The corner of Richard’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, but he closed his eyes then and Henri took the hint. He knew his uncle did not like others to see him so sick, so helpless, and he thought that was one reason why Richard had forbidden him to let Berengaria and Joanna know of his illness. He’d said Jaffa was much too dangerous for them, and Henri could not dispute that. But as Richard’s condition worsened, Henri feared that his uncle’s wife and sister might be denied the chance to bid him a final farewell. After exchanging glances with Master Besace, who merely shrugged his shoulders, indicating Richard was in God’s Hands, Henri made a quiet departure.
THEY’D GATHERED in a tent close to the Jerusalem Gate to hear Henri’s report: the poulain lords Balian d’Ibelin, Hugues de Tiberias and his brother William; the Grand Masters Robert de Sablé and Garnier de Nablus; and the men closest to Richard—André de Chauvigny, the Earl of Leicester, and Hubert Walter, the Bishop of Salisbury. While they’d been expecting bad news, a gloomy silence still fell once Henri was done speaking.
“There are rumors that Saladin means to make another assault on Jaffa now that the English king is incapacitated,” Garnier de Nablus said bleakly. “Under the circumstances, it would be astonishing if he did not, yet if he does, God help us all.”
“His men showed they had no stomach for fighting,” Leicester pointed out, but without much conviction.
“They had no stomach for fighting Richard,” Balian corrected. “Since he’s bedridden, they might recover some of their lost courage. Moreover, Saladin has fresh troops now, the reinforcements from Egypt.” Balian paused, looking around at the circle of grim faces. “We need to make peace—for all our sakes. And there is only one way to do it. I’m guessing most of you are chess players, no? Well, any chess piece except the king can be sacrificed, and I think it is time to sacrifice one. We must give up Ascalon if we have any hope of winning this game.”
The other poulains were nodding in vigorous agreement, but Richard’s men looked dubious. Henri was the one to give voice to their misgivings, admitting that he was not sure Richard would ever agree.
“We cannot hold it without Richard,” Balian said bluntly. “So unless he plans to renounce his own domains and remain here to defend it, it makes no sense to let Ascalon wreck this last chance of peace.” He paused again, this time looking directly at Henri and André. “You must convince your king. If he will not consent, the best we can hope for is that the war goes on. But I think it is much more likely that we’ll all die in the ruins of Jaffa, unable to fend off another Saracen assault.”
RICHARD’S CHILLS had given way to the expected fever, and his doctors were doing all they could to bring his temperature down, coaxing him to sip wine laced with betony, bathing his burning skin with water cooled by the snow from Mount Hermon. Henri, André, and Hubert Walter had gathered in a far corner of the chamber, watching the doctors’ efforts as they continued a low-voiced debate about what to do. André thought it best to wait until Richard’s fever broke, for he’d become delirious as it peaked earlier in the week. But Henri and the bishop feared that time was running out even as they argued, and they eventually prevailed.
Approaching the bed once the doctors were done, they were relieved that Richard still seemed lucid, and they took turns trying to persuade him that Ascalon must be sacrificed. It was far more important to Saladin than it was to them; he’d never make peace as long as Franks controlled the route to Egypt. Without Richard, it could not be defended. If peace were not made soon, they risked another attack on Jaffa, risked being stranded in Outremer till the following spring, risked the survival of both kingdoms—Jerusalem and England. Richard listened in silence and at last turned his head aside on the pillow, whispering, “Do as you think best. . . .” Overjoyed, they thanked him profusely and hastened off to send word to the Saracens that Ascalon’s fate was now open to negotiation.
Richard was not left in peace for long; the doctors returned, insisting he must be bled, and he did not have the strength to object, wanting only for them all to go away and let him be. He dozed for a time, awoke with another throbbing headache. Feeling as if his body were on fire, he sought to throw off the sheet and discovered he had more visitors. The French king and his brother Johnny were standing by the bed, regarding him with smug smiles.
