She was already on her feet, though. He grabbed for her ankle, missed, and scowled. “I do not need to see a doctor!”
“Yes,” she said, “you do!” Pulling the tent flap back, she spoke to someone beyond his range of vision, summoning his chief physician, Master Ralph Besace. He slumped against the cushions in frustration, knowing what he now faced: being poked and prodded and bled and hovered over by his doctors, his wife, his sister, and his friends, all of whom would be underfoot day and night, making bloody nuisances of themselves and flinching if he so much as sneezed.
“Damnation, woman—” He cut himself off, though, when she turned back and he saw the fear on her face. “You need not fret so,” he said, more gently. “God did not lead me to Acre only to die of a fever.”
She quickly agreed, saying that he was surely right, that such fevers were common. But this is Outremer, Outremer where fevers are often mortal, where men die with terrifying ease, even kings.
CHAPTER 21
JUNE 1191
Siege of Acre
The French king was sheltering from the sun under a cercleia, a framework used to protect crossbowmen as they shot at the men up on the walls. Until his arrival at Acre, Philippe had never used a crossbow, for it was not a weapon of the highborn. Much to his surprise, he’d discovered that was not the case in Outremer, and since it could be mastered fairly easily, he’d let himself be tutored by Jacques d’Avesnes, a Flemish lord who’d won considerable renown during the siege. When a Saracen leaned over the battlements to shout taunts, Philippe and Guillaume des Barres both raised their crossbows and fired. The man disappeared from view and Guillaume deferred to his king with a smile, saying, “Your hit, sire.”
“For all we know, he merely ducked,” Philippe pointed out with a rare flash of humor. He’d been in good spirits since learning that Richard was bedridden with a fever, and that morning the other burr under his saddle had been removed when Conrad had returned to Tyre in high dudgeon after a heated confrontation with Guy de Lusignan’s brother Joffroi. Glancing toward Mathieu de Montmorency, he said generously, “You get the next shot, Mathieu.”
Jacques had begun teaching the youth and he nodded encouragingly as Mathieu nervously fiddled with the weapon, using a hinged lever to pull the hemp string back to the latch and, once it was cocked, aligning the bolt. But when he pulled the trigger, his aim was off and the bolt soared up harmlessly into the sky. The Duke of Burgundy and the Count of Dreux laughed at the crestfallen boy, joking that the Saracens were their enemy, not any passing birds. Mathieu cheered up, though, when Jacques patted him on the back, saying that he just needed a bit more practice.
Philippe had not noticed this byplay, for he was frowning at the sight of the approaching Count of St Pol. He had no reason to mistrust the man himself, but the count’s marital ties were suddenly suspect, for his wife was the sister of Baudouin of Hainaut. Philippe spent more time worrying about Baudouin these days than he did Saladin, for if Baudouin staked a claim to Artois whilst he was trapped here in Outremer, it would be very difficult to make good his own claim upon his return.
The Count of St Pol was accompanied by Philippe’s marshal, Aubrey Clement, and Leopold von Babenberg, the Duke of Austria. There was little space in the cercleia, but Leopold still acknowledged the French king with a formal obeisance, for he was punctilious about matters of rank and protocol. There had been a three-hour eclipse of the sun on the Vigil of the Nativity of St John the Baptist, and Leopold asked Philippe now if he believed it was an omen of good or ill fortune. Philippe neither knew nor cared, but he was pleased that the duke did not want to discuss Richard’s illness, which was the talk of the camp, and so he politely parried the question, asking Leopold what he thought. The latter at once launched into an enthusiastic discussion about astronomy and divine portents. Only half listening, Philippe kept his gaze upon the battlements in case a Saracen soldier should offer himself as a target.
“My liege!” This stentorian bellow came from Philippe’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais. He was striding toward them, so quickly that they knew he bore news of importance. But he was smiling broadly, so Philippe felt confident the news would not be unwelcome. Ducking under the cercleia, Beauvais sank down on his haunches next to the French king. “Have you heard? Richard’s doctors are now saying that his malady is Arnaldia!”
