Lionheart (72 page)

Joanna wondered if she’d ever been as innocent as Berengaria, as trusting of men and their motives. Most likely not, she decided, but then it would have been difficult to cling to innocence in a family known as the Devil’s Brood. She sat beside her sister-in-law on the bed, thinking about her father and brothers. It was not just Richard; they’d all been too clever by half, so sure they could outwit their enemies and get their own way by sheer force of will. And where had it gotten them? Papa died alone and abandoned, cursing the day he was born. Hal had been no better than a bandit in his last weeks, raiding churches to pay his routiers. Geoffrey’s plotting with the French king had brought suffering upon his wife and children, for his untimely death had made them pawns in the struggle between Brittany and its more powerful neighbors. Johnny had already proven that he could not be trusted, betraying the father who’d sacrificed so much for him. As for Richard, not only did he have his full share of the Angevin arrogance, he had a reckless streak that she found deeply disturbing, for what could be more reckless than contemplating a marital alliance with an infidel prince? Why was it that Maman seemed to be the only one to learn from past mistakes?

“Joanna . . . you look so troubled.” Berengaria reached over and squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand. “Not that I blame you for being distraught about this scheme of Richard’s. He ought to have found another way, ought not to have entangled you in it. Even knowing that he never intended for you to wed Saladin’s brother, it still had to be disturbing . . .” She did not finish the thought, faltering at the skeptical expression on Joanna’s face. “Surely you do not think he was lying? I cannot believe he’d ever coerce you into a godless marriage. He loves you dearly, Joanna.”

“I know he does. I never feared that he’d try to wed me to al-’Ādil against my wishes. Mind you, most men are all too willing to accept
female
sacrifice for the greater good, but my happiness does matter to Richard. Yet you are deluding yourself, Berengaria, if you think this is merely a sleight-of-hand to deceive Saladin and al-’Ādil. Had I reacted differently, had I been excited at the prospect of becoming Queen of Jerusalem—and there are women who’d wed the Antichrist if there was a crown in the offing—I’d wager Richard would have begun to take the marriage proposal somewhat more seriously. If he thought I was willing to make the match, he’d have been willing to see it done.”

“I do not believe that,” Berengaria said stoutly, doing her best to ignore the insidious inner voice whispering that Joanna knew Richard better than she ever would. “He said it was just a stratagem. What would make you think otherwise?”

“Because it is so well thought out, so thorough. Because he believes that if the Kingdom of Jerusalem is to survive, it is necessary to come to terms with Saladin. Because those terms are fair enough that both sides could live with them. Because he sees the Saracens as his enemies, but not as evil incarnate the way most of his army does. Because he truly seems to respect al-’Ādil and probably thinks he’d be a good husband to me, aside from the small matter of his infidel faith and other wives, of course.”

Joanna’s smile was sardonic, but a smile nonetheless, for she was beginning to see the perverse humor in it all. It was obvious that her sister-in-law did not, though; Berengaria looked so dismayed that she regretted having been so candid. But was it so bad if Richard’s halo tarnished a bit? If Berengaria was to find contentment as an Angevin queen, she needed to become more of a realist, both about their world and the man she’d married.

Patting the younger woman reassuringly on the shoulder, she said, “It does not matter what Richard might or might not have done had I shown myself willing to consider the match. I am not, so that puts an end to it.”

It was not that easy for Berengaria, and she later found herself lying awake until dawn, watching the man asleep beside her. How could it even have occurred to Richard to suggest such an unholy alliance? Why was he so willing to treat with these pagans as if they were Christian princes? How could he not see that he was making needless trouble for himself? She never doubted that he was a devout son of the Church, but he had enemies beyond counting who were eager to believe the worst of him. There was so much about these Angevins that she would never understand, and that included Joanna, who, like Richard, could find unseemly amusement in matters of the utmost gravity. Her husband stirred in his sleep, and she carefully tugged at the long strand of hair trapped under his shoulder; she did not braid it on the nights he shared her bed, knowing he preferred it loose. Reminding herself sternly that she was far more fortunate than most wives, she stretched out and closed her eyes. But she still felt unsettled, perplexed, and suddenly very lonely, for she could hear the echoes of her beloved brother Sancho’s voice, giving her that gentle warning back in Pamplona.
They are not like us, little one.
Indeed they were not.

WHEN BAHĀ’ AL-DīN carried Richard’s proposal to Salah al-Dīn, the sultan at once accepted it, for he was convinced the English king would never carry it out, that his latest gambit was either a joke or a deceitful trick. Richard responded with a regretful message that Joanna was resisting the marriage, but he hoped to persuade her there was no other way to end the war. Although the Saracens remained highly skeptical, the secret negotiations resumed.

