Lionheart moe-4

by Stewart Binns

  By the time I found the Lionheart, the battle was all but over. Defenders were streaming out of the door at the bottom of the keep, followed by Blondel and the other prisoners. Our men were already carrying out the plundered treasure and laying it before the King’s Chancellor to be checked against his inventory.

  At the end of the flow of people came Isaac, the self-styled Emperor of Cyprus. He had been stripped to his underwear and was being prodded at the end of a sword by his own guards, who had finally had enough of his cruel regime and had turned on him. The Lionheart ordered that he be put in chains. But the hapless man wailed that, as a boy, he had been held hostage in chains for several years and he thus had a hatred of iron. The King smiled benignly at him and spoke softly.

  ‘I’m so sorry, my Lord Emperor, I will resolve your anguish for you.’ He turned to his steward and commanded, ‘Tell the blacksmiths to make chains from the silver he stole from me.’

  Godric and the men were taken to the infirmary to have their wounds treated. Their injuries were serious but none were a threat to life, nor to their future on the campaign, as long as they stayed clear of infection. Leax was the least seriously hurt; he had suffered a blow to the head from a shield, which had knocked him unconscious for a minute or two. The rest of us hoped it would also knock some sense into him.

  Two days later, resplendent in his gleaming silver chains, Isaac, the ‘Emperor of Cyprus’, was put on to a ship. He was to be incarcerated on the coast of Palestine, in the forbidding Hospitaller Castle of Margat. His two daughters, Theodora and Anna, were put into the care of the Lionheart’s sister, Joan. The King also acquired Isaac’s horse, the palomino he had admired so much from a distance. It was an amazing creature, which he christened ‘Fauvel’ because of its remarkable honey colour. William Marshal thought it a cross between a pure white Arab stallion and a bay Norman mare; it was an observation that led the King to speculate, with his usual mischievous humour, about his own value at stud.

  ‘I wonder what would happen the other way round. I must conduct a trial when in the Holy Land to see what this fine Plantagenet stallion would produce if coupled with a sleek Arab mare!’

  The Lionheart ordered that final preparations for the crossing to the Holy Land be made. Our destination was close, less than a hundred miles to our east, across waters that were usually kind to sailors. But before we left, the King had one more task to perform.

  Conscious that he was about to face a redoubtable enemy and his mighty host in battle, he needed to marry Bérengère before we left and, hopefully, impregnate her with his heir. Abbot Alun was summoned to prepare the nuptials. As always, he had something profound to say.

  ‘Sire, this is the land of Aphrodite, the Lady of Cyprus, the Greek goddess of love and of pleasure. It is also the home of Adonis, their god of desire; he is like our Wodewose, a symbol of fertility and nature. There could not be a better place to marry Bérengère.’

  ‘Where do you get all this knowledge from, my dear Alun?’

  ‘I read books, my Lord; you should try it.’

  ‘No thank you; you do the reading, I’ll do the fighting.’

  The wedding ceremony was conducted by Alun and assisted by the Orthodox clergy of the island, who came to pay homage to their fellow-Christian King. It was held just before dusk in an early Christian shrine, the Chapel of St George, in Limassol Castle on 12 May 1191. Far removed from the scale and grandeur of Westminster or Rouen, on a balmy evening in the enchanting Mediterranean, it was, nevertheless, a charming and romantic occasion. Bérengère looked radiant and the Lionheart looked… well, like the Lionheart: he was every inch a king among men.

  After the marriage, Bérengère of Navarre was crowned Queen, Duchess and Countess of her domains by John, Bishop of Évreux, thus uniting realms that spread from the west coast of Ireland and the Hebrides of Scotland to the middle of the Iberian Peninsula.

  Queen Joan acted as matron of honour and, even though they must have felt much anguish about the demise of their odious father, Isaac’s daughters, Anna and Theodora, who had been made ladies-in-waiting to Bérengère, added yet more glamour to the proceedings. They were both very striking creatures with their raven hair and olive skin.

  Anna, in particular, caught my eye. She was perhaps seventeen or eighteen, about two years younger than her sister, and very attractive. I kept reminding myself that she was the daughter of an ‘Emperor’ – at least, in name – and beyond my expectations as a catch. All the same, I could not keep my eyes off her.

  And I was unable to for the next several days.

  Just before our departure for the Holy Land, three ships appeared on the horizon to the east. When they docked, off strode the once King of Jerusalem, Guy of Lusignan, the former nemesis of William Marshal and the man blamed for the catastrophe of the Battle of Hattin. He had been imprisoned by the Sultan Saladin for a year after his capture and had lost his strongest claim to the throne of Jerusalem when his wife, Sybilla, the true heir to the kingdom, had died a year later. He had brought his ships and knights to lend his allegiance to the Lionheart, but was complaining vociferously that Philip Augustus, King of the Franks, had sided with his rival, Conrad of Montferrat, Marquis of Tyre.

