Lionheart (55 page)

Richard’s arbalesters were providing as much cover as they could, each one flanked by a second man holding a cocked crossbow. As soon as a man shot, he was handed the second crossbow, and by rotating like this, they were able to keep up a steady fire. Richard was doing the same, and when one of his bolts found its target, a Saracen leaning precariously over the wall to shoot down at the men below him, he gave a triumphant laugh, relieved that his lingering illness had not affected his aim. His men glanced over and grinned, for his presence on the front line had greatly boosted morale; they loved it that he was always ready to risk his life with theirs, that he’d been carried out here on a litter since he was not yet strong enough to walk.

Henri handed him a loaded crossbow. “This time aim for that tall one in the green turban.”

“What . . . you do not like his taste in clothes?” Richard asked, giving his nephew a curious look as he reached for the weapon.

“The hellspawn is wearing Aubrey Clement’s armor.”

Richard’s eyes flicked from his nephew’s grim face to the man up on the battlements. He’d been told of Aubrey’s death three days ago during the French assault. The marshal had been the first to reach the walls, but when other knights sought to follow, their ladder broke, flinging them into the ditch. Trapped alone on the battlements, Aubrey had fought fiercely until overwhelmed by sheer numbers, and his friends could only watch helplessly as he was stabbed multiple times.

“Are you sure, Henri?”

“Very sure. He is even wearing Aubrey’s surcote. Those dark splotches are his blood. The swine has been taunting us like this for the past two days, daring us to avenge Aubrey. But the man has the Devil’s own luck, for none of our bolts have even scratched him.”

Richard turned back to the wall and then swore, for the Saracen in the slain marshal’s armor was no longer there. “I see what you mean,” he said, and gestured toward a nearby flask.

André picked it up and flipped it over to Richard. His royal cousin’s pallor was so pronounced that he knew Richard ought to be back in bed. But he knew, too, that there was no point in suggesting it. Instead he reached for his own crossbow and resumed shooting up at the walls.

They were all soaked in sweat by now for the heat had become sweltering as the sun rose higher in the sky. Still, men continued to make that dangerous dash toward the walls, even as others ventured out to drag the wounded back to safety; the dead would have to wait till darkness for their recovery. Just before noon, they were taken by surprise by the arrival upon the scene of Conrad of Montferrat.

“My liege,” he said, in casual acknowledgment of Richard’s rank. “I’d heard you were out here, had to see for myself.” Making himself comfortable next to Richard, he murmured, “Trying to make Philippe look bad for staying in bed?”

Richard gave him a sharp look, but Conrad had already turned toward the Accursed Tower, staring in astonishment at the frantic activity around the breach. “Jesu, look at those crazy fools! In the past, we could not get men to volunteer for death-duty like that. How’d you do it?” His eyes searched Richard’s face, half admiring, half envious. “Even when we ordered them, they still balked.”

“I did not order them. I offered two gold bezants for every rock they bring back from the breach.”

Conrad’s jaw dropped and then he gave a shout of laughter. “Now why did we not think of that? Why waste time appealing to men’s faith when bribery works so much better?”

“Not bribery. A reward for risking their lives. Do not tell me they do not deserve it, my lord marquis. Not unless you intend to get out there and start clearing away that rubble yourself.”

Conrad’s eyes glittered even in that subdued light. But Richard was no longer paying him any mind. Snatching up his crossbow, he aimed and fired in one smooth motion. The bolt struck his target in the chest. The Saracen staggered, blood gushing from his mouth, and all around Richard, men began to yell and cheer, pumping their fists and slapping one another on the back, while Conrad looked on in bafflement.

“It was a good shot,” he said dryly, “I’ll grant you that. But surely all this joy is somewhat excessive? Unless that was Saladin himself you just dispatched to the Devil.”

