By now they had attracted the attention of the spectators and even some of the men on the field, who’d lowered their canes to watch. Guillaume had managed to regain his balance. When Richard’s stallion charged him again, his bay shied and only his skilled horsemanship kept him from falling. Before he could right himself, Richard grabbed his arm and yanked, expecting to pull him from the saddle. He had not often encountered a foe with his physical strength, but now he found himself unable to dislodge the other man. Guillaume clutched his horse’s neck, clasping his knees tightly against the animal’s sides, and when Richard angrily demanded that he yield, he stubbornly refused, resisting the English king’s attempts to unseat him as if his very life depended upon the outcome.
All eyes were riveted upon them, the French dismayed to see one of their own in danger of being publicly humiliated, the English cheering their king on. But gradually the spectators fell silent, worried by the ferocity of the struggle, so utterly out of place in the midst of a bohort. It was the newly titled Earl of Leicester who sought to break the impasse. Impulsively spurring his stallion forward, he reined in beside Guillaume and reached out to grab the French knight. He had good intentions, wanting only to help his king. He did not know Richard that well, though. Those who did, winced.
“Get away!” Richard snarled. “This is between the two of us!” By now their exertion had begun to take a toll. Both men were flushed and panting, their chests heaving and their tunics soaked in sweat, their faces smeared with dust. After Leicester’s brutal rebuff, none dared to intervene. They could only hope that neither man would draw his sword and turn this bizarre duel of wills into a combat to the death.
“Yield, you misbegotten son of a whore!” Again and again Richard pulled with all of his considerable strength, but to no avail. The other man clung to his horse like a barnacle, refusing to admit defeat. At last Richard released his grip and drew back. Feeling as if his arm had been wrenched from its socket, Guillaume straightened up in the saddle, keeping his eyes warily upon the English king, for Richard’s fury showed no sign of abating. To the contrary, he was staring at Guillaume with such utter and implacable hatred that the Frenchman felt a chill, for now that the red haze of battle was subsiding, he was realizing how grievously his pride had led him astray.
He had no chance to offer an olive branch, though. “Get yourself from my sight,” Richard said, his words all the more alarming for the flat, measured tone in which they were uttered, “and take care never to come before me again. From now on, you are my enemy and there is no place for you in our army.”
Guillaume gasped, for that sounded ominously like a sentence of banishment. That was how the other men took it, too, and an uneasy silence fell, no one quite understanding how a friendly game with canes could end in an ultimatum and exile.
GUILLAUME DES BARRES was too edgy to sit and was pacing back and forth. When Jaufre walked over to offer a wine cup, he shook his head. “You think our king will be able to make him see reason?”
“I do,” Jaufre said, hiding his doubts with a display of hearty confidence. “Once Richard’s anger cools, he’ll see the unfairness of it.”
“But what if he does not?” This mournful query came from the window-seat where Mathieu de Montmorency was huddled, knees drawn up to his chest. Jaufre felt a twinge of pity, for the boy had been even more shaken than Guillaume by Richard’s threat. Jaufre had not liked this glimpse of Richard’s dark side, either, but unlike Mathieu, he’d never seen the English king as the living embodiment of the chivalric code. He was about to offer Mathieu the same assurances he’d just given Guillaume when the youth twisted sideways on the seat and leaned out the open window. “The king is back! But he looks so grim! Do you think that means . . .”
“He always looks grim, lad,” Jaufre said, thinking that Philippe doled out smiles the way a miser doled out coins. Within moments, Philippe strode into the hall. One glance at his narrowed eyes and thinned mouth told them that his mission had been a failure. He was trailed by the Duke of Burgundy, who shook his head and grimaced.
“He would not heed you, my liege?” Now that he was facing the worst, Guillaume’s nervousness had ebbed, and he sounded quite calm, his the sangfroid of a man who’d spent most of his life soldiering.
“No.” Philippe bit off the word so tersely that they could see the muscles clenching along his jawline. “He remains adamant, insisting that you be dismissed from my service. He dared to give orders to me, an anointed king and his liege lord!”
