Lionheart (53 page)

“Saladin replied that kings do not meet unless an agreement has been reached, saying it is not good for them to fight after meeting and eating together. He said an agreement must be made first, and of course that is impossible. King Richard was sorely disappointed, for he very much wanted to judge the sultan for himself.”

Berengaria glanced over at her husband, who was sprawled on cushions, studying a map of Outremer. Feeling guilty for imposing her petty concerns upon a man who bore the burdens of a holy war upon his shoulders, she stopped in front of him, saying with a smile, “I can see this is not a good time for a visit, my lord husband, so we’ll not tarry.” She hesitated, then, for such boldness did not come easily to her. But according to what Joanna had told her, she was at her most fertile now that her flux was past, and she was sure Richard was as eager as she to beget a child. “Will you . . . will you be coming to me tonight?”

He glanced up, his grey eyes appearing so dark and opaque that she felt as if she were gazing upon a stranger. “No,” he said, “I think not,” and turned back to the map.

Berengaria felt as if she’d been slapped. Mortified, she called to her attendants, not daring to look around for fear that she’d see pity on the faces of those close enough to have heard his rebuff. Actually, few had heard their low-voiced exchange. But one who did was enraged. “You go on, dearest,” Joanna said. “I’ll follow shortly.”

Berengaria’s ladies complied at once. Joanna’s women were reluctant to leave, enjoying their verbal sparring with Richard’s knights. But after looking at their mistress’s glittering green eyes, they hastened to obey, too. Only Anna balked and she was quickly nudged toward the tent’s entrance by her stepmother and Mariam. Joanna waited until they’d departed, pondering her next move. She could ask to speak to Richard in private, behind one of the screens. But what if he refused?

“Get the men’s attention for me, Morgan,” she said. Giving her a curious look, he did so, very effectively, by banging upon a drum. Once she was sure all eyes were upon her, Joanna gave them her most engaging smile. “I am sorry to evict you, gentlemen. But I need to speak alone with my lord brother, the king.”

There were at least fifty knights and lords present, and few of them looked happy at being so abruptly dismissed. Richard’s head had come up sharply; for a moment, Joanna feared that he’d countermand her. Whatever he saw in her face changed his mind, though. Getting to his feet as the men exited, he strode toward Joanna, towering over her and obviously angry.

She was not in the least intimidated. “How dare you treat that sweet girl like one of your camp whores?” she spat, even in her fury remembering to keep her voice pitched for his ears alone.

He seemed taken aback by her vehemence. His own temper still smoldered, though, and he said testily, “I do not know what you are talking about, Joanna. Nor do I have time for this.”

“You need not have time for me, Richard. But you owe it to your wife to make time for her. She’s not seen you in days! Do you know what it cost her to come to you like this? And then you dismissed her as if she—”

“If I wanted a woman tonight, I’d only have to snap my fingers. But I have more important matters on my mind.”

“Oh, yes, that is what men always say. Your ‘matters’ are so much more consequential than any womanly concerns. I know what you are about to tell me, that you cannot be expected to pay heed to a wife in the midst of a war. But why is she in the midst of it, Richard? Because you put her there!”

Richard was unaccustomed to being called to account and he did not like it in the least. “I had no choice, given the circumstances!”

“You most certainly did! We left Messina on Wednesday in Holy Week. Are you telling me you could not have waited four more days to sail? You could have married Berengaria on Easter, then sent her back to your domains under a safe escort, as you did for Maman. Instead, you chose to take her with you. There are only two explanations for doing so—that you were too besotted with your betrothed to want to be separated from her or that you were keen to get her with child as soon as possible. I think we can safely say that you are not madly in love. So that means you want an heir straightaway. That is certainly reasonable, for Johnny’s past record does not inspire great confidence. But Berengaria cannot conceive unless you do your part, Richard.”

“What happens between my wife and me does not concern you, Joanna.”

“Oh, yes, it does! You were the one who asked me to accompany her, Richard, remember? I did as you bade, have gotten to know her well in these past weeks. She has shown courage in the face of very real dangers and great hardships, and never once has she complained. Even now I daresay she is taking upon herself the blame for your bad manners—”

“That is enough.” Even though he kept his voice low, his words resonated with fury. “I’ve heard you out, but I have no more time for nonsense like this. Stop meddling, Joanna. Do you understand?”