We thought you’d want to know what has been happening back home, Big Brother, although you’ll not like it much. I am going to wed Alys, keeping her in the family, Johnny said with a grin. And I am thinking of taking Joanna as my queen now that you’ll not be around to object, Philippe confided. But the weddings will have to wait until after we lay claim to Normandy, of course. And England will soon be mine, too, Johnny boasted, for none will dare to defy me once they hear you died in the Holy Land. Richard told them to go away; they just laughed at him. And then Johnny did go, but Philippe still leaned over the bed, whispering in his ear. Your little brother will be a lamb to the slaughter, Lionheart. How long do you think it will take me to strip Johnny of every last acre? I’ll have Normandy, Anjou, Brittany, even your beloved Aquitaine in the time it takes for your body to rot in an Outremer grave. Your Angevin empire will soon be a French one and there is naught you can do to prevent it.
Richard cried out and his doctors were there at once, stopping him as he attempted to get up, telling him he must stay in bed. Did they not see Philippe and Johnny? Did they not hear the laughter? He tried to tell them, but talking was too much of an effort, and he let them lay him back against the pillows. His head was pounding; so was his heart, sounding as loud in his ears as the Saracen war drums. Had they launched another attack? When he closed his eyes, he could see that dead Templar, propped up in bed, sword in hand. Where was his sword? He struggled to sit up, looking around wildly for it. But the chamber was filling with shadows and he could see nothing beyond the bed.
Is this what you want, Richard? A familiar figure emerged from the darkness, holding out Joyeuse, the sword Maman had given him on his fifteenth birthday, when he’d been invested as Duke of Aquitaine; he’d named it after Charlemagne’s fabled weapon, said to have flashed lightning in the heat of battle. He reached for it, but his brother pulled it away before his fingers could touch the enameled pommel. What good will a sword do you when you are as weak as a mewling kitten? Geoffrey sat on a nearby coffer, tossing the sword aside. You were so pleased when you heard I’d been trampled in that tournament. Very shortsighted of you, Richard. You’d have been better off with me as your heir, much better off.
As if you’d not have connived for my crown, too! You’d never have been satisfied with a duchy if a kingdom was in the offing.
He had no energy for speech, but he did not need it, for Geoffrey seemed to pluck his words from the air, saying with a sardonic smile, Yes, but I would have been willing to wait. Face it, Richard, you’ll never make old bones. Other men lust after women. You lust after Death, always have. You’ve been chasing after her like a lovesick lad, and sooner or later she’ll take pity and let you catch her. So I could afford to wait. But Johnny had to entangle himself in Philippe’s web, the damned fool.
You entangled yourself in Philippe’s web, too, Richard reminded him. If you had not been plotting with the French, you’d not have been at Lagny when that tournament was held.
You know why I turned to Philippe. I got tired of Papa treating us like his puppet princes, tired of him dangling that accursed crown before us like a hunter’s lure. So did you, remember? You did me one better, too, doing public homage to Philippe for all your fiefs “on this side of the sea” whilst Papa looked on, dumbfounded. But you could safely make use of Philippe, for you knew you could outwit him and outfight him. So could I. Johnny cannot, as he’ll soon learn to his cost. Ah well, you’ll be dead by then, so mayhap it will not matter so much.
Christ Jesus, Geoffrey, of course it matters! Furious, Richard thrashed about, trying to free himself from his sheets. If you’ve come only to mock me, go back to Hell where you belong!
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Purgatory, not Hell, Geoffrey said and laughed before fading back into the blackness. Richard called out to him, but he got no answer. He was alone.
AFTER CONFIRMING that there were only three hundred knights with Richard, Salah al-Dīn met with his council and it was agreed to attack Jaffa or, failing that, Ascalon. By August 27, he was at Ramla, making ready for the assault. But it was then that he got two messages that changed his plans. Abū-Bakr reported that Richard had asked al-’Ādil to broker a peace, requesting to be indemnified for his expenses if he had to surrender Ascalon. Salah al-Dīn halted their march and instructed his brother, “If they will give up Ascalon, conclude a treaty of peace.” The next day the emir Badr al-Dīn Dildirim al-Yārūqī brought word that he’d been approached by the Bishop of Salisbury, who told him that Richard would be willing to yield Ascalon without compensation. Salah al-Dīn was uneasy about making peace, confiding in Bahā’ al-Dīn that he feared their enemy would grow strong again now that they had a secure foothold along the coast. But he had no choice, he said, for his men were war-weary, homesick, and had shown at Jaffa that they were no longer dependable. After meeting again with his council on Sunday morning, August 30, the sultan sent an envoy to the English king with a draft of the peace treaty.
