Lionheart (57 page)

“Damned right I do! I took Cyprus only because I was forced to it, because Isaac Comnenus—the Duke of Austria’s illustrious kinsman—threatened my sister, my betrothed, and my men. It was never part of our pact, which was to share what we conquered in the Holy Land.” Richard paused for breath, and then smiled, the way he did on the battlefield when he saw a foe’s vulnerability. “If you want to expand the terms of our agreement, though, so be it. If it will keep you in Outremer, I will give you half of Cyprus.” He paused again, this time to savor the expression of shock on Philippe’s face. “But that means you must share the lands you inherited from the Count of Flanders. It is only fair—one-half of Cyprus for one-half of Artois.”

“Never!”

“Now why does that not surprise me?” Richard jeered. “You care nothing for our holy quest, care for nothing but profit. You may have the blood of kings in your veins, but you have the soul of a merchant, Philippe Capet, and now all know it.”

“And what do you care about, my lord Lionheart? Your ‘holy quest’ is not for God, it is for your own glory and fame! Nothing matters to you but winning renown for yourself on the battlefield. For that you’d sacrifice anything or anyone, as the men foolish enough to follow you will soon find out.”

“Shall we put that to the test?” Richard spun around, pointing toward the Bishop of Beauvais and the Duke of Burgundy. “Let’s begin with your messengers. It is no secret that there is no love lost between us, and I daresay they also believe that I hunger only for personal glory. But you both told me that you mean to honor your vows. Is that not so?”

Neither man looked pleased to be singled out like this. They did not hesitate, though, each one confirming that he did indeed intend to remain in Outremer. Although inwardly he was seething, Philippe showed no reaction, for he’d been braced for their defection. Yet what happened next caught him off balance. Richard turned to Philippe’s guests, the barons, knights, and bishops who owed fealty to the French king.

“What about the rest of you? Are you going to follow your king back to Paris? Or will you follow me to Jerusalem?”

Some glanced toward Philippe, despairing. Some averted their eyes. But when Mathieu de Montmorency shouted out “Jerusalem,” the cry burst from other throats, too, sweeping the table and then the hall. One by one, they rose to their feet, as much a public repudiation of Philippe as it was an affirmation of their faith, all orchestrated by the English king. At least that was how Philippe would remember it, till the day he drew his last mortal breath.

BERENGARIA PROPPED HERSELF up on her elbow, regarding her husband quizzically, for he usually fell asleep soon after their love-making. Tonight, though, he was not only wakeful, but talkative, too, and for more than an hour he’d been giving her a dramatic account of his confrontation with the French king, interspersing the narrative with acerbic comments about Philippe’s manifold failings, both as a man and monarch. Berengaria was very pleased that he was willing to discuss the day’s astounding developments with her, and greatly shocked by Philippe’s decision to abandon the crusade, so she was an ideal audience for Richard’s tirade, convinced that he was utterly in the right, even if he had not been completely candid about his intentions in Cyprus.

After a while, though, she began to realize that there was more than anger fueling his harangue. Putting her hand on his arm, she could feel the coiled tension in his muscles. “Richard . . . I understand why you are wroth with Philippe. But surely it must be a relief, too, to know that you’ll not have to put up with his slyness and ill will, especially since the rest of the French are staying on. So why are you not better pleased that you are now in sole command of the Christian forces?”

“Yes, I will be glad to be rid of Philippe,” he admitted. “Having him for an ally made me feel like a cat with a hammer tied to its tail. The problem, Berenguela, is that he is utterly untrustworthy. He is not returning because he is ailing. He is going back to try to wrest Flanders from Baudouin of Hainaut. And then he will start casting covetous eyes toward my domains, toward the Vexin and Normandy.”

“But the lands of a man who’s taken the cross are inviolable. Surely the Pope would excommunicate him for so great a sin?”

“In a perfect world, yes. In ours, I’m not so sure.”

“How could the Holy Father not act, Richard? The Papal See has always given its full protection to men who go on pilgrimage. How shameful it would be if the Church let harm come to their lands or families whilst they are fighting for the Lord Christ in the Holy Land!”