They glared at each other and then she dropped down in a deep, mocking curtsy. “Yes, my lord king, I understand. Have I your leave to withdraw?” He gestured impatiently; waving her away, she thought, as he would brush aside a pesky fly. Raising her chin, she stalked out of the tent without a backward glance.

Her women were gone, but some of her household knights had remained to escort her safely back to her own pavilion. Morgan had stayed behind, too, although after a quick glance at her face, he made no attempt at conversation and they walked on in silence.

Joanna was still furious. It was so unfair. Why did men have so much control and women so little when it came to carnal matters? For all the Church’s preaching about the marriage debt, it was a joke, not a claim wives could make, as Berengaria had learned tonight. With each passing month, people would measure her waist with their eyes, and they’d soon be bandying around the one word that every queen dreaded to hear—barren. Joanna knew her mother had been slurred by that accusation for most of her marriage to the French king, even though Eleanor herself had pointed out that she could hardly cultivate soil without seed. Joanna knew, too, that many of her Sicilian subjects had blamed her for failing to give William another son and heir. She’d sometimes wondered what she was supposed to do—hire men to waylay him as he headed for his
harim
? At least Berengaria was spared that humiliation. She was being neglected for a war, not for seductive Saracen slave girls.

Joanna stopped so abruptly that Morgan bumped into her, causing her to stumble. He quickly apologized, but she never heard him. Dear God. Was this about William, not Richard? Yes, he’d been churlish to Berengaria, had hurt her, unwittingly or not. But did his rudeness justify such rage? As soon as she asked the question, she knew the answer. She had overreacted, her anger fueled by memories of a young girl’s humiliation years ago, bewildered and resentful and compelled to bury that anger so deep that it only surfaced after William’s death.

Morgan was puzzled by her immobility, the distant, inward look in her eyes. Wisely he said nothing, waiting to see what she would do. So did the other knights. Joanna had forgotten their presence entirely. Turning on her heel, she headed back toward her brother’s pavilion. She was relieved to find Richard was still alone, although surprised that he’d not summoned his men back after her departure. He was leaning against the cushions, his eyes closed, and for the first time she realized how exhausted he looked, which exacerbated her sense of remorse. With all he had to deal with, he’d not needed to deal with her ghosts, too.

“Richard,” she said, and his eyes snapped open, his mouth drawn into a taut line at the sight of her. Before he could order her away, she said quickly, “I come in peace. I still think you were in the wrong. But the greater wrong was mine. I was indeed meddling, just as you charged, and I am very sorry.”

She was half expecting him to resume berating her, for she’d given him good reason to be vexed with her. Or else he would react with feigned disbelief, joking that this humble, meek female could not possibly be his willful, sharp-tongued sister. To her dismay, he merely nodded, accepting her apology with an indifferent twitch of his shoulders. She did not want to have to confide in him, to tell him about William’s Saracen slave girls. But if she must, she would, and she sat down beside him. “Richard, I truly
am
sorry. Are you that wroth with me?”

“No,” he said at last. “You are your mother’s daughter, after all.”

Relieved to catch a glimmer of a smile, she smiled, too. “I am willing to grovel a bit if that will amuse you,” she offered, and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. She drew back at once, her eyes wide. “Richard, you are burning up!” Ignoring his attempt to pull away, she put her hand upon his forehead; his skin was hot and dry and she was close enough now to see that his eyes had a glazed sheen. “How long have you been ailing? Are you thirsty? Able to eat?”

“I’ve had no appetite for a few days,” he admitted, “and I’ve not been sleeping well. But it is only a fever, Joanna. Men get them all the time.”

She was already on her feet, though. He grabbed for her ankle, missed, and scowled. “I do not need to see a doctor!”

“Yes,” she said, “you do!” Pulling the tent flap back, she spoke to someone beyond his range of vision, summoning his chief physician, Master Ralph Besace. He slumped against the cushions in frustration, knowing what he now faced: being poked and prodded and bled and hovered over by his doctors, his wife, his sister, and his friends, all of whom would be underfoot day and night, making bloody nuisances of themselves and flinching if he so much as sneezed.

