Lionheart

  He did not wait to be formally announced, hastened toward the dais and knelt. “Thank God I found you, my liege! We knew you were on the way to meet Conrad, but we did not know how far you’d gotten and I feared having to sail as far as Jaffa.”

  Richard gestured for him to rise. He’d already pushed his trencher aside, for Longchamp’s news was obviously urgent. Knowing the other man’s weakness for verbosity, he said, “Never mind that. Tell me what is wrong, Sir Stephen.”

  “You must get to Acre straightaway, my lord, for the city is under attack!” Richard’s gasp was echoed down the length of the table. He’d been braced for bad tidings, but nothing as bad as that. “How can that be? Saladin has dispersed the bulk of his army till the spring campaign!”

  “Not Saladin, my liege. Acre is under siege by that whoreson Conrad of Montferrat and his lackey, Burgundy.”

  By now the hall was in an uproar and Richard had to shout them down. Like his father, he could bellow with the best when the need arose, and a tense silence ensued as Longchamp began to speak again.

  “You know how much animosity there is between the Genoese and the Pisans, my liege. They’re always at one another’s throats, eager to take offense at the slightest excuse. I think their feuding goes back to—”

  “No history lessons, Sir Stephen,” Richard interrupted impatiently. “Just tell us what happened.”

  “Well, their latest street brawl got out of hand, and suddenly they were fighting in earnest. Bertrand de Verdun and I did what we could to restore order, of course. But—” Catching Richard’s warning eye, Longchamp hastily condensed his narrative. “The Genoese got the worst of it and barricaded themselves in their quarter of the city. What we did not know was that they’d sent one of their galleys up the coast to Tyre, seeking assistance from Conrad. And then Hugh of Burgundy arrived. The Genoese decided not to wait for Conrad and hurried out to the camp he’d set up outside the walls.”

  He paused, rather enjoying being the center of such undivided attention. “Burgundy was only too willing to assault the city. The Pisans were too quick for him, though. As he was arraying his troops, they attacked him first. His horse was slain in the skirmish and he was thrown head over heels into a mud hole.” A reminiscent smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “The Pisans then retreated back into the city and slammed the gates shut. But the next morning Conrad’s fleet sailed into the outer harbor. We’ve held out for three days so far, and the Pisans entreated us to send word to you that we need help. So . . . I set out to find you,” he concluded. “The Caesarea harbor is so dangerous that I almost continued on, for I was not sure that you’d gotten this far yet. Thank God I did not pass on by!”

  By now no one was paying any attention to him. Richard was already on his feet. At first incredulous, he was now so outraged that some of the men had begun to give him space, almost as if he were radiating heat. “Saladin will laugh himself sick when he hears this,” he said, practically spitting the words. His eyes raking the hall, he beckoned to Robert de Sablé, the Templar grand master, and to Henri, then glanced back at Longchamp. “I want you to return to Acre tonight, tell them that I will be there on the morrow.”

  Longchamp’s face fell at the prospect of more hours onboard ship, but he dutifully agreed. After a moment to reflect, though, he frowned in perplexity and said to the closest man, who happened to be Henri, “How can he get there so quickly? It is nigh on forty miles between Caesarea and Acre.”

  Henri looked wistfully at the tables holding the first course of their meal. “We’ll be riding all night,” he said with a sigh, and then hurried to catch up with his uncle.

  AS HE PROMISED, Richard reached Acre the next day. But by then word had spread that he was on the way, and he discovered that the siege was over. Conrad and Hugh had decided discretion was the better part of valor and hastily retreated to Tyre. Richard set about patching up a peace between the Pisans and Genoese, and managed it by a combination of eloquence, logic, and threats. He then insisted that Conrad meet him at Casal Imbert as originally planned. Conrad had never lacked for temerity and agreed.

  Richard’s success with the Pisans and Genoese was not repeated at Casal Imbert. Conrad again refused to join the army at Ascalon, and in Richard’s view, he added insult to injury by citing the defection of the French as one reason for his lack of cooperation. Richard returned to Acre in a rage and called a council, which deprived Conrad of his half of the kingdom’s revenues. This was an empty gesture, though, for it could not be enforced as long as Conrad retained the support of the French and most of the poulain lords. In fact, it would later backfire upon Richard, for Conrad would retaliate in a way that was far more effective.

