“Well, this infidel is said to be quite beautiful,” al-’Ᾱdil said with a smile of his own. “And the Qur’an does allow a man to wed a chaste woman amongst the People of the Book, though a Muslim woman cannot marry out of her faith, of course. I do not know if the Christians’ holy book permits such marriages. I would be surprised if so. But all of this comes as a surprise, no? Say what you will of the English king, he is far more interesting than most of the infidels. Can you imagine Guy de Lusignan or Conrad of Montferrat making such an outrageous proposal?”
“They may not have available sisters conveniently at hand,” Bahā ’ al-Dīn pointed out, and they all laughed. He was not misled, though, by al-’Ādil’s wry, mocking tone. The sultan’s brother was a shrewd player in that most dangerous of games, the pursuit and acquisition of power, deftly balancing his own ambitions against his loyalty to Salah al-Dīn. He was not a man to be easily outwitted or beguiled, and was naturally suspicious of this extraordinary offer. But Bahā’ al-Dīn could see that he was intrigued, too, possibly even tempted by it, and why not? What man would not want a crown of his own?
“What is your wish, my lord?” he asked cautiously. “Should this be passed on to the sultan?”
“We have no choice. Even if we could be sure it was a ruse, we’d still have to inform my brother, for if nothing else, it is a revealing glimpse into the English king’s mind. I have summoned Alam al-Dīn Sulaymān ibn Jandar, Sābiq al-Dīn, and several other emirs to join us after the noon prayers so we may discuss it. Then I want you to go to the sultan and tell him this—that if he approves of the proposal, I will agree to it. But if he rejects it, say that the peace talks have reached this final point and he is the one who thinks they should not be pursued further.”
“I understand, my lord,” Bahā’ al-Dīn said, for indeed he did. Al-’Ādil was treading with care, as well he should. He was the sultan’s most trusted adviser. But he was also a potential threat, for he was far more capable than any of Salah al-Dīn’s sons, and despite the deep abiding affection between them, the sultan must occasionally wonder if his brother’s loyalties would be as steadfast after his death. “I understand,” he repeated, thinking that this infidel English king was more subtle than they’d realized and, therefore, more dangerous.
“YOU DID WHAT???”
“Joanna, will you let me explain? And for God’s sake, lower your voice.” It was not easy to find privacy in an army camp; Richard had done the best he could, seeking out his sister in her own tent and dismissing her ladies and servants. But his precautions would be for naught if she continued shrieking at him like a wrathful fishwife.
“Explain?” she echoed incredulously. “What possible explanation could you offer that I’d accept?”
Before he could respond, the tent flap was drawn aside. “Richard? Joanna? Whatever is wrong? I could hear the shouting all the way outside!”
Richard was not pleased by Berengaria’s intrusion, preferring to discuss this alone with his sister. But he could hardly dismiss her as he had Joanna’s attendants, and even if he’d tried to do so, he suspected that Joanna would, in her present contrary mood, insist that her sister-in-law remain.
“Do you want to tell her, Richard, or shall I?” Joanna glared at her brother, looking eerily like their mother in one of her imperial rages. “Your husband has bartered me to Saladin’s brother! He has proposed peace terms based upon my marriage to al-’Ādil.”
“Richard!” Berengaria was staring at him, horrorstruck. “How could you?”
“You make it sound as if I offered to trade you for a couple of camels! All I did was to suggest that a marital alliance might be one way of ending the war. I did not—”
“You were outraged when Philippe flirted with me at Messina, would never have even considered a marital alliance with France. But now you are content to marry me off to an infidel, an enemy of our faith? I think you have well and truly lost your mind!”
