Lionheart (97 page)

“Well, we are more than pilgrims, my lady. We’re the men who defeated Saladin’s army at Acre, Arsuf, and Jaffa, and many of them still bear grudges. We were told some of them entreated the sultan to let them take vengeance for the deaths of their fathers, brothers, and sons. But he refused to allow it, giving al-’Ādil the responsibility of making sure that Christians would be safe during their stay in the Holy City.”

André then told them of his visit to the most sacred site in Christendom, the Holy Sepulchre; and as he described the two-story chapel with Mount Calvary above and Golgotha below, Berengaria had to fight back tears. When André said that Saladin had allowed the Bishop of Salisbury to see the True Cross, she bit her lip, thinking that the sultan would surely have done as much for Richard and his queen. André and the other men had seen all the places so familiar to her from her readings of Scriptures: the rock upon which the body of the Lord Christ had lain, the Mount of Olives, the Church of Mount Sion where the Blessed Mary had died and was assumed into Heaven, the room where the Last Supper had taken place, the Valley of Jehosaphat, the Pool of Siloam, where the Saviour had restored a man’s sight. Places she would never get to visit.

She bowed her head so none would notice her distress, but it was then that André leaned over and urged her husband to make the pilgrimage, too. “There is still time, Cousin,” he said, “to change your mind.” Richard merely smiled and shook his head, but for just a heartbeat, his defenses were down and his naked yearning showed so plainly on his face that Berengaria caught her breath. So he did want to see the Holy City! Why, then, would he not go?

LYING IN BED beside Richard, Berengaria was still thinking of his earlier unguarded moment in the great hall. There were two explanations circulating about Richard’s refusal to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem—that he was still too sick to make the trip or that it was too dangerous. It was true that he was not fully recovered, although he tried to hide it as best he could. She saw how exhausted he was when he went to bed at night, how little he ate, how easily he tired during the day. They’d only begun sharing a bed again in the past few days and he’d not yet made love to her; she was content to cuddle, but his forbearance was further proof that he was still convalescing. She knew, though, that he’d never have let ill health keep him from traveling to the Holy City; like most soldiers, he was accustomed to fighting through pain. And the other rationale was no more plausible. It was ludicrous to think that the man who’d ridden out alone to challenge the entire Saracen line to combat would of a sudden be so concerned for his own safety. She’d reluctantly concluded that a pilgrimage to Jerusalem was simply not that important to him, and her resentment began to fester, for in denying himself that privilege, he was denying her, too. She was Richard’s queen; how could she go without him?

But she had been given a glimpse into his heart earlier that evening, and she was now sure it was not lack of interest. “Richard?” When he turned toward her, she shifted so she could look into his eyes. “I need to talk with you. It is important.”

He propped himself up on his elbow. “Why do women always want to have these talks when a man is half asleep?” he grumbled, but she saw the smile hovering in the corner of his mouth. “All right, little dove. You have my full attention.”

“Why did you not go to Jerusalem?”

He was quiet for so long that she was not sure he was going to answer. “I did not deserve to go, Berenguela. I had not earned that right. When I took the cross, I pledged to free the Holy City from the Saracens, and in that, I failed.”

Her throat tightened, for beneath her tranquil surface, her emotions were surging at flood tide. Guilt that she’d so misjudged him. Pride that he would not accept from the infidels what he could not get through God’s Grace. Frustration that he confided so little in her, that after sixteen months of wedlock, they were still strangers sharing a bed, that the only intimacy he seemed able to offer was carnal. Unspoken anger that he’d kept her away from Jaffa when he could have been dying. Fear that was with her every moment of every day, the dread that she would become a widow ere she could truly become a wife. She’d been telling herself for months that their life would be different once they returned to his domains, that their real marriage would begin then. But she’d been badly shaken to learn he’d been so desperately ill and had chosen to keep her in ignorance. It had raised doubts she was unwilling to confront, even to acknowledge.

“I think the Almighty will honor your sacrifice,” she said softly, and he leaned over, brushing his lips against her cheek. But she lay awake long after he fell asleep, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes as she wept silently for Richard, for herself, and for the Holy City that neither of them would get to see.

SEPTEMBER 29 WAS THE DAY chosen for the departure of Richard’s wife, sister, and most of the fleet, which Richard had placed under André’s command. Once they reached Sicily, the women would continue their journey overland to avoid the winter storms. André and Leicester would then sail on to Marseille, the same route Richard planned to take once he was able to leave Acre. Berengaria and Joanna had bidden farewell to Isabella at the palace, for her pregnancy was so far advanced that even the short trip to the harbor was beyond her. Escorted by Richard and Henri, they arrived at the wharfs to find a large crowd had assembled to see them off. The women were glad to be going home, although they were uneasy about the long sea voyage ahead of them, none more so than Joanna. She was putting up a brave front, but it was belied by her pallor and the brittle edge to her laughter. Richard was watching his sister with troubled eyes, and as soon as she moved away, he leaned over to murmur in Berengaria’s ear. “
Irlanda
is no sailor, suffers more grievously from seasickness than anyone I’ve ever known. I’m relying upon you to take care of her, little dove.”

