“Goodnight, Richard,” she whispered, but she couldn’t even raise her eyes to watch him as he left.
Sleepless, Richard paced his bedroom for a long while.
This business with Berengaria was not going to work! He could not pretend desire for her as a woman, and she certainly had no talents to satisfy his lust in any other way.
She was so very much in love with him; that was the worst of it. Doubtless, she felt rejected and betrayed by his attitude of indifference. What a trial this was going to be! Eventually he would have to make a son in her. Richard wasn’t sure it could be done.
Earlier this evening, flushed with good wine and food and his success against the emperor, Richard had been in a mood to consummate his marriage. But then the sight of Berengaria’s frail, naked little body had spoiled it all, and left him feeling like an overpowering brute.
Well, tomorrow she would be crowned as his queen and perhaps that would satisfy her for a while. In any case he was too tired to think on it further. His mind was busy, conjuring up successes on the island, and after that there was the siege of Acre to contend with. He had no time or heart for troubles with his wife.
He was halfway to bed when Joanna came into his room.
Richard looked up, surprised, and smiled at her.
“I saw a light beneath the door,” she said, “and wondered why you were not with Berengaria this night of all nights.”
Richard couldn’t take his eyes from her.
How beautiful she was, this daughter of Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine! She had her father’s brash, high-colored Angevin good looks—and all her mother’s charm.
This was a woman who stood before him.
Joanna read the message in his eyes and came closer, her arms reaching for him. “Berengaria is a lovely girl,” she purred as he took hold of her, “but I’m afraid you are too much of a man for such a genteel little virgin.” Her full, painted mouth beckoned in a smile. “But not for me, dear brother. Surely you must realize that by now.”
He did. All those months in Sicily during their time together, he had felt an itch of something more than a brother’s interest in her. Now Joanna had finally given voice to it.
They were so alike, so much more fitted to one another than he and Berengaria. Still he held back, caught in sweet dilemma until Joanna kissed him full on the mouth. Just this once; just tonight. All the passion he hadn’t been able to feel for his wife now burned in him for his vivacious sister.
He pulled the silver dishabille down over her shoulders, and brought his lips against her throat. The feel of her sweet white skin was thrilling.
“This is madness,” he whispered in her ear, “this is sin …”
Her hands were already on his laces. “I know,” she said.
FOR ALL who came to fight at Acre there was a worse enemy than Moslems. It was summer now, and the heat was everywhere, burning into the earth like the wrath of God. There was no shield from it until the sun went down, when chilly gusts blew off the surface of the sea.
It was early June, and the siege dragged on.
Philippe’s mangonels had been battering the walls of Acre for almost three weeks. His siege engines were magnificently designed monsters, which stood four or five storeys high. Yet the crafty defenders destroyed them at the rate of two or three per day. They did this by pouring great cauldrons of boiling naphtha over the walls and setting the machines on fire. For each one that was burned, it took the Franks at least four days of work to repair it. The French king needed more machines, more men—but it was June now and still Richard and his army had not come.
New arrivals in the camp told grand stories of the Lionheart’s bold conquest of Cyprus; how, with the help of the Knights Templars he had swept Isaac Comnenus and his Cypriot Greeks from power, and declared himself king of the island. Much to the scorn of Philippe and his ally Conrad of Montferrat, Guy de Lusignan (from whom Conrad wished to take the throne of Jerusalem now that Queen Sibylla, the legal claimant, was dead) had sailed to Cyprus with a group of hand-picked men. He was eager to help Richard, for by doing so he would also help himself.
Guy worried about the closeness between Conrad and Philippe, feared he was being eclipsed. He wanted his own ally, and who was better suited to that purpose than the legendary Richard of England? Guy was an adventurer at heart, and Richard’s prowess appealed to his own sense of chivalry.
He also hoped to profit from the friendship.
