But she had been given a glimpse into his heart earlier that evening, and she was now sure it was not lack of interest. “Richard?” When he turned toward her, she shifted so she could look into his eyes. “I need to talk with you. It is important.”
He propped himself up on his elbow. “Why do women always want to have these talks when a man is half asleep?” he grumbled, but she saw the smile hovering in the corner of his mouth. “All right, little dove. You have my full attention.”
“Why did you not go to Jerusalem?”
He was quiet for so long that she was not sure he was going to answer. “I did not deserve to go, Berenguela. I had not earned that right. When I took the cross, I pledged to free the Holy City from the Saracens, and in that, I failed.”
Her throat tightened, for beneath her tranquil surface, her emotions were surging at flood tide. Guilt that she’d so misjudged him. Pride that he would not accept from the infidels what he could not get through God’s Grace. Frustration that he confided so little in her, that after sixteen months of wedlock, they were still strangers sharing a bed, that the only intimacy he seemed able to offer was carnal. Unspoken anger that he’d kept her away from Jaffa when he could have been dying. Fear that was with her every moment of every day, the dread that she would become a widow ere she could truly become a wife. She’d been telling herself for months that their life would be different once they returned to his domains, that their real marriage would begin then. But she’d been badly shaken to learn he’d been so desperately ill and had chosen to keep her in ignorance. It had raised doubts she was unwilling to confront, even to acknowledge.
“I think the Almighty will honor your sacrifice,” she said softly, and he leaned over, brushing his lips against her cheek. But she lay awake long after he fell asleep, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes as she wept silently for Richard, for herself, and for the Holy City that neither of them would get to see.
SEPTEMBER 29 WAS THE DAY chosen for the departure of Richard’s wife, sister, and most of the fleet, which Richard had placed under André’s command. Once they reached Sicily, the women would continue their journey overland to avoid the winter storms. André and Leicester would then sail on to Marseille, the same route Richard planned to take once he was able to leave Acre. Berengaria and Joanna had bidden farewell to Isabella at the palace, for her pregnancy was so far advanced that even the short trip to the harbor was beyond her. Escorted by Richard and Henri, they arrived at the wharfs to find a large crowd had assembled to see them off. The women were glad to be going home, although they were uneasy about the long sea voyage ahead of them, none more so than Joanna. She was putting up a brave front, but it was belied by her pallor and the brittle edge to her laughter. Richard was watching his sister with troubled eyes, and as soon as she moved away, he leaned over to murmur in Berengaria’s ear. “Irlanda is no sailor, suffers more grievously from seasickness than anyone I’ve ever known. I’m relying upon you to take care of her, little dove.”
“I will do my best,” she promised, tilting her head so she could look up into his face. She knew why he was not sailing with them; he’d explained that he had important debts still to settle. But she wished so very much that he was not remaining behind. Like his soldiers, she felt safer in his company, and she knew Joanna did, too. And it would be months before they’d be reunited, months in which she could do naught but worry about him. Their departure was dangerously close to the end of the sailing season; it would be even more dangerous for him if he delayed by another week or two.
And he had more to fear than storms at sea. As a man who’d taken the cross and fought for Christ in the Holy Land, he was under the protection of the Church, but she feared that would matter little to his enemies . . . and he had so many. The French king. The Holy Roman Emperor. The Duke of Austria, said to still be nursing a grudge over his dishonored banner at Acre. The brother of Conrad of Montferrat, who’d been told that Richard was responsible for Conrad’s death. The Count of Toulouse, an old foe who was conspiring with the French to do Richard harm. And the Bishop of Beauvais, who’d already sailed and would be slandering Richard with every breath he drew. Like the trail of slime that marked a snail’s passing, Beauvais would be leaving venom in his wake as he moved from court to court, and she was not sure the truth could ever catch up to all those lies.
“I wish you were coming with us, Richard.”