His sarcasm did not go over well with Richard’s men, who were beginning to bristle. Richard showed white teeth in what was almost a smile. “You can tell Philippe,” he said, “that I just avenged his marshal.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, the French assaulted the city again, taking heavy losses. The Saracen garrison sent a swimmer across the harbor to warn Salah al-Dīn that they must surrender if he could not come to their aid. They then proposed to yield Acre in return for their lives. When this offer was turned down, they offered to free one Christian prisoner for every member of the garrison and to return the fragment of the Holy Cross, captured by Salah al-Dīn after his victory at Ḥaṭṭīn. The Franks, the name used by the Saracens for their foes, insisted upon the return of “all their lands and the release of all their prisoners.” This was refused. The crusaders’ trebuchets continued to pound away at the walls, and on July 11, Richard’s men and the Pisans combined for another attack on the breached wall by the crumbling Accursed Tower. They were eventually beaten back, but they’d come so close to forcing their way into the city that the garrison realized defeat was inevitable.

FRIDAY, JULY 12, dawned hot and humid. Joanna, Berengaria, and their women passed the hours restlessly, unable to concentrate upon anything but the meeting taking place in the pavilion of the Templars, where Acre’s commanders, Sayf al-Dīn al-Mashtūb and Bahā’ al-Dīn Qarāqūsh, were conferring with Richard, Philippe, Henri, Guy de Lusignan, Conrad of Montferrat, and the other leaders of the crusading army. Berengaria kept picking up her psalter, putting it down again, while Joanna tried to continue Alicia’s chess lessons, but her gaze was roaming so often toward the tent entrance that the young girl managed to checkmate her, much to her glee.

“They will yield, yes?” Anna asked at last, giving voice to the question uppermost in all their minds. Her grasp of their language had improved in the six weeks since her world had turned upside down, and she continued in charmingly accented French. “Or they will all die, no?”

“Most likely,” Joanna confirmed, too nervous to put a gloss upon the brutal reality of warfare in their world—that a castle or town taken by storm could expect no mercy. Whether there would be survivors depended upon the whims of the victors or upon the ability of the defeated to raise ransom money. There had been a bloodbath after the Christians had seized Jerusalem in 1099, almost all of the Muslims and Jews in the city put to the sword. But Saladin had spared the Christians of Jerusalem four years ago after Balian d’Ibelin persuaded him to let them buy their lives; Joanna was proud that the money her father had sent to the Holy City over the years had kept thousands of men and women from being sold in Saracen slave markets.

Glancing over at Anna, she amended her answer, saying, “That is why they will accept our terms. They know their fate will be a bloody one if our men seize the city. By yielding, they can save themselves and those still living in Acre.”

Anna looked from Joanna to Berengaria, back to Joanna. “Why you fret, then, if outcome is certain?” Before either woman could respond, she smiled, dimples deepening in sudden comprehension. “Ah . . . I see. You fear for
Malik Ric
.” This was how the Saracens referred to Richard, and Anna had begun to use the name, too, much to Richard’s amusement. “He would be healed for another . . .” She paused, frowning as she sought the right word. “Another attack . . . that is it, no?”

“Yes, that is it,” Joanna confirmed, exchanging silent sympathy with Berengaria. While Richard was regaining strength with each passing day, he was by no means physically up to taking part in a battle, and yet they feared he would want to do just that; he’d been very frustrated at not being able to join his men in yesterday’s assault. Although they felt confident that Henri and the Bishop of Salisbury and Richard’s friends would not permit him to risk his life so foolishly, they well knew how stubborn he could be, and so both women were praying that today would end the siege.

They were about to send one of Joanna’s household knights back to the Templars’ tent to learn how the negotiations were proceeding when they heard it—a sudden roar, as if coming from thousands of throats, even louder than the sound Greek fire made when it streaked toward its target, trailing a flaming tail. Mariam darted toward the entrance and was back in moments, smiling. “Either they’ve come to terms or the whole camp has gone stark mad, for men are shouting and cheering and all the whores are hurrying out to help them celebrate!”

Joanna and Berengaria were on their feet now, embracing joyfully, determined to ignore the fact that this was but a respite, that Acre’s fall was only the first in a series of bloody battles on the road leading to the Holy City.