“Damnation, woman—” He cut himself off, though, when she turned back and he saw the fear on her face. “You need not fret so,” he said, more gently. “God did not lead me to Acre only to die of a fever.”

She quickly agreed, saying that he was surely right, that such fevers were common.
But this is Outremer, Outremer where fevers are often mortal, where men die with terrifying ease, even kings.

CHAPTER 21

JUNE 1191

Siege of Acre

The French king was sheltering from the sun under a cercleia, a framework used to protect crossbowmen as they shot at the men up on the walls. Until his arrival at Acre, Philippe had never used a crossbow, for it was not a weapon of the highborn. Much to his surprise, he’d discovered that was not the case in Outremer, and since it could be mastered fairly easily, he’d let himself be tutored by Jacques d’Avesnes, a Flemish lord who’d won considerable renown during the siege. When a Saracen leaned over the battlements to shout taunts, Philippe and Guillaume des Barres both raised their crossbows and fired. The man disappeared from view and Guillaume deferred to his king with a smile, saying, “Your hit, sire.”

“For all we know, he merely ducked,” Philippe pointed out with a rare flash of humor. He’d been in good spirits since learning that Richard was bedridden with a fever, and that morning the other burr under his saddle had been removed when Conrad had returned to Tyre in high dudgeon after a heated confrontation with Guy de Lusignan’s brother Joffroi. Glancing toward Mathieu de Montmorency, he said generously, “You get the next shot, Mathieu.”

Jacques had begun teaching the youth and he nodded encouragingly as Mathieu nervously fiddled with the weapon, using a hinged lever to pull the hemp string back to the latch and, once it was cocked, aligning the bolt. But when he pulled the trigger, his aim was off and the bolt soared up harmlessly into the sky. The Duke of Burgundy and the Count of Dreux laughed at the crestfallen boy, joking that the Saracens were their enemy, not any passing birds. Mathieu cheered up, though, when Jacques patted him on the back, saying that he just needed a bit more practice.

Philippe had not noticed this byplay, for he was frowning at the sight of the approaching Count of St Pol. He had no reason to mistrust the man himself, but the count’s marital ties were suddenly suspect, for his wife was the sister of Baudouin of Hainaut. Philippe spent more time worrying about Baudouin these days than he did Saladin, for if Baudouin staked a claim to Artois whilst he was trapped here in Outremer, it would be very difficult to make good his own claim upon his return.

The Count of St Pol was accompanied by Philippe’s marshal, Aubrey Clement, and Leopold von Babenberg, the Duke of Austria. There was little space in the cercleia, but Leopold still acknowledged the French king with a formal obeisance, for he was punctilious about matters of rank and protocol. There had been a three-hour eclipse of the sun on the Vigil of the Nativity of St John the Baptist, and Leopold asked Philippe now if he believed it was an omen of good or ill fortune. Philippe neither knew nor cared, but he was pleased that the duke did not want to discuss Richard’s illness, which was the talk of the camp, and so he politely parried the question, asking Leopold what he thought. The latter at once launched into an enthusiastic discussion about astronomy and divine portents. Only half listening, Philippe kept his gaze upon the battlements in case a Saracen soldier should offer himself as a target.

“My liege!” This stentorian bellow came from Philippe’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais. He was striding toward them, so quickly that they knew he bore news of importance. But he was smiling broadly, so Philippe felt confident the news would not be unwelcome. Ducking under the cercleia, Beauvais sank down on his haunches next to the French king. “Have you heard? Richard’s doctors are now saying that his malady is Arnaldia!”

There were muffled exclamations of dismay from most of his audience. Jacques d’Avesnes, the Count of St Pol, the Duke of Austria, Aubrey Clement, and Mathieu jumped to their feet and hurried off to find out more, leaving the French king alone with Beauvais and his brother, the Count of Dreux, Hugh of Burgundy, and Guillaume des Barres. Reaching for a wineskin hooked at his belt, Beauvais took a swig and grimaced, for the liquid tasted as if it had been heated over a fire. “I suppose it is too much to hope,” he drawled, “that Richard’s bout with Arnaldia proves fatal.”

