Lionheart (96 page)

As if you’d not have connived for my crown, too! You’d never have been satisfied with a duchy if a kingdom was in the offing.

He had no energy for speech, but he did not need it, for Geoffrey seemed to pluck his words from the air, saying with a sardonic smile,
Yes, but I would have been willing to wait. Face it, Richard, you’ll never make old bones. Other men lust after women. You lust after Death, always have. You’ve been chasing after her like a lovesick lad, and sooner or later she’ll take pity and let you catch her. So I could afford to wait. But Johnny had to entangle himself in Philippe’s web, the damned fool.

You entangled yourself in Philippe’s web, too,
Richard reminded him.
If you had not been plotting with the French, you’d not have been at Lagny when that tournament was held.

You know why I turned to Philippe. I got tired of Papa treating us like his puppet princes, tired of him dangling that accursed crown before us like a hunter’s lure. So did you, remember? You did me one better, too, doing public homage to Philippe for all your fiefs “on this side of the sea” whilst Papa looked on, dumbfounded. But you could safely make use of Philippe, for you knew you could outwit him and outfight him. So could I. Johnny cannot, as he’ll soon learn to his cost. Ah well, you’ll be dead by then, so mayhap it will not matter so much.

Christ Jesus, Geoffrey, of course it matters!
Furious, Richard thrashed about, trying to free himself from his sheets.
If you’ve come only to mock me, go back to Hell where you belong!

Purgatory, not Hell,
Geoffrey said and laughed before fading back into the blackness. Richard called out to him, but he got no answer. He was alone.

AFTER CONFIRMING that there were only three hundred knights with Richard, Salah al-Dīn met with his council and it was agreed to attack Jaffa or, failing that, Ascalon. By August 27, he was at Ramla, making ready for the assault. But it was then that he got two messages that changed his plans. Abū-Bakr reported that Richard had asked al-’Ādil to broker a peace, requesting to be indemnified for his expenses if he had to surrender Ascalon. Salah al-Dīn halted their march and instructed his brother, “If they will give up Ascalon, conclude a treaty of peace.” The next day the emir Badr al-Dīn Dildirim al-Yārūqī brought word that he’d been approached by the Bishop of Salisbury, who told him that Richard would be willing to yield Ascalon without compensation. Salah al-Dīn was uneasy about making peace, confiding in Bahā’ al-Dīn that he feared their enemy would grow strong again now that they had a secure foothold along the coast. But he had no choice, he said, for his men were war-weary, homesick, and had shown at Jaffa that they were no longer dependable. After meeting again with his council on Sunday morning, August 30, the sultan sent an envoy to the English king with a draft of the peace treaty.

“NO,” RICHARD SAID, shaking his head stubbornly. “I did not agree to yield Ascalon without compensation. I would never do that!”

There was a shocked silence, the other men looking at one another in dismay. “You did, Uncle.” Henri approached the bed, picking up the document that Richard had crumpled and flung to the floor. “André and the bishop and I . . . we came to you and explained why Ascalon had to be sacrificed—”

“No! I would not do that.”

“Richard . . . it happened as Henri says. You do not remember . . . not any of it?”

Richard’s eyes searched André’s face, then shifted to Hubert Walter. “No . . . I agreed to this? You swear it is so?” When all three of them assured him it was, he sank back against the pillows. It was very disturbing, even frightening, to think he’d made such an important decision and had no memory of it. When he glanced up again, he saw that the sultan’s envoy was becoming agitated, asking Humphrey de Toron what had gone wrong. “Humphrey . . . tell him that if I said it, I will honor my word. And tell him to say this to Saladin—that I accept the terms and understand that if I receive any compensation for Ascalon, it will be because of his generosity and bounty.”

The envoy was ushered out, obviously greatly relieved that there was to be no eleventh-hour surprise. By unspoken assent, the other men left, too; only Henri and André remained. “This is my fault, Uncle,” Henri said unhappily. “André insisted that we ought not to ask you until your fever broke. But I feared to wait—”

“It is your kingdom, Henri. It was your decision to make as much as mine.” Richard could not remember ever feeling so exhausted or so disheartened. “I need to sleep now. . . .” He hoped it would come soon, stilling the questions he could not answer, the insidious voice asking what he’d truly accomplished here. So many deaths, and all for what?