“I never said I intended to marry you off to al-’Ādil! I simply said I’d suggested it to him. And as I tried to tell you, I have three very compelling reasons for making such a proposal.” Seeing that she finally seemed willing to hear him out, he said hastily, before she changed her mind, “First of all, Saladin is about eight years older than his brother and not in the best of health, so he likely expects to die first. Secondly, al-’Ādil has proved himself to be a man of great abilities, as skilled at statecraft as he is at winning battles. He is highly regarded by Saladin’s emirs and the sultan well knows it. Finally, Saladin’s first-born son is just one and twenty, his other sons much younger, and none of them have so far shown al-’Ādil’s gift for command. From all I’ve heard, there is a close bond between the brothers. But Saladin would have to be a saint, assuming Muslims have them, for him not to worry about what happens to his empire after his death.”
Pausing, he saw that his wife still looked aghast. Joanna, though, was listening. “Go on,” she said. “So you are seeking to stir up discord between Saladin and his brother. How does this marriage proposal do that?”
“Because it is not one al-’Ādil can dismiss out of hand, for it would make him a king. And you a queen, in case you’re interested.” Seeing that she was not amused by his attempt at humor, he continued, telling her of the peace terms he’d proposed to al-’Ādil. “So you see,” he concluded, “this marriage proposal is actually a trap of sorts.”
“With me as bait,” she said tartly. “You expect Saladin to accept this offer?”
“No, I expect him to refuse.”
“You’d best hope that he does, Richard,” she warned, “for I would never consent to it.”
“Not even to become Queen of Jerusalem, irlanda?” he teased, and she frowned.
“Not even to become Queen of Heaven. I am not about to join a harim. Yes, I know that Muslims can have four wives, Richard. I grew up in Sicily, remember?”
“But you’d be a queen, which would surely give you greater status than his other wives,” he said and ducked, laughing, when she snatched up a cushion and threw it at him.
While Berengaria was greatly relieved that Richard had not truly intended to marry Joanna to an infidel Saracen, she was troubled that he was treating it so blithely instead of with the seriousness it deserved. “I do not understand. Why would Saladin’s brother believe you could dispose of the Jerusalem crown as you pleased? And why would he believe that the other Christian lords would accept this?”
Richard patiently explained that no one but Guy wanted him to remain as king and Isabella could be said to have forfeited her right to the crown because of her bigamous marriage to Conrad. “And whilst some of the poulains might balk, most of the men who’d taken the cross would not, for they could then visit the Holy City and its shrines, fulfill their vows, and go home.”
Joanna had listened intently, her eyes narrowing. “So,” she said, “you offer al-’Ādil a crown, Saladin refuses it, al-’Ādil feels cheated, and they begin to regard each other with suspicion. Is that how it is supposed to go, Richard?”
“More or less,” he agreed. “Needless to say, this cannot become common knowledge. By the time Burgundy and Beauvais got through with it, they’d have me converting to Islam and launching a jihad to set all of Christendom ablaze.”
Joanna waited until he’d kissed them both and made ready to depart. “Just out of idle curiosity, Richard, what happens if Saladin and al-’Ādil accept your proposal ? What will you do then?”
He paused, his hand on the tent flap. “I’ll think of something,” he said with a grin and disappeared out into the night.
Once he was gone, Berengaria sat down wearily on Joanna’s bed. “Sometimes I fear Richard can be too clever for his own good,” she confessed. “I see the value in sowing suspicions between Saladin and his brother, but if word of this got out . . .” The mere thought of that was enough to make her flinch. “I expected the war against the Saracens to be so much more . . . straightforward. Instead it is like a quagmire, poison
ed with petty rivalries, personal ambitions, and shameful betrayals. The French hate Richard. The poulains are at one another’s throats. Guy is not fit to rule, but Richard supports him anyway because of his feuding with the French king. Philippe not only abandoned a holy war, he is likely to launch attacks on Richard’s lands in Normandy in utter defiance of the Church. And Conrad is the worst of the lot, for he is actually willing to side with the infidels against his fellow Christians. It is all so ugly, Joanna.”
