ACRE HAD BEEN a notorious seaport prior to its seizure by Salah al-Dīn, known for its diverse population, its raucous vitality, and its multitude of opportunities for bad behavior. As soon as they passed through the gate by the ruins of the Accursed Tower, the women could see that the Acre of old was rapidly reviving, the streets thronged, the markets up and running, taverns, cook-shops, and brothels already open for business. It was bustling and bawdy and they were both fascinated and repelled, but with Richard acting as their escort and guide, they were able to relax and enjoy their tour of this exotic, vibrant, sinful city.
The old boundaries had been restored, the Templars, Hospitallers, and Italian merchants all allotted their own neighborhoods. They barely glanced at the French fleur de lys flying over the Temple to the west, where Philippe was now lodged. But they were intrigued by the Genoese quarter, for they’d never seen a covered street before. It was vaulted, with shaft openings to let in light and air, lined with stalls and stone benches, the air so fragrant with the scents wafting from the soapmakers and perfume shops that they decided they would later return to make purchases, for that simple pleasure had been denied them since they’d sailed from Messina.
They were accustomed to the odd, flat roofs by now, having seen them in Cyprus. But it was surprising to see no buildings of wood, to see so many houses of stone, a luxury back in Europe, and to see canvas awnings stretched across the narrow streets to shelter people from the hot Syrian sun. They were saddened to discover how the Cathedral of the Holy Cross had suffered during the Saracen occupation, and interested to learn that the Templars and Hospitallers had subterranean stables for their horses. Joanna determined to check out the bathhouses for herself after Richard reported that they had rooms with hot and cold pools, with separate accommodations for men and women. And they were delighted by their first sight of a remarkable creature with a humped back and silky, long eyelashes, astonished when it knelt so that its rider could mount. Richard said these beasts were called “camels,” able to go long distances without water. He was more interested in the stories he’d heard of lions in the north, declaring that he’d love to hunt a lion ere they returned home. Joanna and Berengaria exchanged glances at that, the same thought in both their minds, that “home” had never seemed so far away.
After exploring the Genoese and Venetian quarters, Richard took them back to the royal citadel, situated along the north wall. The women were eager to see it, for they knew this would be their residence for months to come. It was built like many of the houses in Outremer, around a central courtyard, with corner towers and a great hall; while it could not compare to the luxury of her Palermo palaces, Joanna was so pleased to have a roof over her head after weeks in tents that she was not about to complain. They exclaimed over the courtyard, for it was paved in marble and bordered by fruit trees, with benches, a sundial, and a large fountain, where water was flowing from the mouth of a sculpted stone dragon.
“Wait till you see the great hall,” Richard said. “The ceiling is painted to look like a starlit sky.” But as they started toward the outside stairway, he was approached by one of his men, and after a brief exchange, he turned back to the women, his smile gone. “The Duke of Austria is here and insisting to speak with me,” he said, not sounding happy about it. “Henri will show you the palace and I’ll join you as soon as I can.”
The women were relieved that the citadel seemed so comfortable. They were impressed, too, by how thoroughly all traces of the former occupants had been erased in such a brief time span, realizing that men must have been laboring day and night to make it ready for them. They admired the painted ceiling in the great hall and its mosaic tile floor, and were delighted by the bedchambers, which were spacious and golden with sunlight, for they had walk-in bay windows that could be opened like doors. One of the chambers had a balcony that overlooked the courtyard, and Berengaria and Joanna immediately began to argue over which one should occupy it; much to Henri’s amusement, each woman insisted the other ought to have it.
Stepping out onto the balcony, Berengaria at once beckoned to Henri. “Is that the Duke of Austria below with Richard?”