“So be it,” Guillaume said softly, and then raised his head, squaring his shoulders. “I will leave Messina as he demands, for I do not want to jeopardize our quest. Nothing matters more than the recovery of the Holy Land. But I will not abandon my vow. If I cannot accompany you to Outremer, my liege, I will go on my own.”
“No, you are going nowhere!” Philippe said sharply, and Guillaume looked to the other men for guidance.
Seeing that the Duke of Burgundy was not going to intercede, Jaufre suppressed a sigh. “Sire . . . Guillaume is right. Ours is a sacred quest, one that requires sacrifices.”
Philippe’s lip curled disdainfully. “Sacrifices? What sacrifices has Richard made?”
“Mayhap it was the wrong choice of words. I ought to have said ‘compromises.’ I am not defending Richard. He is in the wrong, not Guillaume. But he has been the one to compromise in the past.”
Philippe’s gaze was so piercing that Jaufre took an involuntary step backward. But farther than that he would not go. “You may not want to hear it, my lord king. It has to be said, though. After Richard seized Messina, you demanded that he lower his banners and replace them with yours. Even though you’d taken no part in the capture of the city, he agreed to fly the flags of the Templars and Hospitallers instead of his own. He compromised. And when he got that gold from Tancred, he gave you a third, even though you had no claim to Queen Joanna’s dower. Again, he compromised. Now . . . now it is your turn.”
To Jaufre’s relief, he got support then from an unexpected source—from Hugh of Burgundy. “As much as it pains me to say it, Cousin, Jaufre is right. You do need to compromise, however unjust Richard’s demand. Humor him for now, if that will keep the peace between you. Mark it down as a debt owed, one to be repaid when the time is right.”
Philippe did not have much regard for Jaufre’s opinion, suspicious of his marriage to Richard’s niece, but he did respect Hugh’s judgment. After a long, labored silence, he beckoned to Guillaume. “I will ask Tancred to give you shelter at Catania. But this I promise you—that when I sail for Outremer, you will sail with me.”
PHILIPPE’S ANGER BURNED all the hotter that Guillaume had behaved so honorably, offering no protests, no complaints about the injustice of the banishment. He was still fuming hours later when a messenger arrived, bearing a letter from Heinrich von Hohenstaufen. Breaking the seal, he scowled to see it was in Latin, for he had no knowledge of the language that was the voice of the Church, a verbal bridge linking the countries of Christendom. Rather than summoning a scribe or clerk, he handed the letter to his cousin. “You know Latin, Hugh. What does it say?”
Hugh scanned the contents, then looked up at the others in genuine surprise. “He says that Richard’s mother is in Italy! They crossed paths at Lodi last month.” After a moment to reflect, he said, “That is one mystery solved, then. At least now we know how Richard learned of Frederick Barbarossa’s death ere we did.”
Philippe shook his head impatiently. “That does not matter. What does is the reason for that witch’s presence in Italy. What could be important enough to justify such a long and difficult journey at her age?” He was looking at Hugh, but it was obvious to the others that he was no longer seeing the duke, his gaze turning inward. “Why did he send for her?” he muttered, as if to himself. “What is that swine up to now?”
AT ROME, Eleanor had another chance meeting, this time with Philip d’Alsace, the Count of Flanders, who’d also taken the cross and was on his way
to Outremer. He decided to accompany them south to Naples, and as she watched Eleanor conversing composedly with the count, Berengaria could only marvel at the older woman’s self-possession, for Hawisa had confided that the queen had good reason to detest Philip. He’d been wed to Eleanor’s niece, her sister’s daughter, Hawisa revealed, and after some years of a childless marriage, he’d accused her of adultery. The man said to be her lover had been brutally murdered, but Philip had not divorced his wife; instead he’d compelled her to turn her inheritance, the rich county of Vermandois, over to him. According to Hawisa, many people felt the charges were false; the alleged lover’s brothers were so outraged that they’d rebelled. And yet Eleanor made sure that the count saw only the queen, never the angry aunt, still more proof to Berengaria that she was entering an alien world where statecraft seemed to matter more than family feelings or even the teachings of the Holy Church.
