Lionheart

  Philippe set down his wine cup with a thud, sorely tempted to tell his dolt of a cousin that he was being ridiculed. He did not, though, for he would need Robert’s support once word broke of his intent to leave Outremer. But would he get it? Robert’s brother Beauvais had reacted much more negatively than he’d expected, for the bishop was the most cynical soul he’d ever met. So had Hugh of Burgundy. He was studying the other men at the table, trying to determine which ones were likely to balk, like Beauvais and Hugh, when there was a stir by the door. A moment later, Philippe was bitterly regretting having agreed to cede security to the Templars, for their white-clad knights were making no attempt whatsoever to stop the English king from barging into the hall, as arrogantly as if he thought all of Acre was his.

  Conrad and Balian stiffened at the sight of the de Lusignans, and Leopold shoved back his chair, regarding the English king with frozen fury. The other guests were bewildered by this intrusion, looking to their king for guidance. Philippe half rose, then sank back in his seat, struggling to get his emotions under control, for he knew he must be icy-calm to deal with this crisis. It would not be easy, though; his hands involuntarily clenched into fists as Richard strode toward the high table. He was expecting an immediate verbal onslaught, but Richard had another strategy in mind.

  “My lord king.” Richard’s greeting was gravely courteous, even deferential, as befitting a vassal to his liege lord, a tone he’d rarely if ever adopted in the past with Philippe. After politely acknowledging Conrad, Balian, and the French barons, but not Leopold, he offered an apology for interrupting their dinner. “Alas, this could not wait. We needed to speak with you as soon as possible,” he said, gesturing toward the men who’d followed him into the hall. “We’ve come to ask you to reconsider your decision to return to France, for if you leave, our chances of recovering Jerusalem will be grievously damaged.”

  The last part of his sentence went unheard, drowned out in the ensuing uproar. All eyes fastened upon Philippe, midst exclamations of shock and anger. Conrad rose so quickly that his chair overturned. “What nonsense is this?” he snarled at Richard. “The French king would never abandon us!” Not all of the French barons were as sure of that as he was, though, unnerved by Philippe’s white-lipped silence and the fact that so many highborn lords and prelates had accompanied the English king, backing up his contention by their very presence.

  “I would that were true,” Richard assured Conrad, managing to sound both sincere and sorrowful. “But the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais say otherwise. Nothing would give me greater joy than to be told they are mistaken. Are they, my lord king?” He turned his gaze back to Philippe, his expression hopeful, his eyes gleaming.

  Philippe reached for his wine cup and drank, not for courage, but to help him swallow the bile rising in his throat. “I have no choice,” he said, very evenly, determined not to let Richard bait him into losing his temper. “My health has been dangerously impaired by my recent illness and my doctors tell me that if I do not return to my own realm for treatment, it might well cost my life.”

  “Indeed?” Richard’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I was told that your illness was not as serious as my own bout with Arnaldia.” He left it for their audience to draw the obvious conclusion—that he’d nearly died and all knew it, yet he was not renouncing their holy cause.

  Philippe realized how lame his health excuse would sound. But what else could he offer? He could not very well admit that his concern over securing possession of Artois mattered more than the liberation of Jerusalem or that he’d loathed every moment of every day since his arrival in Outremer and could not abide the prospect of months, even years, in the English king’s company. “My doctors insist that I have no choice but to return to France. Lest you forget, my lord Richard, my heir is a young child, often ailing. If I die in the Holy Land, my realm would be thrown into turmoil.”

  Richard was thoroughly enjoying himself by now. “Your worries about your heir are understandable,” he said sympathetically, one king to another. “I have concerns about mine, too.” Looking around the hall, he saw that Philippe was utterly isolated; even his own men were staring at him in stunned disbelief. Dropping the pretense of commiseration, then, he went in for the kill, his tone challenging, blade-sharp. “It is no easy thing to take the cross, nor is it meant to be. It is a burden that all true Christians willingly accept, even if they must make the ultimate sacrifice for Our Lord Christ. You took a holy vow to recover Jerusalem from Saladin, not to assist in Acre’s fall and then go home once you lost interest. How will you explain your failure to your subjects? To God?”

