Berengaria felt a remorseful pang, starting to explain her own joy had been so intense she’d not thought of anyone else. But the men were not listening to her. They’d pulled up stools beside the bed, wanting to know if Richard was done lolling about and taking his ease, if he was ready to hear what had been happening in the past week. Richard was stunned to learn that he’d lost a week of his life, but he was eager to hear what he’d missed and they were eager to tell him.
Their sappers had been able to undermine a section of the Accursed Tower and French crews had brought down part of the adjoining wall, although they’d not been able to force their way into the city. The garrison commander had ventured out under a flag of truce to discuss terms, but Philippe had received him so disdainfully that he’d returned to Acre in a rage, vowing to fight to the death. Yesterday Philippe had ordered his men to launch another attack, which had ended in failure like the other French attempts. Conrad was back from Tyre, doubtless because he’d heard both Richard and Philippe were ailing. Some of Philippe’s sappers had broken into a countertunnel being dug by the Saracens. Both sides pulled back by mutual consent, no rational man wanting to fight underground like weasels trapped in a burrow, but they did manage to rescue some Christian prisoners who were being forced to help dig the tunnel.
Richard was delighted with that story and burst out laughing. Berengaria felt tears burn behind her eyelids, for she’d not been sure she’d ever hear that sound again. The doctors were there now, too, beaming at their patient as if they and not God had brought Richard back from the brink of death. Horrified to realize that Joanna did not yet know, Berengaria hastily sent a man to fetch her; one of Joanna’s ladies, her beloved Dame Beatrix, was grievously ill, too, now, and Joanna had begun dividing her time between Beatrix’s sickbed and her brother’s. After dispatching the knight to Joanna’s tent, Berengaria hurried back to her husband. She saw, though, that Richard had not noticed her absence. He was sitting up in bed, looking gaunt and pale, but his eyes were shining, and he was peppering Henri and André with questions about the siege, wanting to know if they thought the Accursed Tower could soon be brought down, if there’d been any messages from Saladin’s brother, if the French had suffered many casualties when their assault was repulsed.
Berengaria watched him for a while and then backed away from the bed. Catching the eye of one of the doctors as she moved around the screen, she beckoned him over. “If the king asks for me,” she said quietly, “tell him I have gone to ask the Bishop of Salisbury to say a special Mass tonight in celebration of this miracle.”
WHEN BERENGARIA ENTERED Joanna’s tent, she was met with so many smiles that she knew Beatrix’s crisis must have passed. This was confirmed by her first glimpse of the older woman, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully for the first time in almost a week. Joanna looked exhausted but happy, rising to greet her sister-in-law with a quick hug. “God has indeed been kind to us,” she murmured, “sparing Richard and now Beatrix.”
As they crossed the camp toward Richard’s pavilion, Joanna confided that the best proof of Beatrix’s improvement was that she was now fretting about losing her hair and nails. “I told her she need not worry about hair loss yet, for Henri said it did not occur till weeks after he’d been stricken with Arnaldia. Has Richard been fretting about that, too? He is very vain, you know,” she said with a fond smile, “for he well knows how much he has benefited from looking like a king out of some minstrel’s tale.”
“I do not think he has room in his head for nary a thought but the siege,” Berengaria said honestly. “He is remarkably single-minded, and now that he is on the mend, he wants only to take part in the fighting. I am hoping that you’ll be able to help me keep him occupied this afternoon.”
“That is why I brought this along,” Joanna said, brandishing a book richly bound in red leather. “Chrétien de Troyes’s Yvain, the Knight of the Lion. When Richard starts to get restless, I’ll insist upon reading it to him.” Glancing at Berengaria’s serene profile, she sighed softly, for a newlywed wife ought to be able to hold her husband’s attention without aid from his sister. They were mismatched, her brother and his Spanish bride, a falcon mated to a dove. But that would not matter as long as she could give him fledglings. Most wives found their joy in their children, not their husbands. She bit her lip, thinking of a small tomb in Monreale Cathedral, and then, shaking off her sadness with a determined effort, she began to tell Berengaria that two of her Sicilian male servants, missing for more than a fortnight, had apparently surfaced in Saladin’s camp. “At least that is what Henri heard. So I suppose their conversion to Christianity was not as sincere as I was led to believe,” she said ruefully.
