RICHARD SAUNTERED FORWARD to greet them, looking justifiably proud to Henri and insufferably smug to Hugh. He was quite willing to regale them with the details of his capture of Dārūm, and most of the men were eager to hear, for it was a remarkable feat to seize a castle in just four days, especially with such a small force. Those like Hugh, who took no pleasure in hearing of Richard’s exploits, prudently kept silent, aware that a lack of enthusiasm would seem like the worst sort of sour grapes, and Richard soon found himself surrounded by admiring knights; to Hugh’s annoyance, many of them were French.
They could see the evidence of the brief siege all around them. The gate was smashed, the broken wood blackened by fire. The walls had been seriously damaged by the trebuchets Richard had brought from Ascalon. Hugh was not surprised when some of Richard’s knights boasted that their king had pitched in when they carried the dismantled siege engines over a mile from the beach, and when they said that he’d taken personal command of one of the trebuchets, Hugh muttered, “He would.”
No one paid him any heed, for Richard was explaining that he’d noticed a weakness during an earlier scouting mission. The deep ditch before the great tower was cut out of natural rock on one side, but on the other, it was reinforced with a layer of paving. Richard put his sappers to work, renegade Saracens from Aleppo whom he’d hired at Acre, and they soon broke through the paving, then stuffed the tunnel with combustible matter and set it afire, causing part of the tower wall to collapse. After they’d destroyed a Saracen mangonel mounted on top of the keep, the garrison sent three men out to seek terms. First they’d asked if they could have a truce while they consulted with Saladin, and then they offered to surrender the castle if they and their families could depart in freedom. “I told them,” Richard said coolly, “to defend themselves as best they could,” making clear his disdain for foes who’d yield so easily.
Henri blinked. While commanders often insisted upon an unconditional surrender, especially if they’d been put to the time and trouble of storming a castle or town, he would have accepted the qualified surrender offer had he been in Richard’s place. He forgot sometimes how ruthless his uncle could be when it came to waging war. Thinking unwillingly of the Acre garrison, he said, “What happened when you took the castle?”
“They did not offer much of a fight.” Richard sounded both disapproving and disappointed. “When we broke through yesterday, they fled into the keep, and soon offered to surrender unconditionally. We took about three hundred prisoners.” Richard gestured toward the castle, and Henri saw a group of men lined up in the bailey, hands bound behind their backs, surrounded by guards.
The others had begun to exclaim indignantly, for Richard had just revealed that the garrison had hamstrung all of their horses when defeat seemed inevitable; to knights, deliberately crippling a horse was a far worse sin than slaying a man. But Henri continued to study the prisoners. A much smaller group huddled nearby, looking forlorn and frightened, the wives and children of the garrison. Henri knew he was not supposed to feel pity for them; they were the enemy, after all. But he did. As hard as war could be for soldiers, it was always harder for the noncombatants, for the women, the young, the elderly. At least back home, there were periods of peace when people could go about their daily lives, not fearing that men would swoop down upon their villages and towns, burning and looting and killing. He wondered if there would ever be peace in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Somehow he doubted it.
With an effort, Henri shook off these dismal thoughts; it was both dangerous and hurtful to keep making comparisons between Champagne and Outremer, the world he’d lost and the one thrust upon him. His uncle was still accepting congratulations from the other men, who were delighted to learn that they’d found and freed forty Christian prisoners in the castle dungeon. After some of the French lords began to praise Richard, too, Hugh forced himself to mumble a grudging “Well done.” He was unable to resist adding, “You always did have the Devil’s own luck.”
“A man does not need luck when he knows what he is doing,” Richard shot back, and then glanced toward Henri. “We’d planned to celebrate Pentecost on the morrow and send the prisoners and wounded on ahead to Ascalon. Does that meet with your approval?”
Henri was startled to be treated as an equal; he’d have to get used to that, too. “And Dārūm?”
“That is up to you. Dārūm is yours now.”
Henri was taken aback. “Mine? That is most generous of you, Uncle!”
Even the French were impressed by such a magnanimous gesture, except for Hugh, who looked as if he wanted to spit into the dust at Richard’s feet. Richard was obviously taking a grim pleasure in the other man’s vexation. But when he turned again to Henri, grey eyes searching blue ones, he was conveying a message that went beyond mere words. “After all,” he said, “this is your kingdom now, is it not?”