“I would if I could, Berenguela. But you’ll be safe with André and Leicester, and Tancred will provide you with a large escort on your way to Rome.” Richard knew she was shy of public displays of affection, but when he kissed her, she returned the embrace with unexpected ardor, hoping that last night God had finally heeded her prayers and let her conceive. If she could depart the Holy Land with his child in her womb, it would be proof of divine favor, proof that the Almighty was not wroth with Richard for his failure to take Jerusalem.
Berengaria and Joanna were not the only ones to be worried that Richard was delaying his departure. Mariam was very unhappy about it, too, for Henri and Joanna had asked Morgan to wait and sail with Richard, both of them concerned that he was still suffering from the aftereffects of that near-fatal bout of quartan fever. Morgan was trying to coax her into a better humor, joking that it was for the best. “If we sailed together, think how difficult it would be for me, cariad, having you close at hand and yet out of reach. I’d be like a man parched and half mad with thirst, chained to a keg of Saint Pourçain wine and not being able to drink a drop of it.”
Mariam was not mollified, but they’d already had this argument and she did not want their last words to be quarrelsome. Morgan squeezed her hand, and then turned as Joanna approached. “Keep my brother out of trouble, Cousin Morgan,” she said, with strained playfulness. He promised that he would, even though he thought that was a task beyond his capabilities. But he knew she was nervous that Richard would be traveling without André, who was probably the only man able to rein in the king’s more reckless impulses.
The lighters were waiting to ferry them out to their ships. But Joanna had been entrusted with a private message for Humphrey de Toron and she drew him aside to say that Isabella had heard he’d accepted Guy de Lusignan’s invitation to settle in Cyprus and she wished him happiness in his new life. “Thank you, Lady Joanna,” he said, and she found herself thinking again that he was a remarkably handsome man, with one of the saddest smiles she’d ever seen.
Most of the farewells had already been said. André and Richard joked as if they were not facing dangers as daunting as any they’d confronted in the Holy Land, and no one listening to their banter would ever have suspected that Richard might be sailing home to a lost kingdom, a realm in ruins. Henri kissed all the women with great gallantry and Joanna nearly wept, for it was unlikely she’d ever see him again. Richard hugged his sister so tightly that she thought he might have cracked a rib, kissed his wife, and promised they’d all be together to celebrate Christmas or, at the latest, Epiphany. “If Philippe took four months to get home, I can damned well do it in three,” he said with a smile, and lifted Berengaria into the lighter before she could ask if he truly meant that.
The barge rocked as it rode the waves out to their waiting ship, and Joanna started to look greensick. Berengaria reached over and squeezed her hand, all the while gazing back toward shore. The sky was free of clouds and the wind blew steadily from the southeast, a Jerusalem wind, surely a good omen. But she’d begun to tremble, chilled by a sudden sense of foreboding, the fear that this would be her last memory of Richard: standing on the Acre wharf next to Henri, smiling and waving farewell.
AFTER STOPPING at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross to offer prayers to St Michael, whose day it was, invoking his protection for their fleet, Richard and Henri returned to the palace in a somber mood. As soon as they dismounted in the courtyard, Balian d’Ibelin appeared in the doorway of the great hall. “I was just about to send for you, Henri. Isabella’s birth pangs have begun.”
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p; Henri gasped and dashed up the steps, darting past Balian into the hall. Following more slowly, Richard stopped beside the poulain lord. “I thought she was not due for another month?”
Balian shrugged. “The midwives may have miscalculated. Or the baby may have decided to come early.”
Richard knew little of the birthing chamber, but Henri had told him that Balian had four children with his Greek wife. “Are Isabella and the baby in danger?”
“Early births pose more of a risk to the baby, but it is always dangerous,” Balian said quietly, “always. Maria had planned to be at Acre with Isabella when her confinement began, and I’d feel much better if she were here,” he confessed. “But wishing will not make it so. We’d best go inside, for Henri will have need of us. It is likely to be a very long day.”
