Richard could well imagine it did. What was it Sophia had said at Kyrenia . . . that Anna had not had “an easy life”? His silence was a sympathetic one, but she misread it. “Malik Ric . . . you think I am not a . . . a dutiful daughter?”
The incongruity of this conversation was beginning to amuse him. “I’d be the last man in Christendom to lecture you about filial duty, Anna. Ask Joanna sometime about my father and me. As far back as I can remember, we were like flint and tinder.”
Pleased that he was not disapproving, she eagerly obeyed when he asked her to hand him a sponge, and watched in fascination as he cleaned around Fauvel’s ears and muzzle, for she could not imagine Isaac ever grooming his own horse. “May I ask you, Malik Ric? They say you lead your men south. Why not toward Jerusalem?”
“It is too dangerous to head inland from Acre, lass, and too long, more than one hundred fifty miles through the hills of Ephraim. If we march along the coast toward Jaffa, my fleet can sail with us, carrying all the provisions we’ll need. Best of all, Saladin cannot be sure what target I am aiming for, Ascalon or Jerusalem.”
When one of his knights entered the stables soon afterward, he found Richard kneeling in the dirt outside Fauvel’s stall, drawing a map for Anna with his dagger as he explained that Ascalon controlled the road to Egypt. The man didn’t even blink, though, for Richard’s men were used to his free and easy ways. “The Duke of Burgundy has arrived, my liege, says he needs to see you straightaway.”
Grimacing, Richard got to his feet and started toward the door. When Anna didn’t move, he stopped and beckoned. “I’m not about to leave you alone with Fauvel, lass. You might get it into your head to take him for a ride.” She widened her eyes innocently, and he smiled. But he made sure she followed after him.
THE DUKE OF BURGUNDY was looking without favor at one of Joanna’s cirnecos. When a servant brought in wine and fruit, he grabbed a goblet, draining it in several swallows. Richard leaned back in his seat, watching the older man with speculative eyes. He’d known Hugh for years, but this was the first time he’d ever seen the duke fidgeting like this, obviously ill at ease.
Putting his cup down, Hugh wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Will we be ready to head south as soon as Saladin honors the surrender terms?”
“Yes. The ships are loaded already.”
“We’ll have trouble dragging the men out of the bawdy houses and taverns,” Hugh prophesied gloomily. “Half of our men have not drawn a sober breath in weeks, and the other half would be drunken sots, too, if they were not so busy whoring the night away.”
Richard was not happy, either, with the drunkenness and debauchery that had ensnared his army after the fall of Acre. He’d never worried about the morals of his men, leaving that to the priests to sort out. But this was no ordinary war and it was unseemly for soldiers of Christ to be sinning so blatantly, for surely such brazen behavior was displeasing to the Almighty. Moreover, it would be no easy task to get their minds focused upon the hard campaign ahead, not after weeks of carousing and self-indulgence. Perversely, though, he refused to admit that he shared Hugh’s concern, instead saying flippantly, “Soldiers whoring and drinking ? Who’d ever have expected that?”
Hugh scowled, first at Richard and then at the hound sniffing his leg. “Do you think it was wise to accede to Saladin’s demand, agreeing to let him pay the money due in three installments? He might well take that as a sign of weakness.”
Richard set his own cup down with a thud. “If he does,” he said coldly, “he’ll soon learn how badly he’s misread me. If we’d insisted that all two hundred thousand dinars be paid when the True Cross and the Christian prisoners are handed over to us, we would have to release the garrison to Saladin then and there. And how am I to do that when so many of them are still in Tyre? By agreeing to this compromise, I gained us the time we need to pry them away from that whoreson Montferrat, and you well know this, Hugh. You raised no objections at the time. So why are you blathering on about it now? Why are you here? Whatever you’ve come to say, for Christ’s sake, spit it out, man!”
Hugh half rose, then sank back in the chair. “I need money to pay my men. Can I get a loan from you to do that? I’ll be able to repay it with our share of the two hundred thousand dinars.”
