Accepting a silver-gilt goblet from a wine bearer, he sprawled in the nearest chair. “Jesu, but I am bone-weary of dealing with all these petty squabbles and rivalries. I have no doubts that Conrad and Guy would rather fight each other than the Saracens.” Slanting a fond, playful look toward his nephew, he said, “You need not worry, lad, about standing surety for Philippe. I’ll not blame you when he breaks his oath. Hellfire, I’ll not even blame Hugh of Burgundy, and blaming Hugh is one of my minor pleasures in life!”
“I assumed you’d not hold me to account,” Henri said with a smile, “but I am sure Hugh will be relieved to hear that.” Taking a swallow from his own wine cup, he regarded the other man pensively. “Are you so sure, Uncle, that Philippe will wage war upon you? He did swear upon holy relics, albeit after some coaxing.”
“He vowed, too, to take the cross and what oath could be more sacred than that?” Richard drained his goblet with a grimace that had nothing to do with the taste of the wine. “If he could not keep faith with God, why would he keep faith with me?”
THE LAST DAY OF JULY was not as oppressively hot, for the Arsuf winds had sprung up, blowing from the south. As Henri and Balian and their men rode through the thronged streets, Henri marveled at the resiliency of this coastal city, already rebounding from nearly two years under siege; signs of economic activity were everywhere, and carpenters and masons had more work than they could handle. As he passed the thriving markets, the crowded bathhouses and brothels, Henri thought it was easy to forget that a bloody war was waiting to resume beyond Acre’s newly repaired walls. The same illusory sense of peace prevailed at the citadel. As they entered the great hall, they encountered a scene of domestic tranquility, which Henri had rarely, if ever, associated with his uncle.
Richard and a number of lords were gathered around a table covered with maps, but the presence of women kept the hall from resembling a battle council. Anna was holding court in a window-seat, surrounded by young knights eager to improve her French, under her stepmother’s vigilant eye. Mariam was playing chess with Morgan, but the looks they were exchanging indicated another game was under way. Joanna and Berengaria were chatting with the Bishop of Salisbury, while the palace cooks hovered nearby, waiting to discuss the week’s menu. There were even dogs underfoot, Joanna’s Sicilian cirnecos mingling warily with Jacques d’Avesnes’s huge Flemish hounds. All that was lacking were a few wailing babes or shrieking children, Henri thought, feeling an unexpected yearning for the cool greenwoods and lush vineyards of his native Champagne.
To Balian, there was no incongruity between this serene family tableau and the coming brutal campaign, for the poulains knew no other way of life; they never forgot the precarious nature of their hold upon this ancient land as sacred to Islam as it was to Christianity. He was more concerned with the unwelcoming expression on the English king’s face. “I knew this was a mistake, Henri. I ought not to have let you talk me into it.”
“It was not a mistake,” Henri insisted. “Give me a moment and I’ll prove it.” Taking Balian over to introduce him to Joanna and Berengaria, he left his friend exchanging pleasantries with the women and hastened toward Richard, who was moving to intercept him, scowling. Before his uncle could challenge Balian’s presence, he took the offensive. “Yes, Balian d’Ibelin is Conrad’s adviser and friend. In fact, they are kin by marriage since Isabella is Balian’s stepdaughter. But I invited him here because you said you wanted to learn more of Saracen battle tactics and he is the ideal teacher. Not only did he grow to manhood fighting the Turks and often distinguished himself in combat, he was at Ḥaṭṭīn.”
“So were Guy and Humphrey de Toron.”
“Despite his training as a knight, Humphrey is no soldier. As for Guy, I suppose his experience could be useful—note whatever he advises and then do the opposite.”
Richard could not dispute Henri’s barbed assessment of Guy and Humphrey. Nor were there that many Ḥaṭṭīn veterans available for questioning, for hundreds had been slain on the field and the best fighters, the Templars and Hospitallers, had all died after the battle, executed by Saladin. “Well, as long as he’s here . . .” he said ungraciously and Henri went off, grinning, to fetch Balian.