MEN WERE NOT PERMITTED in the birthing chamber, but that did not keep Henri from making numerous trips abovestairs to plead for news from the midwives. Emma would come out, tell him cryptically that all was proceeding as it ought, disappear back inside, and Henri would return to the hall to pace and fret. Richard tried to occupy him with a chess game, but he was too distracted to concentrate for long. After he pushed away from the table and headed yet again for the stairs, Balian came over.
“The lad has the attention span of a sand flea right now. I was the same way when Maria was giving birth to our first. Fortunately, it does get easier. May I sit, my lord? I’ve something to say to you.”
Richard gestured to a chair, somewhat warily. Balian had given Henri his full support as soon as he and Isabella were wed, but he’d stayed aloof from the crusade while Conrad lived, and Richard remembered that all too well. “I am listening.”
“I thought you ought to know what the Bishop of Beauvais is saying about you.” Richard’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. “I’m well aware of the lies he’s been spreading—that I am responsible for Conrad’s death, that I sent Assassins to France to murder Philippe, that I am in league with Saladin and the Devil to betray Christendom to the Saracens. I’d not be surprised if he is claiming that I’m a secret Muslim, too.”
“But do you know he is also accusing you of poisoning Hugh of Burgundy?”
“Good God Almighty!” Richard shook his head incredulously. “It is a wonder they are not blaming me for the murder of Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral!”
“Or the Great Flood or the expulsion from Eden,” Balian suggested dryly, and they found that sharing a laugh dispelled some of the lingering tension between them. “Above all, they are saying that you accomplished nothing, that your campaign was a failure because you did not recapture the Holy City. I daresay they’ll find men to believe that. But not in Outremer. Ere your arrival, the Kingdom of Jerusalem consisted only of the city of Tyre and a siege camp at Acre. Because of your efforts, our kingdom now stretches along the coast from Tyre to Jaffa, we will have an opportunity to strengthen our defenses, Saladin no longer controls Ascalon, and Christian pilgrims can worship again at the Holy Sepulchre. That may not sound like much to lazy French burghers back in Paris, but it means a great deal to those who call Outremer home.”
Henri and André had been telling Richard this, too, but he discovered now that it meant more coming from a man who was not his friend.
AS WORD SPREAD that Isabella was in labor, poulain lords began to arrive at the palace and a palpable air of tension overhung the great hall. Henri was too focused upon his own unease to notice, but Richard did. He knew what they feared and were murmuring among themselves: What would happen to their kingdom if Isabella’s child was stillborn and she did not survive? It was a realistic fear, for the birthing chamber could be as dangerous for a woman as the battlefield was for a man. And although Henri had wed their queen, he was not an anointed king, for he’d not yet been crowned. Isabella had not, either, but she had a bloodright to the throne; Henri did not.
Richard found that their anxiety was contagious, and after a cursory supper that went largely uneaten, he slipped out of the hall. Twilight had yielded to night and the air was cool against his skin. The waning moon had not yet risen but the courtyard was bathed in starlight. He sat down upon a marble bench, frustrated by his lingering fatigue; when would he feel like himself again? Not wanting to think of Isabella’s ongoing ordeal, nor of his fleet, now at the mercy of the unforgiving Greek Sea, he welcomed a diversion, the appearance of one of Jacques d’Avesnes’s Flemish hounds. Joanna had taken her cirnecos with her; Jacques’s big dogs had been spared the sea voyage when Isabella and Henri offered to adopt them. Richard fondled the hound’s drooping ears, but the dog’s presence was stirring hurtful memories of Jacques and all the men who’d died in Christ’s Name, gallant ghosts hovering in the shadows, reminding him how many would not be coming home.
He raised his head at the sound of footsteps. Henri was coming toward him, holding a lantern. He did not need it, though, for his smile alone could have illuminated the entire courtyard. “Isabella is resting,” he said, “after giving birth to a beautiful baby girl.”