WHEN RICHARD AWOKE, it was still light, so he could only have slept for an hour or so. One of his doctors was quickly hovering over the bed, asking if he would like some soup or fruit. He made himself say yes, for he knew he had to eat to regain his strength. He was frightened by his weakness; it was as if he’d become trapped in a stranger’s body, not the one that had served him so well for nigh on thirty-five years. A quartan fever recurred every third day, so he ought to be feverfree today, but he was not. If he died here at Jaffa, what would become of his kingdom? What of Berenguela, left a young widow in a foreign land so far from home? Or Joanna? Had he lost the Almighty’s Favor by failing to take Jerusalem? Ought he to have tried, even knowing how many men would die in the attempt? “Give me a sign, O Lord,” he whispered. “Let me know that I was not wrong. . . . ”

He tried to eat the food the doctors brought to him, but his stomach rebelled and he could swallow only a mouthful or two before he was fighting back nausea. He asked for music, for that had always been a source of comfort, but the harpist’s melodies sounded melancholy and mournful, even though he’d requested something lively. He finally slept again, a shallow, uneasy sleep that gave him little rest, and awoke to find his nephew standing by the bed.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” Henri said. “I have news you’ll want to hear.”

Richard doubted that, almost told Henri to come back on the morrow. But the younger man’s eyes were shining; he did not look like the bearer of yet more bad tidings. “What?”

“I had a message tonight from Isabella. She says that Hugh of Burgundy died at Acre five days ago.”

Richard stared at him. “I think,” he said, “that I’ve just gotten my sign.” Henri did not know what that meant, but it did not matter; his uncle was smiling, the first real smile he’d seen on Richard’s face since he’d been stricken with the quartan fever.

ON SEPTEMBER 1, Salah al-Dīn’s envoy, al-Zabadānī, came to Jaffa with the final draft of the treaty, waiting in a tent outside the town until Richard was carried out to meet him on a litter. He was too ill to read it, but said, “I have made peace. Here is my hand.” A truce was to begin on the following day, to last three years and eight months. The terms were very similar to those discussed in the past, with the crusaders to hold the coastal areas from Jaffa to Tyre. The peace was to include the Prince of Antioch, the Count of Tripoli, and Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān, leader of the
Assassin
sect. Ascalon was to be razed to the ground and to remain so for the duration of the truce. Richard’s reliance upon the sultan’s generosity was not misplaced; Salah al-Dīn compensated him for the money he’d expended at Ascalon by agreeing that the Franks and Saracens would share the revenues of Ramla and Lydda. Both sides would be able to move freely, to resume trade, and Christian pilgrims would be given access to Jerusalem. The two armies mingled and Bahā’ al-Dīn reported that “It was a day of rejoicing. God alone knows the boundless joy of both peoples.”

Richard remained seriously ill, Bahā’al-Dīn repeating a rumor that he’d died. On September 9, he sailed to Haifa and then on to Acre to convalesce. He sought to pay the French back by asking Salah al-Dīn to allow only those Christian knights who bore letters from him or Henri to visit Jerusalem. But the sultan wanted as many crusaders as possible to fulfill their holy vows, knowing they’d be less likely to return then, and he ignored Richard’s request. Three pilgrimages were organized, one led by André de Chauvigny and another by the Bishop of Salisbury. The latter was accorded the honor of a personal audience with Salah al-Dīn, who told him that Richard had great courage but he was too reckless with his own life. While many of his soldiers and knights took advantage of the peace to worship at the Holy Sepulchre, Richard did not.

ANDRÉ WAS HOLDING COURT, regaling a large audience with his account of his pilgrimage to Jerusalem. “It almost ended ere it began,” he said, “for the men we’d sent on ahead to get safe conducts from Saladin stopped at Toron des Chevaliers and fell asleep. The rest of our party assumed they’d reached Jerusalem and we passed them by as they slept. When we realized we were arriving without advance warning, we sent word hastily to al-’Ādil and he dispatched an escort to protect us, rebuking us for our rashness.” He’d charitably not mentioned the names of the errant envoys, but Pierre de Préaux, William des Roches, and Gerard de Furnival flushed uncomfortably, knowing many were aware they were the culprits. They were grateful when Berengaria distracted attention from them by asking André why they’d needed safe conducts, for she thought the Holy City would be open to all pilgrims.