Lionheart (49 page)

Continuing to tally up her reasons for gratitude, she added the capture of Cyprus, for Outremer would benefit greatly, now and in years to come; some of their ships were already loaded with wheat, sheep, chickens, and wine. Richard’s soldiers were also contented with their Cypriot campaign, for Richard was always generous about sharing booty with his men. And she thought the Cypriots had reason for rejoicing, too, freed from Isaac’s yoke. Richard had chosen two trusted castellans to govern the island until he could make long-term provisions for its future, and he’d agreed to issue a charter confirming the laws and rights as they’d been in the days before Isaac’s seizure of power, although he’d exacted a steep price for this privilege; he’d imposed a levy of half of the possessions of the Cypriots to help finance the crusade. Joanna had enough experience with governing to know this would be highly unpopular with the local people, but she still felt that her brother was leaving Cyprus better off than he’d found it.

So she had much to be thankful for and she ought to be counting her blessings. But the lecture did nothing to ease the hollow, icy feeling in the pit of her stomach. The voyage from Limassol to Famagusta had been tolerable, for they’d hugged the shore. But on the morrow their fleet would head out into the open sea. Berengaria and Mariam kept reassuring her that this would be a much quicker passage, for ships could sail from Cyprus to the Syrian coast in just a day. But Joanna knew better. Storms could strike at any time, blowing them far off course, and she knew that she would suffer grievously again in heavy seas; her memories were still so graphically vivid that she found herself shivering under a hot Cypriot sun.

“Whatever you are thinking about, stop.” Richard was standing over her. “You look positively greensick, Little Sister.” Holding out his hand, he said, “I’ve something to show you and Berenguela.”

Berengaria shrugged her shoulders, indicating she did not know what he had in mind, and Joanna let Richard steer them across the courtyard, several of their knights protectively trailing at a discreet distance. He led them into the archbishop’s gardens, a shaded refuge from the summer heat, and then out a postern gate, refusing to reveal where they were going. When Berengaria congratulated him upon winning his wager with André, he made a mock grimace and said he’d lost, for the campaign had actually taken fifteen days. He’d already alerted them that he would be remaining in Cyprus for a few days after the fleet sailed, as he had arrangements still to work out with Stephen de Turnham’s brother Robert, one of the men he’d entrusted with the governance of Cyprus. He explained now that he also wanted to oversee Isaac’s departure for the Syrian castle at Margat, where he’d be turned over to the Knights Hospitaller for safe-keeping.

As they walked, Richard told them about Isaac’s surprisingly touching reunion with Anna and that the erstwhile emperor had not even raised the question of ransom, asking only that he not be placed in iron chains or fetters. This caused protests from the local people, Richard said, for they’d wanted him to suffer the punishment that would have been meted out in Constantinople—blinding or maiming. “So I ordered chains to be made for Isaac of solid silver.”

“You are jesting . . . no?” Berengaria asked uncertainly. But Joanna laughed, assuring her new sister-in-law that he was quite serious, saying the men in her family could teach the Devil a trick or two about slyness. Berengaria was not sure she approved of this; it seemed somewhat guileful to her. She kept her opinion to herself, though, for she did not think it was a wife’s place to meddle in such matters.

“Ah, here we are,” Richard said, and they saw he’d led them to an enclosure next to the archbishop’s stables. As they approached, the stallion came over to the fence, curious but wary. Both women exclaimed admiringly, for he was a beautiful animal, high-shouldered, with a long neck and broad chest, a coat that gleamed like pale gold.

Richard was beaming. “This is Fauvel,” he said proudly.

JOANNA HAD TRIED to hide her anxiety with jests, joking that Richard had not come to see them off, that he really wanted to make sure Fauvel had enough esparto grass for bedding and secure ringbolts for his underbelly sling. But as soon as their buss hoisted its sails and left the harbor behind, she’d gone ashen and hastily retreated to their tent, followed by most of the other women.

Berengaria remained on deck, committing to memory her last view of Richard, waving from the dock. She told herself she was being foolish, that they’d soon be reunited at Acre. But she was beginning to realize that her husband was as elusive as quicksilver, his eyes always on the horizon, inhabiting a world she would find difficult to share. None of the usual rules of marriage seemed to apply to Richard. How many royal wives had to live like camp followers? What sort of home life could they establish for themselves in the midst of a holy war?

