Lionheart (80 page)

Berengaria could not suppress a gasp, stunned that Richard’s mother would urge him to abandon the crusade. “But if you leave, Richard, there is no chance of recovering Jerusalem!”

Joanna was more concerned with the loss of the Angevin empire. She started to speak, stopping herself before the words could escape, for this was a decision only Richard could make. “What will you do?” she asked quietly, and he glanced toward her, for a brief moment dropping his defenses and letting her see his anguish.

“I do not know,” he admitted. “God help me, I do not know.”

AFTER A SLEEPLESS NIGHT, Richard called a council meeting the next day. As the men crowded into his tent, he could see from their faces that they’d heard the rumors sweeping the camp; they looked apprehensive. “Most of you have heard that I’ve had word from England,” he said. “The news was very troubling. My kingdom is in turmoil, threatened by the French king and my own brother. I do not know how much longer I can remain in the Holy Land. But I will not compel any man to act against his conscience. Each one of you can decide for yourself whether you wish to return home with me or stay in Outremer.”

Even though some of them must have been anticipating an announcement like this, they all reacted with dismay, insisting that the war could not be won without him and entreating him to stay. Richard let them have their say before responding. “I will not just walk away. I promise you that. If I do have to return to my own domains, I will pay for three hundred elite knights and two thousand men-at-arms to stay in Outremer. I do not want to depart whilst the war continues. But I may have no choice, not if my kingdom is at stake.”

Eventually the protests died down, but he could still see reproach and recrimination in the faces surrounding him. He’d wondered which of the
poulains
would be the first to raise the issue of kingship. As it turned out, it was the Grand Master of the Hospitallers, Garnier de Nablus. “We do understand, my liege,” he said, “that you find yourself torn between your obligations. One of my Spanish knights ofttimes quotes an old proverb:
‘Entre la espada y la pared.’
That is where you find yourself now, between the sword and the wall. You must do as God directs. But ere you go, we must know who will lead us once you’re gone.”

There was a sputtered objection from Guy de Lusignan, who hastily reminded them of the Acre agreement that had recognized him as king for life, with Conrad and Isabella as his heirs. No one paid him any mind.

“I know,” Richard said. “I think you ought to discuss it amongst yourselves, for it should be a decision made by the men who’ll have to live with it, not those who’ll soon be on their way home. So that my presence will not inhibit a candid exchange of opinions, I will leave whilst you deliberate.”

RICHARD HAD HEADED in the direction of Berengaria’s pavilion, but at the last moment he veered off. He knew his wife would not berate him or even implore him to remain, but her brown eyes would reveal her bewilderment and her deep disappointment. His sister offered a safer harbor and he made for her tent, instead.

“I told them,” he said tersely, “and now they are deciding their future once I’m gone.”

He was obviously in no mood for conversation, so Joanna did not press him further. Beckoning to one of her knights, she gave him low-voiced instructions, all the while watching as her brother slouched on her bed, absently petting the Sicilian hound who’d hopped up beside him. The knight was soon back, having retrieved a musical instrument from Richard’s tent. “Here,” Joanna said, “occupy yourself with this.”

Richard was strumming a melancholy little melody when Henri entered and pulled up a stool. “What is that . . . not a lute?”

“It is called an
oud
. Al-’Ādil gave it to me after I expressed interest in Saracen music.”

Henri leaned closer to see. “You do not pluck the strings with your fingers like a harp?” Richard explained that a quill was used for the
oud
. His face was hidden, his head bent over the
oud
, and Henri watched him for a while, not sure what would better serve his uncle—silence, sympathy, or candor. Finally deciding upon the latter, he said, “You know they will choose Conrad?”

“I know.”

“And . . . and you are all right with that?”

Richard’s shoulders twitched in a half-shrug. “You recently reminded me that Guy is a puppet king at best, and could not hope to survive without my support. Since I do not know how much longer I dare remain in Outremer, that can no longer be ignored.”

“It is the right decision, Uncle.”

“Only time will tell. But compared to the other choice I’m facing, this was a relatively easy one.”

“Of course the de Lusignans will not take it well.”