There were muffled exclamations of dismay from most of his audience. Jacques d’Avesnes, the Count of St Pol, the Duke of Austria, Aubrey Clement, and Mathieu jumped to their feet and hurried off to find out more, leaving the French king alone with Beauvais and his brother, the Count of Dreux, Hugh of Burgundy, and Guillaume des Barres. Reaching for a wineskin hooked at his belt, Beauvais took a swig and grimaced, for the liquid tasted as if it had been heated over a fire. “I suppose it is too much to hope,” he drawled, “that Richard’s bout with Arnaldia proves fatal.”
His brother and Hugh laughed and Philippe permitted himself a small smile—until he saw the shocked expression on Guillaume des Barres’s face. Philippe was torn between bafflement and irritation; why would Guillaume of all men care about Richard’s plight? Later, on his way back to his tent, he summoned Guillaume to walk at his side and sought an answer to that minor mystery. “You did not approve of the Bishop of Beauvais’s jest. I would think you’d be the last one to defend Richard after the shabby way he treated you back in Messina.”
Guillaume seemed surprised by the question. “I would be greatly grieved if the English king were to die, my liege, for I see him as our best hope of defeating Saladin. The recovery of the Holy Land is far more important than any rancor between Richard and me.”
“Well, you are more magnanimous than Richard would be if your positions were reversed,” Philippe said, after some moments of silence. He genuinely liked Guillaume des Barres, but he did not understand the knight’s willingness to forgive after such an unfair and public humiliation. Shading his eyes against the dazzling blaze of the noonday sun, he stared up at a sky that was a bleached bone-white, a sky in which there was not even a wisp of cloud, for this was the dry season and there would be no rain for months. Standing there in the midst of the chaotic siege encampment, he finally admitted to himself that his own realm mattered far more to him than the Holy Land ever could, and why not? Outremer had the Almighty to protect it but France only had Philippe Capet, a king far from home with a frail, small son as his heir. There was a certain relief in facing that fact at last. But it was a lonely moment, too, for he knew that none would understand, not even his brash cousin Beauvais. The one man who might have agreed was moldering in a tomb at Fontevrault Abbey.
AS HENRI MADE HIS WAY toward Richard’s pavilion, he was stopped repeatedly by men anxious to hear how the king was faring. To each query, Henri had the same response, one that made it seem as if Richard’s illness was of minor concern. Approaching the tent, he was not surprised to find soldiers and knights keeping watch. Before entering, he paused to greet two of the Préaux brothers, Guilhem and Pierre, and when he was asked the inevitable question, he gave them his most reassuring smile.
“Well, it will not surprise you to learn that he is surely the world’s worst patient. He has been fuming and fretting at being bedridden, and he’s learning to swear in Arabic, so his curses are even more colorful than usual.” They grinned and he added lightly, “But he was cheered up to hear that the French king has now been stricken with Arnaldia, too.”
As he expected, that evoked laughter, and he moved past them into the tent, thinking bleakly that if lies were sins, his confessor would be laying out penances from now till Michaelmas. Actually, he had indeed hoped Richard would be amused that Philippe was also ailing, surely God’s Chastisement for welcoming his rival’s ordeal. But Richard had merely grunted, then looked away. Henri had been troubled by that apathetic response, just as he was troubled by Richard’s growing lethargy. The temper tantrums that Henri had described for the Préaux brothers had occurred at the onset of his uncle’s illness. He’d no
t pitched a fit for more than a day now, and Henri was not the only one yearning for the return of the Richard they knew best—sardonic, playful, quick to anger, and utterly without self-doubts. It was as if a stranger had suddenly taken over Richard’s body, listless and silent and—a word Henri would never have thought to apply to his uncle—vulnerable.
As soon as he entered the pavilion, he was pulled aside by André de Chauvigny. “We had a message from Saladin’s brother. He said he’d heard the Franks were not happy about their proposed meeting, saying it endangered the Christian religion, and he asked if Richard had changed his mind because of the protests.”
Henri nodded; although Saladin had refused to meet Richard, he’d been willing to have his brother act on his behalf. “That could not have made Richard happy. As if he’d ever be swayed by what other men think!”
