Lionheart (85 page)

RICHARD HAD BEEN SECLUDED in his tent for several days, wrestling with the competing demands of king and crusader, fearing they might be irreconcilable. If he remained in the Holy Land, he could lose his crown. But how could he violate the sacred oath he’d sworn to Almighty God? He’d always been very decisive, both on and off the battlefield, quick to assess risks and reach conclusions, never one for second-guessing himself. But now he was faced with an impossible choice and, for the first time in his life, he did not know what to do.

He’d prayed for guidance, to no avail. God had given him no answers. Instead he was confronted with more bad news, delivered by Henri, André, and the Bishop of Salisbury.

Richard had never seen his nephew so angry. “Last night the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais held a secret council with the other lords, including some of your vassals from Poitou, Anjou, England, and Normandy. None of us were invited, for obvious reasons, nor were the Templars, the Hospitallers, or any of the
poulain
barons. They decided that they will march upon Jerusalem whether you stay or not, Uncle. They then leaked word of their decision to the army, and men reacted as you’d expect—with great joy.” Shaking his head, Henri said bitterly, “They are going to lay siege to the Holy City even if it means they all die in the attempt and, unforgivably, even if Outremer dies, too. They may well have doomed every man, woman, and child in the kingdom and we did not even have a say in it.”

Richard’s own temper had caught fire as he’d listened. “So be it, then. If that is their decision, I now know what mine will be. They can neither take nor hold Jerusalem, the fools! Why should I sacrifice my own kingdom for nothing?”

None of them argued with him. As much as Henri wanted to, he could not. He was convinced that Hugh of Burgundy could no more defeat Saladin than he could fly to the moon. Whatever hopes they had of success would end when Richard sailed for home. Yet how could he ask his uncle to remain when none would heed his voice? Even if victory was impossible in Outremer, the Angevin empire could still be saved. But not if Richard remained in the Holy Land.

THE ARMY MOVED NORTH to Bethgibelin, camping by the stark ruins of a Hospitaller castle. Here the men encountered swarms of the tiny flies they called “cincelles” and “flying sparks.” The insects swarmed incessantly, stinging every inch of exposed flesh and raising such lumps that their victims resembled lepers; despite the searing heat, the soldiers wrapped themselves in cloths and masked their faces to fend off these winged assaults. Yet the men remained determined to reclaim Jerusalem from the infidels, while Richard remained tormented by doubts, for he’d soon begun to question a decision made in anger. Could he truly turn his back upon the Holy Land? Could he sail away as Philippe had done, abandoning Henri and his Christian brethren to a war they could not win? Was that what God would want him to do?

A solitary figure had been keeping vigil for hours outside Richard’s tent, swatting ineffectively at the flies, refusing to leave his post even for meals or to answer nature’s call. Father William had entered the English king’s service when he was Count of Poitou, and when Richard had taken the cross, William had done so, too, for the army would need chaplains, and what better death could a man have than to die in the Holy Land, doing God’s Work? He had been devastated by Richard’s refusal to besiege Jerusalem. It was far worse, though, to think Richard would abandon them, abandon their sacred quest, abandon the Almighty and the Lord Christ, and as he watched over the king’s tent, he wept.

When Richard finally emerged, his attention was drawn to the chaplain, just as William had hoped. But he lost his nerve then, and agreed to speak candidly only if the king promised him that he’d not be angry. Having extracted an impatient reassurance from Richard, the chaplain still hesitated, searching for the right words. “My lord king, it is the talk of the camp that you intend to leave us. May that day never come. God forbid that mere rumors keep you from conquering the Holy Land, for we fear that would bring you eternal disgrace.”

He saw Richard stiffen and momentarily faltered. Emboldened when the king did not rebuke him, he pressed on. “Lord king, I entreat you to remember all that God has done for you. Never did a king of your age accomplish such glorious deeds.” The words were coming quickly now, slurring in his haste to get them said. He reminded Richard of his past victories as Count of Poitou, spoke of how Richard had taken Messina and seized the island of Cyprus and sank that great Saracen ship. Such triumphs were proof of divine favor, as was his miraculous recovery from the scourge of Arnaldia, which had killed so many others. “God has committed the Holy Land to your protection. It is your responsibility alone, now that the French king has cravenly run away. You are the sole defender of Christendom. If you desert us, you will have abandoned it to be destroyed by our enemies.”