“NO,” RICHARD SAID, shaking his head stubbornly. “I did not agree to yield Ascalon without compensation. I would never do that!”
There was a shocked silence, the other men looking at one another in dismay. “You did, Uncle.” Henri approached the bed, picking up the document that Richard had crumpled and flung to the floor. “André and the bishop and I . . . we came to you and explained why Ascalon had to be sacrificed—”
“No! I would not do that.”
“Richard . . . it happened as Henri says. You do not remember . . . not any of it?”
Richard’s eyes searched André’s face, then shifted to Hubert Walter. “No . . . I agreed to this? You swear it is so?” When all three of them assured him it was, he sank back against the pillows. It was very disturbing, even frightening, to think he’d made such an important decision and had no memory of it. When he glanced up again, he saw that the sultan’s envoy was becoming agitated, asking Humphrey de Toron what had gone wrong. “Humphrey . . . tell him that if I said it, I will honor my word. And tell him to say this to Saladin—that I accept the terms and understand that if I receive any compensation for Ascalon, it will be because of his generosity and bounty.”
The envoy was ushered out, obviously greatly relieved that there was to be no eleventh-hour surprise. By unspoken assent, the other men left, too; only Henri and André remained. “This is my fault, Uncle,” Henri said unhappily. “André insisted that we ought not to ask you until your fever broke. But I feared to wait—”
“It is your kingdom, Henri. It was your decision to make as much as mine.” Richard could not remember ever feeling so exhausted or so disheartened. “I need to sleep now. . . .” He hoped it would come soon, stilling the questions he could not answer, the insidious voice asking what he’d truly accomplished here. So many deaths, and all for what?
WHEN RICHARD AWOKE, it was still light, so he could only have slept for an hour or so. One of his doctors was quickly hovering over the bed, asking if he would like some soup or fruit. He made himself say yes, for he knew he had to eat to regain his strength. He was frightened by his weakness; it was as if he’d become trapped in a stranger’s body, not the one that had served him so well for nigh on thirty-five years. A quartan fever recurred every third day, so he ought to be feverfree today, but he was not. If he died here at Jaffa, what would become of his kingdom? What of Berenguela, left a young widow in a foreign land so far from home? Or Joanna? Had he lost the Almighty’s Favor by failing to take Jerusalem? Ought he to have tried, even knowing how many men would die in the attempt? “Give me a sign, O Lord,” he whispered. “Let me know that I was not wrong. . . . ”
He tried to eat the food the doctors brought to him, but his stomach rebelled and he could swallow only a mouthful or two before he was fighting back nausea. He asked for music, for that had always been a source of comfort, but the harpist’s melodies sounded melancholy and mournful, even though he’d requested something lively. He finally slept again, a shallow, uneasy sleep that gave him little rest, and awoke to find his nephew standing by the bed.
“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” Henri said. “I have news you’ll want to hear.”
Richard doubted that, almost told Henri to come back on the morrow. But the younger man’s eyes were shining; he did not look like the bearer of yet more bad tidings. “What?”
“I had a message tonight from Isabella. She says that Hugh of Burgundy died at Acre five days ago.”
Richard stared at him. “I think,” he said, “that I’ve just gotten my sign.” Henri did not know what that meant, but it did not matter; his uncle was smiling, the first real smile he’d seen on Richard’s face since he’d been stricken with the quartan fever.
ON SEPTEMBER 1, Salah al-Dīn’s envoy, al-Zabadānī, came to Jaffa with the final draft of the treaty, waiting in a tent outside the town until Richard was carried out to meet him on a litter. He was too ill to read it, but said, “I have made peace. Here is my hand.” A truce was to begin on the following day, to last three years and eight months. The terms were very similar to those discussed in the past, with the crusaders to hold the coastal areas from Jaffa to Tyre. The peace was to include the Prince of Antioch, the Count of Tripoli, and Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān, leader of the Assassin sect. Ascalon was to be razed to the ground and to remain so for the duration of the truce. Richard’s reliance upon the sultan’s generosity was not misplaced; Salah al-Dīn compensated him for the money he’d expended at Ascalon by agreeing that the Franks and Saracens would share the revenues of Ramla and Lydda. Both sides would be able to move freely, to resume trade, and Christian pilgrims would be given access to Jerusalem. The two armies mingled and Bahā’ al-Dīn reported that “It was a day of rejoicing. God alone knows the boundless joy of both peoples.”
