyard as the sun blazed its farewell arc toward the western horizon.