Lionheart (95 page)

“That’s like asking a man to give you his concubine because he has a beautiful wife.” André’s grin faded as he caught sight of Jehan, one of Richard’s squires. The youth was hovering by the entrance of the tent, so obviously worried that André quickened his pace.

As soon as he saw them, Jehan heaved a sigh of relief. “The king is still abed. I know he slept poorly last night, for I heard him tossing and turning for hours. But this is so unlike him, as the sun has been up for hours—”

André parted the tent flap and darted inside, with Henri right behind him. The same disquieting thought was in both their minds; a number of their men had sickened in the past week and they were convinced Jaffa had become as unhealthy as a cesspit because of all the noxious odors. One glance at the man in the bed confirmed that Richard had been stricken, too. His sheet was soaked in sweat, his chest glistening with a sheen of perspiration, and his face was deeply flushed. He struggled to sit up as they approached the bed, and they could see that his eyes were glazed, unnaturally bright. “Jesu,” he mumbled, his voice very husky, “I’ve never felt so wretched. . . .”

“You’re giving off enough heat to set the tent afire.” André looked around for a washing basin, dipped a towel in the water, and put it on Richard’s forehead. “Is it the quartan fever again?”

Richard swallowed with an effort. “Yes. The chills came in the night, then the fever. . . .”

André explained tersely for Henri’s benefit that Richard had been laid low by quartan fevers in the past, the last attack happening during their stopover at Rhodes. “I’m not surprised you’ve taken ill. It is a wonder you’re still amongst the living, given the way you push yourself. This is what we are going to do. We’re sending a galley to Caesarea to fetch Master Besace. In the meantime, I’ll find a Jaffa doctor to tend to you, and yes, you’ll have to stay in bed—even if I have to tie you to it, Cousin.”

He braced himself then for the inevitable argument. When it did not come, when Richard merely nodded, André and Henri exchanged troubled looks. If Richard, a notoriously difficult patient, was suddenly cooperative and reasonable, that meant he was much sicker than they’d realized.

CHAPTER 37

AUGUST 1192

Jaffa, Outremer

As the distant walls of Jaffa came into view, Henri found himself tensing, just as he had three weeks ago, not knowing what he’d find. Then, he’d feared that the city had fallen; now he feared that his uncle had died during his brief trip to Caesarea, for it had soon become obvious that Richard was gravely ill, so ill that he’d dispatched Henri to convince the French to join them at Jaffa. Henri had done his best, employing all of his eloquence and powers of persuasion; he’d thought it was a hopeful sign that they’d ventured as far as Caesarea, and he could see that some of the French knights wanted to answer the summons. But the Bishop of Beauvais was now in command, Hugh of Burgundy having returned to Acre after falling ill, and Beauvais forbade them to join Richard at Jaffa. Few dared to defy him, for he wielded the French king’s name like a club and they all knew he’d pour poison into Philippe’s ear upon their return to France. So Henri was sailing back to Jaffa with just a handful of men, those who had the courage to value their crusading vows more than their king’s favor. While he was not surprised that Guillaume des Barres was one of them, he was surprised that Jaufre of Perche was one, too, and as he glanced at the young count standing beside him at the gunwale, he wondered if Jaufre realized he’d made a dangerous enemy in the bishop.

“How bad is it?” Jaufre asked, his eyes tracking the sleek forms of several dolphins keeping pace with their galley; every now and then there’d be a silvery splash as they leaped clear of the water. “I’m guessing things must be dire indeed if the king was willing to swallow his pride and seek French aid again.”

“We cannot lose Jaffa,” Henri said resolutely. “Some of the
poulain
lords arrived by galley in the past fortnight, but we are still greatly outmanned. We have less than three hundred knights, and Saladin’s army is growing by the day. He has gotten reinforcements from Mosul and our spies say more are expected from Egypt. We’ve been trying to repair the town walls, but so many are sick. And they’ve all been shaken by the king’s illness. . . .”

“Does Saladin know the king is ailing?”