He fell silent then, tears continuing to streak his face, swollen from multiple cincelle bites, his eyes fastened imploringly upon his king. His disappointment was almost too much to bear when Richard turned away without answering.

ON THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON the army reached Ascalon and made camp in the orchards outside the city walls. Henri then met privately in Balian’s tent with some of the other
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lords and the Templar and Hospitaller Grand Masters, holding a strategy session in which they all urged Henri to try to convince Richard to stay. When he balked, they politely but firmly reminded him that his first loyalties now must be given to Outremer. He returned to his own pavilion at sunset in a grim frame of mind, only to find Joanna and Berengaria anxiously waiting for him. Richard was always closemouthed, Joanna conceded; she’d never seen him like this, though. He was obviously greatly troubled, but he’d brushed aside all their questions and concerns, pulling back like a turtle retreating into its shell. “What has happened, Henri? What do we need to know?”

Henri told them about the dire news from England and then about the decision to march on Jerusalem. He had just finished when a summons came from Richard. Joanna and Berengaria accompanied him; he wasn’t about to rebuff his aunt and decided it was up to Richard to dismiss the women if he did not want them present. Richard did not seem disturbed to see them; he did not even seem surprised. Seeing his uncle through Joanna and Berengaria’s eyes, Henri could understand why they were so worried. Richard looked haggard, even haunted, like a man who’d become a stranger to sleep. His gaze flicked from face to face, his own face inscrutable, his thoughts shielded. When he did not speak, Henri prompted, “You wanted to see me, Uncle?”

Richard nodded then, almost imperceptibly. “I have decided not to return to England. Whatever messages come, whatever happens, I pledge to remain in the Holy Land until next Easter.”

Henri felt a great surge of relief, followed by guilt. Joanna’s emotions were less ambivalent; she did not think it was fair that Richard should be asked to sacrifice so much more than the other crusaders. Berengaria crossed to her husband’s side, looking up at him with a smile so joyful that she seemed to be glowing; at that moment, Henri thought she was beautiful. “Does this mean you will be laying siege to Jerusalem, Richard?”

“Yes,” he said, sounding very weary. “I will tell the others tonight and then have my herald proclaim it to the rest of the camp on the morrow.”

Henri kept silent, not sure what to say. Nor did he meet his uncle’s eyes, for he knew what he’d see in them. It would have been like looking into his own soul on the night he’d returned to Tyre, knowing his choices were illusory, knowing he was trapped.

RICHARD DISPATCHED HENRI to Acre to corral the last of the deserters and to find reinforcements in Tyre and even Tripoli, for if they were going to march on Jerusalem, they would need every single soldier they could round up. Because Richard did not think it was safe for the women to remain at Ascalon without him, he asked Henri to escort them back to Acre. He then led the army to Bait Nūbā, the village that was just twelve tantalizing miles from the Holy City. There they set up camp to await Henri’s return and to fend off Saracen raids and hit-and-run attacks.

THEY’D BEEN AT BAIT NŪBĀ two days when one of Richard’s spies reported that Saracens were lying in ambush at the spring of Emmaus. Richard set out at dawn with some of his knights, took their foes by surprise, and in the fight that followed, twenty Turks were slain and Salah al-Dīn’s own herald captured. When the surviving Saracens retreated, Richard set off in pursuit. He was mounted on Fauvel and soon overtook a man on a rangy bay stallion. Fauvel screamed a challenge, lengthening stride, and the Saracen swung his horse around to meet the attack. He charged, wielding a spear that was deflected by Richard’s shield, and took the full thrust of the king’s lance. Reining Fauvel in, Richard leaned from the saddle to make sure the other man was dead. When he looked up, his eyes widened. “Jesu!”

It was then that André caught up with him. He’d seen Richard go chasing off after the Saracens and followed, for even Richard’s lethal skills could be overcome by sheer numbers. Pulling up alongside his cousin, he barely spared a glance for the body sprawled nearby; in the fifteen years he’d fought at Richard’s side, Death had ridden with them so often that they’d come to take its presence for granted. He was more concerned with Richard’s odd immobility; he seemed frozen, scarcely breathing.