Lionheart (54 page)

It frightened her that he was suddenly so passive; she much preferred his earlier bad-tempered outbursts, even when they’d been directed at her. As the hours passed, she replaced the wet compresses upon his forehead, gave him wine mixed with the doctors’ latest concoction, smoothed ointment upon his blisters, and blinked back tears after he acknowledged her ministrations with the flicker of a smile. She was so exhausted that when Joanna appeared to relieve her vigil, she fell onto her bed fully dressed and was asleep almost at once.

Her transition from uneasy dreams to wretched reality was so abrupt that she awoke with a start, momentarily confused to find Joanna bending over her. “Is it my turn?” she asked, stifling a yawn. But then she saw the tears welling in the other woman’s eyes.

FROM THE CHRONICLE of Bahā’ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, a trusted adviser of Salah al-Dīn and an eyewitness to the events at the siege of Acre: “The Franks were at this time so much concerned at the increasing gravity of the King of England’s illness that they even discontinued for a while their attack on the city.”

RICHARD WAS VERY ILL. But he was aware only of intolerable, searing heat, his body afire with fever that burned ever higher with each passing day, his dreams dragging him into a terrifying world of hallucinatory, demonic visions, shot through with swirling, hot colors of blood and flames. In his delirium, he was haunted by his dead, by his father and brothers, only time seemed oddly fragmented. He was a man grown, then a young boy, calling out for the mother who’d always been his mainstay, but now locked away in a far-distant dungeon, unable to hear his cries for help. Spiraling down into the dark, he was so tired, so very tired that it seemed easier to stop fighting, to let go. He did not, though, instinctively struggling toward a distant, dim light, one that flickered and wavered but promised to lead him home.

When he opened his eyes, he winced, nearly blinded by the sudden brightness. Filtering the light through his lashes, he saw a woman’s face, streaked with tears. He wondered why his brain was so muddled. While she looked familiar, it took a heartbeat or two before he recognized his wife. Saying her name, he was shocked by how weak his voice sounded. Holy God, how long had he been ill?

“You’re awake!” Berengaria’s smile was like a sunrise. She slid her fingers across his forehead, then touched his cheek, above his beard. “Blessed Lady, your fever has broken! Richard, you are going to recover.”

“Of course I am. . . .” He wanted to ask who had doubted it, but his throat was too raw and he was grateful when she understood his need and reached for a cup. The wine was warm and soured by medicinal herbs; Richard thought it tasted delicious. Handing it back, he studied her face. “Were you here all the time, Berenguela?” When she nodded, he smiled. “I thought so. I felt your presence. . . .”

Berengaria closed her eyes, feeling truly blessed, so happy was she at that moment. “Richard, we must make a generous offering to the Almighty, for God has been so good to us. Mayhap we could even found a chapel once Acre is yours?”

“I doubt that Philippe is willing to cede all of Acre to me, little dove. How is he? I did not imagine it, that he was stricken, too?”

“No, he was indeed afflicted with Arnaldia. But his was a much milder case, and he is well on the road to recovery. He—Richard, no!”

Richard had already discovered that he was not able to get out of bed; his head was spinning. Shaken by his body’s betrayal, he let Berengaria settle him back against the pillows. He was drifting toward sleep again when the screen was jerked aside and then André and Henri were there, looking down at him and laughing.

“We thought we heard your voice!”

Berengaria felt a remorseful pang, starting to explain her own joy had been so intense she’d not thought of anyone else. But the men were not listening to her. They’d pulled up stools beside the bed, wanting to know if Richard was done lolling about and taking his ease, if he was ready to hear what had been happening in the past week. Richard was stunned to learn that he’d lost a week of his life, but he was eager to hear what he’d missed and they were eager to tell him.

Their sappers had been able to undermine a section of the Accursed Tower and French crews had brought down part of the adjoining wall, although they’d not been able to force their way into the city. The garrison commander had ventured out under a flag of truce to discuss terms, but Philippe had received him so disdainfully that he’d returned to Acre in a rage, vowing to fight to the death. Yesterday Philippe had ordered his men to launch another attack, which had ended in failure like the other French attempts. Conrad was back from Tyre, doubtless because he’d heard both Richard and Philippe were ailing. Some of Philippe’s sappers had broken into a countertunnel being dug by the Saracens. Both sides pulled back by mutual consent, no rational man wanting to fight underground like weasels trapped in a burrow, but they did manage to rescue some Christian prisoners who were being forced to help dig the tunnel.