Several hours later, Richard was glad he’d heeded his nephew. He was still mistrustful of Balian, who was too close to Conrad for his comfort and who was wed to a woman who could teach Cleopatra about conniving, Maria Comnena, a daughter of the Greek Royal House and former Queen of Jerusalem. But he’d forgotten about Balian’s dangerous Greek wife once the poulain began to talk about war in Outremer.
Balian confirmed all that Richard had been told about Turkish battle tactics. “The Saracens do not fight like the Franks,” he said, speaking to Richard as one soldier to another while ignoring the hostile glares he was getting from Guy. “They know they cannot withstand a charge by armed knights, and so they do their best to avoid it. They remain at a distance, for they have mastered a skill unknown to Franks—they can shoot a bow from horseback, on the run. When our knights attack, they retreat and regroup. When Franks are on the march, they swarm us like black flies, bite, and flit out of reach, again and again until our knights are so maddened they can endure it no longer. They break formation and charge, which is what the Saracens have been waiting for. Indeed, they are most dangerous when they appear to be in retreat, for too often our men lose all caution in the excitement of the chase, and by the time they realize they have been lured into an ambush, it is too late.”
“I’ve been told they ride as if they’ve been born in the saddle.”
“You’ve been told true, my lord king. They are fine horsemen and the horses they breed are as good as any to be found in Christendom. Their steeds are as agile as cats, as swift as greyhounds, and because their armor is lighter than ours, they can outrun us with infuriating ease.”
Richard nodded, remembering how Isaac Comnenus had outdistanced them again and again, invincible as long as he was mounted on Fauvel. “If they are not as well armored as our knights, then we’d have the advantage in hand-to-hand combat. So the key to victory would be to hold back until we are sure we can fully engage them.”
“Just so,” Balian agreed. “But few commanders can exert that sort of control over their men. Even such disciplined warriors as the Templars have been known to break ranks under constant attack by mocking foes who hover just out of range, such tempting targets that they can no longer resist hitting back.”
“Tell us more about their armor,” Richard directed, and Balian did, thinking that at least this arrogant English king was willing to learn about his foes; all too often, newcomers to Outremer assumed that, just as theirs was the one true religion, so, too, were they inherently superior to infidel Turks on the battlefield.
They stopped to eat when Garnier de Nablus arrived, and then began to study a map of the route Richard intended to take once they rode out of Acre, along the coast south toward Jaffa. Jacques d’Avesnes had been in Outremer long enough to have heard a number of legends and folklore, and when Baldwin de Bethune asked about a river marked on the map, Jacques was only too happy to share one of the more lurid stories. It was called “Crocodile River,” he declared, in memory of two knights attacked and eaten by crocodiles when they’d been foolhardy enough to go swimming. The joke was on Jacques, though, for what he’d assumed to be a myth turned out to be true; Balian and Guy confirmed the origin of the name and that there were indeed such creatures lurking in that river. None of Richard’s men had ever seen a crocodile, and after hearing a description of these fearsome beasts, they were quite content to keep it that way. Only Richard was intrigued, wondering how one could be killed, and his friends exchanged glances, hoping they’d not be asked to accompany him on his crocodile hunt.
They moved on to a discussion of the man who stood between them and the recovery of Jerusalem. Balian knew the sultan far better than anyone Richard had met until now, and he pelted the poulain lord with questions. Was it true Saladin was a K
urd? That he had more than a dozen sons? That Saladin was not really his name? Balian was quite willing to satisfy his curiosity, for he was always pleased when European Franks showed themselves open to learning about his homeland. Saladin was indeed a Kurd, not a Turk or Arab, he confirmed, and Kurdish was his native tongue, although he was also fluent in Arabic. He might well have that many sons, for Muslims had multiple wives and harims as well. And Saladin was a misnomer, referring to one of his laqabs, or titles, Salah al-Dīn, which translated as “Righteousness of the Faith.” In the same way, the Franks called his brother “Saphadin,” a contraction of one of his titles. Saif al-Dīn or “The Sword of Religion.” But the Saracens knew him as al-Malik al-’A-dil. “Their isms or given names, what we’d call their ‘Christian names,’” he said with a grin, “are Yusef and Ahmad. So the greatest of all Muslim rulers bears the biblical name of Joseph!”