  Richard ended up remaining at Acre through March, wanting to make sure that the port city would not be vulnerable to another surprise attack. He also renewed negotiations with Salah al-Dīn, requesting that al-’��dil be sent to engage in peace talks, offering terms based upon a partition of the kingdom and the Holy City which were very similar to those he’d posed back in November; no mention was made this time of a marriage between Joanna and al-’Ādil. The talks were so amicable that just before Palm Sunday Richard knighted one of al-’Ādil’s sons, and Salah al-Dīn and his council were inclined to accept these terms.

  But the talks were abruptly broken off when Richard left Acre unexpectedly in late March. His spies had alerted him that he was not the only one struggling with internal dissension. Salah al-Dīn’s troops were even more war-weary and disgruntled than Richard’s soldiers, for they’d been fighting much longer. More significantly, Richard had learned that Salah al-Dīn’s great-nephew was threatening rebellion, apparently on the verge of joining forces with one of the sultan’s enemies, the Lord of Khilāt.

  Richard decided, therefore, to bide his time and see what developed, hoping that Salah al-Dīn’s increasing vulnerability would compel him to accept peace terms more favorable to the Franks, for he knew Ascalon was a huge boulder on the road to peace, with neither man willing to surrender claims to it. Stopping off at Jaffa, Richard collected his wife and sister and returned with them to Ascalon. Easter was the most important festival on the Christian calendar and he meant to celebrate it in grand style, setting up special tents to provide food and entertainment for his soldiers. But three days before Easter, Conrad exacted payment for that council condemnation, sending an envoy to Ascalon to demand that the remaining French troops join him and the Duke of Burgundy at Tyre.

  RICHARD WAS HOARSE, for he’d been pleading with the departing knights for over an hour, to no avail. Some looked shamefaced, others obviously miserable, but they felt they had no choice. Conrad had reminded them that their king had appointed Hugh of Burgundy as commander of the French forces and this was a direct order, one given in Philippe’s name. Even Richard’s offer to pay for their expenses did not sway them, and he withdrew to his tent, discouraged by this latest setback. Henri found him alone soon afterward, a rare state for a king, slumped on a coffer, his head in his hands.

  “Uncle . . .” Not wanting to intrude, the younger man hesitated. “You sent for me? I can come back later. . . .”

  “No, come in. I promised the French knights that I’d provide them with an escort to Acre, and I want you and the Templars to see them safely there.” Richard straightened up and accepted the wine cup Henri was holding out. “Over seven hundred knights lost, plus their squires, their men-at-arms, crossbowmen, their horses and weapons . . . Christ Jesus, Henri, the timing could not be worse. I truly thought we had a chance to put enough pressure upon Saladin to exact better terms. But now this.... Even men like Guillaume des Barres and the Montmorency lad feel obligated to return to Tyre rather than disobey a direct order from their king and liege lord. They apologized profusely, promising to return if they can persuade Hugh to release them. That is about as likely as my taking holy vows.”

  Richard paused to drink, but even the wine tasted sour. He was putting the cup aside when an awful thought struck him
and his hand jerked, spilling liquid as red as blood. “What of your knights, Henri? I know you’ll stay with me, but will your men?”

  “They will, Uncle,” Henri assured him, “they will. I’ve never been so proud of them, for they laughed at Conrad’s command. ‘Yes, Philippe is our king,’ they said, ‘but our liege lord is Count Henri and we take our orders only from him, not the damned Duke of Burgundy.’ Bless them all, for nary a one was willing to heed Hugh or Conrad. Of course, they know I’ll protect them from the French king’s wrath.” Assuming we ever get back to France. Henri left that thought unsaid. There were times when his beloved Champagne seemed as far away as the moon in the heavens, but he did not think his uncle needed to hear that now. If he felt so discouraged at times, how much worse it must be for the man who bore the burden of command upon his shoulders.

