Lionheart (16 page)

“I raised this very question last summer at Winchester. I was somewhat surprised by your lavish generosity to John since you’d shown no favor to the other men who’d abandoned Harry, whilst rewarding men who’d stayed loyal to him. Do you remember what you told me? You said John deserves a chance to show he can be trusted. Has he given you any reason to exile him from England?”

“No,” Richard admitted, “he has not.” Picking up the cup Richenza had left behind, he drained the last of the wine before saying, “Who am I to argue with myself? Or with you, Maman. Tell Johnny I free him from his oath.”

Eleanor smiled, but she was not as confident as she’d have Richard believe, for her youngest was still a mystery to her. She could only hope John would prove her right.

“If I am releasing Johnny, I suppose I’ll have to open the door of Geoff’s cage, too,” Richard said, rolling his eyes. “Actually I’d been giving that some thought, for had he been in York, he might have been able to keep Marshal from panicking. Say what you will about Geoff, he does not lack for courage and would have thought nothing of plunging into the midst of that mob, swinging his crozier like a battle-axe!”

That image amused them both. Eleanor was becoming puzzled, though, that he’d not yet brought up the subject of his bride-to-be. He’d told her last night that while he was in Bayonne, he’d been able to slip across the border for a secret meeting with the King of Navarre, settling the last issues of the marriage contract. Now that they were alone, why was he not sharing with her what had been decided? Surely Sancho could not have been dissatisfied with the generous dower Richard was offering? Berengaria was to receive Gascony and, after Eleanor’s death, lands in Normandy and Anjou as well. So why was Richard suddenly so tight-lipped about the deal he’d struck with Sancho?

At last losing patience, Eleanor said, “So . . . tell me of the meeting with Sancho and his son. I assume he was contented with the dower?”

“Indeed he was. No, there was but one obstacle to overcome. Sancho was unwilling to delay the marriage until my return from the Holy Land. Quite understandable,” Richard said with a sudden grin, “since neither he nor his daughter would benefit if I were inconveniently slain in Outremer. Nor did I want to delay the marriage, either. My wife’s father would make a more reliable ally than the father of my betrothed. And if it is my destiny to die in the Holy Land, I’d rather not entrust my empire to either Johnny or Arthur, so the quicker Berengaria can give me a son, the better.”

Eleanor frowned, for she did not like him to discuss his death so nonchalantly. She already knew the odds were not in his favor for a safe return, did not need to be reminded of that in casual conversation. “But you cannot wed the girl ere you leave or you’ll be leaving without Philippe. So how did you resolve it?”

“We could think of only one way—have Berengaria join me in Sicily and marry me there or, if she arrives during Lent, then once we reach Outremer.”

“And you actually got her father to agree to this?” Eleanor was incredulous. “I know you can be convincing when you put your mind to it, Richard, but with a tongue as agile as that, you could lick honey off thorns!”

“Well, Sancho did impose one condition. To show my good faith and to safeguard his daughter’s honor, I told him that you would travel to Navarre and bring Berengaria to me in Sicily.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Did you now? Richard, you do remember that this will be my sixty-sixth summer on God’s Earth? Most women of that age do not stir from their hearths, but you want me to traverse the Pyrenees and then make a winter crossing of the Alps? Would you like me to make a side trip to Cathay, too?”

Richard could not hide his dismay, for he’d taken his mother’s consent for granted, and if she balked now, the marriage itself might be put at risk. “Maman . . . I ought to have consulted with you first. I just assumed you’d agree, but if you do not want to—” He stopped then, for Eleanor had begun to laugh. Letting out a sigh of relief, he confessed, “Jesu, but you gave me a bad moment there! I thought you truly did not want to go.”

“Not want to go? Do you know me as little as that, Richard? I’ve always loved to travel, have always been eager to see new places and sights, one of the reasons why I found Harry’s confinement so hard to bear. I never expected to visit a Spanish kingdom, nor to see Sicily again. You are offering me a rare gift, a chance to see my son wed and to have one last adventure.”