Jaufre’s naïve question earned him a wry smile from Henri. “He probably knew it ere Richard did. The man has more spies than there are priests in Rome. Richard has been yearning for pears and plums, all he seems able to eat, so Saladin has been sending baskets of fruit and snow from Mount Hermon to ease his fever. If Beauvais and Burgundy knew that, they’d see it as proof that my uncle and the sultan are partners in a vast conspiracy to conquer Christendom for Islam.”

“They do not care about proof,” Jaufre said, with enough bitterness to show Henri that some of the French crusaders were very unhappy with their commanders. By now they were approaching the harbor and Henri felt a vast relief when he saw men waving and smiling at the sight of his blue, white, and gold banner, for there was none of the panic that he’d have seen on their faces if his uncle had died while he was at Caesarea.

SOME OF THE SOLDIERS still camped in tents, convinced that the air of Jaffa was unhealthy. But Richard had been moved into the castle for greater safety; they feared the ailing king might have proven to be an irresistible target for his Saracen foes. As Henri was escorted into his uncle’s chamber, he came to an abrupt halt, for the atmosphere was stifling. Despite the summer’s heat, several coal braziers were smoldering, and one glance at the blanketed figure in the bed was enough to explain it. The cycle had begun again—severe chills, to be followed by a high fever and sweating. Richard was shaking so badly that his teeth were chattering, but he put out a trembling hand to beckon Henri forward.

“No . . . luck?” The voice did not sound like Richard’s at all, slurred and indistinct.

“I’m so sorry, Uncle. I truly tried. But Beauvais ordered them in Philippe’s name to remain in Caesarea. Whilst I doubt Hugh of Burgundy would have been any more reasonable, he’d gone back to Acre after taking sick.” Hoping it might cheer Richard up, Henri embellished the truth, saying that he’d heard Burgundy had been “puking his guts out” and had made the trip to Acre “clutching a chamber pot as if it were the Holy Grail.”

The corner of Richard’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, but he closed his eyes then and Henri took the hint. He knew his uncle did not like others to see him so sick, so helpless, and he thought that was one reason why Richard had forbidden him to let Berengaria and Joanna know of his illness. He’d said Jaffa was much too dangerous for them, and Henri could not dispute that. But as Richard’s condition worsened, Henri feared that his uncle’s wife and sister might be denied the chance to bid him a final farewell. After exchanging glances with Master Besace, who merely shrugged his shoulders, indicating Richard was in God’s Hands, Henri made a quiet departure.

THEY’D GATHERED in a tent close to the Jerusalem Gate to hear Henri’s report: the
poulain
lords Balian d’Ibelin, Hugues de Tiberias and his brother William; the Grand Masters Robert de Sablé and Garnier de Nablus; and the men closest to Richard—André de Chauvigny, the Earl of Leicester, and Hubert Walter, the Bishop of Salisbury. While they’d been expecting bad news, a gloomy silence still fell once Henri was done speaking.

“There are rumors that Saladin means to make another assault on Jaffa now that the English king is incapacitated,” Garnier de Nablus said bleakly. “Under the circumstances, it would be astonishing if he did not, yet if he does, God help us all.”

“His men showed they had no stomach for fighting,” Leicester pointed out, but without much conviction.

“They had no stomach for fighting Richard,” Balian corrected. “Since he’s bedridden, they might recover some of their lost courage. Moreover, Saladin has fresh troops now, the reinforcements from Egypt.” Balian paused, looking around at the circle of grim faces. “We need to make peace—for all our sakes. And there is only one way to do it. I’m guessing most of you are chess players, no? Well, any chess piece except the king can be sacrificed, and I think it is time to sacrifice one. We must give up Ascalon if we have any hope of winning this game.”

The other
poulains
were nodding in vigorous agreement, but Richard’s men looked dubious. Henri was the one to give voice to their misgivings, admitting that he was not sure Richard would ever agree.