  “Thank God,” Richard said. That was all, but to Henri those two words spoke volumes about his uncle’s state of mind. Wishing André was here, for he always seemed to know what Richard needed to hear, he sat down on the carpet at Richard’s feet, his eyes searching the older man’s face. Henri had suspected for some time that the hellish Outremer climate and the constant stress were having a detrimental impact upon his uncle’s health, sapping some of his energy and stamina. He could see now that Richard’s color was too high, a flush burning across hollowed cheekbones, and his eyes were very bright, obvious evidence that he was running a fever. But he was not likely to admit it, and so Henri bit back the words hovering on his lips. As hard as it was to keep silent, he could only hope that Richard did confide in Master Ralph Besace, his chief physician.

  “What I cannot understand,” Richard said after a brooding silence, “is why so many of the local lords can stand aloof from this war. How can men like Balian d’Ibelin and Renaud of Sidon refuse to fight with us when their very world is at stake?”

  “Uncle . . .” Henri paused, marshaling his thoughts. He’d not been able to help Richard bridge that great gap separating him from so many in his army. Men inflamed with holy zeal were bound to mistrust their commander’s pragmatism, and too often Richard had failed to take that into account. Would he have any more luck now in addressing what he saw as his uncle’s one major mistake since arriving in the Holy Land?

  “Whilst it is true that to the French, this war is about you more than Saladin, that is not true when it comes to the poulains. To them, it is all about two men and only two men—Conrad of Montferrat and Guy de Lusignan. I think you erred in backing Guy, Uncle.” Seeing Richard’s head come up sharply, he said quickly, “I know you do not like to hear that. And I am not defending Conrad. He’ll never be a candidate for sainthood. But it is a crown he seeks, not a halo, and the very qualities that may damn him to Hell—his ruthlessness, his lack of scruples, his ambition—make him a good choice to rule over a troubled land like Outremer. The poulains see his flaws as well as you do. But they need a strong king, a man who will be able to defend his kingdom to the death if need be, and they trust Conrad as they cannot trust Guy. They know that Guy is a puppet king, your puppet, and he can be propped up only as long as you are here to support him. Once you leave, he’ll collapse like a punctured pig’s bladder, and that is why they have held ‘aloof ’ as you put it. Guy will never be forgiven for Ḥaṭṭīn, Uncle. It is as simple as that.”

  “There is nothing ‘simple’ about life in Outremer,” Richard scoffed. But Henri was heartened by that relatively mild response, and he dared to hope he’d planted a seed that might eventually take root, for he was convinced that peace with the Saracens would not ensure the survival of Outremer—not if Guy de Lusignan was still its king on the day they departed its shores for their own homelands.

  ON APRIL 15, Richard finally got a message from his chancellor, carried by the prior of Hereford. Soon thereafter, he met with Henri, the Earl of Leicester, and the Bishop of Salisbury, men who stood high in his confidence, and they remained secluded for much of the afternoon. By now Joanna and Berengaria had learned of the prior’s arrival, and they grew more and more uneasy as the hours passed. Richard had already gotten unwelcome news earlier in the week—word of a rebellion in Cyprus against the heavy-handed rule of the Templars. They had put down the revolt, but the situation on the island remained volatile; the Templars had made themselves quite unpopular, so this was just one more worry for Richard to deal with. The women fervently hoped that the news from England would not be troubling, too. They took turns reassuring each other that Eleanor was quite capable of maintaining peace in her son’s kingdom, but they both knew that Philippe’s return was akin to setting a wolf loose in a flock of defenseless sheep.

  They’d been discussing whether to wait further or to seek Richard out; Berengaria did not want to risk interrupting his council and Joanna wanted to head straight for his tent. The debate was ended by Richard’s sudden arrival. One glance at his face and they both tensed, for it was as if they were looking at an engraved stone effigy, utterly devoid of expression.

  “Good—you’re both here,” he said, and his voice, too, was without intonation.

  “I’d not want to have to tell this twice. Send your ladies away.”