Henri held his gaze. “Yes,” he said, “it is.”
IN LATE MAY, one of Richard’s spies warned him that the Saracens were fortifying a stronghold with the euphonious name Castle of the Figs. The garrison fled at his approach, though, and by May 29, he was camped near a reed-choked river about twelve miles south of Ascalon. It was here that another messenger from England found him. John d’Alençon was the Archdeacon of Lisieux, a former vice chancellor of England, a man Richard trusted, and the news he brought was deeply disturbing.
The archdeacon’s report made it sound as if England was descending into chaos. Richard’s half-brother Geoff was still feuding bitterly with the Bishop of Durham, rejecting the efforts of Eleanor and the council to make peace between them. Richard’s exiled chancellor, Longchamp, had laid an interdict upon his own diocese after the Archbishop of Rouen had confiscated the revenues of his bishopric of Ely, and the people were suffering greatly, for no Masses could be said, no confessions heard, no weddings performed, and bodies were left unburied in the fields. Eleanor had intervened, persuading the archbishop to restore Ely’s revenues to Longchamp and insisting that Longchamp revoke the interdict and lift the excommunication he’d placed upon the archbishop. But the situation remained volatile, made worse by the arrival of two papal legates who laid the duchy of Normandy under interdict after being refused entry by Richard’s seneschal, and then took refuge at the French court.
Even more alarming was the archdeacon’s account of the ongoing conspiracy between the French king and Richard’s own brother. Philippe had attempted to launch an invasion of Normandy, thwarted only by the reluctance of his French barons to attack the lands of a crusader. After Eleanor had prevented John from joining the French king in Paris, John then seized two royal castles, Windsor and Wallingford, and continued to circulate rumors that Richard was dead, which made men loath to antagonize the man likely to be their next king. The archdeacon had also brought letters from Eleanor, the Archbishop of Rouen, and the council, conveying the same urgent plea—that Richard return home as soon as possible, for he was in danger of losing his throne if he did not.
Richard was badly shaken by these latest warnings. It seemed as if all was slipping away, both in Outremer and his distant, beleaguered domains. He was convinced the French were determined to sabotage any chances of a military victory against the Saracens, and now his own kingdom was in grave peril. For a man accustomed to being in command, it was intolerable to feel so helpless, to be at the mercy of forces beyond his control. He responded by withdrawing into a dark, brooding silence, saying nothing about his intentions, and that silence only fed his army’s unease. Many soldiers blamed Richard for his unwillingness to lay siege to Jerusalem, but only the French commanders wanted him to depart, for few believed victory was possible without him. When rumors spread throughout the camp that he planned to go home, morale plummeted.
RICHARD HAD BEEN SECLUDED in his tent for several days, wrestling with the competing demands of king and crusader, fearing they might be irreconcilable. If he remained in the Holy Land, he could lose his crown. But how could he violate the sacred oath he?
??d sworn to Almighty God? He’d always been very decisive, both on and off the battlefield, quick to assess risks and reach conclusions, never one for second-guessing himself. But now he was faced with an impossible choice and, for the first time in his life, he did not know what to do.
He’d prayed for guidance, to no avail. God had given him no answers. Instead he was confronted with more bad news, delivered by Henri, André, and the Bishop of Salisbury.
Richard had never seen his nephew so angry. “Last night the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais held a secret council with the other lords, including some of your vassals from Poitou, Anjou, England, and Normandy. None of us were invited, for obvious reasons, nor were the Templars, the Hospitallers, or any of the poulain barons. They decided that they will march upon Jerusalem whether you stay or not, Uncle. They then leaked word of their decision to the army, and men reacted as you’d expect—with great joy.” Shaking his head, Henri said bitterly, “They are going to lay siege to the Holy City even if it means they all die in the attempt and, unforgivably, even if Outremer dies, too. They may well have doomed every man, woman, and child in the kingdom and we did not even have a say in it.”
Richard’s own temper had caught fire as he’d listened. “So be it, then. If that is their decision, I now know what mine will be. They can neither take nor hold Jerusalem, the fools! Why should I sacrifice my own kingdom for nothing?”
