Lionheart (51 page)

“Cousin?”

Conrad was looking at him quizzically, and Philippe brought his thoughts back to the here and now. He knew he was expected to respond to Conrad’s cryptic comment about Hannibal, but he was unwilling to admit its meaning had escaped him. Taking his scabbard from his squire, he buckled it and was settling his sword on his hip when Guillaume des Barres spoke up, confessing that he hadn’t understood the “Hannibal at the gates” remark. Conrad was happy to enlighten him, explaining that it had been a popular Roman proverb, warning of danger by referring to the man who’d once been Rome’s greatest enemy, and Guillaume thanked him politely.

Philippe felt a flicker of affection for the knight, appreciating his adroit intercession. But the sight of Guillaume reminded him of all the just grievances he had against that accursed Angevin, one of which was the shameful way Richard had treated the knight in Messina. Guillaume had not been allowed to rejoin Philippe’s household until they’d been ready to sail for Acre, and although he appeared to have forgiven Richard for that petty fit of temper, Philippe had not. “You mean Richard has finally deigned to put in an appearance?”

“His fleet has been sighted approaching the harbor.” Conrad grinned then, looking rather pleased with himself. “And I’d wager he is not in the best of humors, for I gave orders to turn him away from Tyre.”

By now the tent was crowded with French lords and knights, including the young Mathieu de Montmorency, Philippe’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais, and his marshal, Aubrey Clement. Beauvais laughed loudly, but the other men looked shocked at Conrad’s lèse-majesté.

Philippe did not approve of Conrad’s action, either. Unlike Guy, Richard was not a counterfeit king, and kings were entitled to the respect due them as God’s Anointed. Moreover, it seemed needlessly provocative, guaranteeing Richard’s enmity ere he even laid eyes upon Conrad. Until now, Richard’s opposition to the marquis had been political. After this, it would be personal, very personal. Marveling that men of obvious intelligence could be so foolhardy, Philippe said brusquely, “Let’s get this over with.”

As they emerged from Philippe’s pavilion, they paused in surprise, for the entire camp seemed to be in motion. Men were hurrying toward the beach, jostling one another in their haste to secure a good vantage point. There were a number of noncombatants at the siege—wives of soldiers and their children, the prostitutes drawn to an army encampment like bears to honey, servants, pilgrims, local vendors and peddlers. They were all running, too, eager to witness the English king’s arrival.

Watching in bemusement as this throng surged toward the sea, Conrad said scornfully, “Will you look at those fools? You’d think they hope to witness the Second Coming of the Lord Christ! What is there to see, for God’s Sake? Just some ships dropping anchor offshore.”

Philippe gave the older man a tight, mirthless smile, thinking that Conrad was about to get his first lesson in Ricardian drama. As some of their knights cleared a path through the crowd for them, he continued on at a measured pace, taking care to detour around occasional piles of horse manure. “Do you have troupes of traveling players in Montferrat, Conrad?”

The marquis was obviously puzzled by this non sequitur. “Of course we do. Why?”

Philippe ignored the question. “I imagine they are the same everywhere. As they approach a town, they do what they can to attract as much attention as possible. If there are tumblers or jugglers in their company, they’ll lead the way, turning cartwheels and juggling balls or even knives. They’ll blow their trumpets to draw a crowd, bang on drums, sing and banter with spectators, trot out dancing dogs or trained monkeys. Once I even saw a dancing bear. The bigger the spectacle they can make, the larger the audience for their performance.”

Conrad was making no attempt to hide his bafflement. “Cousin, whatever are you going on about?” But he got no answer, merely that odd, enigmatic smile again. Shaking his head, he followed after Philippe.

By the time they reached the beach, it looked as if every man, woman, and child in camp had gathered at the shoreline. To the west, the sun was setting in a blaze of fiery color, the sky and sea taking on vivid shades of gold and red, drifting purple clouds haloed in shimmering lilac light. The ships entering the bay were backlit by this spectacular sunset, and Philippe wondered if Richard had timed his landing for maximum impact. The sleek war galleys were slicing through the waves like the deadly weapons they were, the royal banners of England and Outremer catching each gust of wind, the oarsmen rowing in time to the thudding drumbeats, the air vibrating with the cacophony of trumpets, pipes, and horns. And just as he’d done at Messina, Richard was standing on a raised platform in the prow of his galley, a magnet for all eyes. When the crowds erupted in wild cheering, he acknowledged their tribute by raising a lance over his head and the noise level reached painful proportions, loud enough to reach the Saracen soldiers lining the walls of the city as they, too, watched, spellbound, the arrival of the legendary Lionheart.