By now they’d reached Richard’s tent. Their knights were delighted when the women said their services would not be required for the rest of the afternoon, for the Accursed Tower was said to be close to collapse. As they hurried off, Berengaria and Joanna entered the pavilion, only to halt in surprise, for it was deserted except for several men dozing in the July heat. Since solitude was not an attribute of kingship, they exchanged puzzled looks; why would Richard have been left alone like this? Struck by the same premonition, they hastened around the screen, where they found a rumpled, empty bed.
“My ladies?” Spinning around, they saw one of the soldiers, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “May I be of assistance?”
“Where is my lord husband, the king?”
“Last night more of the wall adjoining the Accursed Tower was brought down by our sappers, and the king wanted to be there today when it is breached,” he said, so calmly that they both wanted to shake him. “His doctors advised against it, but the king insisted and had himself carried out on a silken quilt so he could take command.”
RICHARD HAD HIS CERCLEIA set up near the city’s defensive ditch. The crusaders had labored for weeks to fill it, and the camp was still talking about the heroic sacrifice by the wife of a sergeant. She’d been helping to lug rocks to the ditch when she’d been struck by a Saracen arrow. Dying in her husband’s arms, she’d begged him to throw her body into the ditch, so that even in death she could contribute to their holy cause. Today, the objective was to clear away some of the rubble from the collapsed section of wall. This was a highly dangerous task, for it exposed men to the fire of the enemy archers above them, yet there was no shortage of soldiers willing to accept this perilous undertaking. As they zigged and zagged toward the breach, they held shields aloft to deflect the arrows and spears raining down upon them.
Richard’s arbalesters were providing as much cover as they could, each one flanked by a second man holding a cocked crossbow. As soon as a man shot, he was handed the second crossbow, and by rotating like this, they were able to keep up a steady fire. Richard was doing the same, and when one of his bolts found its target, a Saracen leaning precariously over the wall to shoot down at the men below him, he gave a triumphant laugh, relieved that his lingering illness had not affected his aim. His men glanced over and grinned, for his presence on the front line had greatly boosted morale; they loved it that he was always ready to risk his life with theirs, that he’d been carried out here on a litter since he was not yet strong enough to walk.
Henri handed him a loaded crossbow. “This time aim for that tall one in the green turban.”
“What . . . you do not like his taste in clothes?” Richard asked, giving his nephew a curious look as he reached for the weapon.
“The hellspawn is wearing Aubrey Clement’s armor.”
Richard’s eyes flicked from his nephew’s grim face to the man up on the battlements. He’d been told of Aubrey’s death three days ago during the French assault. The marshal had been the first to reach the walls, but when other knights sought to follow, their ladder broke, flinging them into the ditch. Trapped alone on the battlements, Aubrey had fought fiercely until overwhelmed by sheer numbers, and his friends could only watch helplessly as he was stabbed multiple times.
“Are you sure, Henri?”
&nb
sp; “Very sure. He is even wearing Aubrey’s surcote. Those dark splotches are his blood. The swine has been taunting us like this for the past two days, daring us to avenge Aubrey. But the man has the Devil’s own luck, for none of our bolts have even scratched him.”
Richard turned back to the wall and then swore, for the Saracen in the slain marshal’s armor was no longer there. “I see what you mean,” he said, and gestured toward a nearby flask.
André picked it up and flipped it over to Richard. His royal cousin’s pallor was so pronounced that he knew Richard ought to be back in bed. But he knew, too, that there was no point in suggesting it. Instead he reached for his own crossbow and resumed shooting up at the walls.
They were all soaked in sweat by now for the heat had become sweltering as the sun rose higher in the sky. Still, men continued to make that dangerous dash toward the walls, even as others ventured out to drag the wounded back to safety; the dead would have to wait till darkness for their recovery. Just before noon, they were taken by surprise by the arrival upon the scene of Conrad of Montferrat.
