Lionheart (69 page)

RICHARD HAD ALLOWED his squires to remove his mail shirt, then slumped down on a coffer. He’d not worn his gambeson under his hauberk and he’d been badly bruised by blows that had gotten past his sword’s defenses, but he ignored Henri’s plea that he be checked out by his doctor. He looked up only when Pierre and Jean de Préaux were ushered into the tent. It was obvious that they had already been told of their brother’s capture, for they had the dazed look of men torn between pride and grief.

“I want you to know,” Richard said, “that I will do all in my power to gain Guilhem’s freedom. I swear this upon the very surety of my soul and all my hopes of salvation.”

Jean murmured an almost inaudible “Thank you, my liege.” Pierre swallowed with an obvious effort and then managed a sad smile.

“You must not blame yourself, sire. My brother sacrificed himself for his king and for the Holy City, and there can be no greater honor than that. But we know there is no hope. We’ve heard what those Bedouin spies have reported, that Saladin has put to death all Christians unlucky enough to fall into his hands. At least we have the comfort of knowing Guilhem will soon be blessed with Life Everlasting, able to look upon the Face of Almighty God.”

“No,” Richard said, so urgently that they exchanged confused glances. “Saladin will not execute Guilhem, for he understands how much Guilhem’s life matters to me. He knows I will pay any ransom he demands. Your brother is too valuable a hostage to be beheaded, worth far more alive than dead.”

They were hesitant at first to believe him, afraid to embrace false hope. But Richard’s certainty was so compelling and their need so great that by the time they departed the tent, they were no longer convinced that their brother was doomed. Once they’d gone, Henri filled two wine cups until they were in danger of overflowing. Sloshing one into Richard’s hand, he said, “Do you truly believe that, Uncle?”

“I have to, Henri,” Richard said, “I have to. . . .” As he turned away, Henri thought he caught a suspicious glimmer in the other man’s eyes and he hastily drained his wine cup, while he, too, blinked back tears.

RICHARD’S FRIENDS WAITED five days before bearding the lion in his den. Henri and André were the ringleaders and they’d carefully selected crusaders the king was most likely to heed—Baldwin de Bethune, the Earl of Leicester, the Bishop of Salisbury, Morgan ap Ranulf, Jaufre of Perche, Guillaume des Barres, and the Grand Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers. And so on a Friday evening at twilight not long after Richard had returned from a scouting mission, he found himself confronted by men whose opinions he could not dismiss as easily as he had Hugh of Burgundy’s.

“As much as it pains me to say it,” Henri began, for he’d been given the dubious honor of being their spokesman, “there were a few grains of sense midst Hugh’s ranting.” Seeking to head off the gathering storm clouds, he said hastily, “Uncle, even a blind pig can find an acorn occasionally. And whilst none of us believe his charge—that you are courting your own death—we do fear for your safety. The line between courage and recklessness is not as blurred as you seem to think.”

“I lead by example,” Richard said flatly. “Our men are so willing to risk their lives on a daily basis because they see that I am risking mine, too.”

None could argue with that, for Richard had just uttered a basic truth of war, one noncombatants did not always understand—that men fought for one another as well as for causes or profit, theirs a solidarity that only the battlefield could forge. Henri did not think this was going as they’d hoped and he glanced toward the others for support.

“Yes, our soldiers greatly admire your courage, Cousin. But they also fear for your safety as we do,” André said bluntly. “Last Sunday was the third time you’ve nearly been killed or captured in a Saracen ambush, the very same ambushes you warn us to avoid. It was foolhardy to chase after those Turkish archers, especially since you all were so lightly armed. You would have been wroth with any of our men for taking such needless chances. Can you deny it?”

Few would have dared to speak so candidly with a king, especially this one. But André knew that Richard had inherited more than his father’s notorious Angevin temper; he had Henry’s innate sense of fairness, too. Neither man had always heeded it, of course, not a welcome thought as he waited tensely now for Richard’s response.

Richard started to speak, stopped himself, and scowled, for he could not deny it. He would indeed have berated others for ignoring the dangers of an ambush. “One of the benefits of kingship,” he said at last, “is that we get to break the rules from time to time.” Even to him, that was a lame defense, but he really didn’t have one. He did not fully understand himself why he felt this compulsion to be the first into the breach, the last to retreat. What of it, though? It was part and parcel of what made him the man he was, after all.

“I do not doubt that is true, sire,” the Bishop of Salisbury said, with his usual aplomb. “Kings do indeed get to break the rules. And we have not dared to reproach you for your boldness until now. But we can keep silent no longer, not when the fate of the Holy Land balances so precariously upon the blade of your sword.”

“None would argue that all men’s lives are of equal value,” Guillaume des Barres said quietly. “Your life, my liege, is precious in God’s Eyes, and not just because you are a king. You are the man chosen to defeat the infidels and restore Jerusalem to its former glory. You cannot risk such a destiny in needless skirmishes with Saracen bowmen.”