“No,” Richard agreed, “I do not suppose they will.” He said no more, and Henri decided not to probe any further. He yearned to know what Richard would decide to do, for it would affect them all, but he was not sure his uncle even knew, not yet.

The
poulain
lords determined the fate of their kingdom with surprising speed; within an hour, the two Grand Masters, Hugues de Tiberias, and his younger brother were being ushered into Joanna’s pavilion. “We have discussed it, my lord Richard, and we are all of one mind, save only Humphrey de Toron and the de Lusignans. We want Conrad of Montferrat as our king.”

Richard nodded. “I expected as much.”

“And you accept our decision?”

“I said I would, did I not?”

“Yes, my liege, you did.” Hugues de Tiberias hesitated. “As you know, I am no friend to Conrad. But under the circumstances, it was the only choice we could make.”

Richard nodded again and they soon withdrew, so obviously relieved that Henri thought Conrad would begin his reign with one great advantage always denied Guy—a united kingdom. Richard had picked up the
oud
again, signaling that he had no interest in discussing it further, and Henri took the hint. But almost as soon as the men had departed, Guy de Lusignan burst into the tent, trailed by his brothers, Joffroi and Amaury.

“How could you let this happen? How could you abandon me like this?”

“I did all I could for you, Guy. But I could not change the fact that none of them wanted you as king. I am not going to ‘abandon’ you, though.”

“What . . . you mean to give me a stipend? I am not one of your knights to be paid wages or a pension now that I’m no longer of any use. I am an anointed king!”

“No,” Richard said, “you
were
a king. But I have more in mind than a stipend. I cannot give you the kingdom of Jerusalem. I can give you Cyprus.”

Guy’s mouth dropped open. “Cyprus? But you sold it to the Templars.”

“You’ve heard of the rebellion in Nicosia on Easter Eve? Well, Robert de Sablé told me that they have decided the island is more trouble than it’s worth to them. They’d agreed to pay me one hundred thousand bezants and so far have paid forty thousand of that sum. If you reimburse them the forty thousand, Cyprus is yours.”

Guy’s brothers were listening avidly, eyes gleaming, the sort of predatory glint that Henri had seen in the eyes of falcons when they first sighted their quarry. But Guy seemed more ambivalent, his face displaying both interest and uncertainty. “I cannot afford one hundred thousand bezants,” he objected, earning himself scowls from both Joffroi and Amaury.

“If you can come up with the forty thousand for the Templars, that will be enough.”

This was such a generous offer that Guy’s brothers began to lavish praise upon Richard, thanking him profusely. Guy’s gratitude was more restrained. “Thank you, my liege,” he said. “But it is just that—” He gave an odd “oof ” sound then, and Henri realized he’d been elbowed sharply in the ribs by Amaury. He refused to be silenced, though, glared at his brother, and then looked earnestly at Richard. “I appreciate your kindness, I do. I just find it hard to accept—knowing that Conrad has won. He is the least worthy man in Christendom to wear a crown, sire, for he is deceitful, selfish, puffed up with pride, and ungrateful—yes, ungrateful! Did you know I saved his life once? During the siege of Acre, he was unhorsed and I came to his rescue—me, the man he betrayed!”

This time both of his brothers stepped in, interrupting his harangue with more expressions of appreciation, and then practically dragging Guy away, as if they feared Richard might change his mind at any moment. Once they were gone, Henri smiled at his uncle. “That was adroitly done. Not only do you placate Guy, you give his quarrelsome brothers a reason to stay away from Poitou!”

“Not Joffroi; from what I’ve heard, he is thinking of renouncing his lordship of Jaffa and going home once the war is over. But with a little luck, Amaury will put down roots in Cyprus with Guy . . . provided that they do not make the same mistakes the Templars did.”

Joanna had been a very interested witness to the scene with the de Lusignans. Leaning over, she gave Richard’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You ought to be proud of what you did today. Now you can go home with a clear conscience, sure that Outremer is in the hands of a capable king.” Wrinkling her nose, she added, “Not a likable one, but he is what they need.”

Richard inclined his head. Reaching again for the
oud
, he glanced over at his nephew. “You can be the one to let Conrad know he’s gotten his accursed crown.”