Henri and Joanna joined her, gazing down at the scene below them in the courtyard. The duke was a compact man in his early thirties, dressed more appropriately for his court in Vienna than the dusty streets of Acre, his tunic of scarlet silk, his cap studded with gemstones, his fingers adorned with gold rings. Both men were keeping their voices low, but it was obvious to their audience that Leopold was very agitated; he was gesturing emphatically, at one point slamming his fist into the palm of his hand, his face so red that he looked sunburned. Richard seemed more impatient than angry, shaking his head and shrugging and then turning away. Leopold’s mouth contorted and he lunged forward, grabbing for the other man’s arm. The women and Henri winced at that, knowing what was coming. Richard whirled, eyes blazing. Whatever he said was enough to silence Leopold, who was ashen by the time the English king was done berating him. He did not protest this time when Richard stalked off, but the expression on his face was troubling to Berengaria, and as soon as they withdrew from the balcony, she asked Henri why the duke was so wroth with Richard.
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I’ve had no problems dealing with him. We dined together upon his arrival at Acre this spring, and he was pleasant company, liking troubadour music as much as I do. He is very prideful and concerned about his honor, but what man isn’t?”
Henri’s favorable impression of Leopold only deepened the mystery for the women. They were still inspecting the chamber, admiring the glazed green and yellow oil lamps and ivory chess figures when Richard strode in. He was still flushed with anger, but he made an effort to conceal it, asking Berengaria what she thought of the room. “I was told the Saracen commander al-Mashtūb occupied this chamber. The carpet is his, and that chess set. You can decorate however you want, of course.”
Berengaria assured him that she was very pleased with the chamber. She was quite curious about his quarrel with Leopold, but she did not want him to think she was prying into matters best left to men.
Joanna had no such compunctions. “What was that dispute with the Austrian duke all about?”
Richard grimaced. “He was enraged because some of my men took his banner down from the city walls.”
Joanna blinked in surprise. “I assume you assured him that the offenders would be punished. Was that not enough for him?”
“I have no intention of punishing my men. I told them to remove his banner.”
Seeing that Berengaria and the other women shared Joanna’s puzzlement, Henri took it upon himself to explain, knowing Richard was in no mood to do so. “By flying his banner over Acre, he was claiming a share of the spoils. It is understandable, though, Uncle, that Leopold would be aggrieved about it. He’s sensitive to slights, real or imagined. Do you want me to talk to him, see if I can smooth his ruffled feathers?”
“No need to bother.” Richard bent over to stroke Joanna’s ever-present Sicilian hounds. “Let him stew in his own juices. You’ll not believe what he dared to say to me. After I pointed out that he was in the wrong, not my men, he accused me of being high-handed and unfair, as when I ‘maltreated’ Isaac Comnenus! It seems his mother is Isaac’s cousin. I told him . . . well, I’ll leave that to your imaginations,” he said, with a glimmer of his first smile since entering the chamber.
A silence fell, somewhat awkwardly, for both Joanna and Henri felt that Richard ought to have been more diplomatic with the duke; why make enemies needlessly? Berengaria’s natural instincts were for conciliation, too, but she was indignant that Leopold would dare to blame Richard for deposing Isaac Comnenus, who still flitted through her dreams on bad nights. Going to her husband’s side, she said tartly, “He ought to be ashamed to admit kinship to such a wicked man!”
Richard liked her display of loyalty, and when he slid his arm around her waist, he liked the feel of her soft female curves. His body was still surging w
ith the energy unleashed by his confrontation with Leopold, and he drew her closer, his anger forgotten. “Henri, why don’t you show Joanna and Berenguela’s duennas the rest of the palace?”
There were gasps from his wife’s ladies, scandalized that he meant to claim his marital rights in the middle of the afternoon. Berengaria blushed, a bit flustered that he’d made his intention so plain in front of others. But when he leaned over to whisper in her ear, she laughed softly. Joanna and Henri ushered the women out, both grinning.
SEATED BY RICHARD’S SIDE at the high table, Berengaria felt a sense of satisfaction as she looked around the great hall. It hadn’t been easy to prepare a dinner like this on just one day’s notice, but she and Joanna had managed it. The linen tablecloths were snowy white, the platters and bowls were brightly glazed, and the rare red glassware she’d found among the Saracen commander’s possessions shimmered like rubies whenever the sun struck them. The menu was not as elaborate as she would have wished, but their guests were eating with gusto, the wine was flowing freely, and once the dinner was done, they would be serenaded by minstrels and harpists. This was the first time in her two-month marriage that Berengaria had been able to play her proper role as Richard’s queen, entertaining his friends, vassals, and political allies, and she was enjoying this long-overdue taste of normalcy.