So Guy went to Cyprus and became Richard’s lieutenant, while the remainder of the force waited at Acre and the French king dispatched envoys to the island every few days, entreating Richard to come at once to Acre. Christ, the city could have been taken weeks ago if Richard had done his duty! Instead he parleyed with princes and made himself a marriage, while Philippe did the work which they had pledged to accomplish together!
No wonder the French king was in such foul temper these days.
It was not all because of Richard, though much of it was; there were other matters to concern him, and one which touched very deeply at his heart. The Count of Flanders had fallen ill of a fever and for many days he lay in his tent too sick to speak. Like so many pilgrims, he had come to the East determined to win Acre back from the Infidels who held it, and now it seemed that he would never see it.
All that it was possible to do was done for him.
When it became apparent he would not leave his bed again, Philippe ordered that the count’s sword be laid beside him, and golden spurs put on his feet as a symbol of his many great achievements in battle. The Bishop of Beauvais knelt at his side reciting from the Scriptures, while Philippe held Flanders’s head against his chest.
Sweat stung the count’s eyes, and his tongue was numbed by fever. It was only at the last he roused from his delirium. He looked up into Philippe’s face, and smiled the calm and resolute smile of a dying man. He squeezed the king’s hand and made a plea.
“When I am dead,” he whispered, “see that my body is put into the common trench before the city walls. For then on Judgment Day, when all men are raised up, my lord Christ in heaven shall see that I died in the land which gave Him birth, and he will know I praised Him with the last words of my mouth.”
Philippe could barely speak for sobbing. “You are the finest, the bravest man I ever knew!” he cried. “I cannot believe that God would take you from our midst before our purpose here has even been accomplished!”
All of the proud and worldly aspects so familiar in Flanders’s character were gone now, for the visage of death humbles any man. His amber eyes lighted with a look of weary peace, and with a feeble hand he reached to wipe the tears from Philippe’s face.
“God’s will be done,” he said. “Do not feel sad. I have seen death many times as a soldier. It is not at all terrible to me.” His lips twitched for just a moment as if he wished to say more and then went slack. His head lolled to one side, and he was silent.
For a long time afterwards, as candles flickered tiny gleams of light over all the objects in the room and the bishop muttered his prayers aloud, Philippe sat holding the dead man in his arms. The sense of loss was sharp and very deep.
He loved this man. His personal bravery and glamor had dazzled Philippe as a youth, and even later when they had faced each other on a battlefield. This was the man who had been more of a father to him than Louis ever had—the man who had given him Isabel, then tried with all the powers of heaven and hell to take her back. Now he was dead and his flesh would stink like that of other men.
Philippe wept and could not be comforted.
On June 8, 1191, Richard finally landed at Acre.
The reception that greeted him at the shore was so tremendous that even the inhabitants of Saladin’s camp came out of their tents to observe it. There was trumpet fanfare and the singing of songs. Banners set their gay colors against the sky and fluttered in welcome.
That night in the camp there was dancing and more singing, and wine was passed to every
man and woman. The celebration lasted till the sun came up on the new morning, but the memory of it would live in the songs of trouveres for a dozen generations.
Philippe was glad for Richard’s coming, of course; he’d waited for it long enough. But on that night, between the singing and the laughter, he watched Richard, watched him with an intensity born of caution. Tonight all was contentment and accord. But what about tomorrow, and all the days to follow? How much harmony would there be once Richard set himself at the head of the combined armies by way of his extraordinary legend and popularity? What honor could the King of France salvage then?
All of this anger was enfeebling him, making him feel hot and unwell. Philippe wiped a hand across his face and looked across at his splendid rival. Richard lounged upon his silken litter, gold tassels fluttering over his head from the canopy above. How vain he was, how full of confidence. And how he loved every shred of the attention paid to him! Then, as if he could read his friend’s thoughts, Richard raised his cup in a glib toast and smiled.
Philippe smiled back. Devil, he thought.