“I’ll leave on the morrow.” Henri thought this would be an enjoyable mission, for it was always pleasant to be the bearer of glad tidings, and Tyre would erupt in joyful celebrations, revelries that would put both Christmas and Easter in the shade. “Now that Conrad is to be king, the rest of the
poulains
will join us, Uncle. He might even be able to bestir the French into fighting again.”

“That is what I am counting upon,” Richard said. “This is Conrad’s kingdom now. So it is time he defended it. And then, God willing, I can go home.”

CHAPTER 31

APRIL 1192

Acre, Outremer

After lingering a few days at Tyre to enjoy the revelries, Henri and his delegation had sailed to Acre to lay the groundwork for Conrad and Isabella’s coming coronation. Here, too, they’d been welcomed as heroes, so great was the universal relief that their kingdom would have a strong hand on the helm once Richard returned to his own lands. Henri and the knights accompanying him planned to depart for Ascalon by week’s end, for they were eager to bring Richard good news for a change, a promise that Outremer’s new king would soon be leading an army south to join him. But on this Wednesday afternoon, a lavish feast had been given in their honor and they were more than willing to embrace all the pleasures, comforts, and sins that Acre had to offer before returning to the harsh realities of holy war.

Henri had not enjoyed such a delicious repast in months. After the last course had been served, he rose to salute his hosts. He had a felicitous way with words and offered a graceful tribute to the governors Stephen Longchamp and Bertrand de Verdun, to Bishop Theobald, Acre’s elderly prelate, and to the other churchmen beaming at him down the length of the linen-clad tables. He singled out the leaders of the Pisan colony for special praise, much to Morgan’s amused approval; he thought Henri had a surprisingly deft political touch for one so highborn. Every now and then, Henri reminded him of his dead lord, Geoffrey, for Morgan had first pledged his loyalties to Richard’s brother, the most complex and subtle of the Devil’s Brood.

Having expressed his appreciation for their hospitality, Henri raised high one of the ruby-red glass goblets that had once adorned the table of the Saracen commander al-Mashtūb. “Fortune’s Wheel can spin with a vengeance. But some men seem blessed, destined to soar whilst others fall. Let us drink to the Marquis of Montferrat and his lovely consort, the Lady Isabella. May they rule well and long over your kingdom and may their child be a son.”

Not all of the guests had heard that Isabella was pregnant and Henri’s toast created quite a stir. He was kept busy for some moments answering the excited questions coming his way, confirming that the marquise was indeed with child, and confirming, too, a rumor heard by the Bishop of Bethlehem, who wanted to know if it was true that Conrad had asked God to approve his elevation to the throne.

“Yes, my lord bishop, he did. Upon being told that he was to be king, he first gave thanks to the Almighty. He then raised his hands toward Heaven and declared, ‘I beg You, Lord, that You allow me to be crowned only if You judge me worthy to govern Your kingdom.’ It made a profound impression upon his audience, who were deeply moved by his piety,” Henri said blandly. But once the trestle tables had been taken apart and the guests began to mingle, he offered a more worldly critique for Morgan and Otto de Trazegnies. “Conrad has a natural flair for high drama, one that even Richard might envy. Little wonder my uncle Philippe was so discontented at Acre, a waning moon trying to compete with two blazing suns.”

They both joined in his laughter, but then glanced around to make sure they’d not been overheard, for some of the guests might have felt Henri’s comments were indiscreet. While most would have agreed that Conrad and Richard were adroit scene-stealers who thrived on center stage, it was not something to be said aloud. Henri was in high spirits, though, and in no mood to be circumspect. “Do you know how I see Conrad’s coronation? As a golden key, opening a door that has been bolted and locked for months. Now that he and my uncle will finally be working together, they’ll soon compel Saladin to accept peace terms. We may well be able to sail for home ere the first frost!” He started to add the formulaic “God willing,” but moved by mischief, he went with a murmured
“Inshallah”
instead.

Otto was accustomed to Henri’s insouciance and merely rolled his eyes. Morgan was no longer paying attention, looking toward the far end of the hall. “I wonder what is going on,” he said. “Stephen Longchamp and Bertrand de Verdun just dashed for the door as if they’d been told the palace is afire.”