Conrad was staring at the spectacle in disbelief, eyes wide and mouth open. When he finally tore his gaze away from the scene playing out in the harbor, he saw that the French king was watching him with a mordant, cynical smile, one that he now understood. “All that is lacking,” Philippe said, “is the dancing bear.”

CHAPTER 20

JUNE 1191

Siege of Acre, Outremer

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Morgan had taken part in sieges before, but he’d never seen anything like the encampment at Acre. Two years had transformed it into a good-sized city, with tents and pavilions as far as the eye could see. It had an odd air of permanence, for cook-shops and baking ovens had been set up, as had public baths; bathing was an important aspect of daily life in the sultry climate of Outremer. There were even several hospitals, operated by the Knights Hospitaller. Like all the towns Morgan had known, this one was crowded and chaotic, its makeshift streets thronged with off-duty soldiers and their women. Morgan was accustomed to seeing females in an army camp, but they were always whores. Here there were wives, too, and even children, darting between tents as they played or ran errands, their youthful laughter somehow jarring in this place where men lived so intimately with Death.

Vendors wandered about, hawking their wares. Pigs rooted in the piles of garbage and chickens fluttered underfoot, for the winter’s famine was long past. Dogs once more roamed the camp. Men were lining up before the laundresses’ tents to be deloused, having their wounds treated by physicians and surgeons, heading for the latrine trenches, being waylaid by prostitutes, and scolded by priests fighting a losing battle to keep sin at bay. The siege had its own markets, stables for horses, pens for livestock, a large cemetery where so many crusading hopes had ended. But something was missing, something integral to city life and, after a moment, Morgan realized what it was. Bells normally chimed the canonical hours, pealing to call Christ’s Faithful to Mass and to elicit prayers for the dying, to celebrate births and marriages and festivals, the days echoing with shimmering, melodic sound from dawn till dark. Here at the siege of Acre, Mass was held in tents or in the open air, and with no churches, there were no bells.

The camp was far from quiet, though. Each time the siege engines sent rocks thudding toward Acre, men cheered. There were exchanges of insults and catcalls between the besiegers and the Saracen garrison up on the city walls. Raucous songs drifted from open tents, where some were still celebrating Richard’s arrival the night before. Voices carried on the wind, laughter and curses and the shrill cries of hawks; Morgan would later learn that the Turks used pigeons to convey messages to Saladin, and the crusaders unleashed hawks to try to bring them down.

To Morgan, the strangest aspect of Acre’s siege was that the enemy was only three miles away, camped in the nearby hills at Tell al-’Ayyāḍiyya. Whenever the crusaders launched an assault upon the city, the garrison beat drums to alert Saladin, who would then attack the camp to draw them off. But the besiegers were well protected by fortifications and double ditches, and so far the Saracens had been unable to break through their defenses. Men were sure, though, that the stalemate would end now that Richard was here, and his welcome had been a jubilant one, lasting well into the early hours of dawn.

Morgan bought a handful of dates from a vendor and was heading for Richard’s royal pavilion when he heard his name called. Smiling, he reversed course. He’d met the Count of Champagne during his service with Richard’s brother Geoffrey, and a mutual liking had developed. Henri of Champagne was standing with a tall man in his middle years, whom he introduced now as Hubert Walter, the Bishop of Salisbury. Morgan was pleased to meet the prelate, for he’d emerged as one of the heroes of the siege, and he was flattered, too, to be addressed as “Cousin” by Henri; they were not really kinsmen, being linked to Richard on his father’s and mother’s side, respectively. As they exchanged banter now, Morgan found himself studying the other man in puzzlement; something seemed unfamiliar about Henri, but he was not sure what it was.

The young count caught his scrutiny and grinned. “I look different, I know. Whilst I am still a handsome devil, I did not have these ringlets when you last saw me. I lost my hair after a bout with Arnaldia last winter, and when it grew back, it was as curly as a lamb’s fleece!”