“I knew I could rely upon you, Maman, be it to bring me a bride or keep England at peace whilst I am gone.” It had been disconcerting to be reminded that she was only four years removed from her biblical three-score and ten, a great age for a woman who’d always seemed ageless to him. It was an unwelcome thought and he was quick to push it away, for midst the turmoil and chaos that had roiled their family life as long as he could remember, his mother had been the one constant, the only island in a turbulent sea. Leaning over, he kissed her exuberantly on both cheeks, calling her his lodestar and his luck.

He would have escorted her back into the castle then, but she chose to remain in the gardens, for the sun had begun its slow slide toward the horizon and the sky had taken on a golden glow. Agreeing to let him send her ladies out to her, Eleanor leaned back in her chair, watching as he strode off. He could no more amble than he could fly, was always rushing from one moment to the next, eager to seize the day. “Just like you, Harry,” she murmured, wondering what he’d have thought of her latest quest.

It would never have occurred to her to tell Richard no. She had sixteen years’ worth of energy stored up. What better way to expend it than to bring her favorite son a wife? It was true that she was facing a journey that would have daunted a woman half her age. But Richard needed her. And it would indeed be an adventure, ending where she most wanted to be—in Sicily, reunited with her daughter. They’d learned by now that a bastard cousin of William de Hauteville had seized the crown, and Heinrich was said to be planning a military response. But they still knew nothing of Joanna, not even her whereabouts. Richard had promised that he would find her, though, and whatever had gone wrong for her, he would make right. If she had been forced into marriage with one of Tancred’s lords, as was too often the case with young widows and heiresses, he would free her from it, he vowed. He sounded so sure of himself that it was easy for Eleanor to believe, too. Only death could defeat his resolve, and Eleanor refused even to acknowledge the possibility that her daughter’s silence could have such a simple and sinister explanation. Richard would restore Joanna to them. He would not fail.

CHAPTER 8

JULY 1190

Lyon, France

Richard met Philippe at Vézelay in early July, where, forty-five years earlier, Richard’s mother and Philippe’s father had taken the cross. The two kings made a solemn pact to “share equally whatever they conquered together,” and the third crusade got under way. Most of Philippe’s lords had already departed for the Holy Land, so he had a much smaller force than Richard, who had almost seven thousand men under his command. With such a large infantry, they could manage less than fifteen miles a day, and did not reach the city of Lyon until the thirteenth.

AFTER RICHARD AND PHILIPPE and their households had crossed the wooden bridge spanning the Rhone, they set up their tents on high ground overlooking the river. Dismounting, Philippe handed the reins to his squire and then accepted a wineskin, for his mouth was so dry he could barely swallow. He felt as if he’d been bathing in dust, for smothering clouds had been churned up by horses, carts, and thousands of marching feet. The sun was a fiery white sphere in a sky bleached of all blue, beating down upon them with brutal intensity. It was hard to imagine that Outremer could be as hot, and yet he’d heard it claimed that summers there were a foretaste of Hell. Wherever Eden had been, surely it could not have been located in the Holy Land, where dust storms turned day into night and rivers trickled away into cracked, parched earth and mysterious, lethal maladies struck men down without warning, more dying from plagues and fevers than from Saracen swords.

Philippe could not admit even to his confessor how loath he was to make this perilous journey, leaving his realm and his sickly little son behind. It ought to be enough that he was a good Christian, a good king, and yet he knew it was not, at least not in the eyes of other men. The only one who’d shared his reluctance to take the cross had been the man he’d done so much to destroy, and he supposed that Henry was laughing now from the depths of Hell. Henry had appreciated irony—all those accursed Angevins did—so most likely he’d also found it ironic that the youth he’d aided again and again had become the instrument of his doom. But Philippe had no regrets. He’d done what he must, for it was his destiny to restore France to greatness, as it had been in the days of Charlemagne.