  Philippe’s eyes had narrowed to slits, hot color staining his face and throat. “You are not the one to lecture others about holy oaths!” he spat, unable to contain himself any longer. “Time and time again you swore to wed my sister, lying to my face whilst you were conniving behind my back to marry Sancho of Navarre’s daughter!”

  For the moment, all the others were forgotten, and it was as if they were the only two men in the hall, in the world, so intense was the hostility that scorched between them. “If you want to discuss the reason why I refused to marry your sister, I am quite willing to do so,” Richard warned. “But do you truly want to go down that road, Philippe?”

  The French king did not, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. But memories of the bitter confrontation in Messina had come flooding back, memories of that humiliating defeat at this man’s hands. He felt like that now, well aware that Richard had their audience on his side, just as he had in that wretched Sicilian chapel. “You want me to stay in Outremer?” he said, his voice thickening, throbbing with fury. “I will disregard my doctors’ advice and do so—provided that you honor the agreement we made in Messina. We swore that we would divide equally all that we won, did we not? Yet you have not done so.”

  “What are you talking about? I even gave you a share of my sister’s dower and you had no right whatsoever to that!”

  “But not Cyprus!” Philippe was on his feet now, sure that he’d found a way to put Richard in the wrong. “I am entitled to half of Cyprus by the terms of our Messina pact. Dare you deny it?”

  “Damned right I do! I took Cyprus only because I was forced to it, because Isaac Comnenus—the Duke of Austria’s illustrious kinsman—threatened my sister, my betrothed, and my men. It was never part of our pact, which was to share what we conquered in the Holy Land.” Richard paused for breath, and then smiled, the way he did on the battlefield when he saw a foe’s vulnerability. “If you want to expand the terms of our agreement, though, so be it. If it will keep you in Outremer, I will give you half of Cyprus.” He paused again, this time to savor the expression of shock on Philippe’s face. “But that means you must share the lands you inherited from the Count of Flanders. It is only fair—one-half of Cyprus for one-half of Artois.”

  “Never!”

  “Now why does that not surprise me?” Richard jeered. “You care nothing for our holy quest, care for nothing but profit. You may have the blood of kings in your veins, but you have the soul of a merchant, Philippe Capet, and now all know it.”

  “And what do you care about, my lord Lionheart? Your ‘holy quest’ is not for God, it is for your own glory and fame! Nothing matters to you but winning renown for yourself on the battlefield. For that you’d sacrifice anything or anyone, as the men foolish enough to follow you will soon find out.”

  “Shall we put that to the test?” Richard spun around, pointing toward the Bishop of Beauvais and the Duke of Burgundy. “Let’s begin with your messengers. It is no secret that there is no love lost between us, and I daresay they also believe that I hunger only for personal glory. But you both told me that you mean to honor your vows. Is that not so?”

  Neither man looked pleased to be singled out like this. They did not hesitate, though, each one confirming that he did indeed intend to remain in Outremer. Although inwardly he was seething, Philippe showed no reaction, for
he’d been braced for their defection. Yet what happened next caught him off balance. Richard turned to Philippe’s guests, the barons, knights, and bishops who owed fealty to the French king.

  “What about the rest of you? Are you going to follow your king back to Paris? Or will you follow me to Jerusalem?”

  Some glanced toward Philippe, despairing. Some averted their eyes. But when Mathieu de Montmorency shouted out “Jerusalem,” the cry burst from other throats, too, sweeping the table and then the hall. One by one, they rose to their feet, as much a public repudiation of Philippe as it was an affirmation of their faith, all orchestrated by the English king. At least that was how Philippe would remember it, till the day he drew his last mortal breath.