Within the hour, the noise level suddenly increased, alerting them that Richard must be approaching. He was flanked by Henri and the Earl of Leicester, with friends and lords following jubilantly in his wake. He still looked like what he was, a man recently risen from his sickbed, his cheekbones thrown into prominence by his weight loss, his complexion unnaturally pale for one with such high coloring. But his smile was dazzling and he appeared as happy as either woman had ever seen him.

“It is done,” he said huskily. “Acre is ours.”

THE ACRE GARRISON agreed to surrender the city and all of their weapons and siege engines, including the seventy galleys of Salah al-Dīn’s fleet, anchored out in the harbor. They promised on the sultan’s behalf to pay two hundred thousand
dinars
, and to return the Holy Cross. Fifteen hundred Christian prisoners were to be freed, as were one hundred men specifically named. Conrad of Montferrat was to receive ten thousand
dinars
for his help in negotiating the settlement. The garrison was to be held as hostages until the terms were met, and then they and their families would be freed. When the news reached Salah al-Dīn, he was horrified, and after consulting with his council, he determined to send a swimmer back after dark to the beleaguered city, telling the garrison that he could not accept such terms. But he soon learned it was too late, for at noon his men saw the “banners of unbelief ” raised over the walls of Acre.

CHAPTER 22

JULY 1191

Acre, Outremer

Acre was divided between Richard and Philippe, as were the garrison hostages. This did not please those crusaders who’d been at the siege since the beginning and had expected to benefit when it finally fell. After they’d complained vociferously, the two kings agreed to give them a share of the spoils, but not all trusted in royal promises and some ill will lingered. Nor was Philippe happy with the division, for Richard had insisted upon taking the half of the city that contained the citadel, wanting to lodge his wife and sister there, and Philippe had to make do with the Templars’ house. Remembering how he’d been the one to occupy the royal palace in Messina, this seemed like further proof that his status was being deliberately diminished, and he began to nurse yet another grievance against Richard.

Richard paid no heed to these grumblings of discontent and forged ahead, concerned only with making Acre secure as soon as possible, for once the Saracen garrison was ransomed by Salah al-Dīn, he meant to lead his army south. But first the Archbishop of Verona and the other bishops had to reconsecrate the churches, many of which had been used as mosques. Then the streets had to be cleared of the rubble, debris, and garbage that had accumulated during the siege, and habitable houses assigned to crusaders. He’d begun rebuilding the walls at once, but it was nine days before he judged it safe enough to bring Berengaria and Joanna into the city.

ACRE HAD BEEN a notorious seaport prior to its seizure by Salah al-Dīn, known for its diverse population, its raucous vitality, and its multitude of opportunities for bad behavior. As soon as they passed through the gate by the ruins of the Accursed Tower, the women could see that the Acre of old was rapidly reviving, the streets thronged, the markets up and running, taverns, cook-shops, and brothels already open for business. It was bustling and bawdy and they were both fascinated and repelled, but with Richard acting as their escort and guide, they were able to relax and enjoy their tour of this exotic, vibrant, sinful city.

The old boundaries had been restored, the Templars, Hospitallers, and Italian merchants all allotted their own neighborhoods. They barely glanced at the French fleur de lys flying over the Temple to the west, where Philippe was now lodged. But they were intrigued by the Genoese quarter, for they’d never seen a covered street before. It was vaulted, with shaft openings to let in light and air, lined with stalls and stone benches, the air so fragrant with the scents wafting from the soapmakers and perfume shops that they decided they would later return to make purchases, for that simple pleasure had been denied them since they’d sailed from Messina.

They were accustomed to the odd, flat roofs by now, having seen them in Cyprus. But it was surprising to see no buildings of wood, to see so many houses of stone, a luxury back in Europe, and to see canvas awnings stretched across the narrow streets to shelter people from the hot Syrian sun. They were saddened to discover how the Cathedral of the Holy Cross had suffered during the Saracen occupation, and interested to learn that the Templars and Hospitallers had subterranean stables for their horses. Joanna determined to check out the bathhouses for herself after Richard reported that they had rooms with hot and cold pools, with separate accommodations for men and women. And they were delighted by their first sight of a remarkable creature with a humped back and silky, long eyelashes, astonished when it knelt so that its rider could mount. Richard said these beasts were called “camels,” able to go long distances without water. He was more interested in the stories he’d heard of lions in the north, declaring that he’d love to hunt a lion ere they returned home. Joanna and Berengaria exchanged glances at that, the same thought in both their minds, that “home” had never seemed so far away.