“Why so doleful, Philippe?” The question—sudden, intrusive—caught the young French king by surprise, and he frowned as Richard reined in beside him, stepping back as the stallion’s pawing hooves kicked up yet more dust. The older man was grinning down at him, odiously cheerful, as he’d been every blessed day since their departure from Vézelay. “Damn me if you do not look like a poor wretch on his way to the gallows. It could be worse, much worse. You could be the only one leaving for the Holy Land whilst I remained behind to look after your lands for you.”

Richard laughed then, while Philippe forced a sour smile. He would never understand why the English king took pleasure in telling awkward truths in the guise of jests. But Richard’s perverse sense of humor was just one more burden he had to bear. Why could Richard not have been the one to die of the bloody flux instead of Hal? Life would have been so much easier had Henry’s amiable eldest son succeeded him. He’d have made a fine king—for France—easily bored, frivolous, and fickle. But Hal was seven years dead, and his grieving widow—Philippe’s older sister Marguerite—long since wed to the King of Hungary. And Hal’s brother Geoffrey, the only man Philippe had ever respected, was dead, too.

Even now, thinking of Geoffrey stirred faint echoes of loss, for he had been the ideal ally, mayhap even a friend, whereas Richard embodied all that Philippe most despised in other men—swaggering, arrogant, reckless. Their day of reckoning would eventually come and he did not doubt that when it did, his brains would prevail over Richard’s brawn. It was vexing, though, to have to watch as a man inferior to him in all the ways that truly mattered was lavished with praise, acclaim, and renown. And the Holy Land would be the perfect stage for Richard, a never-ending circus of bloodshed and posturing and battlefield heroics.

Below them, soldiers were moving out onto the bridge. It would take forever and a day to get them all across, Philippe thought gloomily. At least then he’d be spared Richard’s irksome company for a while, as they’d agreed to separate once they’d crossed the Rhone, Philippe and his men heading overland for Genoa, where he’d hired ships to transport the French to Sicily, and Richard riding south to Marseille, where his fleet would be awaiting his arrival. Cheered up somewhat by the thought of their impending separation, Philippe was turning toward his tent when the screams began.

Whirling around, he gasped at the sight meeting his eyes. Several arches of the wooden bridge had collapsed under the weight of so many men, flinging them into the river. Some were clinging desperately to the bridge pilings and wreckage, while others were struggling in the water, all of them calling upon the Almighty and their fellows for aid.

Richard had already galloped his stallion down the hill, shouting commands. Men were throwing ropes out into the river, extending lances for the drowning to catch on to, and several knights were bravely urging their mounts into the turbulent current. Philippe was not surprised when one horse balked at the water’s edge, sending his rider splashing into the river, for it had been his experience that horses were as flighty and unpredictable as women. He was surprised, though, by the speed and success of the rescue effort. Soon most of the floundering men had been pulled to safety; they lost only two to the Rhone’s flood tide. But their armies were now cut off from their commanders, trapped on opposite sides of the surging river.

PHILIPPE’S TENT OFFERED welcome shelter from the noonday heat, but it was rather crowded, for he’d been joined by his cousins, the Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Nevers, and the Archbishop of Chartres, the Count of Perche’s son, Jaufre, and several other lords and knights. Guillaume des Barres alone took up enough space for any two men; he was as sturdy as an oak and almost as tall. He was one of the most popular members of Philippe’s entourage, for he’d never let his battle renown go to his head, and was adroit at using humor to prevent minor squabbles from flaring into more serious confrontations. Keeping their men from turning their tempers upon one another before they could fight the Saracens was a serious concern. Richard had issued a strict code of conduct for the sailors, with severe penalties for murder, brawling, theft, gambling, and blasphemy. But these prohibitions were not aimed at maintaining the peace between highborn lords accustomed to getting their own way, and Guillaume des Barres had taken it upon himself to make their journey as free of strife as he could.