The guest list was a distinguished one: the archbishops of Pisa and Verona; the Bishop of Salisbury; the beleaguered King of Jerusalem and his two brothers, Joffroi and Amaury de Lusignan; the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitallers; the Earl of Leicester; Henri of Champagne and Jaufre of Perche; André de Chauvigny; the Flemings, Jacques d’Avesnes and Baldwin de Bethune; Humphrey de Toron; even the master of the Templars, for although Philippe was now residing at their Temple, the new master, Robert de Sablé, was an Angevin baron and one of Richard’s most trusted vassals. The women—Joanna, Berengaria, Sophia, Anna, and their ladies-in-waiting—were in the minority and the conversation so far was distinctly male in its tenor.
They discussed the deadly and mysterious weapon, Greek fire, which was so combustible that it could not be extinguished by water, only vinegar. They took turns guessing the identity of an unknown Christian spy, who’d sent them valuable, secret messages from Acre during the course of the siege. Richard revealed that he was negotiating with the Templars, who were eager to buy Cyprus from him. And they drank toasts to the memories of those who’d given their lives that Acre could be taken—the Count of Flanders, Philippe’s marshal, Aubrey Clement, the counts of Blois and Sancerre, Guy de Lusignan’s queen, and a nameless woman in a long green cloak who’d shot a bow with astonishing accuracy, killing several Saracens before she’d been overwhelmed and slain. They’d begun to talk about Saracen battle tactics when the convivial dinner was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais.
Richard scowled, for the mere mention of the bishop’s name was enough to ignite his temper. Beauvais had earned the undying enmity of the de Lusignans for wedding Conrad to his stolen bride, and he and the duke ran a gauntlet of hostile stares as they were escorted into the hall, followed by Druon de Mello, lagging behind as if he wanted to disassociate himself from their mission. After greeting Richard with very formal courtesy, Hugh apologized for disrupting their dinner and asked if they might speak briefly with him in private, saying that it was a matter of some urgency.
Richard had no intention of accommodating either man, and after a deliberate pause to finish his wine, he said coolly, “I think not. I am amongst friends here, men whom I trust. I assume the French king has a message for me, no? So let them hear it, too.”
The duke and the bishop exchanged guarded glances, while Druon de Mello actually took a few steps backward, like a man getting out of the line of fire. It was becoming obvious that neither Hugh nor Beauvais wanted to be the one to speak first, and Richard suddenly realized what they’d come to tell him. He swung around, his eyes seeking his nephew, and he saw his own suspicions confirmed in Henri’s grim expression. No one else knew what was coming, though, and they began to mutter among themselves as the silence dragged out.
Hugh outlasted Beauvais, for the bishop had no more patience than Richard did. “Our king has sent us to tell you that he has fulfilled his vow by taking Acre, and so he intends to return to his own lands straightaway.”
There was a moment of eerie, utter silence. Then disbelief gave way to outrage and the hall exploded. Men were on their feet, shouting, cushions trampled underfoot and red stains spreading over the tablecloths from spilled wine cups, amid cries of dismay from some of the women as their peaceful dinner turned into chaos. Richard was on his feet, too, raising his hand for quiet. “Shall I send your king a map? He seems to have confused Acre with Jerusalem.”
“We’ve delivered the message,” Beauvais said tersely. “Make of it what you will.”
“There is but one way to take it, and it does your king no credit. He swore a holy oath to free Jerusalem, and now he just . . . goes home? What do his lords say to that? What do you say? Do you mean to disavow your own oaths, too?”
Both men glared at him. “Indeed not!” Hugh snapped, at the same time that Beauvais pledged to remain in Outremer until it was a Christian kingdom again. They were so clearly insulted by the very question that their indignation gave Richard an idea.