  BERENGARIA PROPPED HERSELF up on her elbow, regarding her husband quizzically, for he usually fell asleep soon after their love-making. Tonight, though, he was not only wakeful, but talkative, too, and for more than an hour he’d been giving her a dramatic account of his confrontation with the French king, interspersing the narrative with acerbic comments about Philippe’s manifold failings, both as a man and monarch. Berengaria was very pleased that he was willing to discuss the day’s astounding developments with her, and greatly shocked by Philippe’s decision to abandon the crusade, so she was an ideal audience for Richard’s tirade, convinced that he was utterly in the right, even if he had not been completely candid about his intentions in Cyprus.

  After a while, though, she began to realize that there was more than anger fueling his harangue. Putting her hand on his arm, she could feel the coiled tension in his muscles. “Richard . . . I understand why you are wroth with Philippe. But surely it must be a relief, too, to know that you’ll not have to put up with his slyness and ill will, especially since the rest of the French are staying on. So why are you not better pleased that you are now in sole command of the Christian forces?”

  “Yes, I will be glad to be rid of Philippe,” he admitted. “Having him for an ally made me feel like a cat with a hammer tied to its tail. The problem, Berenguela, is that he is utterly untrustworthy. He is not returning because he is ailing. He is going back to try to wrest Flanders from Baudouin of Hainaut. And then he will start casting covetous eyes toward my domains, toward the Vexin and Normandy.”

  “But the lands of a man who’s taken the cross are inviolable. Surely the Pope would excommunicate him for so great a sin?”

  “In a perfect world, yes. In ours, I’m not so sure.”

  “How could the Holy Father not act, Richard? The Papal See has always given its full protection to men who go on pilgrimage. How shameful it would be if the Church let harm come to their lands or families whilst they are fighting for the Lord Christ in the Holy Land!”

  He smiled at her vehemence. “You’ll get no argument from me, little dove. I hope the new Pope feels as strongly as you do about the Church’s duty to defend those who’ve taken the cross. All I can do from Acre, though, is send word to my mother and Bishop Longchamp, warning them there’ll soon be a French wolf on the prowl.”

  She looked at him unhappily. It was so unfair that he must worry about Philippe’s treachery whilst all of Christendom expected him to be the savior of the Holy City. He seemed to sense her distress, for he reached over and took her hand. But that reassuring gesture brought tears to her eyes. He’d lost his fingernails during his illness, and while he’d acted as if it were a minor matter, the sight of his injured fingers reminded her how very close he’d come to death.

  She did her best now to hide her concern, for even her brief experience as a wife had taught her that men did not want to be fussed over. There were several copper-colored hairs on the pillow and she tried to brush them away before he noticed, remembering what Joanna had said about his vanity. She only succeeded in calling his attention to them. “That’s odd,” he mused. “Henri said he did not begin to lose his hair for nigh on two months after his illness. I wonder if I’m starting early.”

  She was surprised that he sounded so matter-of-fact. “It does not trouble you, Richard . . . losing your hair?”

  “Well, it will if it does not grow back,” he said with a smile. “And in all honesty, I’d not have been happy if this happened ere an important event like my coronation or our wedding. I doubt that my crown would have looked quite as impressive if I’d been bald as an egg. But if I have to lose my hair, there is not a better time for it than now. I’m not likely to be looking into any mirrors whilst campaigning.”

  He laughed then, as if at some private memory. “Soldiers have many vices, but vanity is not amongst them. How could it be? What man is going to worry about his hair when he might lose his head?” Too late, he caught her look of alarm, and to divert her thoughts from the dangers he’d be facing, he said quickly, “It is hard for a woman to understand what campaigning is like, Berenguela. It is a much simpler life we lead. We have to make do without luxuries like this. . . .” He patted their feather mattress. “Or this . . .” he added, cupping her breast. “We eat what can be cooked over campfires. We usually have to bathe in cold water, so it does not take long until we’re all stinking like polecats. We’ll bring along some laundresses, so at least our clothes will get washed occasionally, and they’ll do their best to keep us from getting too lice-ridden. But you can be sure I’ll not be looking like that splendid peacock who bedazzled Isaac Comnenus and the Cypriots!”