Henri shrugged. “As long as the city is not under assault again, I refuse to worry. And since it is now Conrad’s by right, we need not fear him swooping down in another stealth attack. Did I tell you that the Saracen commander has finally been freed? Bertrand said he managed to pay his ransom.”

“That is passing strange.” Morgan was still gazing over Henri’s shoulder. “Why would Balian d’Ibelin follow us to Acre? He knows you brought Conrad’s instructions for the coronation, does he not?”

“Balian is here?” Henri turned toward the door, no less puzzled than Morgan. But as he got his first glimpse of Balian’s face, his mouth suddenly went dry. He’d seen such a benumbed, dazed expression before. His mother had looked like that when she’d come to tell him that his father was dead and their world forever changed.

Balian was trailed by the two governors, whose stricken faces were attracting as much attention as the
poulain
lord’s unexpected appearance. Ignoring the questions and comments that churned in his wake, Balian headed straight for Henri. Already sure that he did not want to hear whatever the older man had come to tell him, Henri forced himself to step forward.

Balian seemed to have aged decades in the few days since Henri had last seen him. “There is no easy way to bring news like this, so I’ll just say it straight out. Conrad is dead. He was murdered yesterday afternoon by two
Assassins
.”

BALIAN’S SHOCKING REVELATION had unleashed turmoil that bordered on hysteria, for many believed that the Kingdom of Jerusalem had died when Conrad drew his last breath. Leaving Bishop Theobald and the other prelates to try to calm the crowd, the governors escorted Balian from the hall as soon as he’d given a terse account of Conrad’s murder. Followed by Henri and the knights who’d accompanied him to Tyre, they retreated to the greater privacy of the solar. Once wine had been fetched by frightened servants, they staggered toward the closest seats like men whose legs could no longer sustain the weight of their bodies. Otto de Trazegnies and William de Caieux slumped onto a nearby bench and Morgan withdrew into a window alcove, almost as if he hoped he could somehow distance himself from the looming disaster. Bertrand de Verdun was no longer a young man and he collapsed into a high-backed chair that he ought to have offered to Balian or Henri, but protocol was the last thing on his mind at that moment. Stephen Longchamp appropriated one of the wine flagons, apparently intending to drink himself into blessed oblivion. Balian sank down on a wooden coffer, staring into the depths of a gilt cup as if it held answers instead of spiced red wine. Henri hovered beside him, too restive to sit still, wanting to demand answers and yet dreading to hear them. He managed to wait until Balian had drained his cup, for it was obvious that the other man was utterly exhausted, physically and emotionally, and then he said, “Tell us the rest, Balian, what you did not tell the men in the hall. Give us as much detail as you can. Mayhap then we can begin to believe it.”

Balian set his cup down upon the carpet. “Isabella had gone to the baths,” he said dully, as if struggling to comprehend how such a mundane matter could have such monumental consequences, “and when she did not return by midday, Conrad decided he could wait no longer. He said to tell her he’d gone to dine with the Bishop of Beauvais. He had only two knights with him, none of them wearing their hauberks. He . . . he never worried about his physical safety, no more than your English king does. When he got to Beauvais’s house, he found that the bishop had already eaten. Beauvais offered to have a meal prepared, but Conrad refused, saying Isabella ought to be back by then and he’d go home to eat with her.”

While Balian was looking directly at Henri, his eyes seemed focused upon a scene far from the solar at Acre’s royal palace. “It happened after he’d passed the archbishop’s dwelling. As he turned into a narrow street near the Exchange, he saw two men waiting for him. They would have looked familiar, Christian monks who’d attached themselves to our households��mine and Renaud de Sidon’s—and when one of them approached with a letter, he likely assumed it was from me or Renaud.”

Balian paused to press his fingers against his throbbing temples. “When he reached down for the letter, the killer stabbed him. At the same time, the second
Assassin
leapt onto his horse and plunged a dagger into his back. I was told it happened so fast that no one could have saved him. He was carried back to the citadel, still breathing, but it was obvious his wounds were mortal. . . .”