His brother and Hugh laughed and Philippe permitted himself a small smile—until he saw the shocked expression on Guillaume des Barres’s face. Philippe was torn between bafflement and irritation; why would Guillaume of all men care about Richard’s plight? Later, on his way back to his tent, he summoned Guillaume to walk at his side and sought an answer to that minor mystery. “You did not approve of the Bishop of Beauvais’s jest. I would think you’d be the last one to defend Richard after the shabby way he treated you back in Messina.”

Guillaume seemed surprised by the question. “I would be greatly grieved if the English king were to die, my liege, for I see him as our best hope of defeating Saladin. The recovery of the Holy Land is far more important than any rancor between Richard and me.”

“Well, you are more magnanimous than Richard would be if your positions were reversed,” Philippe said, after some moments of silence. He genuinely liked Guillaume des Barres, but he did not understand the knight’s willingness to forgive after such an unfair and public humiliation. Shading his eyes against the dazzling blaze of the noonday sun, he stared up at a sky that was a bleached bone-white, a sky in which there was not even a wisp of cloud, for this was the dry season and there would be no rain for months. Standing there in the midst of the chaotic siege encampment, he finally admitted to himself that his own realm mattered far more to him than the Holy Land ever could, and why not? Outremer had the Almighty to protect it but France only had Philippe Capet, a king far from home with a frail, small son as his heir. There was a certain relief in facing that fact at last. But it was a lonely moment, too, for he knew that none would understand, not even his brash cousin Beauvais. The one man who might have agreed was moldering in a tomb at Fontevrault Abbey.

AS HENRI MADE HIS WAY toward Richard’s pavilion, he was stopped repeatedly by men anxious to hear how the king was faring. To each query, Henri had the same response, one that made it seem as if Richard’s illness was of minor concern. Approaching the tent, he was not surprised to find soldiers and knights keeping watch. Before entering, he paused to greet two of the Préaux brothers, Guilhem and Pierre, and when he was asked the inevitable question, he gave them his most reassuring smile.

“Well, it will not surprise you to learn that he is surely the world’s worst patient. He has been fuming and fretting at being bedridden, and he’s learning to swear in Arabic, so his curses are even more colorful than usual.” They grinned and he added lightly, “But he was cheered up to hear that the French king has now been stricken with Arnaldia, too.”

As he expected, that evoked laughter, and he moved past them into the tent, thinking bleakly that if lies were sins, his confessor would be laying out penances from now till Michaelmas. Actually, he had indeed hoped Richard would be amused that Philippe was also ailing, surely God’s Chastisement for welcoming his rival’s ordeal. But Richard had merely grunted, then looked away. Henri had been troubled by that apathetic response, just as he was troubled by Richard’s growing lethargy. The temper tantrums that Henri had described for the Préaux brothers had occurred at the onset of his uncle’s illness. He’d not pitched a fit for more than a day now, and Henri was not the only one yearning for the return of the Richard they knew best—sardonic, playful, quick to anger, and utterly without self-doubts. It was as if a stranger had suddenly taken over Richard’s body, listless and silent and—a word Henri would never have thought to apply to his uncle—vulnerable.

As soon as he entered the pavilion, he was pulled aside by André de Chauvigny. “We had a message from Saladin’s brother. He said he’d heard the Franks were not happy about their proposed meeting, saying it endangered the Christian religion, and he asked if Richard had changed his mind because of the protests.”

Henri nodded; although Saladin had refused to meet Richard, he’d been willing to have his brother act on his behalf. “That could not have made Richard happy. As if he’d ever be swayed by what other men think!”

“He dictated a response to be sent on the morrow, saying the delay was due to his illness and no other reason. But he took it much too calmly, Henri. He ought to have been outraged by the mere suggestion that he could be overruled by the French king.”

“Arnaldia saps a man, André. I remember feeling as weak as a newborn babe. Yet once my fever broke, I was quick to regain my strength, and I am sure Richard will, too. Has he eaten anything since I saw him this morning?”

