Lionheart (76 page)

“They view us as foxes, my lady, more of a nuisance than a real threat. They reserve their greatest hatred for the
Sunni
wolves, who return it wholeheartedly.”

“I’ve heard that they’ve tried to murder Saladin numerous times,” Richard commented. “Is that true?”

“In part, my lord king. I know of at least two attempts upon his life. Both times they penetrated his camp, and once he was saved only by his armor. He began to take great precautions for his safety and eventually he decided to strike at Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān himself, laying siege to his castle at Masyāf. But he called off the siege after just a week. I’ve heard various reasons offered for that, including a story that the Old Man of the Mountain threatened to murder Saladin’s family if he did not withdraw. It would be hard not to take such a threat seriously after what happened with the sultan’s bodyguards. . . .”

Hugues had an innate sense of drama. He paused now to sip his wine, building suspense as his audience eagerly urged him to continue. “Well,” he said, “as I heard it, the
Assassin
chieftain sent one of his men to Saladin with a message, insisting it must be delivered in private. Saladin finally agreed to see him, but would not dismiss two of his most trusted bodyguards. Sinān’s man looked at them and asked what they would do if he bade them in the name of his master to kill the sultan. They at once drew their swords and declared, ‘Command us as you wish.’ He then rode out of Saladin’s camp with the two bodyguards, the message having been delivered.”

There were gasps of delighted horror. This time it was André who took on the role of resident cynic. He was in a surly mood, in pain and frustrated by his clumsy attempts to cut his fish with his left hand, and so he eschewed tact in favor of brusque candor. “That is rubbish. If the
Assassins
could place their own men so close to Saladin, why did they not strike when they had the chance? Why settle for scaring him when they could so easily have killed him?”

Hugues was annoyed by André’s derisive interjection. But as he glanced toward Richard, he saw the king looked amused, and so he merely shrugged. “Make of it what you will, my lord de Chauvigny. I can only tell you that Saladin and the Old Man of the Mountain obviously reached some sort of understanding, a truce if you will, for the attempts upon the sultan’s life ceased.”

Henri, ever the diplomat, took it upon himself to steer the conversation into more placid waters and the awkward moment passed. He personally thought André was right, but logic rarely could compete with legend and he saw that many of the guests preferred to believe Hugues’s chilling tale of
Assassins
with diabolical powers beyond the ken of mortal men.

After the meal was done, Richard beckoned to the Grand Masters of the Templars and Hospitallers; he greatly admired the courage, stoicism, and discipline of both military orders and did what he could to show others that they stood high in royal favor. He was soon approached, though, by the Lady Uracca, the youngest—and to his mind, the most foolish—of his wife’s attendants. The queen was departing for her own tent, the girl reported, a message that was puzzling on several levels. Why had Berenguela not come over herself? And why was she leaving so soon?

While Richard tended to take the behind-the-scenes activities of the women for granted, rarely stopping to consider how much preparation went into festivities like this, he did know his wife had a strong sense of duty, and it wasn’t like her to abandon her obligations as his hostess. Uracca, of course, was unable to provide any answers, but as he searched the crowded tent, he caught a glimpse of Berengaria’s new fur-trimmed mantle.

Moving swiftly to intercept her, he was thinking back to her behavior during the meal. The other women had actively engaged in the conversation about the
Assassins
, but Berengaria had remained silent. Now that he thought about it, he realized she had been subdued even before the dinner began, uncommonly quiet and withdrawn for a queen on public display. And she did look pale, he thought, with a stirring of unease, for disease was always hovering over an army encampment and it was so cold the guests had been forced to remain bundled in their cloaks even while they ate. With so many of his soldiers laid low by sickness, how much more susceptible must a delicately reared lass like Berenguela be to the alien, noxious maladies of Outremer?

Drawing her aside, he looked intently into her face. “Uracca told me you were leaving. Are you ailing, little dove?”