“I have to hear this from your king’s own lips,” he declared. “Is he at the Temple?”
“When we left, he was about to sit down to dinner.” Hugh paused. “He’ll take it amiss if you burst in upon his meal without warning.” But he did not sound much troubled by that prospect, and Richard was sure now that Philippe had alienated his own men by renouncing his vow.
“I am willing to risk that,” he said, very dryly. Glancing around, he saw that there was no need to ask if others wanted to accompany him; most of the guests had risen, too. Reaching down, he squeezed his wife’s hand. “I am sorry, Berenguela, but it cannot wait.”
“I understand,” she said. Settling back upon her cushion, she watched as the hall emptied within moments, even the prelates hastening to catch up with Richard and the de Lusignans. She hadn’t lied; she did understand. It was still disappointing to have their first dinner end so abruptly, and she could not help wondering if this would be the pattern for their marriage in years to come, brief moments of domesticity midst the unending demands of war.
Joanna came over and sat down beside her sister-in-law. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement. “Why must women miss all the fun? What I would not have given,” she confessed, “to witness their confrontation!”
CONRAD LEANED TOWARD his friend Balian d’Ibelin, Lord of Nablus, speaking in the Piedmontese dialect that was the native tongue of the marquis and Balian’s Italian father to deter eavesdroppers. “The last time I enjoyed myself so much,” he murmured, “a funeral Mass was being said.”
Balian shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing that the French king had adopted the Frankish fashion of dining on cushions. “So you noticed it, too—that cloud of gloom and doom hovering over the Temple. Any idea what is going on?”
Conrad shrugged. “God knows Philippe is never the most cheerful of men. But I’ve not seen his nerves as raw as this. When Leopold dropped his wine cup, I swear Philippe jumped like a scalded cat.” Glancing down the table at the Austrian duke, he said softly, “There’s another one not exactly bubbling over with joy. I heard he’d had a row of some sort with Richard, but when I asked, he well nigh bit my head off.” Poking at the meat on his trencher with his knife, he sighed. “And the food is as dismal as the company. Well, if I am already doing penance for my sins, I might as well add some new ones. You want to check out that bordel in the Venetian quarter tonight? I’m told they have a Greek whore as limber as an eel.”
Balian regarded the other man in bemusement. “You do remember that your wife is my stepdaughter?”
Conrad was utterly unperturbed by the implied rebuke. “And I cherish Isabell
a,” he said urbanely. “No man could ask for a better wife. But I’m talking of whores, not wives.”
Before Balian could respond, there was a commotion at the end of the table; a nervous servant had dropped a tureen of soup. Philippe’s mouth thinned, but he kept his temper under a tight rein, for a boy’s clumsiness was a small sin when he was facing such monumental challenges. Absently crumbling a piece of bread into small pellets, he studied his dinner guests. Aside from Conrad of Montferrat, Balian d’Ibelin, and Leopold von Babenberg, they were French lords and bishops, men who’d done homage to him, men he ought to be able to trust. But could he?
His cousin Robert de Dreux had been monopolizing the conversation, but Philippe permitted it because Robert was being highly critical of the English king, implying that there was something very suspicious about Richard’s ongoing communications with their Saracen foes. “Look at the way they’ve been exchanging gifts! Since when does a Christian king court the favor of a Saracen infidel?”
Richard had no friends at that table, but this was too much for Balian to resist, for he had a highly developed sense of mischief. “I heard that Richard sent Saladin a captured Turkish slave,” he said in conspiratorial tones. “But is it true that Saladin sent Richard snow and fruit when he was ailing? Snow and fruit—no wonder you are so mistrustful, my lord count.”
Robert de Dreux regarded him warily, not sure if he was being mocked or not. Balian seemed to be supporting him, his expression open and earnest. But he was a poulain, the vaguely disparaging term used for those Franks born in Outremer, and that was enough to raise doubts in Robert’s mind about Balian’s sincerity.