“My liege,” he said, in casual acknowledgment of Richard’s rank. “I’d heard you were out here, had to see for myself.” Making himself comfortable next to Richard, he murmured, “Trying to make Philippe look bad for staying in bed?”
Richard gave him a sharp look, but Conrad had already turned toward the Accursed Tower, staring in astonishment at the frantic activity around the breach. “Jesu, look at those crazy fools! In the past, we could not get men to volunteer for death-duty like that. How’d you do it?” His eyes searched Richard’s face, half admiring, half envious. “Even when we ordered them, they still balked.”
“I did not order them. I offered two gold bezants for every rock they bring back from the breach.”
Conrad’s jaw dropped and then he gave a shout of laughter. “Now why did we not think of that? Why waste time appealing to men’s faith when bribery works so much better?”
“Not bribery. A reward for risking their lives. Do not tell me they do not deserve it, my lord marquis. Not unless you intend to get out there and start clearing away that rubble yourself.”
Conrad’s eyes glittered even in that subdued light. But Richard was no longer paying him any mind. Snatching up his crossbow, he aimed and fired in one smooth motion. The bolt struck his target in the chest. The Saracen staggered, blood gushing from his mouth, and all around Richard, men began to yell and cheer, pumping their fists and slapping one another on the back, while Conrad looked on in bafflement.
“It was a good shot,” he said dryly, “I’ll grant you that. But surely all this joy is somewhat excessive? Unless that was Saladin himself you just dispatched to the Devil.”
His sarcasm did not go over well with Richard’s men, who were beginning to bristle. Richard showed white teeth in what was almost a smile. “You can tell Philippe,” he said, “that I just avenged his marshal.”
THE FOLLOWING DAY, the French assaulted the city again, taking heavy losses. The Saracen garrison sent a swimmer across the harbor to warn Salah al-Dīn that they must surrender if he could not come to their aid. They then proposed to yield Acre in return for their lives. When this offer was turned down, they offered to free one Christian prisoner for every member of the garrison and to return the fragment of the Holy Cross, captured by Salah al-Dīn after his victory at Ḥaṭṭīn. The Franks, the name used by the Saracens for their foes, insisted upon the return of “all their lands and the release of all their prisoners.” This was refused. The crusaders’ trebuchets continued to pound away at the walls, and on July 11, Richard’s men and the Pisans combined for another attack on the breached wall by the crumbling Accursed Tower. They were eventually beaten back, but they’d come so close to forcing their way into the city that the garrison realized defeat was inevitable.
FRIDAY, JULY 12, dawned hot and humid. Joanna, Berengaria, and their women passed the hours restlessly, unable to concentrate upon anything but the meeting taking place in the pavilion of the Templars, where Acre’s commanders, Sayf al-Dīn al-Mashtūb and Bahā’ al-Dīn Qarāqūsh, were conferring with Richard, Philippe, Henri, Guy de Lusignan, Conrad of Montferrat, and the other leaders of the crusading army. Berengaria kept picking up her psalter, putting it down again, while Joanna tried to continue Alicia’s chess lessons, but her gaze was roaming so often toward the tent entrance that the young girl managed to checkmate her, much to her glee.
“They will yield, yes?” Anna asked at last, giving voice to the question uppermost in all their minds. Her grasp of their language had improved in the six weeks since her world had turned upside down, and she continued in charmingly accented French. “Or they will all die, no?”
“Most likely,” Joanna confirmed, too nervous to put a gloss upon the brutal reality of warfare in their world—that a castle or town taken by storm could expect no mercy. Whether there would be survivors depended upon the whims of the victors or upon the ability of the defeated to raise ransom money. There had been a bloodbath after the Christians had seized Jerusalem in 1099, almost all of the Muslims and Jews in the city put to the sword. But Saladin had spared the Christians of Jerusalem four years ago after Balian d’Ibelin persuaded him to let them buy their lives; Joanna was proud that the money her father had sent to the Holy City over the years had kept thousands of men and women from being sold in Saracen slave markets.
Glancing over at Anna, she amended her answer, saying, “That is why they will accept our terms. They know their fate will be a bloody one if our men seize the city. By yielding, they can save themselves and those still living in Acre.”
