Lionheart (40 page)

Jaufre and Morgan glanced at each other and shrugged. The king had gone back to the beach whilst more of his men came ashore, giving orders to tend to the wounded and bury the dead, then met with the merchants again to assure them that their families and property would be safe, and sent out scouts to discover the whereabouts of Isaac’s army. At this point, Joanna raised a hand to cut off their recital, for their meaning was clear enough. Richard would get to them when he could; at the moment, they were not a high priority.

Morgan then redeemed himself by making a suggestion that was both intriguing and vaguely scandalous. Would they like to make use of the public baths? The women looked at one another, seriously tempted. But none of them had ever been to a public bath before. Was it something that respectable, well-bred women did? As a queen, Joanna had greater liberty to defy conventions. She knew, though, that she was too exhausted to take another step, and started to shake her head when she remembered that Isaac was said to love luxury. Surely he’d have a bath somewhere in his palace? The little Greek servingmaids quickly confirmed that it was so, and after that, the women could not wait for their guests to leave, so eager were they to wash away the grime of their voyage in perfumed, warm water.

By the time they’d gotten some of their guards to haul and heat water and then took turns soaking in Isaac’s large copper bathing tub, it was full dark. Wrapped in bedrobes, Joanna and Berengaria towel-dried and brushed out each other’s hair, the easy familiarity reminding them both of their childhood and sisters they might never see again. It was Berengaria who gave voice to their shared nostalgia, confiding, “I do not think I could have endured this voyage without you, Joanna.”

“You do not give yourself enough credit, for you are stronger than you think.” Joanna could not help adding, then, with a rueful smile, “If you’d known what lay ahead, I daresay you’d have run for the nearest nunnery when your father broached the matter of marriage with my brother. And who could blame you?”

Berengaria wondered if she’d ever get used to Angevin candor. Richard and Joanna were constantly saying aloud what other people did not even dare to whisper. There had indeed been times when she’d yearned for her tranquil, lost world of Navarre, not sure if a crown was truly worth so much misery. “I admit I did not bargain on an Isaac Comnenus. But till the day I draw my last breath, I will remember the sight of Richard’s galley against that sunset sky, like the champion in a minstrel’s chanson. What woman would not be proud to have such a man for her husband?”

She’d inadvertently touched upon a tender spot. As she’d grown into womanhood, Joanna had done her best to deny her qualms about a husband who sent other men out to die without ever putting himself at risk. But Richard’s flashy heroics had done much to tarnish William’s memory, casting a sad shadow over her marriage, reminding her that her father had always led his troops into battle, as had her brothers. Even Philippe did so. Only William had stayed at home, William who’d yoked Constance to a hateful husband so he could pursue his foolish dreams of destiny, willing to spill any blood but his own to lay claim to Constantinople. She lowered her head, hiding the tears that suddenly burned her eyes. Was that all her life in Sicily had amounted to—a husband she could not respect and a son whose tiny tomb she might never see again?

Berengaria sensed that something was wrong. She was not sure what to do, though, for she was developing with Joanna something she’d never had before—a friendship between equals—and she fretted that questions borne of empathy might be taken as intrusive. She was not given the chance to make up her mind, for at that moment Richard made one of his typical entrances, unexpected and unannounced.

Joanna’s ladies were amused by his brash invasion of the women’s quarters; Berengaria’s were horrified. Midst laughter and shrieks, they retreated into the inner sanctum, the bedchamber set aside for their mistresses. Joanna was already on her feet. She was about to embrace him when she realized that he was still wearing his hauberk. Her eyes drawn irresistibly to the dried blood caked on some of the iron links, she said, as calmly as she could, “I trust none of that is yours?”

“From a skirmish like that? I’ve not so much as a scratch.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he gazed down intently into her face. “Well, at least you are not as pale as yesterday. You gave me quite a scare, you know.”

“I gave
you
a scare? How do you think we felt, Richard, watching you take on all of Isaac’s army by yourself?”

