Lionheart

  None could fault his logic, but not all of them were comfortable with the decision, for the Saracens had fought bravely and surrendered in the belief that their lives would be spared. Henri was the only one to express these regrets aloud, though. “A pity, for they showed great courage during the siege. Had they not been infidels, I’d have been proud to fight alongside any of them.”

  Some of the other men nodded in agreement, but Guy de Lusignan, the Templars, and the Hospitallers were enraged. Several of them began speaking at once, drowning one another out, until Garnier de Nablus prevailed by sheer lung power. Glaring at Henri, he said wrathfully, “Courage, you say? I’ll tell you about courage, about the two hundred and thirty-four Templars and Hospitallers who were butchered by Saladin two days after the battle at Ḥaṭṭīn. Not only did he put these brave Christian knights to death, he set their accursed holy men and Sufis to do it, men who’d never even wielded a sword before. Save your pity for them, my lord count, not for pagans whose hands are wet with the blood of our brethren!”

  The vehemence of the Hospitaller Grand Master’s attack took Henri by surprise, but he didn’t back down. “I mourn those good men, too, my lord Garnier. But courage is worthy of admiration, and I think the Saracens who held Acre for two years deserve to have their bravery acknowledged, especially if they are facing death and eternal damnation.”

  “I agree with my nephew,” Richard interjected before any of the other Templar and Hospitaller knights could chime in. “They are indeed brave men. But they are also our enemies and their lives were forfeit as soon as Saladin refused to honor the terms of the surrender.” He glanced then toward Hugh. “Half of these men were claimed by your king, my lord duke. Do you agree that they must be put to death?”

  Hugh nodded. “I do not see that we have any other choice. But what of the commanders and the emirs taken when the city fell? Surely we are not going to kill them, too? Some of them might well be rich enough to pay their own ransoms.”

  “I agree,” Richard said. “We will keep those men at Acre, for they can be used, too, to barter for some of our prisoners at a later date.”

  There was one man present who’d been shocked by the decision to slay the garrison. Humphrey de Toron did not approve of killing men who’d surrendered in good faith, even if it was their own sultan’s actions that doomed them. He’d long known he was not suited for warfare, even before he’d taken part in the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn. It was not that he did not understand the reasons for reaching this decision. But he knew he could never have summoned the ruthlessness to put so many men to death in cold blood.

  “We are in agreement, then?” Richard glanced around the tent. “Does anyone have something else to say? If there is another way, speak up now.”

  Humphrey kept his eyes averted, shamed by his silence even as he told himself none would have heeded him. No one else spoke, either, agreeing it was a military necessity. Some were glad, though, that they did not have to be the ones to make the decision, and were glad, too, that Richard was willing to take that final responsibility and do what must be done. Scriptures might hold that “Blessed are the merciful,” but mercy could be a dangerous indulgence in a war against the enemies of God.

  SOON AFTER MIDDAY, Richard led his troops out onto the open plain southeast of Acre. Saladin’s advance guard had been watching from the hill at Tell al-’Ayyāḍ iyya, but they now retreated a safer distance to Tell Kaysān, disturbed and puzzled by this sudden maneuver. Once Richard’s knights had lined up in battle formation facing their Saracen foes, the city gates were swung open and the hostages were marched out, bound to one another by ropes. The sight of the garrison caused confusion and alarm in the Saracen ranks, and riders were dispatched to Saladin’s camp at Saffaram, for they did not know what the Franks meant to do.

  Neither did the captive men of the Acre garrison. That was painfully obvious to Morgan, for he was close enough to see their faces as they were herded out onto the plain. Their emotions ran the gamut from rage to fear to hope, with some bracing for the worst and others believing that a deal had finally been struck for their release. No matter how many times Morgan reminded himself that these were infidels, his sworn enemies, he could not suppress a surge of pity as they passed by; most Welshmen had an instinctive sympathy for the underdog, being such underdogs themselves. Thankful that the killing would be done by the men-at-arms, he rode over to where Richard, Hugh of Burgundy, and Guy de Lusignan had reined in. “My liege,” he said when his cousin glanced his way, “are you sure the Saracens will attack?”