None of them argued with him. As much as Henri wanted to, he could not. He was convinced that Hugh of Burgundy could no more defeat Saladin than he could fly to the moon. Whatever hopes they had of success would end when Richard sailed for home. Yet how could he ask his uncle to remain when none would heed his voice? Even if victory was impossible in Outremer, the Angevin empire could still be saved. But not if Richard remained in the Holy Land.
THE ARMY MOVED NORTH to Bethgibelin, camping by the stark ruins of a Hospitaller castle. Here the men encountered swarms of the tiny flies they called “cincelles” and “flying sparks.” The insects swarmed incessantly, stinging every inch of exposed flesh and raising such lumps that their victims resembled lepers; despite the searing heat, the soldiers wrapped themselves in cloths and masked their faces to fend off these winged assaults. Yet the men remained determined to reclaim Jerusalem from the infidels, while Richard remained tormented by doubts, for he’d soon begun to question a decision made in anger. Could he truly turn his back upon the Holy Land? Could he sail away as Philippe had done, abandoning Henri and his Christian brethren to a war they could not win? Was that what God would want him to do?
A solitary figure had been keeping vigil for hours outside Richard’s tent, swatting ineffectively at the flies, refusing to leave his post even for meals or to answer nature’s call. Father William had entered the English king’s service when he was Count of Poitou, and when Richard had taken the cross, William had done so, too, for the army would need chaplains, and what better death could a man have than to die in the Holy Land, doing God’s Work? He had been devastated by Richard’s refusal to besiege Jerusalem. It was far worse, though, to think Richard would abandon them, abandon their sacred quest, abandon the Almighty and the Lord Christ, and as he watched over the king’s tent, he wept.
When Richard finally emerged, his attention was drawn to the chaplain, just as William had hoped. But he lost his nerve then, and agreed to speak candidly only if the king promised him that he’d not be angry. Having extracted an impatient reassurance from Richard, the chaplain still hesitated, searching for the right words. “My lord king, it is the talk of the camp that you intend to leave us. May that day never come. God forbid that mere rumors keep you from conquering the Holy Land, for we fear that would bring you eternal disgrace.”
He saw Richard stiffen and momentarily faltered. Emboldened when the king did not rebuke him, he pressed on. “Lord king, I entreat you to remember all that God has done for you. Never did a king of your age accomplish such glorious deeds.” The words were coming quickly now, slurring in his haste to get them said. He reminded Richard of his past victories as Count of Poitou, spoke of how Richard had taken Messina and seized the island of Cyprus and sank that great Saracen ship. Such triumphs were proof of divine favor, as was his miraculous recovery from the scourge of Arnaldia, which had killed so many others. “God has committed the Holy Land to your protection. It is your responsibility alone, now that the French king has cravenly run away. You are the sole defender of Christendom. If you desert us, you will have abandoned it to be destroyed by our enemies.”
He fell silent then, tears continuing to streak his face, swollen from multiple cincelle bites, his eyes fastened imploringly upon his king. His disappointment was almost too much to bear when Richard turned away without answering.
ON THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON the army reached Ascalon and made camp in the orchards outside the city walls. Henri then met privately in Balian’s tent with some of the other poulain lords and the Templar and Hospitaller Grand Masters, holding a strategy session in which they all urged Henri to try to convince Richard to stay. When he balked, they politely but firmly reminded him that his first loyalties now must be given to Outremer. He returned to his own pavilion at sunset in a grim frame of mind, only to find Joanna and Berengaria anxiously waiting for him. Richard was always closemouthed, Joanna conceded; she’d never seen him like this, though. He was obviously greatly troubled, but he’d brushed aside all their questions and concerns, pulling back like a turtle retreating into its shell. “What has happened, Henri? What do we need to know?”
Henri told them about the dire news from England and then about the decision to march on Jerusalem. He had just finished when a summons came from Richard. Joanna and Berengaria accompanied him; he wasn’t about to rebuff his aunt and decided it was up to Richard to dismiss the women if he did not want them present. Richard did not seem disturbed to see them; he did not even seem surprised. Seeing his uncle through Joanna and Berengaria’s eyes, Henri could understand why they were so worried. Richard looked haggard, even haunted, like a man who’d become a stranger to sleep. His gaze flicked from face to face, his own face inscrutable, his thoughts shielded. When he did not speak, Henri prompted, “You wanted to see me, Uncle?”