After exploring the Genoese and Venetian quarters, Richard took them back to the royal citadel, situated along the north wall. The women were eager to see it, for they knew this would be their residence for months to come. It was built like many of the houses in Outremer, around a central courtyard, with corner towers and a great hall; while it could not compare to the luxury of her Palermo palaces, Joanna was so pleased to have a roof over her head after weeks in tents that she was not about to complain. They exclaimed over the courtyard, for it was paved in marble and bordered by fruit trees, with benches, a sundial, and a large fountain, where water was flowing from the mouth of a sculpted stone dragon.

“Wait till you see the great hall,” Richard said. “The ceiling is painted to look like a starlit sky.” But as they started toward the outside stairway, he was approached by one of his men, and after a brief exchange, he turned back to the women, his smile gone. “The Duke of Austria is here and insisting to speak with me,” he said, not sounding happy about it. “Henri will show you the palace and I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

The women were relieved that the citadel seemed so comfortable. They were impressed, too, by how thoroughly all traces of the former occupants had been erased in such a brief time span, realizing that men must have been laboring day and night to make it ready for them. They admired the painted ceiling in the great hall and its mosaic tile floor, and were delighted by the bedchambers, which were spacious and golden with sunlight, for they had walk-in bay windows that could be opened like doors. One of the chambers had a balcony that overlooked the courtyard, and Berengaria and Joanna immediately began to argue over which one should occupy it; much to Henri’s amusement, each woman insisted the other ought to have it.

Stepping out onto the balcony, Berengaria at once beckoned to Henri. “Is that the Duke of Austria below with Richard?”

Henri and Joanna joined her, gazing down at the scene below them in the courtyard. The duke was a compact man in his early thirties, dressed more appropriately for his court in Vienna than the dusty streets of Acre, his tunic of scarlet silk, his cap studded with gemstones, his fingers adorned with gold rings. Both men were keeping their voices low, but it was obvious to their audience that Leopold was very agitated; he was gesturing emphatically, at one point slamming his fist into the palm of his hand, his face so red that he looked sunburned. Richard seemed more impatient than angry, shaking his head and shrugging and then turning away. Leopold’s mouth contorted and he lunged forward, grabbing for the other man’s arm. The women and Henri winced at that, knowing what was coming. Richard whirled, eyes blazing. Whatever he said was enough to silence Leopold, who was ashen by the time the English king was done berating him. He did not protest this time when Richard stalked off, but the expression on his face was troubling to Berengaria, and as soon as they withdrew from the balcony, she asked Henri why the duke was so wroth with Richard.

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I’ve had no problems dealing with him. We dined together upon his arrival at Acre this spring, and he was pleasant company, liking troubadour music as much as I do. He is very prideful and concerned about his honor, but what man isn’t?”

Henri’s favorable impression of Leopold only deepened the mystery for the women. They were still inspecting the chamber, admiring the glazed green and yellow oil lamps and ivory chess figures when Richard strode in. He was still flushed with anger, but he made an effort to conceal it, asking Berengaria what she thought of the room. “I was told the Saracen commander al-Mashtūb occupied this chamber. The carpet is his, and that chess set. You can decorate however you want, of course.”

Berengaria assured him that she was very pleased with the chamber. She was quite curious about his quarrel with Leopold, but she did not want him to think she was prying into matters best left to men.

Joanna had no such compunctions. “What was that dispute with the Austrian duke all about?”

Richard grimaced. “He was enraged because some of my men took his banner down from the city walls.”

Joanna blinked in surprise. “I assume you assured him that the offenders would be punished. Was that not enough for him?”

“I have no intention of punishing my men. I told them to remove his banner.”