“He dictated a response to be sent on the morrow, saying the delay was due to his illness and no other reason. But he took it much too calmly, Henri. He ought to have been outraged by the mere suggestion that he could be overruled by the French king.”
“Arnaldia saps a man, André. I remember feeling as weak as a newborn babe. Yet once my fever broke, I was quick to regain my strength, and I am sure Richard will, too. Has he eaten anything since I saw him this morning?”
“Not much,” André admitted. “His queen tried to coax him into taking some chicken cooked in white wine, for it’s said to be good for the ailing. But he has no appetite. He’s about to be bled now. His fool doctors have been arguing all day about the best time to do it. Apparently it depends upon a man’s nature, and they could not decide if the king is sanguine or choleric. If he’s the former, he ought to be bled at sunrise, at noon if he’s the latter. Richard finally just told them to get it done straightaway, which probably proves he’s choleric,” André said with a faint, sad smile.
The pavilion was a very large one, said to be big enough to hold well over a hundred men, but there was little room, for it was crowded with Richard’s household knights, some of his queen and sister’s ladies, several bishops, and lords like Jacques d’Avesnes, the Earl of Leicester, and the newly bereaved Jaufre of Perche. Because André and Henri were known to be members of Richard’s inner circle, a path slowly opened, enabling them to reach the screen set up around the king’s bed.
Richard was propped up on pillows, his wife and sister watching intently as a physician opened a vein near his elbow. Nervous under their scrutiny, the doctor was talking too much, explaining that this was the basilica vein and lancing here would purge noxious humors from the king’s liver, telling them what all already knew, that good health depended upon the proper balance of the four humors—blood, phlegm, white and black bile—and too much blood in the body was one cause of disease. Richard’s eyes were closed, but his lashes fluttered when Berengaria leaned over and murmured that his nephew was here.
“Henri,” he said, his voice so low that the younger man had to bend down to catch his words. “Take Joanna and Berenguela to dine with you. They’ve not eaten all day. . . .”
Both women at once protested. Henri was not to be denied, though. “This may not be gallant of me, but the two of you look worse than the king and he’s the one who is sick. You need a good night’s sleep for certes, but a few hours in my charming company will have to do,” he declared, persisting until they grudgingly yielded.
Master Ralph Besace, Richard’s chief physician, had been holding his wrist during the bloodletting, and he signaled now for it to cease, saying the king’s pulse was dropping too fast. Henri took advantage of the moment to usher the women away and out into the cooling night air. He knew they’d moved into the pavilion, setting up trundle beds behind a screen and taking turns sitting with Richard, but he doubted that either of them had slept more than a few hours in days. He chided them gently as they headed for his tent, pointing out that it would do Richard no good if they fell ill, too. But he did not expect them to heed him, nor did they.
Henri set a better table than most of his fellow crusaders, thanks to his friend Balian, who’d provided him with a cook familiar with Saracen cuisine and spices. Joanna and Berengaria were served a lamb dish called sikbāj, roasted scallops, and stuffed dates, but they merely picked at their food, quizzing Henri, instead, about his own experience with Arnaldia. To bring down his fever, Richard had been given ficaria and basil in wine, and when that did not help, the doctors had tried galingale and then black hellebore. Did Henri remember his treatment?
Searching his memory, he recalled taking columbine, pounded and then strained into juice through a thin cloth, and myrrh drunk in warm wine; the women made mental notes to mention this to Richard’s doctors. Richard was being given sponge baths with cool water, they related, and bled, of course, although one of the doctors insisted it was dangerous to bleed a man after the twenty-fifth of the month. How, they asked in despair, were they to know which advice to follow?
Henri did his best to console them, talking of the many men, like himself, who’d made a full recovery from Arnaldia, and suggesting prayers to Blasius, the patron saint for diseases of the throat and lungs, as Richard’s throat was very sore and he was troubled by painful sores in his mouth. When they were ready to depart, he rummaged around in his coffers until he found a favorite amber ring, for it was said to ward off fevers, and then walked them back to the royal pavilion.