In Naples, Aliernus Cottone, the city’s compalatius, welcomed them effusively, hosting a lavish feast in their honor and turning one of Tancred’s castles over to them for the duration of their stay in his city, a stone fortress on a small island in the harbor. They then settled down to await the arrival of Richard’s ships. Now that she was within days of her reunion with her son, Eleanor’s spirits soared, but Hawisa’s plummeted, for she was not eager to see her new husband, William de Forz.
Berengaria’s emotions were more ambivalent; she was excited to meet Richard again, but she was nervous, too, now that her new life was about to begin, for she was starting to realize how much would be demanded of her as England’s queen.
RICHARD’S GALLEYS ENTERED the city harbor at nightfall. Richard had sent one of his admirals, William de Forz, and two of his kinsmen, André de Chauvigny and Morgan ap Ranulf, to escort his mother and betrothed to Messina. The men were tired, dirty, and hungry after their voyage, and they were grateful when Eleanor sent them off to their sleeping quarters, where baths and food awaited them. De Forz departed at once, insisting that his wife personally tend to his needs. André and Morgan soon followed, after giving Eleanor letters from Richard and Joanna.
Eleanor picked up an oil lamp and sat down to read the letters. But as she was about to break the seal on the first one, she glanced up and saw the forlorn look on Berengaria’s face. After spending more than three months together, she’d concluded that the girl would make a suitable wife for her son; her quiet courage and common sense were qualities he’d appreciate. She’d been pleased that Berengaria had shown no signs of the “neediness” that Richard had fretted about, but she could understand why the young woman was disappointed that there’d been no letter for her, and so she said, with a wry smile,
“Even the most intelligent of men can lack a woman’s perception or insight, child. That was surely true of Richard’s father, who had not a spark of romance in his soul. When we were first wed, he bestowed compliments so sparingly that I finally complained. He said he saw no point in flattery, for if a woman was a beauty, she already knew it, and if she was not, she’d know he lied.”
While Berengaria was slightly embarrassed that Eleanor had seen her chagrin, it was the first time that Richard’s mother had spoken to her like this, woman to woman, and she reveled in the intimacy. “Is Richard like his father?”
Eleanor started to speak, then realized, somewhat to her surprise, that she did not know how her son was with a woman. She’d been cheated of so much during her years of captivity, losing time with her children that could never be gotten back. But one lesson she’d learned long ago was that regrets served for naught. And so she smiled at Berengaria, saying, “Yes, they were more alike than either one would admit. So I can speak from my own experience when I tell you that life with Richard will not always be peaceful. But it will never be dull.”
Berengaria returned Eleanor’s smile, remembering a dinner conversation they’d had in Rome with an Italian countess. She’d asked playfully what quality they most valued in a husband, offering wealth as her own criterion. Hawisa had quipped that the ideal husband was one who was absent, while Eleanor had chosen one with wit, a man who could make her laugh. Berengaria would have picked kindness, thinking of her father and the tenderness he’d always shown her mother. She’d not spoken her thoughts aloud, though, not wanting them to think her naïve. She wished now that she could ask Eleanor if her son was kind. But she would have to find that out for herself.
BERENGARIA DID NOT LIKE Hawisa’s new husband. William de Forz dominated the conversation at dinner the next day, not even letting the Count of Flanders get a word in edgewise. He dwelt upon his command of Richard’s fleet at interminable length, making ocean voyages sound so perilous that Berengaria shivered, thinking of the turbulent, untamed sea that lay between Italy and Outremer. But what followed was even worse, for he began to tell the women about the great perils awaiting their army in the Holy Land.
“Plague and famine haunt that unhappy kingdom,” he proclaimed theatrically, “posing far greater threats than the most bloodthirsty of Saracen infidels. During the winter when ships could not reach the camp at Acre, food became so scarce that a penny loaf of bread sold for as much as forty shillings, a single egg cost six deniers, and a sack of corn one hundred pieces of gold. Horses were worth more dead than alive, and men were reduced to eating grass to survive. If the bishops of Salisbury and Verona had not raised money to feed the poor, the Good Lord alone knows how many might have died.”