“We cannot hold it without Richard,” Balian said bluntly. “So unless he plans to renounce his own domains and remain here to defend it, it makes no sense to let Ascalon wreck this last chance of peace.” He paused again, this time looking directly at Henri and André. “You must convince your king. If he will not consent, the best we can hope for is that the war goes on. But I think it is much more likely that we’ll all die in the ruins of Jaffa, unable to fend off another Saracen assault.”

RICHARD’S CHILLS had given way to the expected fever, and his doctors were doing all they could to bring his temperature down, coaxing him to sip wine laced with betony, bathing his burning skin with water cooled by the snow from Mount Hermon. Henri, André, and Hubert Walter had gathered in a far corner of the chamber, watching the doctors’ efforts as they continued a low-voiced debate about what to do. André thought it best to wait until Richard’s fever broke, for he’d become delirious as it peaked earlier in the week. But Henri and the bishop feared that time was running out even as they argued, and they eventually prevailed.

Approaching the bed once the doctors were done, they were relieved that Richard still seemed lucid, and they took turns trying to persuade him that Ascalon must be sacrificed. It was far more important to Saladin than it was to them; he’d never make peace as long as Franks controlled the route to Egypt. Without Richard, it could not be defended. If peace were not made soon, they risked another attack on Jaffa, risked being stranded in Outremer till the following spring, risked the survival of both kingdoms—Jerusalem and England. Richard listened in silence and at last turned his head aside on the pillow, whispering, “Do as you think best. . . .” Overjoyed, they thanked him profusely and hastened off to send word to the Saracens that Ascalon’s fate was now open to negotiation.

Richard was not left in peace for long; the doctors returned, insisting he must be bled, and he did not have the strength to object, wanting only for them all to go away and let him be. He dozed for a time, awoke with another throbbing headache. Feeling as if his body were on fire, he sought to throw off the sheet and discovered he had more visitors. The French king and his brother Johnny were standing by the bed, regarding him with smug smiles.

We thought you’d want to know what has been happening back home, Big Brother, although you’ll not like it much. I am going to wed Alys, keeping her in the family,
Johnny said with a grin.
And I am thinking of taking Joanna as my queen now that you’ll not be around to object,
Philippe confided
. But the weddings will have to wait until after we lay claim to Normandy, of course
.
And England will soon be mine, too,
Johnny boasted,
for none will dare to defy me once they hear you died in the Holy Land.
Richard told them to go away; they just laughed at him. And then Johnny did go, but Philippe still leaned over the bed, whispering in his ear.
Your little brother will be a lamb to the slaughter, Lionheart. How long do you think it will take me to strip Johnny of every last acre? I’ll have Normandy, Anjou, Brittany, even your beloved Aquitaine in the time it takes for your body to rot in an Outremer grave. Your Angevin empire will soon be a French one and there is naught you can do to prevent it.

Richard cried out and his doctors were there at once, stopping him as he attempted to get up, telling him he must stay in bed. Did they not see Philippe and Johnny? Did they not hear the laughter? He tried to tell them, but talking was too much of an effort, and he let them lay him back against the pillows. His head was pounding; so was his heart, sounding as loud in his ears as the Saracen war drums. Had they launched another attack? When he closed his eyes, he could see that dead Templar, propped up in bed, sword in hand. Where was
his
sword? He struggled to sit up, looking around wildly for it. But the chamber was filling with shadows and he could see nothing beyond the bed.

Is this what you want, Richard?
A familiar figure emerged from the darkness, holding out Joyeuse, the sword Maman had given him on his fifteenth birthday, when he’d been invested as Duke of Aquitaine; he’d named it after Charlemagne’s fabled weapon, said to have flashed lightning in the heat of battle. He reached for it, but his brother pulled it away before his fingers could touch the enameled pommel.
What good will a sword do you when you are as weak as a mewling kitten?
Geoffrey sat on a nearby coffer, tossing the sword aside.
You were so pleased when you heard I’d been trampled in that tournament. Very shortsighted of you, Richard. You’d have been better off with me as your heir, much better off.