  Richard looked from the prisoners to the men watching from the heights of Tell Kaysān. “We would if it were Christians being killed,” he said, “and they will, too. But it will be too late.”

  Morgan marveled that he sounded so dispassionate, so matter-of-fact about the deaths of so many men, but he remembered then that Richard had shown no pity to routiers captured when his brothers Hal and Geoffrey had led an army into Poitou. No one mourned the deaths of mercenaries who sold their swords to the highest bidder. Many had been scandalized, though, when he’d also executed some of Geoffrey’s Breton knights. Richard had been indifferent to the criticism and protests, for when he fought, he fought to win. Morgan looked back at the Saracen prisoners, wishing that Saladin had been better informed about the mettle of the man he was now facing.

  Morgan tensed then, for Richard had drawn his sword from its scabbard, holding it aloft so that the sun silvered its blade. It was a dramatic scene—the mounted knights with couched lances, the garrison encircled now by shouting and cursing men-at-arms, eager to begin, for there’d been no trouble finding volunteers for this task—and Morgan realized it had been deliberately staged out in the open like this, sending a message to Saladin that his bluff had been called, but not in the way he’d expected. When Richard’s sword swept downward, a trumpet blared, and then their soldiers rushed forward, weapons raised. Within moments, the plain resembled a killing field: blood soaking the ground, bodies sprawled in the sun, screams of pain mingling with despairing pleas to Allah. Mariam had taught Morgan a few Arabic phrases, so he knew the Saracens were dying with the name of their God on their lips, and he was surprised by the sadness he now felt, sorry these doomed men would be denied salvation and the redeeming love of the Holy Saviour.

  Turning in the saddle, he saw that Richard was paying no heed to the slaughter going on behind him, keeping his eyes upon the distant figures of his Saracen foes. They were reacting as expected, with horror, shock, and rage, screaming threats none could hear, brandishing swords and bows, their stallions rearing up as they caught the scent of blood. “Here they come,” Richard said suddenly, and Morgan wheeled his horse around to see the Saracen advance guard racing toward them in a desperate rescue mission that would be, as Richard had predicted, too late.

  Again and again Saladin’s outnumbered men tried to break through the ranks of armor-clad knights. Again and again they were repulsed. The battle raged throughout the afternoon as more Saracens arrived, dispatched from Saladin’s camp at Saffaram once he’d learned what was happening. Men died on both sides, and as usual, Richard was in the very thick of the fight. Morgan and his other household knights did their best to stay at his side, often horrified to find him surrounded by the enemy. He always cut his way free, dealing death with each thrust of his sword, now bloody up to the hilt. At last the Saracens abandoned their futile attempts to save men already dead. By then the sun was low in the sky and the plain was strewn with bodies. Richard’s men took their own dead and wounded back to Acre, leaving behind the human cost of the miscalculation and mistrust between enemies, twenty-six hundred men bound in ropes and drenched in their own blood.

  RICHARD AND HIS KNIGHTS stopped at the city’s public baths to wash off the blood and soak their aching bodies in hot water before continuing on to the citadel. Richard was in no hurry to reach the palace, for he did not know what sort of reception he’d get from Berengaria. He thought Joanna would understand w
hy the killings were necessary, as he was sure their mother would have understood. But he knew many women were skittish about bloodshed, and his sheltered wife was more tenderhearted than most. In the aftermath of battle, his blood was usually still racing, for the intoxication of danger was often more potent than the strongest of wines. Tonight, though, he felt only exhaustion and a dulled, dispirited anger that it should have come to this. He was in no mood to justify his actions, and by the time he strode into the great hall, he was already on the defensive.

  Nothing went as he’d expected, though. Berengaria was not even there, having gone to attend Vespers at Holy Cross Cathedral. Joanna had not accompanied her sister-in-law, but she seemed oddly subdued, a reticent, silent stranger instead of the supportive sister he’d hoped to find. One of her ladies-in-waiting, the Sicilian Saracen whose name he could never recall, fled the hall as soon as he entered, casting him a burning glance over her shoulder. And the newly elected Bishop of Acre, whom he’d invited to stay at the palace, offered to absolve him of his sins, which he took as an implied criticism of the day’s executions. Instead of having a meal in the great hall, he headed for his bedchamber, his squires in tow.