“Not much,” André admitted. “His queen tried to coax him into taking some chicken cooked in white wine, for it’s said to be good for the ailing. But he has no appetite. He’s about to be bled now. His fool doctors have been arguing all day about the best time to do it. Apparently it depends upon a man’s nature, and they could not decide if the king is sanguine or choleric. If he’s the former, he ought to be bled at sunrise, at noon if he’s the latter. Richard finally just told them to get it done straightaway, which probably proves he’s choleric,” André said with a faint, sad smile.

The pavilion was a very large one, said to be big enough to hold well over a hundred men, but there was little room, for it was crowded with Richard’s household knights, some of his queen and sister’s ladies, several bishops, and lords like Jacques d’Avesnes, the Earl of Leicester, and the newly bereaved Jaufre of Perche. Because André and Henri were known to be members of Richard’s inner circle, a path slowly opened, enabling them to reach the screen set up around the king’s bed.

Richard was propped up on pillows, his wife and sister watching intently as a physician opened a vein near his elbow. Nervous under their scrutiny, the doctor was talking too much, explaining that this was the basilica vein and lancing here would purge noxious humors from the king’s liver, telling them what all already knew, that good health depended upon the proper balance of the four humors—blood, phlegm, white and black bile—and too much blood in the body was one cause of disease. Richard’s eyes were closed, but his lashes fluttered when Berengaria leaned over and murmured that his nephew was here.

“Henri,” he said, his voice so low that the younger man had to bend down to catch his words. “Take Joanna and Berenguela to dine with you. They’ve not eaten all day. . . .”

Both women at once protested. Henri was not to be denied, though. “This may not be gallant of me, but the two of you look worse than the king and he’s the one who is sick. You need a good night’s sleep for certes, but a few hours in my charming company will have to do,” he declared, persisting until they grudgingly yielded.

Master Ralph Besace, Richard’s chief physician, had been holding his wrist during the bloodletting, and he signaled now for it to cease, saying the king’s pulse was dropping too fast. Henri took advantage of the moment to usher the women away and out into the cooling night air. He knew they’d moved into the pavilion, setting up trundle beds behind a screen and taking turns sitting with Richard, but he doubted that either of them had slept more than a few hours in days. He chided them gently as they headed for his tent, pointing out that it would do Richard no good if they fell ill, too. But he did not expect them to heed him, nor did they.

Henri set a better table than most of his fellow crusaders, thanks to his friend Balian, who’d provided him with a cook familiar with Saracen cuisine and spices. Joanna and Berengaria were served a lamb dish called
sikb
ā
j
, roasted scallops, and stuffed dates, but they merely picked at their food, quizzing Henri, instead, about his own experience with Arnaldia. To bring down his fever, Richard had been given ficaria and basil in wine, and when that did not help, the doctors had tried galingale and then black hellebore. Did Henri remember his treatment?

Searching his memory, he recalled taking columbine, pounded and then strained into juice through a thin cloth, and myrrh drunk in warm wine; the women made mental notes to mention this to Richard’s doctors. Richard was being given sponge baths with cool water, they related, and bled, of course, although one of the doctors insisted it was dangerous to bleed a man after the twenty-fifth of the month. How, they asked in despair, were they to know which advice to follow?

Henri did his best to console them, talking of the many men, like himself, who’d made a full recovery from Arnaldia, and suggesting prayers to Blasius, the patron saint for diseases of the throat and lungs, as Richard’s throat was very sore and he was troubled by painful sores in his mouth. When they were ready to depart, he rummaged around in his coffers until he found a favorite amber ring, for it was said to ward off fevers, and then walked them back to the royal pavilion.

Upon their return, they were initially alarmed to be told the Bishop of Salisbury had shriven Richard of his sins, but André was able to reassure them that this was merely a sensible precaution, not a sign that Richard had taken a turn for the worse. After all, he pointed out, men always confessed their sins ere going into battle. Once Joanna retired behind the women’s screen to get a few hours sleep, Berengaria pulled a chair up to the bed. The nights since Richard was stricken had been unusually quiet. She could still hear the thudding of stones as they crashed into the city walls, but otherwise a pall seemed to have settled over the camp. Richard showed no curiosity when she slipped Henri’s amber ring onto his finger, and when she brought him a hot beverage brewed from sage leaves, telling him it was said to heal mouth ulcers, he sipped obediently as she held the cup to his blistered lips.