He smiled at her vehemence. “You’ll get no argument from me, little dove. I hope the new Pope feels as strongly as you do about the Church’s duty to defend those who’ve taken the cross. All I can do from Acre, though, is send word to my mother and Bishop Longchamp, warning them there’ll soon be a French wolf on the prowl.”

She looked at him unhappily. It was so unfair that he must worry about Philippe’s treachery whilst all of Christendom expected him to be the savior of the Holy City. He seemed to sense her distress, for he reached over and took her hand. But that reassuring gesture brought tears to her eyes. He’d lost his fingernails during his illness, and while he’d acted as if it were a minor matter, the sight of his injured fingers reminded her how very close he’d come to death.

She did her best now to hide her concern, for even her brief experience as a wife had taught her that men did not want to be fussed over. There were several copper-colored hairs on the pillow and she tried to brush them away before he noticed, remembering what Joanna had said about his vanity. She only succeeded in calling his attention to them. “That’s odd,” he mused. “Henri said he did not begin to lose his hair for nigh on two months after his illness. I wonder if I’m starting early.”

She was surprised that he sounded so matter-of-fact. “It does not trouble you, Richard . . . losing your hair?”

“Well, it will if it does not grow back,” he said with a smile. “And in all honesty, I’d not have been happy if this happened ere an important event like my coronation or our wedding. I doubt that my crown would have looked quite as impressive if I’d been bald as an egg. But if I have to lose my hair, there is not a better time for it than now. I’m not likely to be looking into any mirrors whilst campaigning.”

He laughed then, as if at some private memory. “Soldiers have many vices, but vanity is not amongst them. How could it be? What man is going to worry about his hair when he might lose his head?” Too late, he caught her look of alarm, and to divert her thoughts from the dangers he’d be facing, he said quickly, “It is hard for a woman to understand what campaigning is like, Berenguela. It is a much simpler life we lead. We have to make do without luxuries like this. . . .” He patted their feather mattress. “Or this . . .” he added, cupping her breast. “We eat what can be cooked over campfires. We usually have to bathe in cold water, so it does not take long until we’re all stinking like polecats. We’ll bring along some laundresses, so at least our clothes will get washed occasionally, and they’ll do their best to keep us from getting too lice-ridden. But you can be sure I’ll not be looking like that splendid peacock who bedazzled Isaac Comnenus and the Cypriots!”

He laughed again, but Berengaria was dismayed by the image now taking root in her mind. Was it not enough that men must put their lives at risk? Must they endure so much discomfort, too? “Richard, that sounds dreadful!”

“No,” he said, “it is not. It is a soldier’s life, no more, no less. Do you want the truth, little dove? I love it. It is the world I’ve known since I was fifteen, the only world I’ve wanted to know.”

She sat up, forgetting to tuck the sheet around her, so intent was she upon what he’d just said. “Why do you love it, Richard?”

“The challenge. I love that, being able to test myself, to prove that I’m the best. Not because I am Henry Fitz Empress’s son or because I wear a crown. Because I can wield a sword with greater skill than other men. Because I have worked to perfect those skills for nigh on twenty years. Because when I’m astride Fauvel, I feel as if we’re one and he does, too. Because I can see things on the field that other men do not. Sometimes it seems as if I know what a man is going to do ere he does himself. And when the fighting is done, I know that I’m the best because I’ve earned it.”

“Are you never afraid?”

He didn’t answer her at once, considering the question. “I suppose so, though it is hard to tell fear from excitement. But I’ve known for a long time that I do not feel the sort of fear that most do, the sort that can cripple a man. Why, I do not know. I just know that I never feel more alive than I do on the battlefield.”

He’d surprised himself by his candor, for this was something he’d rarely talked about, even with other soldiers. “Mind you, it is not just blood and gore,” he said, striving for a lighter tone. “It is the companionship, too, the unique bond you forge with men when you fight together, when you know that they’d risk their lives for you and you for them. Jesu, it is so different from the royal court! And since I am being so honest about it, yes, it is for the glory, too. What Philippe cannot understand is that the glory is only part of it.”