Guillaume wished that he could ease his king’s mind, too, for Philippe was obviously troubled. He’d dispatched couriers back to Paris, bearing letters to his mother and uncle with further instructions for governing in his absence, but after that he’d lapsed into a brooding silence, paying no heed to the conversations swirling about him. When Guillaume challenged him to a game of chess now, he seemed tempted, for that was a pastime that played to his strengths, requiring a strategic sense and patience. But that brief flicker of interest did not catch fire.

Instead, he signaled for a small coffer to be brought to him, and read again the last report of his son’s health. Louis was just three, and often ailing. Philippe’s greatest dread was that he would die in the Holy Land and Louis would not live to reach manhood. Why had the Almighty taken the twin boys born in March? Had they lived, he could have left France with far fewer fears for the future of his dynasty. Instead, Isabelle had bled to death, never seeing or holding the pitiful little bodies expelled from her womb, and Philippe’s destiny rested upon the thinnest of threads, the fragile life of his only surviving son.

Philippe did not understand why Richard seemed so unconcerned about his own lack of an heir of his body. He was fortunate enough to have a brother full grown, it was true, and a young nephew who had been blessed with the robust good health denied to Philippe’s own son. Was he content to have the crown pass to John or Arthur? Or was he utterly and blasphemously confident that he’d not die in the Holy Land? Knowing Richard, it was most likely the latter, Philippe thought morosely. The Angevins were notorious for confusing the Almighty’s Will with their own.

“Sire!” The flap was ripped aside and Mathieu de Montmorency plunged into the tent. Mathieu was highborn, blood-kin to Philippe’s queen, but his presence was proving to be another irritant to the French king’s raw nerves, for Mathieu was just sixteen and so enthusiastic about their crusade that he seemed drunk on excitement alone. Now his face was flushed and his smile so euphoric that Philippe knew he was not going to enjoy whatever the boy had come to tell him.

“I have wondrous news, my liege! Our problems are over, thanks to the English king. Richard has come up with a truly brilliant idea. He wants to build a bridge of small boats, lashing them together so our soldiers may cross the river. His men are already searching the shorelines and commandeering whatever boats they find . . .”

Mathieu belatedly became aware of the silence. He’d expected the men to share in his delight, but they showed no such joy, their expressions wary and guarded. Mathieu looked from them to Philippe in dismay, realizing he’d somehow incurred his king’s disfavor.

“I am surprised Richard is bothering with a bridge,” Philippe snapped. “Why does he not simply smite the waters, the way Moses parted the Red Sea?”

RICHARD REACHED the port of Marseille on the last day of July, but his fleet was not there. He would later learn the delay was due to a riotous stopover at Lisbon, where the sailors got roaring drunk, attacking Jews and Muslims and accosting women, whether they were prostitutes or respectable wives. The enraged King of Portugal ordered the city gates shut, trapping hundreds of sailors, who were then tossed into prison until they sobered up and their leaders made amends for their offenses. As a result, they were three weeks late in getting to Marseille, and by then Richard was already gone. After waiting a week, he hired two large vessels known as busses and twenty galleys, leaving word for his fleet to catch up with him in Italy.

Six days later, Richard’s ships dropped anchor at Genoa, where Philippe was lying ill. The French king requested the loan of five of Richard’s rented galleys. When Richard offered three, Philippe reacted with anger and refused any. It occurred to many of their men that this was probably not a good omen for a future harmonious partnership between the two kings.

MORGAN AP RANULF sometimes wondered if it was sinful to be enjoying a holy quest as much as he was enjoying their sojourn in Italy. He’d been nervous at first, for the Welsh were not a nation of seafarers. But the voyage had been easy on even the most delicate of stomachs so far. They cruised along the Italian coast, rarely out of sight of land, often putting ashore so the men could stretch their legs and visit local sites, for Richard shared Morgan’s interest in sightseeing.