“I knew my men would follow,” he said, dismissing the danger with a negligent gesture. “And I knew, too, that Isaac’s men were likely to be ill-trained, poorly paid, and not eager to die on his behalf.”

Joanna was not won over by that argument and was about to remind him that it would have taken only one well-aimed arrow. But he was already turning his attention toward his betrothed.

While he’d been greeting Joanna, Berengaria had belted her bedrobe. Remembering then that her hair was tumbling down her back, she looked around hastily for her veil. When she would have snatched it up, Richard reached out and caught her hand. “Do not cover your hair, Berenguela. I like it loose like this.”

Berengaria let the veil flutter to the floor at her feet. She knew it was not seemly that he should see her like this until they were wed. But as their eyes met, she realized that if he meant to share her bed this night, it would not be easy to deny him. Moreover, she was not sure that she’d want to say no. Shocked by her own thoughts, she forced herself to wrench her gaze away from his. Because of her discussions with Joanna, she no longer worried that she’d be imperiling her soul by finding pleasure in her husband’s embrace. But she knew that what she was contemplating now was most definitely a sin.

He still held her hand and she found herself staring at their entwined fingers, imaging his clasped around a sword hilt. What he’d done this day was both exhilarating and terrifying. As much as she’d feared for his life, she’d been thrilled, too, for would Almighty God have blessed him with such lethal skills if he were not destined to be the savior of Jerusalem?

“I am truly sorry that you both had to endure so much,” he said, glancing from one woman to the other. “But I promise you that you’ll never face danger like this again.”

While Joanna did not doubt his sincerity, that was not a promise he could keep. Not even Richard could exert royal control over the forces of nature, over another Good Friday storm or a plague stalking the siege camp at Acre. She would never point that out to him, though, and said lightly, “As long as you keep riding to our rescue in the nick of time, we will have no complaints.”

Spying a flagon of wine, Richard strode over and poured wine for them. “My little sister is too modest,” he said to Berengaria. “I’d wager that she’d have been more than a match for Isaac. For certes, she had Stephen de Turnham quaking in his boots.” Seeing her lack of comprehension, he grinned. “Ah, she did not tell you about that?”

Returning with the wine, he took obvious pride in relating Joanna’s ultimatum to Stephen. He brushed aside their questions about the fight on the beach, insisting that it was more of a brawl than a genuine battle, an argument that would have been more persuasive had they not been eyewitnesses. He told them that Philippe had safely arrived in Outremer, for they’d encountered a dromon from Acre after they’d left Rhodes, and he expressed concern that the city might fall ere he reached the siege, saying, “God forbid that Acre should be won in my absence, for it has been besieged for so long, and the triumph, God willing, will be so glorious.” And when they asked him why only part of the fleet was with him, he said he’d sailed against the wind after hearing that a large buss had been spotted off the coast of Cyprus, revealing how seriously he’d taken the threat posed by Isaac Comnenus. But he asked few questions about their own ordeal. They were glad of it, though, not wanting to add to his burdens.

When he suddenly rose and bade them good night, they were caught by surprise. Joanna protested, sure that he’d not had a proper meal all day, and he allowed that was true. “But I cannot spare the time. My scouts told me that Isaac has committed yet another astonishing blunder and his army is camped just a few miles to the west of Limassol. The fool thinks he is safe there, for he also thinks that we have no horses. So I plan to unload some of them tonight and pay him a visit on the morrow.”

Leaning over, he dropped a playful kiss on the top of Joanna’s head, then pulled Berengaria to her feet. But while his mouth was warm on hers and he took care to not to embrace her too tightly, murmuring he did not want her to be scratched by his hauberk, she sensed his distraction; his mind was already upon that moonlit beach and the surprise he had in store for the Cypriot emperor.

And then he was gone, as quickly as he’d come, leaving the two women to look at each other in bemusement. Berengaria wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed; some of both, she decided. “I know,” she told Joanna, with a rueful smile of her own. “I know . . . hold tight and enjoy the ride.”