  Once they were alone, Richard seemed in no hurry to unburden himself. He sat down on the edge of Berengaria’s bed, only to rise restlessly a moment later. By unspoken consent, both women remained quiet, waiting for him to begin. At last he said, “Prior Robert brought a rather remarkable letter from my chancellor . . . my former chancellor, I should say, since Longchamp was deposed and sent into exile last October. I’ll spare you the depressing details, for they do none of the participants much credit. My brother Geoff crossed over to Dover in mid-September and Longchamp saw that as a breach of his oath to remain out of England whilst I was gone, claiming not to believe that I had absolved Geoff of that oath. The chancellor was not in Dover at the time, but his sister is wed to the constable of Dover Castle and they took it upon themselves to order Geoff’s arrest. He of course refused to submit and instead took refuge in St Martin’s Priory, which they encircled with armed men. He then proceeded to excommunicate the Lady Richeut and all others who were participating in this siege of the priory. This impasse lasted for several days, ending when Richeut and that idiot she’d married sent armed men into the priory to take Geoff out by force. He resisted and they dragged him, bleeding, through the town to the castle, with him hurling excommunications left and right like celestial thunderbolts.”

  They’d listened, openmouthed, to this incredible story. Berengaria was appalled that they’d dared to lay hands upon a prince of the Church. It sounded almost farcical to Joanna, but she saw the serious implications, too, and marveled that a man as clever as Longchamp could have made such a monumental miscalculation. “What happened, then, Richard?”

  “What you’d expect. When word got out of Geoff’s arrest, people were horrified, all the more so because it stirred up memories of Thomas Becket’s murder in Canterbury Cathedral. With that one foolish act, Longchamp united all of the other English bishops against him. And Johnny was suddenly aflame with brotherly love for Geoff, whom he’d detested up until then, sending knights to Dover to demand Geoff’s release. With the entire country in an uproar, Longchamp finally realized how badly he’d erred and he ordered Geoff freed on September 26. By then it was too late. He’d managed to transform Geoff into a holy martyr for Mother Church, giving Johnny all the weapons he needed to bring Longchamp down. The final outcome was inevitable. Urged on by Will Marshal and the other justiciars, the Archbishop of Rouen produced the letters I’d given him in Sicily, which authorized him to depose the chancellor if Longchamp ignored their advice—as indeed he had. It got so ugly that Longchamp took refuge in the Tower of London and seems to have lost his head altogether for a time. He tried to flee England disguised as a woman, only to be caught, shamed, and maltreated. He eventually was allowed to sail for Flanders, where he wasted no time in appealing to the Pope. The Pope reacted with predictable outrage, for Longchamp is a papal
legate, after all, and at Longchamp’s urging, he proceeded to excommunicate the Archbishop of Rouen, the bishops of Winchester and Coventry, and four of the other justiciars, amongst others.”

  “Dear God!” This exclamation was Joanna’s; Berengaria was speechless.

  “You’ve not heard the half of it yet,” Richard said, and for the first time they could see the fury pulsing just beneath his surface composure. “I think the lot of them have gone stark, raving mad. Let’s start with our new archbishop. Once Longchamp had gone into exile, Geoff went to his see in York, where he resumed his feuding with the Bishop of Durham, Hugh de Puiset. When Durham refused to come to York to make a profession of obedience, Geoff publicly excommunicated him. Durham ignored the anathema and so did Johnny, who chose to celebrate Christmas with Durham. So Geoff then excommunicated Johnny for having eaten and drunk with one who must be shunned by other Christians.”

  “Richard . . . can you trust what the prior says, though? If he was sent by Longchamp, naturally he’d try to cast Geoff and Johnny and his enemies in the worst possible light.”

  Richard had been pacing back and forth. At that, he turned toward his sister with a smile that held not even a hint of humor. “Prior Robert is adept at swimming in political waters. He did indeed carry Longchamp’s letter. But he also brought one from our mother, having alerted her that he would be making that dangerous journey from France to Outremer on Longchamp’s behalf. I do not ordinarily approve of such blatant self-seeking, but in this case, I am glad the prior was so eager to curry favor with both sides. I might otherwise have doubted Longchamp’s vitriolic account of Johnny’s double-dealing with Philippe.”

  Joanna winced, for she’d truly hoped that her younger brother would not fall prey to the French king’s blandishments. “What did Johnny do?”

  “Philippe offered Johnny his unfortunate sister Alys and all of my lands in France in return for his allegiance. Johnny was untroubled by the inconvenient fact that he already had a wife, and was planning to sail for France when Maman arrived in the nick of time. She kept him in England by threatening to seize all of his English castles and estates as soon as he set foot on a French-bound ship.”