It was nearly dawn when Philippe crept into his own tent and called out for Fabiana to come and undress him. She came at once to his call, her expression vague from interrupted sleep, and began to unfasten his clothes. She removed his mantle and bliaud, then his smock, frowning as her hand passed over his naked chest. “Your skin is very hot,” she said.
“For you,” he answered, and reached for her.
His hands found her breasts, stripping away the muslin shift which covered them. His fingers began to tremble. Was it the wine or simple lust that put this giddiness into his blood?
Philippe took a breath. “I wish I had not drunk so much,” he mumbled and pressed his forehead to her shoulder.
Fabiana gasped and encircled his waist with her arms to steady him. “You are ill, my lord!”
He pushed her hands aside and laughed, mocking her concern. “Not ill at all,” he said and bent to kiss her. But as he did, her pretty face wavered before his eyes and then blurred till he could hardly see it. Suddenly the blood was pounding in his temples and he felt his breath grow tight in his chest.
“Fabiana,” he cried, lurching forward.
She tried to catch him but he fell groaning at her feet.
Only a miracle sent from God could save Philippe Capet.
The physicians who attended at the bedside of the king turned to each other with glum faces. It was the Eastern sickness which they called arnoldia. Many men in the camp had been stricken with it. The symptoms were always the same: loss of hair and fingernails; peeling of the skin. But worse than that was the constant fever, which could keep a man raving for a week.
It was having its way with the French king, feeding him delirium and the devil. His mind seemed to be inflamed by visions of his dead wife, and only the devil put such dreams into a man’s mind. So they purified the sick man with holy water and muttered no end of prayers, but nothing seemed to help. It was in God’s hands.
“Isabel,” he cried and reached for her. “Isabel!”
How was it that the others could not see her? She was there.
Standing over him, fair as the new dawn. He had forgotten—oh, how could he have forgotten?—she was as beautiful as that. She was clothed all in grey silk, her full and rounded breasts visible beneath the sheer material. There were grey opals at her ears and throat, nearly hidden by pale hair which fell in tousled waves to her feet. He could almost touch it.
For ten days Philippe lay sweating and screaming in his bed. Fabiana never left his side; not once in those ten days. She did not care that the physicians sniggered at her dutiful attempts to nurse the king, that they saw her as just a worthless little whore. She was the one who loved him; she refused to let him die.
Her own comfort meant nothing. Fabiana only ate if food was brought to her. She slept on the floor at Philippe’s feet; she relieved herself in the pewter pot beside the bed. Priests and physicians came and went from the pavilion those many days, but only Fabiana remained in loyal obstinacy. She washed the sweat from his body, and fed him water from a cup.
“Take me, oh God,” she wept, “but spare the king.”
Which king?
Richard had also fallen ill of arnoldia.
This was devastating news to the soldiers. So long as their two leaders were insensible with fever, the siege against Acre had to be postponed.
Now at this time Duke Leopold of Austria, vassal to the dead emperor Barbarossa, tried to install himself as the new leader of the crusade. But the soldiers only laughed at his pretensions and soon he was driven back into his tent in shame. It was true that Leopold did not like either of the two kings, but he particularly resented Richard. Indeed, with all his pride, accomplishments and beauty, the King of England was a man whom any man might hate.
So the soldiers waited, and the kings grew worse.
Inactivity bred rumors. There was talk that Richard wished to make a friend of his chivalrous enemy Saladin; that Saladin himself held Richard in the highest esteem. More than once while the King of England lay prone on his sickbed, the great Saracen leader sent him gifts of fruit and wine, chilled with mountain ice. While such courtesies were appreciated by Richard, other crusaders, especially the French, viewed the matter with grim suspicion.
And then one day, just as suddenly as he had been afflicted, Philippe recovered from his terrible illness. Weak but resolute, he vowed to take Acre at once, and assembled all his men before the walls.
The news was brought to Richard’s tent by Hugh of Burgundy.