Anna looked from Joanna to Berengaria, back to Joanna. “Why you fret, then, if outcome is certain?” Before either woman could respond, she smiled, dimples deepening in sudden comprehension. “Ah . . . I see. You fear for Malik Ric.” This was how the Saracens referred to Richard, and Anna had begun to use the name, too, much to Richard’s amusement. “He would be healed for another . . .” She paused, frowning as she sought the right word. “Another attack . . . that is it, no?”
“Yes, that is it,” Joanna confirmed, exchanging silent sympathy with Berengaria. While Richard was regaining strength with each passing day, he was by no means physically up to taking part in a battle, and yet they feared he would want to do just that; he’d been very frustrated at not being able to join his men in yesterday’s assault. Although they felt confident that Henri and the Bishop of Salisbury and Richard’s friends would not permit him to risk his life so foolishly, they well knew how stubborn he could be, and so both women were praying that today would end the siege.
They were about to send one of Joanna’s household knights back to the Templars’ tent to learn how the negotiations were proceeding when they heard it—a sudden roar, as if coming from thousands of throats, even louder than the sound Greek fire made when it streaked toward its target, trailing a flaming tail. Mariam darted toward the entrance and was back in moments, smiling. “Either they’ve come to terms or the whole camp has gone stark mad, for men are shouting and cheering and all the whores are hurrying out to help them celebrate!”
Joanna and Berengaria were on their feet now, embracing joyfully, determined to ignore the fact that this was but a respite, that Acre’s fall was only the first in a series of bloody battles on the road leading to the Holy City.
Within the hour, the noise level suddenly increased, alerting them that Richard must be approaching. He was flanked by Henri and the Earl of Leicester, with friends and lords following jubilantly in his wake. He still looked like what he was, a man recently risen from his sickbed, his cheekbones thrown into prominence by his weight loss, his complexion unnaturally pale for one with such high coloring. But his smile was dazzling and he appeared as happy as either woman had ever seen him.
“It is done,” he said huskily. “Acre is ours.”
THE ACRE GARRISON agreed to surrender the city and all of their weapons and siege engines, including the seventy galleys of Salah
al-Dīn’s fleet, anchored out in the harbor. They promised on the sultan’s behalf to pay two hundred thousand dinars, and to return the Holy Cross. Fifteen hundred Christian prisoners were to be freed, as were one hundred men specifically named. Conrad of Montferrat was to receive ten thousand dinars for his help in negotiating the settlement. The garrison was to be held as hostages until the terms were met, and then they and their families would be freed. When the news reached Salah al-Dīn, he was horrified, and after consulting with his council, he determined to send a swimmer back after dark to the beleaguered city, telling the garrison that he could not accept such terms. But he soon learned it was too late, for at noon his men saw the “banners of unbelief ” raised over the walls of Acre.
CHAPTER 22
JULY 1191
Acre, Outremer
Acre was divided between Richard and Philippe, as were the garrison hostages. This did not please those crusaders who’d been at the siege since the beginning and had expected to benefit when it finally fell. After they’d complained vociferously, the two kings agreed to give them a share of the spoils, but not all trusted in royal promises and some ill will lingered. Nor was Philippe happy with the division, for Richard had insisted upon taking the half of the city that contained the citadel, wanting to lodge his wife and sister there, and Philippe had to make do with the Templars’ house. Remembering how he’d been the one to occupy the royal palace in Messina, this seemed like further proof that his status was being deliberately diminished, and he began to nurse yet another grievance against Richard.
Richard paid no heed to these grumblings of discontent and forged ahead, concerned only with making Acre secure as soon as possible, for once the Saracen garrison was ransomed by Salah al-Dīn, he meant to lead his army south. But first the Archbishop of Verona and the other bishops had to reconsecrate the churches, many of which had been used as mosques. Then the streets had to be cleared of the rubble, debris, and garbage that had accumulated during the siege, and habitable houses assigned to crusaders. He’d begun rebuilding the walls at once, but it was nine days before he judged it safe enough to bring Berengaria and Joanna into the city.