Berengaria did not know if she’d ever understand fully, either. But she was enthralled by this intimate glimpse into his very soul, for it confirmed what she’d begun to believe, that God had chosen him for this sacred purpose, blessing him with the exceptional abilities he’d need to recover Jerusalem from the infidels. “I would have been ashamed today had I been Philippe’s queen,” she said at last. “But I am proud to be your wife, Richard, very proud.”

He reached out, pulled her down into his arms. “Joanna says I do not deserve you, and she’s probably right. I know I’m not the easiest of men to live with. I can promise you this much, little dove. I’ll always try to do right by you.” He kissed her then, his mouth hot and demanding, and when he rolled on top of her, she wrapped her arms around his back, hoping that the Almighty would smile upon them, that on this special night Richard’s seed would take root in her womb. For how fitting that their son should be conceived in Acre, the first of his father’s conquests in the Holy Land.

CHAPTER 23

JULY 1191

Acre, Outremer

Conrad deliberately kept his distance, for he was sorely tempted C to lay rough hands upon the other man. “And that is it? You leave me clinging to the cliff ’s edge and just walk away?” Philippe regarded him coldly. “You have not been turned out to beg your bread by the side of the road, Conrad. A sizable French contingent is remaining in Outremer.” His jaw clenched at that, for he’d not expected such mass defections. Only his cousins, the Bishop of Chartres and the Count of Nevers, had agreed to return with him to France; the rest were so determined to honor their oaths that they were even willing to fight under Richard’s command. “The war goes on,” he said tersely, “so I do not see why you have cause for complaint.”

“Do you not? With Richard as my sworn enemy, what chance do I have of gaining the crown now?”

“And why is he your ‘sworn enemy’? Because you were foolish enough to deny him entry into Tyre. Are you so surprised that you reap what you sow?”

“I would never have done that had I thought you were going to creep away like a thief in the night!”

Philippe’s fury was all the greater because he knew this was what others were thinking; Conrad was just the only one who dared to say it to his face. But he had no intention of letting himself be swayed by their condemnation; the sooner he was out of this hellhole and on his way home, the better. “You are right about Richard,” he said, with grim satisfaction. “He is not a man to forget a wrong done him. So I would suggest that you waste no time seeking him out. If you humbly beg his pardon for having offended him, he may forgive you—or not. In either case, it is no longer my concern.”

Conrad yearned to wrap his hands around the French king’s throat and squeeze. He managed to hold on to the last shreds of his self-control as Philippe brushed past him and walked to the door, not once looking back—as if he were already forgotten, of no consequence. After the door closed, he erupted and cleared the table with a wild sweep of his arm, sending goblets, flagon, and tray flying. He could take no pleasure, though, in the damage done, for the costly glassware belonged to the Templars, not Philippe.

THE CITADEL’S GREAT HALL was crowded with men. Conrad’s face was stony, his body rigid with rage, but he showed no hesitation, striding toward the dais with a firm step, his head high. As he knelt before Richard, a murmur swept the hall, for few had ever expected to see the proud Marquis of Montferrat abase himself in public. Henri watched with a frown, wishing it had not come to this. He knew Richard was taking satisfaction from Conrad’s submission, but as badly as he took losing, he was usually a gracious winner, and his demeanor was regal this day, his expression impossible to read. The de Lusignans were not as diplomatic; Guy and his brothers and his nephew Hugh had gathered by the dais, openly exulting in their enemy’s humiliation. Henri found their gloating distasteful. He respected Joffroi and Amaury de Lusignan, even if he did not like them, for they were good soldiers and not as lacking in common sense as Guy. He did not fault Guy’s courage, but courage alone did not make a man fit to rule, and in his opinion, Guy could not be forgiven for the debacle at Ḥaṭṭīn.

“I want to talk to you.” Balian d’Ibelin materialized at his side and jerked his head toward a side door. Following after him, Henri emerged into a courtyard aglow with sunlight, the morning already promising blazing heat. He perched on the edge of the fountain, but Balian was pacing, unable to keep still. Henri had known few men as easygoing as Balian; he could not remember ever seeing his friend truly angry. He was certainly angry now, though, all but giving off sparks, a banked fire suddenly roaring into full blaze.