Richard’s relief momentarily rendered him speechless. “I am so glad, Henri, so glad for you both!”
“I wanted you to be the first to know, but as soon as the others in the hall saw my face, there was no need of words.” Henri set the lantern down on the bench, but he was too wrought up to sit. “We’re going to name her Maria after both our mothers. I always thought newborn babies were red and wrinkled and bald. Yet Maria looks like a little flower, with a feathery cap of dark hair like Isabella’s.”
“Our time in the Holy Land has been very different from what we expected it to be. But surely the greatest surprise is that you’ve become a father,” Richard said, smiling, and Henri laughed aloud.
“If any soothsayer had predicted that in Outremer, I’d wed a widowed, pregnant queen, I’d have thought him madder than a woodhound!” Henri laughed again, before saying, “I have a confession, Uncle. I’d been praying that Isabella would give birth to a daughter, not a son.”
“You ought not to feel guilty about that, Henri, for it is only natural that you’d want to see a son of your own as king one day.”
“I think I could have loved Conrad’s son, for I’d be the only father he’d ever know. But what if I were wrong, if I came to resent him for taking precedence over my blood sons? It just seemed so much easier—and safer—if only she’d have a girl. Of course I did not let Isabella know I had these doubts.” Henri perched on the end of the bench, still so energized that he seemed like a golden hawk about to take flight at any moment. “But when the midwives finally let me in to see her, she confided that she’d been praying for a daughter, too!”
Richard decided that his cousin Isabella was either deeply in love with his nephew or a very clever young woman; either way, he thought their chances for a good marriage were excellent. “As you say, lad, easier and safer. And I’ll wager that by the time I come back to Outremer, you’ll have a son of your own to show me.”
“ ‘Come back’? You mean that, Uncle?”
“Of course I do.” Richard was surprised by Henri’s surprise. “I did not fulfill my vow to retake Jerusalem. Nor did we make peace. We agreed to a truce that will last for only three years and eight months. Did you truly think I’d leave you on your own to fend off the Saracens when war resumes?”
Henri was overwhelmed. “You have no idea how much that means to me! I thought that when you sailed for home, our farewell would be final. You believe Jerusalem could be taken?” He tried to dampen down his excitement, then, for he owed his uncle honesty. “But could you come back without putting your own realm in jeopardy?”
“We could not take Jerusalem because the Saracens were united, as they had not been when it first fell to the Christians. Had we not faced Saladin, had we not been subverted at every turn by Burgundy and Beauvais, our chances for success would have improved dramatically. Saladin is a great prince, but as he himself pointed out to me, he is not a young one, and his brother is far more capable than any of
his sons. By the time I return, his empire might well be torn asunder. As for my own empire, it will not be easy, but it can be safeguarded. I’ll start by putting the fear of God into Johnny. Then I’ll teach Philippe that there is a high price to be paid for treachery.” Richard’s face had hardened as he thought of his disloyal brother and the unscrupulous French king. But after a moment, he smiled at his nephew. “With you as my ally instead of Conrad and without the French to hinder us, think what we can accomplish!”
PIERRE AND JEAN DE PRÉAUX had delayed their departure as long as they could, anguished by the prospect of having to leave Outremer with their brother still a Saracen prisoner. They’d even discussed remaining until the following spring, but they both had families of their own back in Normandy. They’d reluctantly decided to sail with Richard when he left, and that day was fast approaching. Richard had been busy settling all of his outstanding debts and arranging for a horse transport for Fauvel and his Arab stallions. He’d had a public crier proclaim that his creditors should present themselves at the palace and he’d made sure that payments were made to the garrison at Ascalon, to masons for work done on Jaffa’s walls, to merchants for supplies provided to his army. After being told by Baldwin de Bethune that Richard expected to leave by week’s end, the Préaux brothers paid their own debts and informed the innkeeper that they’d be vacating their chamber in two days. They were heading for the market to buy St Denys medallions, for they’d be sailing on his name day, when the summons came from the king.