“You’re saying Philippe sailed off without leaving you the funds to provide for your army?” Richard shook his head in disgust. “Why should that surprise me? But I’d not count upon getting much of that ransom if I were you. Philippe gave his half of Acre and the hostages to Conrad, remember?”
Hugh jumped to his feet. “Are you saying you will not lend me the money?” Richard did not like it much, but he had no choice under the circumstances. “Will five thousand silver marks be enough?”
“Yes.” Looking everywhere but at Richard’s face, Hugh mumbled a “Thank you” that sounded as if it were torn from his throat.
“My lord king?” Richard and Hugh had been so intent upon each other that they’d not heard the soft knock upon the door. “The Bishop of Salisbury has just returned from Tyre. Will you see him now?”
“Send him in at once. That is the best news I’ve heard in weeks.”
But Richard’s pleasure did not survive his first glimpse of Hubert Walter’s face. “I am deeply sorry, my liege,” the bishop said somberly, “but we failed. The French king had already sailed, and Conrad was determined to thwart us at every turn. He said he will not return to Acre because he does not trust you. Far worse, he refused to turn the hostages over to us. He said he would agree only if he would get half of the True Cross when we recovered it.”
For a rare moment, Richard and Hugh were in total accord, both men infuriated by Conrad’s effrontery. “And how are we supposed to recover the True Cross without his accursed hostages?” Richard raged. “But if that is how he wants it, so be it. I will go to Tyre myself, see if he is quite so brave face-to-face.”
“My lord, I would advise against that,” the bishop said hastily. “Saladin would be only too happy to see us fighting amongst ourselves. The French king led us into this labyrinth, so let the French lead us out. I think the Duke of Burgundy ought to be the one to go to Tyre and confront Conrad. You are the commander of the French forces now,” he said, turning his steady gaze upon Hugh. “Are you going to allow the marquis to put the war at risk?”
Hugh’s jaw jutted out. “I’ll go,” he said, and then looked toward Richard, in grudging acknowledgment of the English king’s authority now that Philippe had left Outremer.
“Very well. See if you can talk some sense into him. But if he still balks, give him this message from me,” Richard said, spacing his words out like gravestones. “Tell him that if I have to come to Tyre to collect the hostages, he’ll regret it till the end of his earthly days.”
AUGUST 11 was the day when Salah al-Dīn was to turn over the True Cross, the 1,600 Christian prisoners, and the first installment of the two hundred thousand dinars. Joanna and Berengaria had ambivalent feelings about this momentous occasion. They rejoiced, of course, in the return of the Cross, in infidel hands since the Battle of Ḥaṭṭīn, and they were glad that so many men would regain their freedom. But the day’s events would also bring them one step closer to the resumption of the war, and the women were dreading what was to come—being left isolated at Acre, not knowing from one day to the next if Richard still lived.
There was to be a celebratory feast after the exchange had been made, and they’d borrowed Henri’s cook to handle the elaborate menu. But as the hours passed without word, both women began to feel uneasy, sensing that something had gone wrong. Their premonitions were soon confirmed. Richard returned to the citadel in a fury, the men with him just as angry. He was in no mood for a meal or for explanations, saying tersely that Saladin had refused to honor the agreed-upon terms before disappearing into the solar for what was obviously a council of war. Berengaria and Joanna hastily looked around the hall for someone who could tell them what had happened and wou
ld also be willing to discuss military matters with women. They finally decided upon Humphrey de Toron, and he soon found himself out in the courtyard as the sun blazed its farewell arc toward the western horizon.
Berengaria let him escort her to a marble bench, but Joanna couldn’t wait. “Richard said you were to interpret for the Saracen envoys, Lord Humphrey, so you must have been in the midst of it all. Was Saladin there? What went amiss?”
“We knew Saladin would not attend, but we’d expected his brother, al-’A-dil, to speak for him. He did not come either, though, which was a pity, for we might have been able to reason with him. As it was, the message Saladin sent was an uncompromising one. He sought to impose new conditions ere he’d fulfill his part of the bargain. He wanted us to free the Acre garrison now instead of waiting until the final two payments were made. King Richard refused.”