“I want you to tell me why,” he said, and even his usual lazy drawl was gone, his words sharp enough to cut.

“The de Lusignans are Richard’s vassals back in Poitou. He felt obligated to—”

“Ballocks! We both know he supported Guy because the French king supported Conrad. Just as we know Philippe backed Conrad because he was sure Richard would back Guy. No wonder it took them so long to reach Outremer, given how many old grievances they were dragging along. My question was for you, Henri. Why did you switch sides? When you arrived last year, you allied yourself with Conrad, not Guy. What changed your mind?”

“Richard.”

Balian studied him. “The money he gave you?”

That brought Henri to his feet; Balian might be a friend but that did not mean he could offer insults with impunity. “You know me better than that, or at least I thought you did. My honor is not for sale. Richard wants Guy as king, not Conrad, and I want what Richard does. It is as simple as that. Nor am I the only one to have a change of heart. The Knights Hospitaller did, too, and for the same reason. Richard is the man with the best chance of defeating Saladin and recapturing the Holy City. Can you deny it?”

“No. He may well retake Jerusalem. But what happens then? He goes home. So do you, Henri. So do all of you, leaving us to hold on to what you’ve won. Now you tell me this. Who has the best chance of that? Conrad? Or the hero of Ḥaṭṭīn?”

Henri’s defensiveness ebbed away. “We forget sometimes,” he conceded, “that Outremer is more than the Holy Land. For you, it is home. I’ll admit Conrad would make a better king than Guy. But I’ve already tried to persuade Richard of that, tried and failed. What more would you have me do?”

“On the morrow, Conrad and Guy are to argue their claims before the two kings and the high court of Outremer. Conrad fears that he will not get a fair hearing and Richard may even seek to take Tyre away from him. Men respect you, Henri. God knows why, but they do,” Balian added, with a glimmer of his usual humor. “Conrad needs someone to speak up for him. I am asking you to be that man.”

Henri started to say that Philippe would surely do so, if only to thwart Richard. Yet who’d listen to him now that he’d besmirched his honor? “I doubt that they’ll heed me,” he said at last. “But I will do what I can.” And Balian had to be content with that, a reluctant promise from a man young enough to have been his son.

GUY HAD ARGUED that a crowned and anointed king could not be deposed without offending the Almighty, and Conrad had countered that Guy’s claim died with Sybilla, and the rightful Queen of Jerusalem was now his wife, Isabella. They’d then withdrawn reluctantly while their fate was decided by the English and French kings and the lords and prelates of Outremer.

It was now late afternoon and it was obvious to all that they’d reached an impasse, for Richard wanted Guy, and Philippe wanted Conrad, and neither one was willing to compromise. Frustrated and angry, their throats sore from shouting, their tempers just as raw, the men finally agreed to pause in their deliberations, sending out for food and wine. The fruit, bread, and cheese went largely untouched, but the wine was disappearing at an alarming rate. Just what they needed, Henri brooded, for if the debate had been so rancorous whilst they were sober, it might even turn violent once they were in their cups.

Balian had made a passionate speech on Conrad’s behalf, but he’d been shouted down by Guy’s partisans, as had Renaud, the Lord of Sidon. And when Garnier de Nablus, the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller, had spoken up for Guy, Conrad’s supporters responded just as rudely. The men had paid the two kings the respect due their rank by hearing their arguments without such heckling, but it was obvious to Henri that neither Richard nor Philippe had changed any minds. And although he’d deliberately not glanced in Balian’s direction, he could feel the older man’s dark eyes upon him, silently reminding him of his promise.

Setting down his wine cup, he sought out the most respected of the prelates, the Archbishop of Tyre. Joscius was acclaimed for his powers of persuasion, having managed the miracle of getting both Philippe and Richard’s father, Henry, to take the cross; Henri wanted to draw upon his eloquence in support of a compromise, assuming he could manage a miracle of his own and turn two balky royal mules into docile beasts of burden. Joscius was one of Conrad’s adherents, but he was a realist, too. After getting his assent, Henri squared his shoulders, then crossed the hall and asked for a private word with Richard.