UNDER RICHARD’S SUPERVISION, fifty horses were unloaded from a tarida and exercised upon the beach to ease their stiffness and cramped muscles. He then returned to the army camp they’d pitched on the outskirts of Limassol and got a few hours’ sleep. Early the next morning, he inspected their defenses, wanting to make sure that they were safe from enemy attack in his absence. Since he thought a clash was likely, he ordered a number of knights and men-at-arms to follow on foot. And then he rode out with more than forty knights and a few clerks to see Isaac’s army for himself.

His scouts had reported that the emperor was camped some eight miles east of Limassol, near the village of Kolossi. The countryside was deserted, no travelers on the roads, no farmers tending to their fields, for most of the people had fled to the hills with their livestock and what belongings they could carry away. Richard and his knights kept their mounts to an easy canter, wanting to spare their seabattered horses as much as possible. Despite the taut anticipation of battle, the men found themselves enjoying the warmth of the sun, a wind that carried the fragrance of flowers and myrtle rather than the salt tang of the sea, and the familiar movement of their stallions between their legs instead of the alarming pitching and rolling of galley decks slick with foam. Soon afterward, as they passed through an olive grove, they encountered a few of Isaac’s soldiers.

The Greek horsemen at once retreated. Richard and his men followed, and before long they could see the Cypriot encampment in the distance. Their approach caused a commotion, and as they reached the mouth of the valley, they saw Isaac’s men massing behind the stream that separated the two forces. The emperor’s pavilion was visible behind the army lines, a splendid structure that irresistibly drew the eyes of Richard’s knights, wondering what riches lay within. Isaac himself was nowhere in sight and they joked among themselves that he must be sleeping late this morn.

Richard paid no heed to their edgy banter, studying the enemy with a growing sense of disgust. When André drew rein beside him, he said, “Have you ever seen such a pitiful sight? Where are their sentries? Where are their captains? Look at the way they are milling around, more like a mob than an army. Isaac ought to be ashamed to put men such as this in the field. Whilst we were in Rhodes, I was told that he has to rely upon Armenian routiers from the Kingdom of Cilicia, and it is obvious he has hired the dregs. No surprise there, for would you sell your sword to a man like Isaac if you could find service elsewhere?”

Some of the others saw only the size of the army, not its lack of discipline. Hugh de la Mare, one of Richard’s clerks, nudged his mount to the king’s side. “Come away, sire,” he entreated. “Their numbers are too overwhelming.”

The knights close enough to hear grinned and looked at Hugh with sardonic pity, knowing what was coming. Richard turned in the saddle and, for a long moment, stared at the other man as if he could not believe his own ears. “Tend to your books and Scriptures, sir clerk,” he said icily, “and leave the fighting to us.”

As Hugh hastily fell back, André laughed. “Say what you will of clerks, Cousin, they can count. He is right that we’re greatly outnumbered.”

Richard took no offense, for he knew that an experienced soldier like André would not see numbers as the only factor that mattered. “But look at them,” he said, gesturing scornfully toward their agitated foes. “Are they making ready to charge? Lining up in battle array? No, they are huddling behind that shallow stream as if it were a raging torrent, wasting arrows since we’re out of range, whilst shouting and cursing as if we could be slain by their insults alone. And where is their noble commander? Watching from yonder hill instead of being down there with his men.”

Following the direction of Richard’s gaze, André and the Earl of Leicester saw that he was right. Horsemen were gathered on a nearby slope, and one of the riders was mounted on a magnificent dun stallion. As he snorted and pawed the earth, Richard said, “At least Isaac’s destrier is eager to fight. But he looks to be the only one.” And with that, he gave the signal his men had been expecting. Shifting his lance from its fautré, he couched it under his right arm and spurred his horse forward, shouting the battle cry of the English Royal House,
“Dex aie!”