The King of England lay on his bed, conscious but miserable. As with Philippe, this strange fever had done awful things to him. Great quantities of his lush red-gold hair had fallen out, and his skin was peeling as if from an extreme case of sunburn. Richard was so ashamed of his appearance, he kept his face covered by a veil of mosquito netting.
There had never been much friendship between Richard and Duke Hugh. Once again Richard’s personality and gifts invited jealousy. But despite feelings of envy, Hugh was drawn to the Plantagenet, as all men of lesser talents were. Certainly he preferred Richard to the cold and quarrelsome Philippe; and it had brought him here.
“What are you going go do?” he asked. “Capet means to humiliate you by taking Acre himself. If that happens all the world will see him as a greater warrior than yourself!” Hugh’s round face was red with exasperation.
Richard gave a muffled laugh behind the veil. “That will never happen.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Hugh blustered, “he has already gathered his men and ordered the assault to begin at dawn.”
“Besides his own soldiers, who has joined him?”
The duke shrugged. “The Genoese, Pisans. Some of Leopold’s Germans. Others.”
Richard thrashed about in discomfort on his bed. Despite his concern for what Hugh had told him, he was anxious to have the interview at an end. Illness caused him to tire easily. He gripped the arm of one of his attendants and struggled to a sitting position. “That is a goodly contingent of men,” he grumbled,“and what is the French king paying them?”
Hugh thought for a moment. “Three gold bezants for a month’s service.”
Richard slumped back on his bed in satisfaction. “Summon my lieutenants,” he told Hugh, “and have them pass the word throughout the camp that I shall guarantee a sum of four gold bezants to any man who will serve beneath my soldiers, pulling a crossbow like the rest of them, against defenders who mounted the walls of Acre to pour down stones and burning arrows on them.
Victory was so close; it was almost theirs!
But once again the efforts of the Franks were thwarted as the scaling ladders broke under the weight of men burdened by excessive armor. Many of the king’s prize mangonels were destroyed by showers of boiling naphtha, and fell to the ground in piles of burning rubble.
Philippe would remember those images all his life.
At last the sun set on that horribl
e day. The Christian dead were too numerous to count. With breast or brain laid bare, they were strewn along the entire length of the wall. Smoke helped to obscure the ugliness, but the sweet stink of blood was everywhere.
Wearied to the point of illness and devastated by defeat, Philippe staggered back to his tent. He threw his aching body down on the bed and called out to Fabiana. She came at once, offering him a henap filled with wine. He drank it greedily, then lay back to let her unloose his mesh hauberk and coif.
Philippe barely moved as Fabiana undressed him and washed his body with a cool cloth. He grunted his thanks when she had finished and pulled her down beside him on the bed, stripping off her clothes. After a day of bloodshed and terror, this! Oh Jesus, what solace could be found in the soft body of a woman.
He was tired but her touch soon restored feeling to his numbed senses. Scarcely a word passed between them as he took her, and afterwards he fell asleep with his head on her shoulder. Fabiana lay on her back, holding him in her arms. She was sleepless and dizzy. Her flesh grew hotter and the pain expanded in her head.
She had been fighting illness for several days. Now she was in its grip and there was nothing to do but lie here, sweating in fear and fever with the sleeping king clasped tightly in her arms. She had done so much to bring him back to health, but there was nothing she could do to heal herself, except to pray. Did God heed the supplications of a whore?
Fabiana doubted it; she felt herself grow weaker.
Later, Philippe awoke to see her puking on the floor.
He carried her back to the bed and held her to him, gently, as he would a child, kissing the tears from her face. He had seen so much death these past days, heard so much weeping, and suddenly her life meant everything to him. He held her all that night; it was all she wanted.
As the sun rose over Galilee and shed its light westward across the hills toward Acre, Philippe carried Fabiana outside to see the dawn. There were tears in her eyes as she looked up into his face, yet she wasn’t really crying. She pushed a small cloth pouch into his hand. The bag was filled with silver coins.
The Rain Maiden Page 64