Seeing that Berengaria and the other women shared Joanna’s puzzlement, Henri took it upon himself to explain, knowing Richard was in no mood to do so. “By flying his banner over Acre, he was claiming a share of the spoils. It is understandable, though, Uncle, that Leopold would be aggrieved about it. He’s sensitive to slights, real or imagined. Do you want me to talk to him, see if I can smooth his ruffled feathers?”

“No need to bother.” Richard bent over to stroke Joanna’s ever-present Sicilian hounds. “Let him stew in his own juices. You’ll not believe what he dared to say to me. After I pointed out that
he
was in the wrong, not my men, he accused me of being high-handed and unfair, as when I ‘maltreated’ Isaac Comnenus! It seems his mother is Isaac’s cousin. I told him . . . well, I’ll leave that to your imaginations,” he said, with a glimmer of his first smile since entering the chamber.

A silence fell, somewhat awkwardly, for both Joanna and Henri felt that Richard ought to have been more diplomatic with the duke; why make enemies needlessly? Berengaria’s natural instincts were for conciliation, too, but she was indignant that Leopold would dare to blame Richard for deposing Isaac Comnenus, who still flitted through her dreams on bad nights. Going to her husband’s side, she said tartly, “He ought to be ashamed to admit kinship to such a wicked man!”

Richard liked her display of loyalty, and when he slid his arm around her waist, he liked the feel of her soft female curves. His body was still surging with the energy unleashed by his confrontation with Leopold, and he drew her closer, his anger forgotten. “Henri, why don’t you show Joanna and Berenguela’s duennas the rest of the palace?”

There were gasps from his wife’s ladies, scandalized that he meant to claim his marital rights in the middle of the afternoon. Berengaria blushed, a bit flustered that he’d made his intention so plain in front of others. But when he leaned over to whisper in her ear, she laughed softly. Joanna and Henri ushered the women out, both grinning.

SEATED BY RICHARD’S SIDE at the high table, Berengaria felt a sense of satisfaction as she looked around the great hall. It hadn’t been easy to prepare a dinner like this on just one day’s notice, but she and Joanna had managed it. The linen tablecloths were snowy white, the platters and bowls were brightly glazed, and the rare red glassware she’d found among the Saracen commander’s possessions shimmered like rubies whenever the sun struck them. The menu was not as elaborate as she would have wished, but their guests were eating with gusto, the wine was flowing freely, and once the dinner was done, they would be serenaded by minstrels and harpists. This was the first time in her two-month marriage that Berengaria had been able to play her proper role as Richard’s queen, entertaining his friends, vassals, and political allies, and she was enjoying this long-overdue taste of normalcy.

The guest list was a distinguished one: the archbishops of Pisa and Verona; the Bishop of Salisbury; the beleaguered King of Jerusalem and his two brothers, Joffroi and Amaury de Lusignan; the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitallers; the Earl of Leicester; Henri of Champagne and Jaufre of Perche; André de Chauvigny; the Flemings, Jacques d’Avesnes and Baldwin de Bethune; Humphrey de Toron; even the master of the Templars, for although Philippe was now residing at their Temple, the new master, Robert de Sablé, was an Angevin baron and one of Richard’s most trusted vassals. The women—Joanna, Berengaria, Sophia, Anna, and their ladies-in-waiting—were in the minority and the conversation so far was distinctly male in its tenor.

They discussed the deadly and mysterious weapon, Greek fire, which was so combustible that it could not be extinguished by water, only vinegar. They took turns guessing the identity of an unknown Christian spy, who’d sent them valuable, secret messages from Acre during the course of the siege. Richard revealed that he was negotiating with the Templars, who were eager to buy Cyprus from him. And they drank toasts to the memories of those who’d given their lives that Acre could be taken—the Count of Flanders, Philippe’s marshal, Aubrey Clement, the counts of Blois and Sancerre, Guy de Lusignan’s queen, and a nameless woman in a long green cloak who’d shot a bow with astonishing accuracy, killing several Saracens before she’d been overwhelmed and slain. They’d begun to talk about Saracen battle tactics when the convivial dinner was interrupted by the unexpected arrival of the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais.