Lionheart (58 page)

WHEN THE RIVAL CLAIMANTS and their supporters were ushered into the hall, there was a marked difference in their demeanors. Conrad and his men looked tense, the de Lusignans smug. Joanna had seized the opportunity to slip in with them and immediately headed for Henri. Linking her arm in his, she teased, “I do not see any blood on the floor. Does this mean you actually reached a decision acceptable to all?”

“To the contrary,” he confided. “We reached one sure to infuriate both sides equally, but that was the best we could do.”

Before she could interrogate him further, the Archbishop of Tyre rose from his seat upon the dais and signaled for quiet. “I must insist that you remain silent until I am done. It is the decision of the kings of the English and the French and the high court that Guy de Lusignan shall remain king for the remainder of his life. Upon his death, the crown will pass to the Lady Isabella and her husband, the Marquis of Montferrat. Royal revenues are to be shared equally between King Guy and the marquis. Because the marquis kept Tyre from falling to Saladin, he is to be given hereditary possession of Tyre, Sidon, and Beirut. In recognition of his prowess during the siege, Joffroi de Lusignan is to have Jaffa and Ascalon once they, like Sidon and Beirut, are reclaimed from the Saracens. Should it be God’s Will that King Guy, the marquis, and his wife all die whilst King Richard is still in Outremer, he shall have the right to dispose of the kingdom as he sees fit, by virtue of his blood-kinship to the Lady Isabella.”

A faint, sardonic smile tugged at the corner of the archbishop’s mouth. “Now,” he said dryly, “you may express your admiration at the Solomon-like wisdom of our decision.”

Conrad’s first reaction was relief that he’d not been cut out entirely as he’d feared, followed by frustration, for how likely was it that he’d outlive his younger rival? Guy looked pleased and then puzzled. “But what if I remarry and have children? Surely they’d take precedence over the marquis’s questionable claim.”

“No,” the archbishop said, allowing himself a hint of satisfaction, “they would not.”

Guy gasped. “Are you saying I’ll have only a life interest in the crown?”

“That’s more than you deserve,” Renaud of Sidon said with a sneer, and that was all it took. Both sides began to rail at the unfairness of the terms, exchanging insults and threats with a bitterness that did not bode well for acceptance of the decision. Only Joffroi de Lusignan seemed content with the outcome, watching his brother rave and rant with the detached amusement of a future Count of Jaffa.

Richard finally had to intervene and shout the protests down, with some help from Archbishop Joscius. Philippe paid no heed to the turmoil. Instead he beckoned to Conrad, who obeyed, but took his time in doing so. They conferred for a few moments, and then Philippe rose, getting ready to depart.

Balian at once made his way over to Conrad’s side. At his low-voiced query, Conrad leaned closer, saying in the Piedmontese dialect, “Philippe is giving me his half of Acre and his share of the ransom for the Saracen hostages.”

Balian was surprised, not having expected such a generous gesture from the French king. “You think Philippe is feeling a pang or two of guilt?”

Conrad gave a snort of disbelief. “Since when are you such an innocent? He did it for one reason and one reason only—in hopes that I will make life as difficult as possible for the English king after he’s left Outremer.” He looked past Balian then, watching Richard with the single-minded intensity of an archer tracking his target. “And by God, I will do my best to oblige him.”

Philippe’s knights had reached him by now. But as they turned to go, Richard called out in a loud, commanding tone, “My lord king!” When Philippe halted, he said, “We are not yet done. I assume you remain set upon leaving Acre.” He got an almost imperceptible nod in grudging response, and then signaled to André, who came forward with an ivory reliquary. “I must ask then that you swear upon these holy relics that you will honor the protection the Church gives men who’ve taken the cross, and wage no war against my lands whilst I am doing God’s Work in Outremer.”

Philippe’s eyes, always pale, took on the colorless glaze of winter ice. “Indeed I will not! You insult me by even asking for such an oath.”

“I am sorry you take it that way. But I must insist.” Richard’s face was impassive, but his body language conveyed another message altogether, his legs spread apart, his arms folded across his chest, his very posture a challenge in itself. “If you refuse, you raise some very ugly suspicions. Why would you balk if you do not have evil intent?”

“I ‘balk’ because I find it offensive that you think there is a need for such an oath!” Glancing around the hall, Philippe saw that once again Richard had managed to get public opinion on his side. Well, so be it! He swung around, intending to stalk out, only to find his path blocked by his own lords.

“You’ll shame us all if you refuse,” Hugh of Burgundy hissed. “For the love of Christ, take the damned oath!”

“The duke is right, my liege,” Jaufre said, with an impressive display of quiet courage. “I am sure you’d never invade the English king’s domains whilst he is fighting for the Holy City. But it will look bad if you refuse.”

“Take the oath, Uncle,” Henri urged, as softly as Jaufre but with less deference. “Not for Richard’s sake, for your own. Why plant needless seeds of doubt in other men’s minds?”

Philippe looked from one man to another, saw the same grim resolve and defiant disapproval on all their faces. “Very well,” he snapped. “I’ll take his bloody oath. And you, my lord duke, and you, my lord count, may stand surety for my good faith.” Neither Hugh nor Henri appeared happy about that, and he took a small measure of satisfaction in their discomfort. But not enough to compensate for yet one more humiliation inflicted upon him by the accursed English king.

Striding over to André, he made no effort to hide his fury as he placed his hand upon the holy reliquary and swore a solemn oath that he’d do no harm to Richard’s lands as long as the other monarch remained in Outremer. After announcing that the Duke of Burgundy and Count of Champagne would act as guarantors, he departed immediately thereafter, as did Conrad and his partisans, followed by the French lords, further evidence of the deep divisions still rending the crusading army.