  Once Jehan and Saer had removed his hauberk, he finally felt able to draw an unconstricted breath. He was too tired to wonder why the weight of his armor, practically a second skin, should have seemed so heavy tonight. He was usually too impatient to wait while they disarmed him, but now he let them do all the work, remaining immobile as they took off the padded gambeson he’d worn under his hauberk; his legs were already bare for he’d not replaced his mail chausses at the baths. Handing his scabbard and sword to the boys, he was giving them unnecessary instructions about cleaning the blood from the blade when the door burst open and his wife rushed in. Flushed and out of breath, she started to apologize for not having been there when he arrived, but stopped when she realized that he was not really listening to her.

  His squires read his moods better than Berengaria, and departed in such haste that they forgot to take his hauberk for cleaning. Finding a towel, Richard sat on the bed and began to rub his thinning hair, still damp from the baths. She hovered beside him uncertainly, at last asking if he was hungry. She was stunned when he lashed out without warning, saying he was surprised she did not want him to fast as penance for his many sins.

  “Why would I want that?”

  “Why do you think?” he snapped, discovering that there was a relief in finding a target for his unfocused rage. “I know you think what I did today was monstrous. At least have the courage to admit it!”

  “Are you a soothsayer now, able to read minds?” she snapped back, and he looked up in surprise, for he’d never seen her lose her temper before. “I do not know why you are seeking to quarrel with me, Richard, but it is manifestly unfair to blame me for something I neither thought nor said!”

  “So what are you saying, then?” he said skeptically. “That you are proud of me for this day’s work?”

  “No, I can take no pride or pleasure in what you call ‘this day’s work.’ Any more than you can. But it would never occur to me to find fault with you over it, for why would I presume to contradict you about a military matter? You know war as I do not, Richard. If you say this had to be done, that is enough for me.”

  “It did have to be done. Nor do I regret it, for I could see no other way.”

  “Then you have no reason for regret,” she said quietly, and he reached out, catching her wrist and drawing her toward him. Taking that gesture as the closest he’d come to an apology, she sat beside him on the bed. He was clad only in his shirt and braies, and as he pulled the shirt over his head, she caught her breath at the sight of the darkening contusions on his ribs and thighs. In battle, he acted as if he were immortal, but here was proof that his body was as vulnerable as any other man’s to a sword thrust or crossbow bolt. Noticing how heavy-lidded his eyes looked, she got to her feet.

  “I have some ointment in one of my coffers. I am going to put it on your bruises and then I’ll have food sent up.” Not waiting for his response, she hastened across the chamber to look for the salve. By the time she found it, he’d lain back on the bed and the slow rise and fall of his chest told her he slept. Sitting beside him, she began to apply the ointment with gentle fingers.

  SLIPPING OUT A SIDE DOOR into the courtyard, Joanna headed toward a bench under a flowering orange tree. Even in the shade, the heat was searing, but she’d become accustomed to hot weather during her years in Sicily. She wanted time alone to sort out the confused welter of feelings unleashed by the massacre of the Acre garrison, and she assumed few others would be willing to venture outside when the noonday sun was at its zenith.

  She needed to figure out why she was disturbed by the deaths. They were soldiers, after all, enemies of the True Faith. She’d heard Richard and his men talking about the dangers of delaying their march south, and so she understood why he’d done it. Why, then, was she so uncomfortable with it? It would have helped if she could have discussed her feelings openly, but that was not possible. Mariam would have been her usual confidante. Mariam was too distraught, though, to be objective. Joanna knew that they’d only end up quarreling, for she’d feel compelled to defend Richard from Mariam’s outrage. The practical Beatrix saw it in starkly simple terms—the garrison’s lives were forfeit because Saladin failed to ransom them, so what more was there to say? And Berengaria’s loyalties as a devoted wife and devout Christian were so actively engaged that she was unwilling to discuss the deaths at all.