“What else could he do? The Duke of Burgundy has not returned from Tyre with the hostages yet. Do you think Saladin knew this?”
“I am sure he did, Lady Joanna. Both sides have more spies than a dog has fleas. He offered to provide more hostages if the garrison were freed now, but wanted hostages from us if we insisted upon holding on to the garrison, saying he needed proof that we would indeed free them once all the ransom was paid. Your brother refused this, too. He reminded the sultan that Acre had surrendered to the Christian forces and the loser does not get to dictate terms to the winner. When he demanded that Saladin honor the pact as agreed upon, the Saracens went off to consult with their lord. He sent word back that he was not willing to turn over the Cross, the prisoners, or the money unless we either freed the garrison now or handed over hostages of our own. After that, the meeting ended in acrimony and mutual accusations of bad faith.”
“But we already have Saracen hostages—the Acre garrison,” Berengaria pointed out. “It does not make sense to release them and then replace them with other hostages. I do not see how that benefits Saladin. Do you, Joanna?”
“No, I do not.” Joanna had begun to pace. “But a delay would be very much to his benefit. The longer he can keep Richard and our army at Acre, trying to resolve these issues, the more time he has to refortify the coastal cities and castles. Richard thinks that is his real objective. You know the man, Lord Humphrey. Do you agree?”
As she looked intently into his face, Joanna was struck anew by how very handsome this man was; his dark eyes were wide-set, his skin smooth and clean-shaven, his full mouth shaped for smiles and songs. But he would not make a good husband for a queen; his beauty could not compensate for the lack of steel in his spine. He was a poulain, though, born and bred in the harsh splendor of the Holy Land, and she thought that made his opinion worth hearing.
Humphrey seemed to be weighing his words, like a man striving to be fair. “Yes, it is indeed in the sultan’s interest to delay as long as possible. He knows how desperately we want the True Cross, and he may well think that we will let him drag the negotiations out because there is so much at stake for us.”
Joanna’s eyes searched his. “Yet you still say he is a man of honor?”
“I do, my lady,” he said firmly, but then he gave her a charming, rueful smile.
“But it has been my experience that honor is often the first casualty in war. Saladin deserves our respect, is a finer man in some ways than many of my Christian brethren. He is still our enemy, though, and he is pledged to what they call the ‘lesser jihad,’ war against the infidel. I’ve always found it interesting that their holy men preach that Muslims who fight in the jihad will be granted admission to Paradise, just as the Holy Father promises that those who take the cross will be absolved of their sins.”
They both were staring at him. “Surely you are not equating Christianity with beliefs offensive to God?” Berengaria said, with unwonted sharpness in her voice.
“No, of course not, Madame.” Humphrey was accustomed to having to offer such reassurances, for his was a world in which intellectual curiosity was not viewed as a virtue, not when both Christians and Muslims were convinced that theirs was the only true faith. “I am simply trying to understand Saracen thinking. We are sure we are doing God’s bidding, yet Saladin is sure of that, too. He is not by nature a cruel or heartless man. But he will do what he thinks necessary to expel us from the Holy Land.”
“Just as my brother will do what he must to recover Jerusalem,” Joanna said proudly. “And he will prevail, for God truly is on our side.”
The women withdrew soon afterward, leaving Humphrey alone in the courtyard. He wished he could share their certainty. But he did not think Joanna and Berengaria understood how cleverly the sultan was boxing the Christians in. How could the English king give up an opportunity to recover the True Cross? Saladin could have found no better bait than the holiest relic in Christendom. Yet they could not remain in Acre much longer without jeopardizing the entire campaign. Moreover, if the Saracen garrison were not ransomed, what was to be done with them? He sat down on the rim of the fountain, watching as the sky began to redden. He would normally have taken pleasure in such a splendid sunset, for he had an artist’s eye as well as a poet’s soul. But tonight he could think only of the day’s troubling impasse and the danger it posed to his homeland.