Richard remained seriously ill, Bahā’al-Dīn repeating a rumor that he’d died. On September 9, he sailed to Haifa and then on to Acre to convalesce. He sought to pay the French back by asking Salah al-Dīn to allow only those Christian knights who bore letters from him or Henri to visit Jerusalem. But the sultan wanted as many crusaders as possible to fulfill their holy vows, knowing they’d be less likely to return then, and he ignored Richard’s request. Three pilgrimages were organized, one led by André de Chauvigny and another by the Bishop of Salisbury. The latter was accorded the honor of a personal audience with Salah al-Dīn, who told him that Richard had great courage but he was too reckless with his own life. While many of his soldiers and knights took advantage of the peace to worship at the Holy Sepulchre, Richard did not.
ANDRÉ WAS HOLDING COURT, regaling a large audience with his account of his pilgrimage to Jerusalem. “It almost ended ere it began,” he said, “for the men we’d sent on ahead to get safe conducts from Saladin stopped at Toron des Chevaliers and fell asleep. The rest of our party assumed they’d reached Jerusalem and we passed them by as they slept. When we realized we were arriving without advance warning, we sent word hastily to al-’Ādil and he dispatched an escort to protect us, rebuking us for our rashness.” He’d charitably not mentioned the names of the errant envoys, but Pierre de Préaux, William des Roches, and Gerard de Furnival flushed uncomfortably, knowing many were aware they were the culprits. They were grateful when Berengaria distracted attention from them by asking André why they’d needed safe conducts, for she thought the Holy City would be open to all pilgrims.
“Well, we are more than pilgrims, my lady. We’re the men who defeated Saladin’s army at Acre, Arsuf, and Jaffa, and many of them still bear grudges. We were told some of them entreated the sultan to let them take vengeance for the deaths of their fathers, brothers, and sons. But he refused to allow it, giving al-’Ādil the responsibility of making sur
e that Christians would be safe during their stay in the Holy City.”
André then told them of his visit to the most sacred site in Christendom, the Holy Sepulchre; and as he described the two-story chapel with Mount Calvary above and Golgotha below, Berengaria had to fight back tears. When André said that Saladin had allowed the Bishop of Salisbury to see the True Cross, she bit her lip, thinking that the sultan would surely have done as much for Richard and his queen. André and the other men had seen all the places so familiar to her from her readings of Scriptures: the rock upon which the body of the Lord Christ had lain, the Mount of Olives, the Church of Mount Sion where the Blessed Mary had died and was assumed into Heaven, the room where the Last Supper had taken place, the Valley of Jehosaphat, the Pool of Siloam, where the Saviour had restored a man’s sight. Places she would never get to visit.
She bowed her head so none would notice her distress, but it was then that André leaned over and urged her husband to make the pilgrimage, too. “There is still time, Cousin,” he said, “to change your mind.” Richard merely smiled and shook his head, but for just a heartbeat, his defenses were down and his naked yearning showed so plainly on his face that Berengaria caught her breath. So he did want to see the Holy City! Why, then, would he not go?
LYING IN BED beside Richard, Berengaria was still thinking of his earlier unguarded moment in the great hall. There were two explanations circulating about Richard’s refusal to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem—that he was still too sick to make the trip or that it was too dangerous. It was true that he was not fully recovered, although he tried to hide it as best he could. She saw how exhausted he was when he went to bed at night, how little he ate, how easily he tired during the day. They’d only begun sharing a bed again in the past few days and he’d not yet made love to her; she was content to cuddle, but his forbearance was further proof that he was still convalescing. She knew, though, that he’d never have let ill health keep him from traveling to the Holy City; like most soldiers, he was accustomed to fighting through pain. And the other rationale was no more plausible. It was ludicrous to think that the man who’d ridden out alone to challenge the entire Saracen line to combat would of a sudden be so concerned for his own safety. She’d reluctantly concluded that a pilgrimage to Jerusalem was simply not that important to him, and her resentment began to fester, for in denying himself that privilege, he was denying her, too. She was Richard’s queen; how could she go without him?