Joanna wondered if she’d ever been as innocent as Berengaria, as trusting of men and their motives. Most likely not, she decided, but then it would have been difficult to cling to innocence in a family known as the Devil’s Brood. She sat beside her sister-in-law on the bed, thinking about her father and brothers. It was not just Richard; they’d all been too clever by half, so sure they could outwit their enemies and get their own way by sheer force of will. And where had it gotten them? Papa died alone and abandoned, cursing the day he was born. Hal had been no better than a bandit in his last weeks, raiding churches to pay his routiers. Geoffrey’s plotting with the French king had brought suffering upon his wife and children, for his untimely death had made them pawns in the struggle between Brittany and its more powerful neighbors. Johnny had already proven that he could not be trusted, betraying the father who’d sacrificed so much for him. As for Richard, not only did he have his full share of the Angevin arrogance, he had a reckless streak that she found deeply disturbing, for what could be more reckless than contemplating a marital alliance with an infidel prince? Why was it that Maman seemed to be the only one to learn from past mistakes?
“Joanna . . . you look so troubled.” Berengaria reached over and squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand. “Not that I blame you for being distraught about this scheme of Richard’s. He ought to have found another way, ought not to have entangled you in it. Even knowing that he never intended for you to wed Saladin’s brother, it still had to be disturbing . . .” She did not finish the thought, faltering at the skeptical expression on Joanna’s face. “Surely you do not think he was lying? I cannot believe he’d ever coerce you into a godless marriage. He loves you dearly, Joanna.”
“I know he does. I never feared that he’d try to wed me to al-’Ādil against my wishes. Mind you, most men are all too willing to accept female sacrifice for the greater good, but my happiness does matter to Richard. Yet you are deluding yourself, Berengaria, if you think this is merely a sleight-of-hand to deceive Saladin and al-’Ādil. Had I reacted differently, had I been excited at the prospect of becoming Queen of Jerusalem—and there are women who’d wed the Antichrist if there was a crown in the offing—I’d wager Richard would have begun to take the marriage proposal somewhat more seriously. If he thought I was willing to make the match, he’d have been willing to see it done.”
“I do not believe that,” Berengaria said stoutly, doing her best to ignore the insidious inner voice whispering that Joanna knew Richard better than she ever would. “He said it was just a stratagem. What would make you think otherwise?”
“Because it is so well thought out, so thorough. Because he believes that if the Kingdom of Jerusalem is to survive, it is necessary to come to terms with Saladin. Because those terms are fair enough that both sides could live with them. Because he sees the Saracens as his enemies, but not as evil incarnate the way most of his army does. Because he truly seems to respect al-’Ādil and probably thinks he’d be a good husband to me, aside from the small matter of his infidel faith and other wives, of course.”
Joanna’s smile was sardonic, but a smile nonetheless, for she was beginning to see the perverse humor in it all. It was obvious that her sister-in-law did not, though; Berengaria looked so dismayed that she regretted having been so candid. But was it so bad if Richard’s halo tarnished a bit? If Berengaria was to find contentment as an Angevin queen, she needed to become more of a realist, both about their world and the man she’d married.
Patting the younger woman reassuringly on the shoulder, she said, “It does not matter what Richard might or might not have done had I shown myself willing to consider the match. I am not, so that puts an end to it.”
It was not that easy for Berengaria, and she later found herself lying awake until dawn, watching the man asleep beside her. How could it even have occurred to Richard to suggest such an unholy alliance? Why was he so willing to treat with these pagans as if they were Christian princes? How could he not see that he was making needless trouble for himself? She never doubted that he was a devout son of the Church, but he had enemies beyond counting who were eager to believe the worst of him. There was so much about these Angevins that she would never understand, and that included Joanna, who, like Richard, could find unseemly amusement in matters of the utmost gravity. Her husband stirred in his sleep, and she carefully tugged at the long strand of hair trapped under his shoulder; she did not braid it on the nights he shared her bed, knowing he preferred it loose. Reminding herself sternly that she was far more fortunate than most wives, she stretched out and closed her eyes. But she still felt unsettled, perplexed, and suddenly very lonely, for she could hear the echoes of her beloved brother Sancho’s voice, giving her that gentle warning back in Pamplona. They are not like us, little one. Indeed they were not.