“Ah, Papa,” she whispered, “did you truly think this through?” But watching the sea change color as they headed into deep water, she knew she had no regrets. At least not yet. Becoming aware then that she was no longer alone, she turned and was surprised to find her companion was the girl they were calling the Damsel of Cyprus, Anna Comnena. She smiled to let Anna know her company was welcome, for she had enormous sympathy for the girl. How could a flower uprooted so rudely flourish in foreign soil?

Anna seemed to want to ask a question. Her French was very tentative, strongly accented, and Berengaria was not sure she understood. “My . . . my husband?” she asked, and Anna smiled and nodded. She soon frowned, though, fumbling in vain for the phrase she wanted. She repeated
“mari,”
pointing toward Berengaria, back toward Famagusta, and then placed her hand upon her own heart. Her frustration was obvious when Berengaria still did not understand. She did the pantomime again, and then gave a lilting, triumphant laugh, saying
“aimer,”
so pleased she’d remembered the right word that she did not even notice the older woman’s recoil.

Berengaria was so nonplused because she’d never expected to be asked this question. A marriage was a legal union, recognized by the Church and the Crown as a means of begetting children and transferring property in an orderly fashion from one generation to the next. Love was not a component of marriage, especially royal marriages. It was true there had been love in her parents’ marriage, but that had been an unexpected blessing, a mutual devotion that had developed over time. She had harbored no such expectations once she’d agreed to wed Richard, would have been content if they could forge a bond of respect and consideration and possibly affection. But with this innocent question, Anna had forced her to look into her heart.

“So you, too, are bedazzled by Richard, child,” she said, with a rueful smile. “He does seem to have that effect upon people. . . .” Anna was looking puzzled, for she’d spoken in her native Romance, and she reached over, patted the girl’s arm. “You do not understand what I am saying, do you?” She hesitated, feeling as if she’d reached another crossroads and, as she’d done then, she embraced the truth.
“Oui,”
she said, nodding and mimicking Anna’s gesture by placing her hand over her heart. Anna smiled, obviously approving, and they remained together on deck, watching until the island of Cyprus had vanished into the low-lying clouds cloaking the horizon.

CHAPTER 19

JUNE 1191

Tyre, Outremer

The men fell silent as Tyre came into view, impressed by its formidable defenses and moved by their first glimpse of a city where the Lord Christ had once walked. Tyre was virtually an island, connected to the mainland by a short and narrow causeway. A protective breakwater or mole extended out into the sea, a heavy chain stretching from a high tower on its eastern edge to a second tower on land, barring entry to the harbor. Richard was surprised to find his eyes misting as he gazed upon the ancient stone walls of this legendary biblical city. It had been more than three years since he’d taken the cross upon hearing of Jerusalem’s fall, years in which his holy quest had often seemed like a tantalizing dream, glimmering on the horizon just out of reach. At long last, it was about to take tangible form.

André joined him in the prow of their galley, frowning at the sight of that taut chain, for they’d sent Baldwin de Bethune and Pierre and Guilhem de Préaux ahead in a small sagitta to announce Richard’s arrival. “Why have they not lowered the barrier so we can enter the harbor?”

That pragmatic query brought Richard back to reality and he frowned, too. He signaled to Alan Trenchmer, his galley’s master, and as soon as they were within hailing distance, Trenchmer demanded entry for the English king’s fleet. But there was no response from either guard tower, although they were close enough now to see men upon the battlements. Trenchmer was about to shout again when they saw their sagitta coming back.

The smaller ship’s oarsmen skillfully angled it alongside the royal galley. Even before Baldwin and the Préaux brothers scrambled onto the deck, the men knew that something was greatly amiss. Richard could not recall ever seeing the phlegmatic Fleming so agitated. Baldwin’s fair skin was mottled with hot color, his blue eyes narrowed to slits, and he was cursing under his breath as he swung himself over the gunwale. Richard did not speak a word of Flemish, but there was no need of translation.

“The whoresons refuse to let us into the harbor!”

There was a moment of shocked silence and then exclamations of outrage. Richard was incredulous. “Conrad dared to say that I am not welcome in Tyre?”

“He was not there. He is at Acre, taking part in the siege. But his men said that he’d given them explicit orders that the English king was not to be admitted to his city. To their credit, they looked ashamed at turning away men who’d taken the cross.” Baldwin grimaced, as if tasting something sour. “Apparently Conrad’s father is now dead, for his men were referring to him as ‘the marquis.’ And it seems he has laid formal claim to the crown, for they also called him ‘the Kingelect of Jerusalem.’” He punctuated that sentence by turning and spitting over the side of the gunwale.