Richard was delighted with that story and burst out laughing. Berengaria felt tears burn behind her eyelids, for she’d not been sure she’d ever hear that sound again. The doctors were there now, too, beaming at their patient as if they and not God had brought Richard back from the brink of death. Horrified to realize that Joanna did not yet know, Berengaria hastily sent a man to fetch her; one of Joanna’s ladies, her beloved Dame Beatrix, was grievously ill, too, now, and Joanna had begun dividing her time between Beatrix’s sickbed and her brother’s. After dispatching the knight to Joanna’s tent, Berengaria hurried back to her husband. She saw, though, that Richard had not noticed her absence. He was sitting up in bed, looking gaunt and pale, but his eyes were shining, and he was peppering Henri and André with questions about the siege, wanting to know if they thought the Accursed Tower could soon be brought down, if there’d been any messages from Saladin’s brother, if the French had suffered many casualties when their assault was repulsed.

Berengaria watched him for a while and then backed away from the bed. Catching the eye of one of the doctors as she moved around the screen, she beckoned him over. “If the king asks for me,” she said quietly, “tell him I have gone to ask the Bishop of Salisbury to say a special Mass tonight in celebration of this miracle.”

WHEN BERENGARIA ENTERED Joanna’s tent, she was met with so many smiles that she knew Beatrix’s crisis must have passed. This was confirmed by her first glimpse of the older woman, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully for the first time in almost a week. Joanna looked exhausted but happy, rising to greet her sister-in-law with a quick hug. “God has indeed been kind to us,” she murmured, “sparing Richard and now Beatrix.”

As they crossed the camp toward Richard’s pavilion, Joanna confided that the best proof of Beatrix’s improvement was that she was now fretting about losing her hair and nails. “I told her she need not worry about hair loss yet, for Henri said it did not occur till weeks after he’d been stricken with Arnaldia. Has Richard been fretting about that, too? He is very vain, you know,” she said with a fond smile, “for he well knows how much he has benefited from looking like a king out of some minstrel’s tale.”

“I do not think he has room in his head for nary a thought but the siege,” Berengaria said honestly. “He is remarkably single-minded, and now that he is on the mend, he wants only to take part in the fighting. I am hoping that you’ll be able to help me keep him occupied this afternoon.”

“That is why I brought this along,” Joanna said, brandishing a book richly bound in red leather. “Chrétien de Troyes’s
Yvain, the Knight of the Lion
. When Richard starts to get restless, I’ll insist upon reading it to him.” Glancing at Berengaria’s serene profile, she sighed softly, for a newlywed wife ought to be able to hold her husband’s attention without aid from his sister. They were mismatched, her brother and his Spanish bride, a falcon mated to a dove. But that would not matter as long as she could give him fledglings. Most wives found their joy in their children, not their husbands. She bit her lip, thinking of a small tomb in Monreale Cathedral, and then, shaking off her sadness with a determined effort, she began to tell Berengaria that two of her Sicilian male servants, missing for more than a fortnight, had apparently surfaced in Saladin’s camp. “At least that is what Henri heard. So I suppose their conversion to Christianity was not as sincere as I was led to believe,” she said ruefully.

By now they’d reached Richard’s tent. Their knights were delighted when the women said their services would not be required for the rest of the afternoon, for the Accursed Tower was said to be close to collapse. As they hurried off, Berengaria and Joanna entered the pavilion, only to halt in surprise, for it was deserted except for several men dozing in the July heat. Since solitude was not an attribute of kingship, they exchanged puzzled looks; why would Richard have been left alone like this? Struck by the same premonition, they hastened around the screen, where they found a rumpled, empty bed.

“My ladies?” Spinning around, they saw one of the soldiers, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “May I be of assistance?”

“Where is my lord husband, the king?”

“Last night more of the wall adjoining the Accursed Tower was brought down by our sappers, and the king wanted to be there today when it is breached,” he said, so calmly that they both wanted to shake him. “His doctors advised against it, but the king insisted and had himself carried out on a silken quilt so he could take command.”

RICHARD HAD HIS CERCLEIA set up near the city’s defensive ditch. The crusaders had labored for weeks to fill it, and the camp was still talking about the heroic sacrifice by the wife of a sergeant. She’d been helping to lug rocks to the ditch when she’d been struck by a Saracen arrow. Dying in her husband’s arms, she’d begged him to throw her body into the ditch, so that even in death she could contribute to their holy cause. Today, the objective was to clear away some of the rubble from the collapsed section of wall. This was a highly dangerous task, for it exposed men to the fire of the enemy archers above them, yet there was no shortage of soldiers willing to accept this perilous undertaking. As they zigged and zagged toward the breach, they held shields aloft to deflect the arrows and spears raining down upon them.