Lionheart (84 page)

They were very close now on the bench. Her eyes looked almost black against the whiteness of her face, and he found himself thinking that a man could drown in their dark depths. “Isabella . . .”

“I know you think we are both trapped,” she said softly, “and I suppose we are. But if you wed me, I promise you this—that I’ll do all in my power to make sure you never regret it.”

He reached for her hand, entwining their fingers together. How fearful she must have been and how brave she was now, putting her pride aside to offer herself to him like this. He could see the pulse throbbing in her slender throat, and suddenly knew he could not bear to think of her wedding another man, one who might not treat her and her baby with the kindness, tenderness, and respect they deserved.

“I will be honored to wed you, Isabella,” he said, and when she lifted her face, heartbreakingly lovely in the moonlight, he kissed her soft cheek, her closed eyelids, and then those full red lips. He’d meant it to be a pledge, a reassurance, but her mouth was so sweet and her body flowed into his arms so naturally that he forgot she was so newly widowed, forgot she was pregnant, forgot all but the passion that blazed up between them with an intensity, a hunger he’d not experienced before. When he finally ended the embrace, he saw that she was as shaken as he was. Her dark eyes were starlit, her breathing uneven. “This is not the destiny either of us expected,” he said. “But it is one we can forge together.”

ON TUESDAY, MAY 5, 1192, Henri and Isabella were wed in Tyre by a French bishop, a week to the day after Conrad of Montferrat’s assassination. Henri at once set about mustering an armed force to assist Richard in an assault upon Dārūm Castle. When he and the Duke of Burgundy moved the army to Acre, the chronicler of the
Itinerarium
reported that “The count took his wife with him, as he could not yet bear to be parted from her.”

CHAPTER 33

MAY 1192

Ascalon–Dárúm Road

Upon his arrival at Ascalon, Henri learned that Richard had grown impatient with waiting and had ridden south to begin the siege of Dārūm Castle on his own. Henri set out at daybreak the next day, his men soon complaining of the oppressive heat. It was Pentecost Eve, the weather already much hotter than it would have been back in Champagne. Henri wondered if he’d ever get accustomed to the sultry Syrian climate, and he was relieved when the seventeen stone towers of Dārūm eventually came into view. Raising his hand, he signaled for a halt so they could assess the situation. By now he could see Richard’s tents in the distance, and the siege engines he’d brought by ship from Ascalon, but they were strangely silent. A swirl of dust heralded the approach of the Duke of Burgundy, and Henri coughed when he inhaled a lungful, hoping the other man did not plan to ride beside him for the rest of the way. That was apparently Hugh’s intention, though.

“What did he think he could accomplish with only his household knights? Sometimes that man has not a grain of sense, just an insatiable hunger for fame.”

Henri had never liked the duke, feeling he’d done nothing but obstruct their progress, and he was still angry at the way Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais had attempted to browbeat Isabella when they thought she’d be most vulnerable. Yet he knew Outremer needed French support and so he contented himself with saying mildly, “You do remember, Hugh, that Richard is my uncle?”

“A man cannot pick his kinsmen,” Hugh said, generously absolving Henri of that tainted family bond. “But you cannot deny that Richard is a lunatic on the battlefield.”

“I’ll not deny he is reckless about his own safety.” Henri ignored Hugh’s snort. “But he is never reckless when it comes to the lives of his men.”

“And I am? Why—because I am urging an assault upon the Holy City? That is why we are here, Henri, why so many good men took the cross. We swore to retake Jerusalem. If we do not even try, we dishonor the memories of all those who died for their faith.”

It was obvious to Henri that Conrad had not confided in his French allies, for Hugh did not appear to know of the marquis’s secret talks with Saladin. “Do you truly believe it is worth putting the very survival of the kingdom in jeopardy, Hugh? I’ve yet to talk to a single
poulain
who thinks we ought to take so great a risk. To a man, they say another loss like Ḥaṭṭīn would doom Outremer.”

“You know what I think? That the disaster at Ḥaṭṭīn has sapped them of their will to fight for the True Faith. They no longer have the stomach for battle, even if it means humbling themselves before the enemies of God.”