As he glanced around the tent, Richard saw that same belief on the other faces, too, a conviction strong enough to risk his anger, even though theirs was a world in which the king’s favor counted for all. “It is not fair to make God your ally,” he said, half seriously, “for how am I supposed to dispute His Will? I understand your concern, I do. I can promise you this much, that I will try to be more careful in the future. But in all honesty, I cannot promise more than that, for you may drive nature out with a pitchfork, but it will still return.”

Most of the men hadn’t expected much more from Richard and they reasoned that a qualified promise was better than no promise at all. They hoped to continue the conversation, though, wanting to make sure that he fully understood the depths of their anxiety. But it was then that Warin Fitz Gerald hastened into the tent with news that couldn’t wait.

“My lord, King Guy is back! His ship has just dropped anchor in the harbor.” Warin paused then, realizing that a council was in progress. “Forgive me for interrupting, sire. I thought you would want to know straightaway. . . .”

Richard had dispatched Guy to Acre with instructions to bring back the truants still enjoying themselves in the city’s taverns and whorehouses. He did indeed want to know that Guy had returned, but he was also glad of an excuse to end this uncomfortable lecture. “No, we are done here, Warin. How many ships are with him?”

“Only the one galley, my liege.”

“What? You mean he failed to bring any of those laggards back with him?” Richard was incredulous; how could Guy fail at such a simple task? He was halfway across the tent before he remembered the other men. “This cannot wait,” he explained. “I have to find out what happened.”

They agreed politely that this took precedence, and as soon as Richard had gone, they, too, began to disperse, relieved that at least they’d gotten him to listen. Only Henri and André lingered, helping themselves to some of Richard’s wine, for they thought they’d earned it.

“That comment about a pitchfork . . .” André paused to take a deep swallow. “Does it mean what I think it does?”

Henri’s mother had made sure he’d received an excellent education, no less thorough than Richard’s, and he’d recognized the quote. “It was from Horace,” he said, adding when he saw André’s blank look, “a Roman poet. Yes, it does mean what you think—that a leopard cannot change his spots, and God help us all, but neither can a lion.”

JOANNA AND BERENGARIA had spent the afternoon with Prior William, an English cleric who’d come to Outremer to establish a church and hospital in honor of the martyr St Thomas of Canterbury. He’d arrived during the siege and set up his chapel outside the walls, but now that Acre was in Christian hands again, he hoped to move into the city. Since Richard had promised to endow the hospital, he’d taken the women to see a suitable property near the gate of St Nicholas. Their lives were so different from what they’d experienced back in Sicily and Navarre, when royal duties had kept them busy from dawn to dusk, that they were pleased to be able to function again as queens and they gave the prior permission to purchase the building. They then visited the covered market street, where they bought perfumed soap to assuage Anna and Alicia’s disappointment; the girls had wanted to accompany them, for an excursion into the city was much more appealing than their daily lessons. So it was dusk before Joanna and Berengaria returned to the palace, their household knights good-naturedly complaining about being loaded down with their purchases like pack mules.

As soon as they entered the courtyard, Anna and Alicia flew out the door to meet them. “Where have you been?” Anna scolded. “We did not think you were ever coming home!”

“We told you we’d not be back until Vespers,” Berengaria said, puzzled, while Joanna studied the girls with sudden suspicion. They were flushed with excitement, had clearly been up to something, and she hoped they hadn’t been playing pranks again. The timid Alicia had blossomed under the bolder Anna’s tutelage and they’d been chastised in the past week alone for smuggling a mouse into the bed of the Lady Uracca, giggling uncontrollably during the morning Mass, and sneaking a roast from the kitchen to feed to Joanna’s dogs.

“We have a gift for you. But it is a surprise, so you must first cover your eyes,” Anna insisted, producing two silk scarves for that purpose. Joanna was game, but Berengaria balked.

“I am not going to put on a blindfold,” she protested, and was holding firm despite the girls’ entreaties when she glanced across the courtyard and saw the man watching in amusement from the door of the great hall. “Richard!” Her dignity forgotten, at least for the moment, she gathered up her skirts and ran into his arms, followed by a delighted Joanna and the disappointed Anna and Alicia.

“You were supposed to wait,
Malik Ric
,” Anna pouted, but Richard was too occupied with kissing his wife and then hugging his sister to pay her much mind.

DINNER WAS THE MAIN MEAL of the day and so supper was usually a more modest affair. But Richard, Baldwin, Morgan, and the other knights he’d brought with him proclaimed the lamb stew to be utterly delicious, regaling the women with stories of the dubious victuals cooked over their campfires. Richard did not find the conversation as appealing as the food, though. Guy de Lusignan had often boasted that he’d kept no secrets from his queen, and Richard discovered now that Guy had been as forthright with Berengaria and Joanna as he’d been with Sybilla. He’d told them all about the deprivations and dangers of the march, including Richard’s narrow escapes and his crossbow wound. Richard did his best to gloss over the perils they’d faced, and then turned the talk to lighter fare, telling the women about their comic encounters with jerboa, strange rodent-like creatures that hopped like rabbits, and relating the story of Baldwin’s disastrous attempt to ride a camel, thankful that at least Guy had not mentioned the Michaelmas ambush.