WHEN BAHĀ’ AL-DīN carried Richard’s proposal to Salah al-Dīn, the sultan at once accepted it, for he was convinced the English king would never carry it out, that his latest gambit was either a joke or a deceitful trick. Richard responded with a regretful message that Joanna was resisting the marriage, but he hoped to persuade her there was no other way to end the war. Although the Saracens remained highly skeptical, the secret negotiations resumed.
RICHARD CONTINUED to give his family, friends, and army reasons to fear for his safety; encountering some Saracen scouts near Jaffa, he forced a battle, killing an emir, taking prisoners, and shrugging off criticism afterward. The following day, All Hallow’s Eve, he entrusted Jaffa and his women to the Bishop of Evreaux and the Count of Chalons, and moved the army four miles to Yāzūr, where he camped midway between the Casal of the Plains and Casal Maen, two Templar fortresses that had been razed by Salah al-Dīn. He instructed the Templars to repair the first castle while he set about rebuilding the second one, and despite daily harassment by the Saracens, they made enough progress to excite his men, who were impatient to begin the march upon Jerusalem and saw this as a first step.
SIX DAYS LATER, a small group of squires ventured out to forage, guarded by Templar knights. They had filled bags with fodder and were collecting firewood when a troop of Bedouin horsemen came swooping down upon them. The Templars came to their aid, but they were outnumbered and soon found themselves surrounded. The knights then resorted to a desperate maneuver, dismounting and standing back to back as they prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible; their order prided itself upon never surrendering or paying ransom. It was then that André de Chauvigny and fifteen of his household knights arrived upon the scene, drawn by the commotion. Their charge temporarily scattered the Saracens, but they surged back in greater numbers, and the Franks realized this was a battle they were not going to win.
TWO MILES AWAY, Richard was supervising the rebuilding of the stronghold at Casal Maen, pleased by his men’s enthusiasm for their task. It helped that the days were cooler now, although still much warmer than November temperatures back in their homelands. They were lugging bags of sand and lime and barrels of water toward a trough, making ready to mix a new batch of mortar when the sentries began to yell for the king.
The boy seemed unhurt, but he was reeling from fatigue and had collapsed upon the ground as soon as he’d blurted out his news. He was too weak to rise as Richard broke through the throng of men encircling him, panting so heavily that his narrow chest heaved as if he were having convulsions. Richard could barely hear his gasping words, and one of the first sentries to reach the squire stepped forward. “An attack by the Turks, sire, near Ibn Ibrak. He said there were too man
y of them for the Templars. Then other knights rode up, but they are outnumbered, too. It sounds as if they need help straightaway.”
“Get him water,” Richard ordered, his eyes searching the crowd of bystanders for knights who were already armed. He directed the Earl of Leicester and the Count of St Pol to lead a rescue mission, and then ran toward his tent, calling for his squires. They armed him with record speed. It still took awhile, though, for him to summon his own knights and fetch their horses, so by the time they rode out of camp, they dreaded what they might find.
It was to be even worse than they’d feared. They could already hear the familiar clash of weapons, the screams that indicated men and horses were dying up ahead. As they galloped toward the clamor, they were hailed by several Flemish squires from the foraging party, who’d been hiding in the underbrush by a dry riverbed. The youths were almost incoherent and none of them spoke fluent French, but they managed to communicate the one word that mattered, “Ambush.” The attack upon the Templars had been bait for a trap, and Leicester and St Pol had ridden right into it.
Richard spurred Fauvel toward the sounds of combat, the others strung out behind him. Ahead of him was a surging mass of men and horses, a wild mêlée in which it was obvious that the Franks were greatly outnumbered. As Richard drew rein, his knights caught up with him, crying out in horror at the sight meeting their eyes. One glance was enough to tell them that the embattled knights were doomed, but they could not dwell upon that now, for they owed a greater duty to their king than to their cornered comrades. Gathering around Richard, they began to urge him to retreat, arguing that they did not have enough men to rescue the others and if Richard died in a futile attempt to save them, their hope of defeating Saladin would die with him.