“I will do my best,” she promised, tilting her head so she could look up into his face. She knew why he was not sailing with them; he’d explained that he had important debts still to settle. But she wished so very much that he was not remaining behind. Like his soldiers, she felt safer in his company, and she knew Joanna did, too. And it would be months before they’d be reunited, months in which she could do naught but worry about him. Their departure was dangerously close to the end of the sailing season; it would be even more dangerous for him if he delayed by another week or two.

And he had more to fear than storms at sea. As a man who’d taken the cross and fought for Christ in the Holy Land, he was under the protection of the Church, but she feared that would matter little to his enemies . . . and he had so many. The French king. The Holy Roman Emperor. The Duke of Austria, said to still be nursing a grudge over his dishonored banner at Acre. The brother of Conrad of Montferrat, who’d been told that Richard was responsible for Conrad’s death. The Count of Toulouse, an old foe who was conspiring with the French to do Richard harm. And the Bishop of Beauvais, who’d already sailed and would be slandering Richard with every breath he drew. Like the trail of slime that marked a snail’s passing, Beauvais would be leaving venom in his wake as he moved from court to court, and she was not sure the truth could ever catch up to all those lies.

“I wish you were coming with us, Richard.”

“I would if I could, Berenguela. But you’ll be safe with André and Leicester, and Tancred will provide you with a large escort on your way to Rome.” Richard knew she was shy of public displays of affection, but when he kissed her, she returned the embrace with unexpected ardor, hoping that last night God had finally heeded her prayers and let her conceive. If she could depart the Holy Land with his child in her womb, it would be proof of divine favor, proof that the Almighty was not wroth with Richard for his failure to take Jerusalem.

Berengaria and Joanna were not the only ones to be worried that Richard was delaying his departure. Mariam was very unhappy about it, too, for Henri and Joanna had asked Morgan to wait and sail with Richard, both of them concerned that he was still suffering from the aftereffects of that near-fatal bout of quartan fever. Morgan was trying to coax her into a better humor, joking that it was for the best. “If we sailed together, think how difficult it would be for me,
cariad
, having you close at hand and yet out of reach. I’d be like a man parched and half mad with thirst, chained to a keg of Saint Pourçain wine and not being able to drink a drop of it.”

Mariam was not mollified, but they’d already had this argument and she did not want their last words to be quarrelsome. Morgan squeezed her hand, and then turned as Joanna approached. “Keep my brother out of trouble, Cousin Morgan,” she said, with strained playfulness. He promised that he would, even though he thought that was a task beyond his capabilities. But he knew she was nervous that Richard would be traveling without André, who was probably the only man able to rein in the king’s more reckless impulses.

The lighters were waiting to ferry them out to their ships. But Joanna had been entrusted with a private message for Humphrey de Toron and she drew him aside to say that Isabella had heard he’d accepted Guy de Lusignan’s invitation to settle in Cyprus and she wished him happiness in his new life. “Thank you, Lady Joanna,” he said, and she found herself thinking again that he was a remarkably handsome man, with one of the saddest smiles she’d ever seen.

Most of the farewells had already been said. André and Richard joked as if they were not facing dangers as daunting as any they’d confronted in the Holy Land, and no one listening to their banter would ever have suspected that Richard might be sailing home to a lost kingdom, a realm in ruins. Henri kissed all the women with great gallantry and Joanna nearly wept, for it was unlikely she’d ever see him again. Richard hugged his sister so tightly that she thought he might have cracked a rib, kissed his wife, and promised they’d all be together to celebrate Christmas or, at the latest, Epiphany. “If Philippe took four months to get home, I can damned well do it in three,” he said with a smile, and lifted Berengaria into the lighter before she could ask if he truly meant that.

The barge rocked as it rode the waves out to their waiting ship, and Joanna started to look greensick. Berengaria reached over and squeezed her hand, all the while gazing back toward shore. The sky was free of clouds and the wind blew steadily from the southeast, a Jerusalem wind, surely a good omen. But she’d begun to tremble, chilled by a sudden sense of foreboding, the fear that this would be her last memory of Richard: standing on the Acre wharf next to Henri, smiling and waving farewell.

AFTER STOPPING at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross to offer prayers to St Michael, whose day it was, invoking his protection for their fleet, Richard and Henri returned to the palace in a somber mood. As soon as they dismounted in the courtyard, Balian d’Ibelin appeared in the doorway of the great hall. “I was just about to send for you, Henri. Isabella’s birth pangs have begun.”

Henri gasped and dashed up the steps, darting past Balian into the hall. Following more slowly, Richard stopped beside the
poulain
lord. “I thought she was not due for another month?”