Henri turned in the saddle to stare at the other man, incredulous. “The Templars have no stomach for battle? I’d not say that in their hearing if I were you.”

“I am not saying they lack courage. But living in the midst of pagans and infidels and unbelievers corrupts the soul, and not even the Templars are immune to it. Nor am I surprised that the
poulains
are so willing to yield Jerusalem to Saladin. They still attend Mass, but they live like Saracens, luxury-loving, decadent, and effeminate—”

“And we take frequent baths, too. What greater proof of depravity can there be?” Neither Henri nor Hugh had noticed as Balian d’Ibelin had reined in his stallion within earshot. Balian was accustomed to hearing criticism like this from suspicious newcomers, those who thought the Syrian Franks were too much at home in this alien environment, and he no longer reacted with youthful anger or indignation, for it served no purpose. He’d long ago acknowledged the irony of it, that the survival of Outremer depended upon men who judged its inhabitants to be unworthy to dwell in God’s Kingdom.

Balian’s sly raillery was not lost upon Hugh, who gave him a suspicious scowl, but the
poulain
lord was pleased to see that Henri looked amused. He wanted Isabella to be happy with her new husband, wanted the young count to be content with his new life. “As interesting as this discussion is,” he said, with just a hint of sarcasm, “you might want to direct your attention to the castle battlements.”

It took a moment or so for them to see it, and when they did, they could only stare in disbelief at the red and gold banner flying from the keep—the royal lion of England.

RICHARD SAUNTERED FORWARD to greet them, looking justifiably proud to Henri and insufferably smug to Hugh. He was quite willing to regale them with the details of his capture of Dārūm, and most of the men were eager to hear, for it was a remarkable feat to seize a castle in just four days, especially with such a small force. Those like Hugh, who took no pleasure in hearing of Richard’s exploits, prudently kept silent, aware that a lack of enthusiasm would seem like the worst sort of sour grapes, and Richard soon found himself surrounded by admiring knights; to Hugh’s annoyance, many of them were French.

They could see the evidence of the brief siege all around them. The gate was smashed, the broken wood blackened by fire. The walls had been seriously damaged by the trebuchets Richard had brought from Ascalon. Hugh was not surprised when some of Richard’s knights boasted that their king had pitched in when they carried the dismantled siege engines over a mile from the beach, and when they said that he’d taken personal command of one of the trebuchets, Hugh muttered, “He would.”

No one paid him any heed, for Richard was explaining that he’d noticed a weakness during an earlier scouting mission. The deep ditch before the great tower was cut out of natural rock on one side, but on the other, it was reinforced with a layer of paving. Richard put his sappers to work, renegade Saracens from Aleppo whom he’d hired at Acre, and they soon broke through the paving, then stuffed the tunnel with combustible matter and set it afire, causing part of the tower wall to collapse. After they’d destroyed a Saracen mangonel mounted on top of the keep, the garrison sent three men out to seek terms. First they’d asked if they could have a truce while they consulted with Saladin, and then they offered to surrender the castle if they and their families could depart in freedom. “I told them,” Richard said coolly, “to defend themselves as best they could,” making clear his disdain for foes who’d yield so easily.

Henri blinked. While commanders often insisted upon an unconditional surrender, especially if they’d been put to the time and trouble of storming a castle or town, he would have accepted the qualified surrender offer had he been in Richard’s place. He forgot sometimes how ruthless his uncle could be when it came to waging war. Thinking unwillingly of the Acre garrison, he said, “What happened when you took the castle?”

“They did not offer much of a fight.” Richard sounded both disapproving and disappointed. “When we broke through yesterday, they fled into the keep, and soon offered to surrender unconditionally. We took about three hundred prisoners.” Richard gestured toward the castle, and Henri saw a group of men lined up in the bailey, hands bound behind their backs, surrounded by guards.

The others had begun to exclaim indignantly, for Richard had just revealed that the garrison had hamstrung all of their horses when defeat seemed inevitable; to knights, deliberately crippling a horse was a far worse sin than slaying a man. But Henri continued to study the prisoners. A much smaller group huddled nearby, looking forlorn and frightened, the wives and children of the garrison. Henri knew he was not supposed to feel pity for them; they were the enemy, after all. But he did. As hard as war could be for soldiers, it was always harder for the noncombatants, for the women, the young, the elderly. At least back home, there were periods of peace when people could go about their daily lives, not fearing that men would swoop down upon their villages and towns, burning and looting and killing. He wondered if there would ever be peace in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Somehow he doubted it.