“No, I am quite well. I am just . . . just tired. But I will stay if that is your wish.” Relieved, he bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “No, there is no need for that; Joanna can act in your stead. I was merely concerned that you might be ill. Go and rest. In fact, that is a good idea,” he said with a smile, “for you are not likely to get that much sleep tonight.”

He’d expected her to blush and laugh, as she always did. He did not expect the reaction he got. “No, not tonight!” she cried, and then clapped her hand to her mouth as if she could call her words back.

Richard blinked in astonishment. While he might have agreed in theory that a wife ought to have the right of refusal, it had not occurred to him that his own wife would ever invoke it. “Are you sure you are not sick, Berenguela?”

“I . . . no, I am not ill,” she assured him, although she no longer met his gaze, her lashes coming down like shutters to shield her thoughts.

He was momentarily at a loss, but then he understood. “Oh, of course! Your flux has come,” he said, pleased with himself for solving this minor mystery so easily, and reached for her hand. Again, he got more than he’d bargained for. She gasped and tears suddenly welled in her eyes. Jerking free of his grasp, she whirled and fled—there was no other way to describe her precipitate exit. Heads turned in her direction and her startled ladies and knights hurried to catch up, while Richard stared after her in consternation.

“Richard?” Joanna materialized at his side as if by magic. “Whatever did you say to her?”

He was usually amused by her protectiveness, even if it did mean she invariably took Berengaria’s side whenever they had a difference of opinion. Today he was not amused. “I said nothing,” he protested. “We were talking and suddenly she ran off. Go after her, Joanna, and find out what’s wrong.”

“Richard, she’s your wife! You’re the one to go after her.”

“You’d be better at it than me,” he insisted. “I am not good at dealing with female vapors or tears—” Warned by the look on her face, he stopped himself, but not in time.

“‘Female vapors’?” she echoed incredulously. “When have you ever seen Maman or me succumb to ‘female vapors’? When have you ever seen Berengaria give way to an emotional outburst of any kind? Has she even shed a tear in your presence? If she is distraught, she has a damned good reason for it—and it is your responsibility to find out what it is!”

When Richard didn’t reply, she read surrender in his silence. She stayed where she was, though, watching him with an implacable expression until he turned and started for the tent entrance. Only then did she clap her hands, signaling for the musicians to resume playing and for the guests politely to pretend that the queen’s flight had been nothing out of the ordinary.

RICHARD WAS NOT HAPPY with his sister. But a sense of fairness that he thought often surfaced at inopportune times compelled him to admit that he’d wronged his wife. Berenguela had none of the vices he attributed to many of her sex; she was not flighty or overly sensitive or sentimental. He still thought Joanna would have been better at offering comfort or ferreting out womanly secrets. Since she’d balked, he had no choice, though, and he entered Berengaria’s tent with the reluctant resolve of a man venturing into unknown terrain. His appearance created a predictable stir among her attendants. Thinking they were fluttering about like hens that had just spotted a hawk, he started to dismiss them; remembering in time that it was pouring rain, he settled for waving them away from the screen that afforded Berengaria her only privacy.

She was lying on the bed, but she rolled over when he said her name, looking so surprised to see him that he felt a twinge of guilt. She’d obviously been weeping, for her eyes were red and swollen. “I am sorry,” she said, “for making a scene.”

“Have you forgotten my family history, Berenguela? By our standards, you’d have to fling a glass of wine into my face to make a scene.” Sitting beside her, he reached over and wiped her wet cheeks with a corner of the sheet. “Tell me what is wrong.”

“You were right,” she confessed; her voice was muffled, as if she were swallowing tears, but she met his gaze steadily. “My flux did come today . . . almost three weeks late.”

“Ah . . . I see. You’d thought you might be with child.”

“I’d never been late before, Richard, never.” A solitary tear trickled from the corner of her eye, slowly flowed down her cheek, and splashed onto his wrist. “I was so sure, so happy. . . .”