RICHARD CONTINUED to give his family, friends, and army reasons to fear for his safety; encountering some Saracen scouts near Jaffa, he forced a battle, killing an emir, taking prisoners, and shrugging off criticism afterward. The following day, All Hallow’s Eve, he entrusted Jaffa and his women to the Bishop of Evreaux and the Count of Chalons, and moved the army four miles to Yāzūr, where he camped midway between the Casal of the Plains and Casal Maen, two Templar fortresses that had been razed by Salah al-Dīn. He instructed the Templars to repair the first castle while he set about rebuilding the second one, and despite daily harassment by the Saracens, they made enough progress to excite his men, who were impatient to begin the march upon Jerusalem and saw this as a first step.

SIX DAYS LATER, a small group of squires ventured out to forage, guarded by Templar knights. They had filled bags with fodder and were collecting firewood when a troop of Bedouin horsemen came swooping down upon them. The Templars came to their aid, but they were outnumbered and soon found themselves surrounded. The knights then resorted to a desperate maneuver, dismounting and standing back to back as they prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible; their order prided itself upon never surrendering or paying ransom. It was then that André de Chauvigny and fifteen of his household knights arrived upon the scene, drawn by the commotion. Their charge temporarily scattered the Saracens, but they surged back in greater numbers, and the Franks realized this was a battle they were not going to win.

TWO MILES AWAY, Richard was supervising the rebuilding of the stronghold at Casal Maen, pleased by his men’s enthusiasm for their task. It helped that the days were cooler now, although still much warmer than November temperatures back in their homelands. They were lugging bags of sand and lime and barrels of water toward a trough, making ready to mix a new batch of mortar when the sentries began to yell for the king.

The boy seemed unhurt, but he was reeling from fatigue and had collapsed upon the ground as soon as he’d blurted out his news. He was too weak to rise as Richard broke through the throng of men encircling him, panting so heavily that his narrow chest heaved as if he were having convulsions. Richard could barely hear his gasping words, and one of the first sentries to reach the squire stepped forward. “An attack by the Turks, sire, near Ibn Ibrak. He said there were too many of them for the Templars. Then other knights rode up, but they are outnumbered, too. It sounds as if they need help straightaway.”

“Get him water,” Richard ordered, his eyes searching the crowd of bystanders for knights who were already armed. He directed the Earl of Leicester and the Count of St Pol to lead a rescue mission, and then ran toward his tent, calling for his squires. They armed him with record speed. It still took awhile, though, for him to summon his own knights and fetch their horses, so by the time they rode out of camp, they dreaded what they might find.

It was to be even worse than they’d feared. They could already hear the familiar clash of weapons, the screams that indicated men and horses were dying up ahead. As they galloped toward the clamor, they were hailed by several Flemish squires from the foraging party, who’d been hiding in the underbrush by a dry riverbed. The youths were almost incoherent and none of them spoke fluent French, but they managed to communicate the one word that mattered, “Ambush.” The attack upon the Templars had been bait for a trap, and Leicester and St Pol had ridden right into it.

Richard spurred Fauvel toward the sounds of combat, the others strung out behind him. Ahead of him was a surging mass of men and horses, a wild mêlée in which it was obvious that the Franks were greatly outnumbered. As Richard drew rein, his knights caught up with him, crying out in horror at the sight meeting their eyes. One glance was enough to tell them that the embattled knights were doomed, but they could not dwell upon that now, for they owed a greater duty to their king than to their cornered comrades. Gathering around Richard, they began to urge him to retreat, arguing that they did not have enough men to rescue the others and if Richard died in a futile attempt to save them, their hope of defeating Saladin would die with him.

Richard angrily cut off their entreaties. “I sent those men out there, promising that I would follow with aid. If they die without me, may I never again be called a king.” And with that, he couched his lance and charged the Saracens, shouting the battle cry of the English Royal House,
“Dex aie!”

He impaled the first man to challenge him, flinging him from the saddle with such force that he was dead before he hit the ground. Dropping his broken lance, Richard then unsheathed his sword and urged Fauvel into the fray again, attacking so furiously that the enemy soldiers shied away, seeking easier prey. By now his men knew he was there, fighting with them, and not for the first time the presence of a king turned the tide of battle. They rallied, seizing the momentum Richard had given them, and drove the Saracens back, long enough for them to manage a retreat from the field.