As soon as they’d settled into a window alcove, Henri said bluntly, “Uncle, I suspect that you’ll eventually prevail, but it is likely to be a Pyrrhic victory. Conrad is not one to slink away with his tail between his legs. Whatever we agree here, he is not going to put aside his claim to the crown—”

“What claim?” Richard said scornfully. “He abducted Isabella, plain and simple, then forced her to wed him even though he had left a wife behind in Constantinople. But in the eyes of God, she is still wed to Humphrey de Toron. Moreover, the marriage is invalid because it is incestuous as well as adulterous—Conrad’s brother was once wed to Isabella’s sister Sybilla, and that relationship alone would damn their union under canon law.”

Henri waited patiently until Richard paused for breath. “I agree the marriage is dubious at best. But it is a done deed and none of your fuming is going to change that. Have you asked yourself why so many highborn lords and churchmen were willing to swallow such a bitter brew? I know—you’ll say some were bribed. Mayhap that is true, but it is also true that they were desperate to pry the crown away from Guy, and who can blame them? Would you want to follow the man who’d led them to the Horns of Ḥaṭṭīn?”

Richard’s silence told Henri that he would not. Before he could shift the strategic ground from a defense of Guy to an attack on Conrad, Henri said quickly, “Conrad’s friends do not believe your concern for Isabella is genuine. I know it is. They forget that you have more reason than any man in this hall to be protective of Isabella, for she and your father had the same grandfather, Count Fulk of Anjou. But it is too late to save your cousin from a marriage she did not want, Uncle. By seeking to punish Conrad after the fact, you’ll only be depriving her of her birthright—the crown of Jerusalem.”

Richard frowned, for he’d never considered it in that light. “I cannot just abandon Guy,” he said, “for whether I like him or not, I am his liege lord and owe him my protection.”

“I know. I also know that the de Lusignans are no more likely than Conrad to accept defeat with goodwill, and nothing could be more disastrous for Outremer than a civil war. We have to find a way to accommodate them both.”

Richard grinned. “Good luck with that! Even if I agree—and you’ve got the Devil’s own tongue, lad—what about Philippe? Since when has he ever listened to common sense or reason?”

“He has his moments,” Henri said, which evoked a hoot of skeptical laughter from Richard. Then he squared his shoulders again and strode over to beard the other lion in his den.

Philippe’s greeting was decidedly cool. “If you are bearing a message from Richard, I have no interest in hearing it.”

Henri ignored the suggestion that he was acting as the English king’s lackey. “The message is mine, Uncle. I told him what I am now telling you—that we need to find a compromise, a way to accommodate the claims of both Conrad and Guy. Richard is willing to consider that. It is my hope that you will, too.”

“No,” Philippe said, and would have turned away had Henri not stood his ground.

“I ask you to hear me out, Uncle, if not for my sake, for my lady mother, your sister.”

Philippe was not moved by this appeal to their shared blood; he’d never liked his sister Marie, who’d supported the Count of Flanders in one of his rebellions. “It would be a waste of my time and your breath, Henri. I’ll never agree to crown Richard’s puppet prince. Go back and tell him that.”

“As I said, Uncle, I am not doing Richard’s bidding in this. I seek only to patch together a peace between Conrad and Guy, for we have no hope of defeating Saladin unless we do. So I am indeed sorry that you remain so adamant—and somewhat surprised, too, that you’d put Conrad’s interests ahead of the needs of France.”

Philippe’s eyes glittered suspiciously. “And just how am I doing that?”

“I should think it would be obvious,” Henri said innocently. “Your doctors insist that you return to your own lands straightaway, for they fear it would be the death of you if you do not, no? But you’ll be unable to leave Outremer until this is settled. And you know how stubborn Richard is. He’ll never agree to crown Conrad, so this dispute may well drag on for weeks, even months.” He was about to remind Philippe that if he could not sail before the autumn, he’d be forced to remain in the Holy Land until the following spring. He saw, though, that there was no need. His uncle’s expression was inscrutable, for like Richard, he could wield his court mask as a shield if the need arose. But Henri had caught it, that brief, betraying flicker of alarm, and he hid a triumphant smile, sure now that Philippe would rather spend a year in Purgatory than another month in Acre.