  Joanna’s expectations of solitude proved to be illusory. No sooner had she settled herself on the bench than Jacques d’Avesnes arrived to see Richard. Detouring across the courtyard, he asked her to look after his Flemish hounds while he was away with the army. Then Guilhem de Préaux came out to offer her a cup of iced fruit juice and syrup, shyly expressing his concern that she risked sunstroke in such heat. Morgan was the next to appear. Looking pleased to find her alone, he hastened over to ask how Mariam was faring.

  “She is . . . unwell,” Joanna said carefully, for Mariam’s position could become precarious if she seemed too sympathetic to the Saracens.

  Morgan understood what she was really saying. “Do you think she will see me, Madame? As a Welshman, I also hear the whispers of the blood.”

  Joanna nodded. “Go to her, Cousin Morgan. It will do her good to unburden her heart to one whom she can trust.”

  As Morgan went to find Mariam, Joanna heard footsteps and turned to see Henri approaching with Balian d’Ibelin. “Aunt Joanna, you’ll be fried to a crisp out here,” Henri chided, leaning over to kiss her cheek. She greeted him warmly, Balian coolly, and expressed concern when she saw Henri was limping. He assured her it was a minor matter, confessing sheepishly that a horse had stepped on his foot after the battle. “And the worst of it is that it was my own horse!” Joanna laughed dutifully while Henri and Balian bantered about his injury, relieved when they continued on toward the great hall. Alone at last, she leaned back, closing her eyes.

  She had little time for reflection, though. Soon afterward, a shadow fell across her face and she looked up to see Balian standing there. “Are you leaving already?” she asked, summoning up a few shreds of courtesy even though she had no desire to entertain a man so closely allied to Conrad of Montferrat.

  “It did not take long to relay my message to the English king—that I am returning to Tyre.”

  Joanna stiffened, regarding him with sudden suspicion. “You are not going south with the army? Why?”

  “Because I am not welcome here, Madame,” he said forthrightly. “I’ve grown weary of fending off the de Lusignans’ insults and malice. And your lord brother made his own feelings clear by not inviting me to that council yesterday. I doubt that I could have changed their minds, but I would have liked the opportunity to try.”

  “You do not approve of the killing of the garrison?”

  She bristled, so obviously ready to charge into battle on her
brother’s behalf that he fought back a smile. “I think it was a mistake, my lady.”

  “Why?” she asked warily. “My brother felt that it was necessary and I trust his judgment, am sure he was right.”

  “Yes . . . but you are still not happy about it, are you?”

  Her mouth dropped open. How could this man, a stranger, know what she’d confided to no one? “Why do you say that?” she demanded. “You do not know me, after all!”

  “I know you came to womanhood in Sicily.”

  Joanna stared at him. “Why does that matter?”

  “It means you grew up with Saracens. You got to know them as people, not just as infidels or enemies. You are not like so many who come here after taking the cross, horrified to find that we have adopted some Saracen customs, that we cooperate with them at times. From what I’ve heard of Sicily, it is more like Outremer than France or England. So your background practically makes you an honorary poulaine, my lady,” he said with a smile.

  “I’d never thought of it in that light,” she admitted. “We had palace servants who were supposedly Christian, though all knew their hearts and souls were still Muslim. My husband looked the other way, saying a good man was a good man, whatever his faith. But few at Acre could understand such a view; they’d have seen his tolerance as the rankest heresy.”

  “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the bench. She nodded, for he was very tall and she was getting a crick in her neck, having to look up at him. Sitting down beside her, he said, “We’ve often encountered this problem with men arriving from the western kingdoms, as eager to kill infidels as they were to visit the holy sites. They took as gospel the words of St Bernard of Clairvaux, who preached that Christians should glory in the death of a pagan, for it glorifies Christ himself. When they discovered that we sometimes lived in peace with Saracens, that friendships were not unknown, that one of our kings consulted physicians in Damascus for his ailing son, they were convinced that we were false Christians, even apostates.”