André glanced toward a nearby galley, flying the yellow crosses of Outremer. “That will not please Guy,” he said, in a masterful understatement.

It did not please Richard, either. Raising a hand to silence the indignant protests of his men, he gave Alan Trenchmer a terse command to anchor the fleet in the lee of the breakwater. Glancing back at Tyre, looking deceptively tranquil in the golden dusk, he shook his head in disgust. “What does it say,” he said caustically, “when our enemy, an infidel Saracen, is a man of greater honor than our Christian ally?”

THE FOLLOWING MORNING their fleet cruised south, the twenty-five galleys staying within sight of the coast. Richard had invited Guy and Joffroi de Lusignan to join him on the
Sea-Cleaver
, for he wanted to discuss the siege with men who’d been there since the beginning. Ironically, the attack upon Acre was the result of a rebuff like the one Richard had just experienced. After the defeat at Ḥa���ṭīn, Guy had been held prisoner by Salah al-Dīn for more than a year. Freed after swearing not to bear arms against the sultan, Guy had found a bishop willing to absolve him of his oath and then headed to the only city still under Christian control—Tyre. Its savior, though, was not about to turn it over to the man he blamed for the catastrophe at Ḥaṭṭīn, and Conrad refused to allow Guy into the city. In desperation, Guy had gone off with a small force to besiege Acre, and it slowly became the focal point of resistance to Salah al-Dīn; even Conrad had been compelled by public opinion to join in. Nearly two years later, the Saracen garrison was in dire straits, and Richard’s greatest fear was that Acre might fall before he got there.

Richard, the de Lusignans, and several of their knights had retreated to his tent to escape the sun’s burning heat and were studying a map of Acre. Like Tyre, it was a coastal city, protected to the west and south by the sea, and to the north and east by a strong wall, numerous towers, and a deep ditch. Using his dagger to point, Joffroi scratched marks in the parchment to show the alignment of the besiegers.

“Walking through the camp, you’ll hear almost every language spoken in Christendom, for there are Genoese, Pisans, English, French, Flemings, Danes, Frisians, Armenians, Germans, and Hungarians. Your nephew Henri of Champagne took command upon his arrival last summer.” Joffroi’s face was impassive, as if unaware of what a telling commentary that was upon the scant confidence men had in his brother, a crowned king supplanted by a young count of twenty-four. “Here is where Saladin’s army is camped, in the hills behind us.” He gestured again with the dagger. “Whenever we launch an attack upon the city, Saladin’s men try to draw us off by raiding our camp. They’ve never been able to break through our ditches and fortifications. But we had a rough time of it this winter when bad weather kept ships in port and food well nigh ran out; I daresay you heard about that.”

Richard nodded and Joffroi turned his attention back to the map. “Since the French king arrived, he’s been concentrating his siege engines upon the Accursed Tower in the northeast corner of the city.” Anticipating the question, he said with a slight smile, “Supposedly it is where Judas’s thirty pieces of silver were minted. With all the trebuchets that you’ve brought, my lord king, we ought to be able to batter their walls into dust by Midsummer Eve.”

“God willing,” Richard agreed, and when he revealed that some of his trebuchets were operated by counterweights rather than ropes and were therefore more powerful than traction trebuchets, he and Joffroi were soon deep in a technical discussion of siege engines that Guy found quite boring. He welcomed, therefore, an interruption by one of Richard’s knights.

“What is it, Morgan?”

“My liege, there is a ship ahead, the likes of which we’ve never seen!” Richard, the de Lusignans, and the knights hastened onto the deck, only to halt in amazement, for none of them had ever seen such a ship, either. It was huge, more than twice the size of their largest buss, with no less than three tall masts. Its sides were draped in green and yellow tarpaulins, giving it an odd, exotic look, and to Richard, a suspicious one, for it flew no banners. Calling to the master of a nearby galley, he instructed them to find out the mystery ship’s identity. It was soon back, the master reporting that it claimed to be French, on its way from Antioch to Acre.

Richard was quick to shake his head. “I do not believe Philippe has any ships like that.”

The others were dubious, too. It was then that one of the sailors pushed his way over to the English king. “My lord, that is a Turkish ship.”

Richard glanced from the man’s tanned, weathered face to the enormous buss. “Are you sure?”

“Aye, I am. It looks verily like one I once saw in Beirut harbor. And I can prove it. Send another galley after them. Only do not hail them or offer a greeting. See what they do then.”

That made sense to Richard and he gave the order. They crowded to the gunwales, watching tensely as the galley caught up again with the towering buss. This time its sailors did not salute the other ship and they were immediately fired upon.