Morgan resisted the impulse to tease Henri about his “lamb’s fleece” and asked instead about Arnaldia, for he’d never heard of this ailment. Henri’s smile faded. “I was stricken with a high fever, every bone in my body wracked with pain. I recovered, by God’s Grace, but many others were not as fortunate. It struck down the Count of Flanders just a week ago, and it looks likely now to claim my uncle, the Count of Perche.”

“I am indeed sorry to hear that,” Morgan said, for he’d become friendly with the count’s son Jaufre during their time in Sicily. As he fell in step beside Henri and the bishop, he hoped the Count of Perche was still lucid, able to be told that Jaufre’s wife Richenza had made him a grandfather. Henri was telling him of others who’d died during the siege, a bleak litany, and he dutifully made the sign of the cross. By now they were approaching Richard’s pavilion, and he came to a sudden stop, staring at the huge crowd milling about the tent. “What in the world . . . ?”

“They are waiting to pay their respects to the king,” Henri explained, “and to offer their services. They’ll have a long wait, though, for Richard is not within. When he finally went off to bed, he quite sensibly chose his queen’s bed and is still in her tent.”

“Some of the men have already approached the king,” Bishop Hubert added. “Last night both the Genoese and the Pisans sought him out. He accepted the Pisans, but not the Genoese, as they’d pledged themselves to the French king.”

“The French king will not be happy to hear that the Genoese tried to defect,” Morgan said cheerfully, remembering Philippe’s grimacing smile as he’d bade Richard welcome.

“No, indeed he was not,” Henri confirmed. “But he is far more wroth with me for my defection.”

“You will be fighting under King Richard’s banner?” When Henri nodded, Morgan grinned, delighted to have the count and his men in their ranks. “It could not have been easy for you, though, being Philippe’s blood-kin and his vassal.”

“Actually, I rather enjoyed telling him,” Henri said, with a cool smile. “You see, I was in danger of running out of money, for my expenses have been considerable since my arrival at the siege. I paid fifteen hundred bezants alone for a trebuchet, only to have it burned by the Saracens within days.”

“You were very generous, too, in helping me to feed the common soldiers, those most in danger of starving during the famine,” the bishop interjected, and Henri shrugged, accepting the praise with his usual nonchalance.

“I went to Philippe last month, asking him for a loan so I could pay my men. My loving uncle agreed to lend me one hundred marks, provided that I pledge Champagne as collateral for the debt.” Henri’s mouth twisted. “I daresay I could have gotten better terms if I’d approached Saladin. Last night I asked my other uncle for aid. Richard at once promised me four thousand pounds of silver, four thousand bushels of wheat, and four thousand salted pigs for my men. In truth, I would have gone over to Richard even had he not been so generous, for no man knows war better than he does. But Philippe made it very easy for me.”

Glancing over at the throng of men gathered before Richard’s tent, Henri smiled slyly. “That’s a sight sure to spoil Philippe’s day. And wait till word gets out how much Richard is paying. Even the Saracens will be clamoring to enter his service.” Seeing that neither Bishop Hubert nor Morgan understood, he grinned broadly. “Last night Richard asked me what Philippe was paying his knights. When I said three bezants a week, he decided to offer four.”

Morgan laughed, but the bishop shook his head. “Mayhap I can get him to change his mind, for that would be provoking Philippe needlessly.”

Henri’s eyes held a mischievous blue-green glint. “Actually, my uncle Richard is doing him a favor. Now when knights begin to desert Philippe in droves, he can save face by claiming it is merely a matter of money and not because men would rather fight under Richard’s command.”

“I rather doubt,” the bishop said dryly, “that Philippe will see it that way.”

AS HENRI MADE HIS WAY toward Richard’s pavilion, he gazed up gratefully at the starlit sky, as the day had been one of searing summer heat. Although darkness had fallen, the siege engines were still being manned by torchlight, for Richard had his men working shifts of eight hours, enabling the trebuchets to be operated around the clock and giving the beleaguered enemy garrison no respite. His uncle had been at Acre only five days, yet Henri could feel a new energy in the camp, a rejuvenated sense of confidence. He’d watched with amusement as Richard easily assumed command of the siege; even Conrad of Montferrat had felt compelled to offer a perfunctory apology for turning the English king away from Tyre, blaming it on a miscommunication, an excuse that no one believed, least of all Richard. Henri regretted the hostility between the two men, for he thought that Conrad would make a much more effective king than Guy de Lusignan, even if he had acquired his claim by that highly dubious marriage. He wondered now if he might be able to bring his uncle around to his way of thinking, then smiled at the very notion, knowing how unlikely that was.