Richard and his friends were astonished that Saladin shared the name of a revered Christian saint. But when Balian began to explain that Muslims did not consider Christians to be outright pagans, calling them and Jews “People of the Book,” Guy could keep quiet no longer. He’d been fuming in silence, deeply offended by Balian’s presence in their midst, and now he gave an exclamation of mock surprise, marveling that Balian seemed so knowledgeable about such an accursed religion. “Your good friend Renaud of Sidon speaks Arabic well enough to read that blasphemous book of theirs and men have long suspected him of secretly converting to their vile faith. I wonder now if you, too, were tempted to apostasy during your many visits to Saladin’s court.”
The other men tensed, for such an insult could well have led to killing back in their homelands. Balian merely smiled. “How kind of you to worry about the state of my soul, my lord Guy. No, I have not embraced Islam. And whilst I have indeed often visited the sultan’s court, it was always as an emissary, as when I was seeking to save Jerusalem after your defeat at Ḥaṭṭīn. I must admit that Saladin has never failed to show me great hospitality, as he does to all his foes. He told me that when you were brought to his tent after the battle, he offered you a cool drink and felt the need to reassure you that you would not be harmed, saying that ‘Kings do not kill other kings’ since you were so obviously distraught and in fear of your life.”
That was a memory still haunting Guy’s sleep. He jumped to his feet, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. But Richard had anticipated that, for Guy’s was an easy face to read, and he clamped his hand down on the other man’s wrist before he could unsheathe his blade. “I would take it greatly amiss if you were to shed blood in front of my wife and sister,” he said, sounding like a host rebuking a guest for a lapse of manners; his fingers, though, were digging into Guy’s flesh with enough force to leave bruises.
Balian was on his feet now, too. “I think it is time I departed, my lord,” he was saying calmly, when a knight burst into the hall, calling out for the king.
Recognizing one of the Préaux brothers, Richard gestured for him to approach. “What have you come to tell me, Guilhem?”
Guilhem knelt, struggling to catch his breath. “My liege, the French king is gone! He and the marquis sailed for Tyre within the hour.”
Good riddance, Richard thought, but he contented himself with saying only that the French king’s departure was hardly a surprise. “I did not know he’d planned to leave today, but I suppose he decided to take advantage of the Arsuf winds.”
“Sire, you do not understand,” Guilhem burst out, his the unhappiness of a man forced to bring his king very unwelcome tidings. “He took with him the most important of his Saracen hostages!”
“He did what?” Richard drew an audible breath, then whirled to face Balian. “Did you know about this treachery?” Balian swore he had not and Richard grudgingly gave him the benefit of the doubt. If the man had known about this latest double-dealing by Philippe and Conrad, he’d hardly have come willingly to the citadel, after all. By now others were clustering around them, all talking at once, but the men parted to allow Richard’s queen to pass through.
“My lord husband, what is wrong?”
“Philippe has stolen some of the hostages.” Seeing, then, that she did not understand the significance of the French king’s action, he added, “I have to be able to turn over all of the hostages to Saladin upon payment of the ransom. I cannot very well do that if they are thirty miles up the coast at Tyre.”
Berengaria was loath to believe that a Christian king would deliberately sabotage their pact with Saladin, even one as untrustworthy as Philippe. “Why would he do that, Richard?” she asked softly. Few people had ever awakened his protective instincts, but in the face of such innocence, he found himself wanting to shield her from the wickedness of the world and he made an effort to master his fury, saying that it was doubtless a misunderstanding of some sort.
It was obvious to Berengaria that this was far more serious than a mere “misunderstanding,” but she realized that Richard was trying to spare her worry and so she acted as though she believed him. By now Joanna had joined them, and as soon as she was alone with her sister-in-law, she said quietly, “This was done with malice and evil intent, was it not?”
Joanna nodded grimly. “Philippe’s parting gift to Richard—a well-placed dagger in the back.”