“Berenguela . . . I have no doubts that you’ll give me a son. But it must happen in God’s time.”

“That is what my confessor keeps telling me, too,” she said, and it was obvious to him that she took no comfort in this truism. He was quiet for a few moments, trying to decide what to say.

“I think it might be for the best if you do not conceive whilst we are in Outremer,” he said at last, and saw her brown eyes widen. “Think about it, little dove. You have already experienced more discomfort and danger than most queens could even imagine. Think how much worse it would be if you had to endure all this whilst you were great with child. Then what of the delivery itself? Do you truly want to give birth in a tent? And afterward . . . you’d be fearful every time the baby sneezed or coughed. This is not a kind country for infants, for women and children. Hellfire, lass, it is no country for any man not born and bred here; we all sicken and die much easier than we would back in our own lands.”

Her eyes searched his. “You truly would not be disappointed if I do not conceive until we go home?”

“I’d be relieved,” he admitted. “Had I known what it would be like here, I doubt that I’d have taken you and Joanna with me. You could have waited for me at Tancred’s court in safety and comfort. Now . . . now I must worry about you both whilst I also worry about my men and our chances of defeating Saladin.” He smiled, but it held little humor. “There are good reasons, little dove, why men do not usually bring their women with them to war.”

“I cannot deny that those are thoughts I’ve had, too,” she confided. “I would not add to your burdens if I could help it, Richard. But . . . but I am still glad that you brought me with you.”

Leaning over, he kissed her. When he started to rise, though, she caught his hand. “Will you still come to me tonight? Even though we cannot . . . ?”

“I will,” he promised, and kissed her again. She sat up once he’d departed, but she was not yet ready to face the world and she decided to indulge herself for a while longer, safe from the stares and speculations. It was not long, though, before her sister-in-law arrived, and none of Berengaria’s ladies dared to deny her entry.

“I know Richard was here,” Joanna said forthrightly, “but I was not sure how helpful he’d be. Even the bravest of men seem to become unnerved by a woman’s tears.”

Berengaria looked fondly at the other woman, thinking how lucky she was to have Joanna as her friend. “My flux came today,” she said. “It was so late that I’d dared to hope . . . but it was not to be.”

“Berengaria, I am so sorry.” Joanna climbed onto the bed and enfolded her in a hug. “You’d been so happy the past few weeks that I’d suspected as much. You told Richard?” She hoped her brother had been sympathetic to his wife’s needs, but she did have a few misgivings, for she thought men were the unpredictable and impulsive sex, not women, and they could be insensitive at the worst possible times.

“Yes . . . he was very sweet about it.”

Joanna hid a smile, thinking that this was surely the first and only time that anyone had used that word to describe Richard. “I am glad to hear that, dearest.”

“He said he’d rather it does not happen until we are safely back in his domains, that it would be too dangerous. He is right, of course, and it is a great relief to know he does not blame me. It is just that . . . that it means so much, Joanna. Every woman surely wants children, but it is so much more urgent for a queen. What could be worse than to fail to give Richard the heir he needs?”

Joanna said nothing, but Berengaria had become adept by now at reading her sister-in-law’s face. “Oh, Joanna, I am sorry! Can you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive. I know you did not mean to diminish my loss. My son died, and yes, that is a hurt that will never fully heal. But I’ve had years to come to terms with it, Berengaria. That is part of my past. I am sure that in time Richard will find me a suitable husband—preferably Christian,” she added with a faint smile. “And when that happens, I will have other sons. As will you, my dearest sister. I truly believe that, want you to believe that, too.”

She half expected her sister-in-law to soften the presumption of that prediction with a cautious “God willing.” Berengaria surprised her, though. “I want to believe it, too, Joanna, and I will endeavor to do so. Why should it not happen, after all? How could the Almighty deny a son and heir to the man who will free Jerusalem from the infidels?”