Richard nodded then, almost imperceptibly. “I have decided not to return to England. Whatever messages come, whatever happens, I pledge to remain in the Holy Land until next Easter.”
Henri felt a great surge of relief, followed by guilt. Joanna’s emotions were less ambivalent; she did not think it was fair that Richard should be asked to sacrifice so much more than the other crusaders. Berengaria crossed to her husband’s side, looking up at him with a smile so joyful that she seemed to be glowing; at that moment, Henri thought she was beautiful. “Does this mean you will be laying siege to Jerusalem, Richard?”
“Yes,” he said, sounding very weary. “I will tell the others tonight and then have my herald proclaim it to the rest of the camp on the morrow.”
Henri kept silent, not sure what to say. Nor did he meet his uncle’s eyes, for he knew what he’d see in them. It would have been like looking into his own soul on the night he’d returned to Tyre, knowing his choices were illusory, knowing he was trapped.
RICHARD DISPATCHED HENRI to Acre to corral the last of the deserters and to find reinforcements in Tyre and even Tripoli, for if they were going to march on Jerusalem, they would need every single soldier they could round up. Because Richard did not think it was safe for the women to remain at Ascalon without him, he asked Henri to escort them back to Acre. He then led the army to Bait Nūbā, the village that was just twelve tantalizing miles from the Holy City. There they set up camp to await Henri’s return and to fend off Saracen raids and hit-and-run attacks.
THEY’D BEEN AT BAIT NŪBĀ two days when one of Richard’s spies reported that Saracens were lying in ambush at the spring of Emmaus. Richard set out at dawn with some of his knights, took their foes by surprise, and in the fight that followed, twenty Turks were slain and Salah
al-Dīn’s own herald captured. When the surviving Saracens retreated, Richard set off in pursuit. He was mounted on Fauvel and soon overtook a man on a rangy bay stallion. Fauvel screamed a challenge, lengthening stride, and the Saracen swung his horse around to meet the attack. He charged, wielding a spear that was deflected by Richard’s shield, and took the full thrust of the king’s lance. Reining Fauvel in, Richard leaned from the saddle to make sure the other man was dead. When he looked up, his eyes widened. “Jesu!”
It was then that André caught up with him. He’d seen Richard go chasing off after the Saracens and followed, for even Richard’s lethal skills could be overcome by sheer numbers. Pulling up alongside his cousin, he barely spared a glance for the body sprawled nearby; in the fifteen years he’d fought at Richard’s side, Death had ridden with them so often that they’d come to take its presence for granted. He was more concerned with Richard’s odd immobility; he seemed frozen, scarcely breathing.
“Richard? Are you hurt? I do not see any blood. . . .”
“Look,” Richard said huskily, never taking his eyes from the dream-like vision that seemed to be floating on the horizon, shimmering in a golden haze of heat.
André raised his hand to shield the glare. “Is that . . . ?”
“Yes . . . it is Jerusalem.” Richard had not expected to be so moved, yet as he gazed at those distant limestone walls and towers, it struck him with utter and awful certainty that this was as close as he’d ever get to that most holy and hallowed of cities, the cradle of Christendom. His eyes filled with tears, which André tactfully pretended not to see.
MORGAN , WARIN FITZ GERALD , Pierre de Préaux, and a few other knights and Templars had been out scouting and decided to detour to Ramla before heading back to Bait Nūbā, for the former site had a cluster of barrel-vaulted cisterns. As they approached, they were startled to see dozens of white tents set up near the castle ruins. Advancing warily, they were delighted to discover that this was Henri’s camp; he was on his way to Bait Nūbā with fresh troops from Tyre and truants from Acre. Morgan was not surprised that Henri had been more successful than Guy in conscripting the sluggards; the count’s easy affability concealed a strong will. They were happy to accept Henri’s invitation to stay the night, and they repaid Henri’s hospitality by catching him up on all that had occurred since his departure for Acre.