THE NEXT DAY, the Duke of Burgundy returned from Tyre with the rest of the Saracen hostages, Conrad having grudgingly yielded to Hugh’s angry denunciations and Richard’s ominous threats. Two days later, Richard set up camp outside the city walls. Messages continued to go back and forth between the two sides, but their mutual mistrust prevented them from reaching an accommodation, and the stalemate dragged on.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 20, dawned with brilliant blue skies and sweltering summer heat. The men gathered in Richard’s pavilion were already sweating despite the early hour. The waiting had begun to wear upon their nerves, and there were several testy exchanges before Richard took command of the council, demanding silence so he could speak.
“We can wait no longer,” he said, pitching his voice so all could hear. “Saladin is playing us for fools. He will continue to delay and equivocate and do all in his power to put off a reckoning, because every day we remain at Acre is a day we’ve lost and he’s won. He is using this stolen time to strengthen Jaffa and Arsuf and Caesarea, and could be expecting reinforcements from Egypt for all we know. In two months the rainy season begins, and I’ve been told campaigning is well nigh impossible then because the roads turn into quagmires. So if we do not move soon, we risk being anchored at Acre until the spring. You know what a setback like that would do to our army. If we let Saladin outwit us like this, they’ll say all those deaths in the past two years had been in vain. They’ll be loath to trust us again, and who could blame them?” He did not bother to elaborate, sure that his audience already knew what a detrimental effect a winter at Acre would have upon camp morale. How many would have any stomach for fighting after months of gambling, quarreling, whoring, and drinking?
He paused then, waiting for a response. No one disputed him, though, not even the French lords, who’d usually argue with him over the most insignificant trifles. None wanted to lose this God-given opportunity to regain the Holy Cross and free so many Christian prisoners. Nor were they happy to forfeit so much money, for Richard’s generosity was almost as legendary as his bravado and they’d been sure the ransom would be shared, enabling them to pay their men and cover their expenses. This was no small consideration, for many a crusader had bankrupted himself by taking the cross. But they were soldiers, too, and like Richard, they could see that remaining at Acre was not an option. Nothing mattered more than the success of the crusade, not even the sacred fragment of the Holy Cross or those unhappy men languishing in Damascus dungeons.
Richard let his gaze move challengingly from Hugh to the Bishop of Beauvais. Beauvais looked as if he were biting his tongue, wanting to protest from sheer force of habit. Hugh’s shoulders were slumped, his chin tucked into his chest, his slouching body proclaiming his bitter disappointment over the l
oss of the ransom. Feeling Richard’s eyes upon him, Hugh glanced up and said sarcastically, “Are you asking our opinions? That is a first. Naturally you’d choose the one time when only a half-wit could disagree with you. The fact is that we have no choice, and every man in this tent knows it.”
The Germans had either died in the siege or gone home with Duke Leopold. There were numerous Flemings still with the army, though, and Jacques d’Avesnes spoke for them now, agreeing that they could not afford to wait any longer. Guy de Lusignan, his brothers, the Grand Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers, a Hungarian count, and several bishops had their say then, echoing what had already been said, and Richard thought that this was likely the first and last time that they’d all be in such unanimity. He’d not really expected arguments, but was relieved, nonetheless, to be spared the usual rivalries and prideful posturing.
It was Henri who asked the obvious question. “What do we do, then, with the Acre garrison?”
“What can we do?” Richard said grimly. “There are only four choices, none of them good ones. We cannot spare enough men to guard nearly three thousand prisoners, and I am not about to leave them in the same city with my wife and sister unless I could be sure they had no chance of breaking free. Nor can we take them with us on our march south. We do not even have the food to feed several thousand extra mouths, for Saladin has deliberately devastated the countryside to keep us from living off the land. We cannot just turn them loose, not without risking a riot from our own men. Many of them were not happy with the surrender, feeling they’d earned the right to storm the city and take vengeance for the deaths of their friends and fellow soldiers. If we free so many Saracens to fight again without getting so much as a denier, they’ll be outraged and, once again, who could blame them? That leaves us but one choice as I see it—we execute them.”