André and Morgan exchanged amused glances, for de Forz’s posturing made it sound as if he’d been present at the siege of Acre instead of getting the news secondhand from Guy de Lusignan’s letter to Richard. “The arrival of three supply ships eased the famine,” he continued, “but there was no protection against the plague. Death relentlessly stalks that bloody ground, and high birth is no defense. The Queen of Jerusalem and her young daughters died at Acre. So did the Count of Blois and his brother. The Archbishop of Canterbury. The Grand Master of the Templars. And your grandson, Madame, the young Count of Champagne. . . .”
When Eleanor gasped, de Forz belatedly hastened to reassure her. “Nay, he is not dead. But he was struck down by the same illness that killed his uncles, and for a time they despaired of his life. They say the very air of Outremer is noxious to newcomers, for how else to explain why so many are stricken so soon after their arrival?”
Morgan noticed Eleanor’s sudden pallor. Glancing over, he saw that Berengaria was looking distressed, too, and he frowned, marveling that de Forz could be such a lack-wit. Did he truly think Richard’s mother and betrothed wanted to hear of all those deaths, of all the dangers the king wald be facing in Outremer? “The king built a wooden castle on the hill above Messina,” he said abruptly, determined to banish the fearful images de Forz had been conjuring up, “and he had all the sections marked so it can be taken apart and packed up when he departs for Outremer. He has done the same for his siege engines, too, so they can be easily reassembled at Acre.”
The women seemed interested in that, but de Forz was not ready to relinquish control of the conversation. “Tell them what he calls the castle, Morgan,” he said with a grin. “Mate-Griffon, or Kill the Greeks!” He then launched into a melodramatic account of Richard’s seizure of Messina before returning to his favorite subject, the killing fields of the Holy Land.
By now André had also noticed the effect de Forz’s blustering was having upon Eleanor and Berengaria. Leaning forward, he interrupted smoothly, “I think the queen and the Lady Berengaria would rather hear about the king’s meeting with the prophet, Joachim of Corazzo.”
“Indeed I would.” Eleanor turned toward Berengaria, intending to explain that Joachim was a celebrated holy man, renowned for his knowledge of Scriptures and his interpretations of the Book of Revelations. But Berengaria needed no such tutoring.
“I’ve heard of him!” she exclaimed, her eyes shining. “He says that there are three ages, that of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit, and that the Last Days are nigh, which will precede th
e Last Judgment.”
“Exactly so, my lady,” André confirmed. “The king wanted to hear his prophesies for himself, as he’d heard that Joachim identifies Saladin as the sixth of the seven great enemies of the True Faith. We were much heartened by what he told us—that Saladin will be driven from the Kingdom of Jerusalem and slain, and it will be King Richard who brings this about.”
Berengaria felt a thrill of pride, greatly honored that her betrothed was the man chosen by God to fulfill these holy prophesies and vanquish such a deadly foe of the Church. She found it very encouraging, too, that Richard had sought the mystic out, for that showed his faith had deeper roots than his worldly demeanor might indicate.
“Joachim claimed that the Antichrist, the last of Holy Church’s seven tormentors, is already born,” André resumed, “and dwelling in Rome. According to Joachim, he will seize the apostolic throne and proclaim himself Pope ere being destroyed by the Coming of the Lord Christ.”
De Forz cut in again, chuckling. “The king disputed Joachim on that point, suggesting that the Antichrist was already on the apostolic throne, the current Pope, Clement III!”
That evoked laughter, for they all knew how much Richard disliked Clement. But to Berengaria, Richard’s sardonic gibe skirted uncomfortably close to blasphemy, and she could manage only a flicker of a smile. She forgot her discomfort, though, with de Forz’s next revelation.
“Soon thereafter, the king made a dramatic act of penance, summoning his bishops to the chapel where he knelt half naked at their feet and confessed to a sinful, shameful past in which he’d yielded to the prickings of lust. He abjured his sin and gladly accepted the penance imposed upon him by the bishops, who commended him for his repentance and bade him live henceforth as a man who feared God.”