“Prepare to attack,” Richard commanded and hurried back to his tent to arm himself. The others were quick to do the same as trumpets blared from galley to galley, signaling that battle was about to be joined with the massive Saracen ship.

It ought to have been able to outrun the English galleys. But the wind had dropped suddenly and its sails hung limply, slowing it enough so that they could keep pace. As soon as they overtook it, they swarmed the great ship like dogs set loose at a bearbaiting. Their oarsmen laboring at their posts, the galleys circled the buss. Each time they tried to get close enough to force a boarding, though, the Saracen sailors and soldiers drove them off with an unrelenting hail of arrows and bolts. Even when the more daring sailors braved the fire and reached the buss, they were thwarted by its steep, high sides, their low-riding galleys dwarfed by the sheer size of the Saracen ship, their grappling hooks and ropes falling short.

Most of Richard’s knights were facing their first sea battle, and were willing to defer to the sailors, who were as comfortable on a pitching deck as the knights were on horseback. Morgan had never doubted his own courage, but he was awed now by the bravery of the crewmen, willing to scale those cliffsides while coming under heavy fire. He was worried, too, about Richard’s safety, fearful the king would join in that hazardous assault, clad in full armor that could drag him down like an anchor. It would have been sheer madness for Richard to try it—and unforgivably irresponsible, for his death could well doom the crusade. And yet Morgan knew Richard well enough by now to be sure he would seek to board the buss if given half a chance. He was greatly relieved, therefore, when he realized that others shared his concern. Richard was so busy shouting encouragement and firing a crossbow whenever a Saracen came into sight that he didn’t notice how adroitly the helmsman steered their galley, keeping it in the midst of the action but never quite close enough to attempt a boarding.

Exhausted and disheartened, the crews of the galleys finally drew back out of bowshot, at a loss what to do next, for the Saracen ship was proving to be as impregnable as a heavily fortified castle. Several of the galleys rowed over to the
Sea-Cleaver
to consult with the king, their masters asking Richard if they should continue with the attack.

Richard was astonished that the question would even be raised. “Are you serious? This is a Turkish ship, loaded with soldiers, weapons, and supplies. If it reaches Acre, God alone knows how much longer the garrison can hold out. Are the lot of you turning into cowards? If you let them escape, you all deserve to be hanged!”

Morgan gaped at the king, then sidled over to André, who was reloading a crossbow. “He would not really do that, would he?”

André seemed grimly amused. “Richard is given to bloodcurdling threats whenever defeat looms. He has never carried any of them out, though, and his men know that. But they’d best find a way to board that ship, for we cannot let it get away, not with so much at stake.”

The sailors had reached the same conclusion, and despair now gave way to inspiration, for they came up with a scheme that was as daring as it was imaginative. Returning to the attack, they distracted the crew of the Saracen ship while several men stripped to their braies and plunged into the sea, clutching coils of rope. Diving under the buss, they came up sputtering and swam back to their galleys. Richard leaned over the gunwale, never taking his eyes from the swimmers, and then burst out laughing. “Clever lads, they tied up the rudder!”

His guess proved to be correct, and the knights began to cheer as the buss listed suddenly to starboard. No longer responding to the tiller, the ship wallowed in the waves, turning in a circle as the helmsman sought desperately to regain control. Taking advantage of the confusion onboard, some of the oarsmen rowed toward the stern, flung their grappling hooks into the tarpaulin hanging over the sides, and managed to scramble up onto the deck.

What followed was the most vicious hand-to-hand fighting that Morgan had ever seen. The Saracen crew might be infidels doomed to eternal damnation, but he thought that none could fault their courage. The deck was soon slick with blood and men fell overboard or were pushed, some splashing to the surface midst spreading pools of crimson, others sinking like stones. The galleys hovered as close to the buss as they could get, the crews leaning over the gunwales to rescue their own men while their crossbowmen aimed at the Turks floundering in the water. More sailors had managed to climb over the bulwarks, and for a time it seemed as if they would prevail. But then other Saracens burst out of the ship’s hold, charging at the invaders with the reckless boldness of men who had nothing left to lose. Swords flashed, cutting off arms, hands, even heads, and eventually Richard’s men were forced to retreat toward the stern, jumping into nearby galleys or diving into the sea and grabbing at oars to keep themselves afloat. Shouting defiance and curses, the Saracens reached for their bows again and began to heave bodies over the side. But their victory was ephemeral and they knew it, for they were trapped on a crippled ship, surrounded by sea wolves.