  He laughed again, but Berengaria was dismayed by the image now taking root in her mind. Was it not enough that men must put their lives at risk? Must they endure so much discomfort, too? “Richard, that sounds dreadful!”

  “No,” he said, “it is not. It is a soldier’s life, no more, no less. Do you want the truth, little dove? I love it. It is the world I’ve known since I was fifteen, the only world I’ve wanted to know.”

  She sat up, forgetting to tuck the sheet around her, so intent was she upon what he’d just said. “Why do you love it, Richard?”

  “The challenge. I love that, being able to test myself, to prove that I’m the best. Not because I am Henry Fitz Empress’s son or because I wear a crown. Because I can wield a sword with greater skill than other men. Because I have worked to perfect those skills for nigh on twenty years. Because when I’m astride Fauvel, I feel as if we’re one and he does, too. Because I can see things on the field that other men do not. Sometimes it seems as if I know what a man is going to do ere he does himself. And when the fighting is done, I know that I’m the best because I’ve earned it.”

  “Are you never afraid?”

  He didn’t answer her at once, considering the question. “I suppose so, though it is hard to tell fear from excitement. But I’ve known for a long time that I do not feel the sort of fear that most do, the sort that can cripple a man. Why, I do not know. I just know that I never feel more alive than I do on the battlefield.”

  He’d surprised himself by his candor, for this was something he’d rarely talked about, even with other soldiers. “Mind you, it is not just blood and gore,” he said, striving for a lighter tone. “It is the companionship, too, the unique bond you forge with men when you fight together, when you know that they’d risk their lives for you and you for them. Jesu, it is so different from the royal court! And since I am being so honest about it, yes, it is for the glory, too. What Philippe cannot understand is that the glory is only part of it.”

  Berengaria did not know if she’d ever understand fully, either. But she was enthralled by this intimate glimpse into his very soul, for it confirmed what she’d begun to believe, that God had chosen him for this sacred purpose, blessing him with the exceptional abilities he’d need to recover Jerusalem from the infidels. “I would have been ashamed today had I been Philippe’s queen,” she said at last. “But I am proud to be your wife, Richard, very proud.”

  He reached out, pulled her down into his arms. “Joanna says I do not deserve you, and she’s probably right. I know I’m not the easiest of men to live with. I can promise you this much, little dove. I’ll always
try to do right by you.” He kissed her then, his mouth hot and demanding, and when he rolled on top of her, she wrapped her arms around his back, hoping that the Almighty would smile upon them, that on this special night Richard’s seed would take root in her womb. For how fitting that their son should be conceived in Acre, the first of his father’s conquests in the Holy Land.

  CHAPTER 23

  JULY 1191

  Acre, Outremer

  Conrad deliberately kept his distance, for he was sorely tempted C to lay rough hands upon the other man. “And that is it? You leave me clinging to the cliff ’s edge and just walk away?” Philippe regarded him coldly. “You have not been turned out to beg your bread by the side of the road, Conrad. A sizable French contingent is remaining in Outremer.” His jaw clenched at that, for he’d not expected such mass defections. Only his cousins, the Bishop of Chartres and the Count of Nevers, had agreed to return with him to France; the rest were so determined to honor their oaths that they were even willing to fight under Richard’s command. “The war goes on,” he said tersely, “so I do not see why you have cause for complaint.”

  “Do you not? With Richard as my sworn enemy, what chance do I have of gaining the crown now?”

  “And why is he your ‘sworn enemy’? Because you were foolish enough to deny him entry into Tyre. Are you so surprised that you reap what you sow?”

  “I would never have done that had I thought you were going to creep away like a thief in the night!”

  Philippe’s fury was all the greater because he knew this was what others were thinking; Conrad was just the only one who dared to say it to his face. But he had no intention of letting himself be swayed by their condemnation; the sooner he was out of this hellhole and on his way home, the better. “You are right about Richard,” he said, with grim satisfaction. “He is not a man to forget a wrong done him. So I would suggest that you waste no time seeking him out. If you humbly beg his pardon for having offended him, he may forgive you—or not. In either case, it is no longer my concern.”