Upon their return, they were initially alarmed to be told the Bishop of Salisbury had shriven Richard of his sins, but André was able to reassure them that this was merely a sensible precaution, not a sign that Richard had taken a turn for the worse. After all, he pointed out, men always confessed their sins ere going into battle. Once Joanna retired behind the women’s screen to get a few hours sleep, Berengaria pulled a chair up to the bed. The nights since Richard was stricken had been unusually quiet. She could still hear the thudding of stones as they crashed into the city walls, but otherwise a pall seemed to have settled over the camp. Richard showed no curiosity when she slipped Henri’s amber ring onto his finger, and when she brought him a hot beverage brewed from sage leaves, telling him it was said to heal mouth ulcers, he sipped obediently as she held the cup to his blistered lips.
It frightened her that he was suddenly so passive; she much preferred his earlier bad-tempered outbursts, even when they’d been directed at her. As the hours passed, she replaced the wet compresses upon his forehead, gave him wine mixed with the doctors’ latest concoction, smoothed ointment upon his blisters, and blinked back tears after he acknowledged her ministrations with the flicker of a smile. She was so exhausted that when Joanna appeared to relieve her vigil, she fell onto her bed fully dressed and was asleep almost at once.
Her transition from uneasy dreams to wretched reality was so abrupt that she awoke with a start, momentarily confused to find Joanna bending over her. “Is it my turn?” she asked, stifling a yawn. But then she saw the tears welling in the other woman’s eyes.
FROM THE CHRONICLE of Bahā’ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, a trusted adviser of Salah al-Dīn and an eyewitness to the events at the siege of Acre: “The Franks were at this time so much concerned at the increasing gravity of the King of England’s illness that they even discontinued for a while their attack on the city.”
RICHARD WAS VERY ILL. But he was aware only of intolerable, searing heat, his body afire with fever that burned ever higher with each passing day, his dreams dragging him into a terrifying world of hallucinatory, demonic visions, shot through with swirling, hot colors of blood and flames. In his delirium, he was haunted by his dead, by his father and brothers, only time seemed oddly fragmented. He was a man grown, then a young boy, calling out for the mother who’d always been his mainstay, but now locked away in a far-distant dungeon, unable to hear his cries for help. Spiraling down into the dark, he was so tired, so very tired that it seemed easier to stop fighting, to let go. He did not, though, instinctively struggling toward a distant, dim light, one that flickered and wavered but promised to lead him
home.
When he opened his eyes, he winced, nearly blinded by the sudden brightness. Filtering the light through his lashes, he saw a woman’s face, streaked with tears. He wondered why his brain was so muddled. While she looked familiar, it took a heartbeat or two before he recognized his wife. Saying her name, he was shocked by how weak his voice sounded. Holy God, how long had he been ill?
“You’re awake!” Berengaria’s smile was like a sunrise. She slid her fingers across his forehead, then touched his cheek, above his beard. “Blessed Lady, your fever has broken! Richard, you are going to recover.”
“Of course I am. . . .” He wanted to ask who had doubted it, but his throat was too raw and he was grateful when she understood his need and reached for a cup. The wine was warm and soured by medicinal herbs; Richard thought it tasted delicious. Handing it back, he studied her face. “Were you here all the time, Berenguela?” When she nodded, he smiled. “I thought so. I felt your presence. . . .”
Berengaria closed her eyes, feeling truly blessed, so happy was she at that moment. “Richard, we must make a generous offering to the Almighty, for God has been so good to us. Mayhap we could even found a chapel once Acre is yours?”
“I doubt that Philippe is willing to cede all of Acre to me, little dove. How is he? I did not imagine it, that he was stricken, too?”
“No, he was indeed afflicted with Arnaldia. But his was a much milder case, and he is well on the road to recovery. He—Richard, no!”
Richard had already discovered that he was not able to get out of bed; his head was spinning. Shaken by his body’s betrayal, he let Berengaria settle him back against the pillows. He was drifting toward sleep again when the screen was jerked aside and then André and Henri were there, looking down at him and laughing.
“We thought we heard your voice!”