Roselynde (57 page)

Incredibly, against that first attack as the sun rose, the line
held. The missiles of the bowmen wreaked havoc on the close-packed enemy without
much need to aim, which was as well in the early light. A brief hesitation in
the face of that shower of death gave time for lances to be lowered to receive
a second brutal onslaught. Riding the line of men with the King to bolster any
weak spot, Simon knew they could not hold against much more. Richard knew it,
too. Late in the morning, Saladin's men withdrew a little to regroup. The King,
seeing opportunity, led a charge right into the enemy's center.

Whatever Saladin's army expected, that offensive in the face of
overwhelming numbers was not it. The surprise and ferocity of Richard's charge
broke the center apart, but this time Simon did not laugh when heads rolled.
When opposition ended, they wheeled their horses to fight their way back. Simon
cursed when he saw Leicester was down, fighting afoot. He spurred ahead,
separating from Richard who had gone to Leicester's aid. He had seen a
riderless horse and he slid his sword between his thigh and his saddle to free
a hand to catch it. By the mercy of God he was not attacked and was able to
draw the horse forward. Then he had cause to laugh. Under his hauberk,
Leicester was naked as a babe—a fact blatantly apparent when he lifted his foot
to the stirrup.

There was more comedy in the midst of impending disaster. Ralph de
Mauleon's horse also was killed, and he was taken prisoner. Simon, growing
quite adept at holding his sword between thigh and saddle, grabbed another
loose horse and spurred after the King who was pursuing de Mauleon's captors.
Richard split one and spitted another. Simon, somewhat impeded by the extra
mount, brained one more with the edge of his shield. That was not so funny.
What set all three off laughing was when the King slid his sword under his
thigh and lifted de Mauleon into the empty saddle like a puppy by the neck of
his mail.

The center of Saladin's force was irreparably smashed. Under the
continued fire from the archers and the repeated charges right and left of the
King's band, the Moslem army began to shred away toward the flanks. Before the
panic touched the left flank, however, a new danger developed. One group found
an unmended and undefended breach in Jaffa's wall and, reasonably enough, felt
that if they took the city, Richard's position would become untenable.
Leicester then repaid the King's service to him. His roar of discovery brought
Richard with Simon, who was seldom more than a few feet from the King's left
shoulder. They three with two archers from the city walls rushed the
infiltrators and doomed the hopeful enterprise.

The day wore on. One horse and then another foundered. A Saracen
crying truce made his way toward Richard during a brief lull in the fighting.
Warily the King bade his men hold their hands, but there was no need for
suspicion. Saladin's brother, inspired by Richard's prowess, had sent him two
beautiful horses so that no bestial failure should interfere with him. Even
then the Moslem leaders did not believe the Crusader's small force could hold
out. Again they rallied and charged, and again they broke against Richard's
stubborn footmen and his weary, bloody knights on their half-dead horses.

In the end proof brought belief. A tenth of the proud Moslem
raiders lay dead on the field; perhaps triple that number were wounded. If
Richard's army wept with weariness where they stood, they still stood and, as
far as Saladin would see, would stand for all eternity. The Moslem horns
sounded; the leaders of the force—those still alive—gathered what remained of
their men and rode away. There was no question of pursuit. Richard's men could
barely stand, and his knights fell from their saddles like dead men as soon as
they knew the need to fight was over. Yet the Moslem troops withdrew all the
way to Jerusalem.

It was as well for the Crusaders that they did, that Saladin did
not intend to try again. He would almost certainly have succeeded the next
time. Although he bore no major wounds, Richard was nicked and scored all over
and his exertions had been superhuman. In fact, what was true of the King was
true of all. Sickness swept through the camp. Even Simon, who had thus far
escaped all the ills that attacked newcomers to the area, was laid low with a
fever and dozens of festering sores. For a week he could barely drag himself
from his bed to attend to Richard who was even sicker.

The King muttered. Simon groaned and rolled to his side. An
equally sick squire crawled from his pallet. The King's voice rose. Simon
levered himself upright and staggered to the bed. Slipping to his knees, he
took the cup of watered wine from the squire's shaking hand and lifted
Richard's head. The King's eyes opened, clear and sensible. Simon bit back the
order that would have sent the squire away.

"You are very faithful, are you not, Simon?" Richard
whispered.

"To the best of my ableness," Simon replied wearily.

"I love you well," the King continued.

His voice was a little stronger. Simon handed the empty cup back
to the squire and waved the boy away. His head was dizzy with fever and he
wondered for a moment whether Richard was going to make an indecent proposal to
him.

"It is out of love that I have neglected to give you your
heart's desire," Richard continued. "We have lost so many noblemen
over these two years that I can make you rich beyond the value of the woman's
land. I will give you a good fruitful estate in a land where the sun shines and
damp does not warp the bones."

Not knowing what else to do, Simon turned his head away
obstinately.

"Man," Richard's voice cracked with its intensity,
"she will break you and destroy you. Take what I offer and leave the woman
alone. She is eighteen, and you are—what?"

Simon's head snapped back, and he smiled. With little else to do,
the King had obviously been considering the problems of his liegemen and had
come to a logical and considerate conclusion.

"I am forty-eight—an old man. But Alinor knows that. As God
is my witness, I have told her often enough. I have even painted her a picture
of me old and feeble and her in her prime. She laughs and says she has lived
all her life with old men and likes them."

"Will she still laugh in ten years?" Richard asked.

It was a cruel question, but kindly meant. Simon shrugged.
"My lord, I see these things also. I do not lie to myself. Alinor and I
are not fitting in age, but in all else we are. In some ways she will benefit
from my age also. I am no expensive young buck who will waste her patrimony,
nor do I desire it for myself or to lavish gifts on other women." Simon
grinned wryly. "I will scarce have strength to keep her content, let alone
wasting my substance elsewhere."