With an effort, Henri shook off these dismal thoughts; it was both dangerous and hurtful to keep making comparisons between Champagne and Outremer, the world he’d lost and the one thrust upon him. His uncle was still accepting congratulations from the other men, who were delighted to learn that they’d found and freed forty Christian prisoners in the castle dungeon. After some of the French lords began to praise Richard, too, Hugh forced himself to mumble a grudging “Well done.” He was unable to resist adding, “You always did have the Devil’s own luck.”

“A man does not need luck when he knows what he is doing,” Richard shot back, and then glanced toward Henri. “We’d planned to celebrate Pentecost on the morrow and send the prisoners and wounded on ahead to Ascalon. Does that meet with your approval?”

Henri was startled to be treated as an equal; he’d have to get used to that, too. “And Dārūm?”

“That is up to you. Dārūm is yours now.”

Henri was taken aback. “Mine? That is most generous of you, Uncle!”

Even the French were impressed by such a magnanimous gesture, except for Hugh, who looked as if he wanted to spit into the dust at Richard’s feet. Richard was obviously taking a grim pleasure in the other man’s vexation. But when he turned again to Henri, grey eyes searching blue ones, he was conveying a message that went beyond mere words. “After all,” he said, “this is your kingdom now, is it not?”

Henri held his gaze. “Yes,” he said, “it is.”

IN LATE MAY, one of Richard’s spies warned him that the Saracens were fortifying a stronghold with the euphonious name Castle of the Figs. The garrison fled at his approach, though, and by May 29, he was camped near a reed-choked river about twelve miles south of Ascalon. It was here that another messenger from England found him. John d’Alençon was the Archdeacon of Lisieux, a former vice chancellor of England, a man Richard trusted, and the news he brought was deeply disturbing.

The archdeacon’s report made it sound as if England was descending into chaos. Richard’s half-brother Geoff was still feuding bitterly with the Bishop of Durham, rejecting the efforts of Eleanor and the council to make peace between them. Richard’s exiled chancellor, Longchamp, had laid an interdict upon his own diocese after the Archbishop of Rouen had confiscated the revenues of his bishopric of Ely, and the people were suffering greatly, for no Masses could be said, no confessions heard, no weddings performed, and bodies were left unburied in the fields. Eleanor had intervened, persuading the archbishop to restore Ely’s revenues to Longchamp and insisting that Longchamp revoke the interdict and lift the excommunication he’d placed upon the archbishop. But the situation remained volatile, made worse by the arrival of two papal legates who laid the duchy of Normandy under interdict after being refused entry by Richard’s seneschal, and then took refuge at the French court.

Even more alarming was the archdeacon’s account of the ongoing conspiracy between the French king and Richard’s own brother. Philippe had attempted to launch an invasion of Normandy, thwarted only by the reluctance of his French barons to attack the lands of a crusader. After Eleanor had prevented John from joining the French king in Paris, John then seized two royal castles, Windsor and Wallingford, and continued to circulate rumors that Richard was dead, which made men loath to antagonize the man likely to be their next king. The archdeacon had also brought letters from Eleanor, the Archbishop of Rouen, and the council, conveying the same urgent plea—that Richard return home as soon as possible, for he was in danger of losing his throne if he did not.

Richard was badly shaken by these latest warnings. It seemed as if all was slipping away, both in Outremer and his distant, beleaguered domains. He was convinced the French were determined to sabotage any chances of a military victory against the Saracens, and now his own kingdom was in grave peril. For a man accustomed to being in command, it was intolerable to feel so helpless, to be at the mercy of forces beyond his control. He responded by withdrawing into a dark, brooding silence, saying nothing about his intentions, and that silence only fed his army’s unease. Many soldiers blamed Richard for his unwillingness to lay siege to Jerusalem, but only the French commanders wanted him to depart, for few believed victory was possible without him. When rumors spread throughout the camp that he planned to go home, morale plummeted.