PHILIPPE STAYED IN TYRE only two days and then sailed for home, leaving the hostages in Conrad’s custody. Midst all the turmoil over the French king’s repudiation of his crusader’s vows, few noticed when the Duke of Austria also sailed for Tyre. Unlike Philippe, Leopold had been a fervent crusader; this was his second visit to the Holy Land. But now he turned his back upon Outremer and returned to his own lands, bearing a very bitter grievance.
CHAPTER 24
AUGUST 1191
The Citadel, Acre
Richard ran his hand lightly over the stallion’s withers and back, smiling when Fauvel snorted. “You want to run,I know. Mayhap later,” he promised, reaching for a curry comb. The horse’s coat shone even in the subdued lighting of the stable, shot through with chestnut highlights. It was an outrage to think of Isaac Comnenus astride this magnificent animal. “Of course it could have been worse,” he assured the destrier, “for at least Isaac could ride. What if you’d belonged to the French king? Not that he’d have ever had the ballocks to mount you.”
“Malik Ric?”
He swung around, startled, for he’d not heard those soft footsteps in the straw. He liked Anna, admiring the girl’s spirit, and he gave her a smile over his shoulder as he began to comb out Fauvel’s mane. She overturned an empty water bucket, perching on it as if it were a throne. “Why not let a groom do that?”
“When I was not much younger than you, lass, I asked a knight named William Marshal that very question, and he told me a man ought to know how to take care of what was his. I suppose it stuck with me.” After a comfortable silence, he confided, “Also, it helps to get him familiar with my scent, and takes my mind off my troubles.”
“What troubles?”
“The missing hostages, for one. I sent the Bishop of Salisbury and the Count of Dreux to Tyre to bring them back to Acre, but they’ve not returned yet. Negotiations with Saladin, for another. He has been harder to pin down than a river eel,” he added darkly, for the delay in satisfying the terms of the surrender was sowing more and more suspicions in his mind. Setting the comb aside, he looked around for his hoof pick. Finding it on a nearby bench, he turned back toward Fauvel, only to halt in horror, for Anna was no longer sitting at a safe distance; she was in the stall now with the stallion, a battlefield destrier bred for his fiery temperament.
“Anna, do not make any sudden moves. Slowly back out of the stall.”
She looked astonished, and then amused. “No danger! Fauvel . . . he knows me,” she insisted, and held out her hand. The horse’s nostrils quivered and then he plucked the lump of crystallized sugar from her palm, as delicately as a pet dog accepting a treat from a doting mistress.
Richard exhal
ed a deep breath, for he of all men knew the damage a destrier could inflict upon human flesh and bones. “Do not push your luck, lass,” he warned, torn between anger and relief. “Stallions are as unpredictable as women. I’d rather not have to tell my wife and sister that you were trampled into the dust because of my carelessness.”
The expression on her face indicated she was clearly humoring him. But after giving Fauvel one last pat, she slipped out of the stall. Taking her place, Richard saw that she’d untied the stallion’s halter and he resecured it, swearing under his breath. It was only when she giggled that he realized she’d understood his cursing. “Your French seems to have improved dramatically since we left Cyprus, Anna.”
She smiled impishly. “I learn French long ago, when my brother and I are hostages for my papa in Antioch. But after we are set free, he wants us to speak only Greek, so I forget a lot. . . . It comes back now I hear it all the time.”
Richard busied himself inspecting Fauvel’s legs. When the stallion raised his hoof upon command, he pried manure from the frog with his pick, looking for any cracks or signs of injury. Joanna had told him that Anna occasionally talked about her mother, who’d died when she was six, and her brother, who’d not long survived their arrival on Cyprus, but she never spoke of her father. Richard had no desire whatsoever to discuss Isaac with her. Yet the image of her sneaking into the stables to give treats to her father’s stallion was undeniably a poignant one. He supposed he could let her visit Isaac at Margat Castle if it meant so much to her. It would be safe enough to sail up the coast now that Saladin’s fleet had been captured at Acre. “Do you miss your father, Anna?” he asked at last, hoping this was not a kindness he’d regret.
“No.”
The finality of that answer took him by surprise. He made no comment and, after some moments, she said, “My papa . . . he is good to me. But he is not good to my mama, to Sophia, to others. His anger . . . it scare me sometimes. . . .”