When he was ushered into Richard’s tent, he saw that they were just finishing their evening meal. Richard had quickly adopted the local custom of dining at low tables while seated upon cushions. His wife did not look as comfortable as he did, sitting upright, her skirts carefully tucked around her ankles. She smiled at the sight of Henri, for he was a favorite with all of the women. Joanna smiled, too, and Richard beckoned him over, signaling for Henri to be served wine and a dish of syrup mixed with snow. Henri was happy to lounge on the cushions and display his greater familiarity with the Holy Land, explaining that this was a delicacy of Saracen origin; the snow was brought down from the mountains in carts covered with straw.

The final course was a platter heaped with figs, carobs, and clusters of a local fruit that few of them had ever seen before—its soft flesh encased in a greenishyellow skin. They were known as “apples of paradise,” Henri said, gallantly peeling one for Joanna and then for Berengaria. Because of its suggestive shape and size, it had another name among the soldiers, “Saracen’s cock,” but he refrained from sharing that bit of bawdy army humor, sensing that Richard’s queen would not find it amusing. Instead, he leaned over and asked, low-voiced, if the rumors were true.

“You mean about my squabble with Philippe this afternoon? So word is already out?”

“Well, apparently you were shouting at each other loudly enough to be heard back in Cyprus.”

“I suppose we were,” Richard conceded, with a tight smile. “Philippe wants us to launch a full attack on the morrow. I reminded him that some of my ships are still at Tyre, waiting for favorable winds, and they are carrying most of my siege engines. It makes sense to wait until they reach Acre. Why risk men’s lives today when victory seems more assured on the morrow? But of course he would not heed me, for if I say ‘saint,’ he has to say ‘sinner.’ So he’s going ahead with his plan, the damned fool. I’ll set my soldiers to guarding the camp, but I am not letting them fight under his command. Not that they’d want to—most men would not follow Philippe out of a burning building.”

That evoked a burst of laughter from his audience, save only the Bishop of Salisbury, who suppressed a sigh, knowing it was inevitable that Richard’s quip would reach Philippe’s ears. Richard noticed Hubert’s disapproval and elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “I know, my lord bishop, I know. You’re thinking I ought to be more circumspect. You may be right, but what fun would that be?” Midst another wave of laughter, he rose to his feet, remembering in time to kiss Berengaria’s hand before inviting Henri along on his final circuit of the camp that night.

They were accompanied by André and a number of the knights; others soon tagged along, so that their walk began to resemble a procession. Richard kept up a rapid fire of questions aimed at Henri. Had he heard that Jaufre’s father had been given the Sacrament of the Faithful? Had he been told that Baldwin de Bethune’s father was also grievously ill? Did Henri know that he’d been bequeathed Philip of Flanders’s trebuchet, much to Philippe’s vexation? Henri soon stopped trying to answer, for they were constantly being interrupted by men eager to greet the king, seek a favor, report a breach of discipline, or bring an act of bravery to Richard’s notice.

They spent over an hour observing the trebuchets in action. This was a new weapon in siege warfare, in which a long beam pivoted on an axle, the shorter arm holding a heavy counterweight, the longer arm, or verge, attached to a sling. Richard watched with a critical eye as the verge was winched down and huge rocks were loaded into the sling, telling Henri that he’d brought stones from Sicily which were much harder than the softer limestone found in the Holy Land. He was hands-on in all that he did, and he could not resist the temptation to release the hook himself. As the counterweight plunged downward, the verge shot up and the sling cracked like a whip, emitting a high-pitched humming sound. All the men followed its trajectory intently as the rocks hurtled toward the city, cheering when they slammed into the walls in a cloud of dust and rubble. Told that Philippe had named his primary trebuchet “Bad Neighbor,” Richard joked that they ought to call his “Worse Neighbor,” laughing when his soldiers suggested other, more obscene names.