Henri had remained behind. Seeing that Richard had been cornered by the aggrieved Guy de Lusignan, he came to his uncle’s rescue with a fabricated message from Guy’s brother Amaury. Richard had been listening to Guy’s complaints with rapidly dwindling patience, and sighed with relief as the latter reluctantly went off in search of his kinsman. “The more time I spend with Guy,” he muttered, “the more I marvel that my cousin Sybilla stayed loyal to him until the day she died. Neither sister had the best of luck with their husbands, did they?”

Accepting a silver-gilt goblet from a wine bearer, he sprawled in the nearest chair. “Jesu, but I am bone-weary of dealing with all these petty squabbles and rivalries. I have no doubts that Conrad and Guy would rather fight each other than the Saracens.” Slanting a fond, playful look toward his nephew, he said, “You need not worry, lad, about standing surety for Philippe. I’ll not blame you when he breaks his oath. Hellfire, I’ll not even blame Hugh of Burgundy, and blaming Hugh is one of my minor pleasures in life!”

“I assumed you’d not hold me to account,” Henri said with a smile, “but I am sure Hugh will be relieved to hear that.” Taking a swallow from his own wine cup, he regarded the other man pensively. “Are you so sure, Uncle, that Philippe will wage war upon you? He did swear upon holy relics, albeit after some coaxing.”

“He vowed, too, to take the cross and what oath could be more sacred than that?” Richard drained his goblet with a grimace that had nothing to do with the taste of the wine. “If he could not keep faith with God, why would he keep faith with me?”

THE LAST DAY OF JULY was not as oppressively hot, for the Arsuf winds had sprung up, blowing from the south. As Henri and Balian and their men rode through the thronged streets, Henri marveled at the resiliency of this coastal city, already rebounding from nearly two years under siege; signs of economic activity were everywhere, and carpenters and masons had more work than they could handle. As he passed the thriving markets, the crowded bathhouses and brothels, Henri thought it was easy to forget that a bloody war was waiting to resume beyond Acre’s newly repaired walls. The same illusory sense of peace prevailed at the citadel. As they entered the great hall, they encountered a scene of domestic tranquility, which Henri had rarely, if ever, associated with his uncle.

Richard and a number of lords were gathered around a table covered with maps, but the presence of women kept the hall from resembling a battle council. Anna was holding court in a window-seat, surrounded by young knights eager to improve her French, under her stepmother’s vigilant eye. Mariam was playing chess with Morgan, but the looks they were exchanging indicated another game was under way. Joanna and Berengaria were chatting with the Bishop of Salisbury, while the palace cooks hovered nearby, waiting to discuss the week’s menu. There were even dogs underfoot, Joanna’s Sicilian cirnecos mingling warily with Jacques d’Avesnes’s huge Flemish hounds. All that was lacking were a few wailing babes or shrieking children, Henri thought, feeling an unexpected yearning for the cool greenwoods and lush vineyards of his native Champagne.

To Balian, there was no incongruity between this serene family tableau and the coming brutal campaign, for the
poulains
knew no other way of life; they never forgot the precarious nature of their hold upon this ancient land as sacred to Islam as it was to Christianity. He was more concerned with the unwelcoming expression on the English king’s face. “I knew this was a mistake, Henri. I ought not to have let you talk me into it.”

“It was not a mistake,” Henri insisted. “Give me a moment and I’ll prove it.” Taking Balian over to introduce him to Joanna and Berengaria, he left his friend exchanging pleasantries with the women and hastened toward Richard, who was moving to intercept him, scowling. Before his uncle could challenge Balian’s presence, he took the offensive. “Yes, Balian d’Ibelin is Conrad’s adviser and friend. In fact, they are kin by marriage since Isabella is Balian’s stepdaughter. But I invited him here because you said you wanted to learn more of Saracen battle tactics and he is the ideal teacher. Not only did he grow to manhood fighting the Turks and often distinguished himself in combat, he was at Ḥaṭṭīn.”

“So were Guy and Humphrey de Toron.”

“Despite his training as a knight, Humphrey is no soldier. As for Guy, I suppose his experience could be useful—note whatever he advises and then do the opposite.”

Richard could not dispute Henri’s barbed assessment of Guy and Humphrey. Nor were there that many Ḥaṭṭīn veterans available for questioning, for hundreds had been slain on the field and the best fighters, the Templars and Hospitallers, had all died after the battle, executed by Saladin. “Well, as long as he’s here . . .” he said ungraciously and Henri went off, grinning, to fetch Balian.

Several hours later, Richard was glad he’d heeded his nephew. He was still mistrustful of Balian, who was too close to Conrad for his comfort and who was wed to a woman who could teach Cleopatra about conniving, Maria Comnena, a daughter of the Greek Royal House and former Queen of Jerusalem. But he’d forgotten about Balian’s dangerous Greek wife once the
poulain
began to talk about war in Outremer.

Balian confirmed all that Richard had been told about Turkish battle tactics. “The Saracens do not fight like the Franks,” he said, speaking to Richard as one soldier to another while ignoring the hostile glares he was getting from Guy. “They know they cannot withstand a charge by armed knights, and so they do their best to avoid it. They remain at a distance, for they have mastered a skill unknown to Franks—they can shoot a bow from horseback, on the run. When our knights attack, they retreat and regroup. When Franks are on the march, they swarm us like black flies, bite, and flit out of reach, again and again until our knights are so maddened they can endure it no longer. They break formation and charge, which is what the Saracens have been waiting for. Indeed, they are most dangerous when they appear to be in retreat, for too often our men lose all caution in the excitement of the chase, and by the time they realize they have been lured into an ambush, it is too late.”