“Was there time to give him the Sacrament of the Faithful?” When Balian nodded, Henri exhaled a ragged breath, grateful that at least Conrad had been shriven of his sins. “What happened to his attackers? And how can you be sure they were
Assassins
?”

“One of them was slain on the spot. The other fled into a nearby church, where he was seized and turned over to the Bishop of Beauvais. Under torture, he admitted he’d been sent by the Old Man of the Mountain. He was then dragged through the streets to his death.” Balian picked up his wine cup again, seemed surprised to find it empty.

Henri refilled it for him. “I do not understand. Why did the
Assassins
seek Conrad’s death? Had they a grievance against him?”

“Yes . . . last year he’d seized a merchant ship belonging to Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān and then refused to return the cargo and crew. Conrad could be stubborn, and threats made him balk all the more. I’d warned him that one day his pride would play him false, but of course he just laughed. . . .” Balian’s voice trailed off, and the other men remembered that his was a double loss, as much personal as political, for Conrad had been wed to his stepdaughter.

Balian took several deep swallows before continuing. “You’d best brace yourselves, for you are not going to like what comes next. Beauvais and Hugh of Burgundy are claiming that ere he died, the second
Assassin
confessed that Conrad’s murder had been done at the behest of the English king.”

As Balian expected, that got an explosive reaction. They were all on their feet within seconds, bombarding him with infuriated denials, raging against the French accusations so loudly that he thought the men below in the hall could hear. He said nothing, for it seemed easier to let their fury burn itself out; he was too tired to engage in a shouting match. When they at last paused for breath, he said, “I did not say I believed it, Henri. As it happens, I do not. I cannot say I share your conviction that Richard would not be capable of such a crime. I grant you he’s much more likely to commit his own killings, but men do sometimes act in ways that we’d not expect. What they never do, however, is act against their own interest. Your English king is desperate to get back to his realm ere he loses it, desperate enough to embrace Conrad’s kingship. Not only does he not benefit by Conrad’s death, it is a disaster for him.”

They subsided, somewhat mollified, and Bertrand de Verdun then suggested Saladin as a far more likely candidate than Richard. Balian started to remind them that Saladin had no motive, either, for he had accepted Conrad’s peace terms just days ago, but he remembered in time that they were unaware of this. As soon as he’d learned that he was to be king, Conrad had sent an urgent message to Saladin, saying that he and Richard were no longer enemies and a full-scale war was inevitable now unless the sultan made peace, a threat Saladin had taken seriously. Balian had assumed Conrad meant to break the news upon his arrival at Ascalon. It would be greeted with great relief by the
poulains
and most likely by Richard, too, for the terms were similar to those he himself had offered Saladin, and a peace settlement would free him to return to defend his own kingdom. The common soldiers, those still burning with holy zeal to retake Jerusalem, would have felt betrayed, of course, but Conrad would not have lost any sleep over their anguish. This was the most bitter of Balian’s regrets, that they’d come so close to ending this accursed war on terms both sides could live with, only to see those hopes bleed to death along with Conrad.

He would have to tell Henri about Conrad’s secret dealings with Saladin of course, but not now. “Saladin had no reason to arrange Conrad’s murder,” he said, “for he knew Conrad preferred to settle the war over the bargaining table, not the battlefield.” When Otto de Trazegnies then offered up Guy de Lusignan as a plausible suspect, Balian could only marvel at how little these newcomers knew of his world. “Can you truly imagine Guy as the mastermind behind a conspiracy like this? He has not the brains, no more than Humphrey de Toron has the ballocks. Besides, your king has cleverly defanged the de Lusignan snakes by giving them Cyprus. Moreover, the
Assassins
are not routiers; their daggers are not for hire to the highest bidder.”

Balian hesitated and then decided it was best not to hold back, for they would have to know. “That is what the French are saying, though,” he admitted. “Not only are they blaming Richard for Conrad’s death, they are also alleging that he sent four
Assassins
to France to murder Philippe.” This set off another infuriated outburst, and again he waited until their indignation had run its course. “You’ve not heard all of it,” he warned. “Conrad’s body was not yet cold ere Beauvais and Burgundy demanded that Isabella yield Tyre to them, claiming it in the name of the French king.”