He paused and looked away from the King again, not angrily but
with dreaming eyes. "Moreover, my lord, I love that land of mists and
rain. I have come, these two years, nearly to hate the sun. In England, when
the sun shines, one thanks God for it with a joyful heart. One does not need to
chew salt meat or stinking fish to stay alive. If you refuse me the guerdon I
desire, I will serve you faithfully nonetheless, but do not banish me from the
place that I have grown to love as well as from the woman I love. My
lord—" Simon's voice broke "—give me nothing, if that is your will,
but when you need me no longer, let me go home."

"You are a fool!"

Simon bent his head. "Yes."

There was a long silence.

"I will take Saladin's offer of peace," Richard said,
his voice very low again. "If I do not, I will lose England and
Normandy."

"That is a wise decision," Simon replied as heartily as
he could. He started to get to his feet, desperate to be alone where he could
fight his bitter disappointment and try to think how to explain to Alinor.
Richard grasped his arm.

"Berengaria and I have come to a parting of the ways."
Richard looked at Simon and uttered a bark of laughter. "You are scarce
surprised."

"No," Simon said slowly. "I am not surprised—but
not for the reason you think. The Lady Berengaria is a good and lovely lady,
but she does not wish to believe that you spit or shit. No man can live long
with such a woman. I could wish you would get an heir on her. Other than that,
I do not blame you."

Richard opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again to
say, "And yet you wish to marry?"

In spite of his agony of disappointment, Simon burst out laughing.
"The faults of an overrefined nature or an oversweet temper could never be
laid upon Lady Alinor."

The blue eyes fixed upon Simon grew very cold. "Very
well," Richard said, "on your head be it. I have done my best for
you, and you have refused my offer and my counsel. When we come again to Acre,
which will be soon, you will marry Lady Alinor, as is your desire. Then I can
give my wife and my sister into your hands to guard them on the voyage
home."

Alinor read her letter for the fifth time. The hand did not look
like Simon's; the writing shook and sprawled and straggled. The words did not
sound like Simon's; usually he wrote as fluently as he spoke. The sentiments,
however, were quite correct.

"I have you. Let the clerks write whatsoever contract you
desire. When we come to Acre, we marry, and then we sail for home."

The "we" who would come to Acre must be the King and
Simon, perhaps with the army; the "we" who would sail home was more
questionable. Simon and herself alone? The King and the army? Alinor read over
her letter for the sixth time and then realized why she was puzzling over a question
that was totally meaningless and that, in any case, would be answered soon
enough. The truth was she did not know how to give this news to Berengaria.
Certainly she could not show her Simon's letter. The "I have you" as
if he had won a horse in a tourney would not sweeten Berengaria's attitude
toward marriage.

In a sense, of course, it was the same. Simon felt he had
"won" Alinor and that he possessed her just as if she were a horse.
He could not be happy feeling otherwise. Still, he showed a delicacy Berengaria
would never unravel from the coarse words. It was Alinor he possessed, not her
land; it was

Alinor he desired, not her property. That meaning was inherent in
telling her to write any marriage contract that would please her. A marriage
contract, after all, existed to arrange the disposal of the joint property of
bride and groom.

Having got that far in her thinking, Alinor smiled. In his anxiety
to show his love and trust, Simon had forgotten to say what should be done
about
his
property. Admittedly it was nothing in comparison with hers,
but it could not be overlooked. Simon had never been married, Alinor knew, but
that did not mean he did not have children to provide for. Another delay in
going to Berengaria could be obtained by writing to Simon. Alinor promptly went
for ink, quill, and a funny, flimsy stuff they used here instead of parchment,
called papyrus.

When her letter had been written and Beorn summoned, informed of
her betrothal, and told to dispatch a messenger, there was no way to put off
the evil any longer. Of course Beorn's open and avowed joy at the news was
strengthening to the spirit. Alinor thought for a moment more, and then went to
Joanna. With her, Simon's letter could be used.

"You mean you will accept him as a
husband?"
Joanna
asked incredulously. "Your estate could have brought you an earl or a
duke!"

Alinor's lip curled slightly with scorn; her head was as proudly
held as any queen's. "My father was Lord of Roselynde. I am the Lady of
Roselynde. No title could add honor to that. Nor would I sell my birthright for
an empty word. When I share Simon's bed, I will still be the Lady of Roselynde,
not any mere countess of this or that."

Joanna looked slightly stunned, then began to laugh. She
remembered an old story of a duke in France who had been attacked and went to
the French King for help. After some thought, that long-ago King had replied,
"My dear duke, I will do what I can for you. I will
pray
the Sire
of Courcy to leave you in peace." The Sire of Courcy also had no title,
but he had had more power than that old King of France.

"Very well," Joanna said, "you may be right. What
do you desire that I do?"

"Prevent Queen Berengaria from forbidding the marriage,"
Alinor responded promptly. "You know she will try to do that, she is so—so
bitter just now."

"But not unkind," Joanna protested. "Berengaria is
very fond of you. She would not do anything to hurt you."

"She will be trying to save me from myself, not hurt
me," Alinor said. "It will do no good to tell her I love Simon and he
loves me. She will say she loved Richard and he loved her. Nothing I tell her
will make her believe that Simon and I are different and marriage will
increase, not destroy, our love."

"There is a real difference," Joanna said stiffly.

"Madam, you know it and I know it, but will Queen Berengaria
admit it? You know what she is like."

"Then you can wait to be married until you are parted from
her." Joanna liked Alinor, but the principle that a lady's good must
always give way before the smallest whim of her mistress was very firmly fixed
in the mind of the Angevin princess. "It is your duty."