  Having left behind the politics of his Plantagenet Empire, the last thing the King wanted was to be drawn into the squabbles of the Latin Princes. But, as Alun and William Marshal pointed out to him, he would be wise to accept all supplicants and welcome them to his bosom. Lusignan was thus showered with gifts, given 2,000 silver marks to re-equip his men, and his knights were taken on to the King’s payroll. Although generous, the Lionheart could afford it. He had already entered into negotiations with the Knights Templar to sell all tithes and revenues on the island of Cyprus for 100,000 bezants, with 40,000 payable immediately. This was a vast sum, even by the standards of kings and ransoms, and was reminiscent of the Danegelds of yesteryear.

  Lusignan brought news from the Holy Land to which the King, attended by his senior commanders, listened intently. It was a remarkable story not known in Europe. In an attempt to redeem himself after his release from Saladin’s clutches – a release only permitted when he promised not to take up arms against the Sultan – Lusignan immediately broke his promise and raised a new army. He then committed himself to a challenge which seemed to have even more potential for catastrophe than Hattin.

  ‘I knew the chances were slim, but we had to do something to prevent Saladin from capturing the entire Holy Land. The Muslims had taken the citadel of Acre, a formidable fortress, but I knew it well and thought that if we could preoccupy Saladin there we would deflect him from besieging the other Christian enclaves, such as Tyre and Antioch. So, I decided to besiege the besieger. I began two years ago and threw everything we had at the city. For most of the knights, it was a fight for their homeland; many are grandsons of the First Crusaders and know no other home. Although we did not take the city, I built a timber motte on Toron, a hill with its back to the sea close to the citadel, from where I could continue to attack it with our ballista. I dug a double defensive trench on the landward side for protection, and to keep open a route to the sea for reinforcements and supplies.’

  Glances of admiration were exchanged between the Lionheart and his men as Lusignan continued his account.

  ‘The plan worked; Saladin arrived to try to relieve the citadel about a year ago. We’ve held him at bay ever since. I paid the Pisans and Genoese a king’s ransom to send men and supplies; they have delivered both regularly, and to good effect, and our route to the sea remains open. We occasionally venture out and attempt to scale the walls of the citadel, but most of the fighting takes place in our trenches when Saladin sends in his infantry. The clashes are bloodthirsty and at very close quarters. At times, we have had to eat our own horses, and our morale has been very low. But we survive. We are kept going by the thought that it is just as dire, or even worse, for the Muslims inside the citadel—’

  The King interrupted.

  ‘
But what of Philip Augustus and his men? It must have made a difference when he arrived.’

  ‘It did; the balance is now tipped in our favour. But we need your army to finally clinch it.’

  My Little Quintet had been restored to me in good health. With Blondel in fine voice, leading the singing, we sailed from the port of Famagusta on 5 June 1191. The great fleet that had sailed in such symmetry from Sicily was reformed, and on an even grander scale than before. Shrill trumpets rang out, pipes and crumhorns wailed and drums resounded across the water as the galleys, each with its crimson cross flying from its mast, headed east.

  This time, the Lionheart’s galley was in the vanguard with the entire flotilla fanned out behind him. He stood on the ship’s prow with Bérengère at his side; they looked like the perfect regal couple, the progenitors of a dynasty even more powerful than the Plantagenets, Normans and Cerdicians that had gone before them.

  I wondered about the child we all hoped she was carrying. Would he inherit not only the colossal Plantagenet Empire of his father and the noble Iberian realms of his mother, but also a new Latin domain in Palestine, even greater than the conquests of the First Crusade?

  17. Siege of Acre

  Our mighty armada made landfall close to the Hospitaller fortress at Margat, a huge bulwark overlooking the sea, and the site of the incarceration of Isaac of Cyprus. When Anna and Theodora saw it, they begged to be put ashore so that they could visit him. The Lionheart refused – even when Bérengère and Queen Joan intervened on behalf of the princesses – despite the fact that boats had been put ashore to bring fresh meat and fruit on board.

  Acre was much further south. After hugging the parched and dusty coastline, we got our first glimpse of the city on 8 June. We disembarked the fleet during the whole of that night and the next day. We could see Saladin’s scouts in the distance; they would soon know the immense scale of the Christian army.

  I was in the Holy Land, the place I had heard so much about from my father in his stories of the English contingent under the command of Edgar the Atheling, in the service of Robert, Duke of Normandy: the Siege of Antioch, the Battle of Dorylaeum, the Fall of Jerusalem. It was just as I had imagined in my mind’s eye. I was moved by setting foot in Palestine, and when I looked at Abbot Alun I saw there were tears in his eyes.

  There was much jubilation when the army had completed its tasks. The King ordered that butts of beer be brewed and meat roasted to celebrate. As the men enjoyed themselves, the King asked Alun and myself to walk with him to look at Acre’s defences.

  ‘Impressive, are they not?’

  ‘Indeed, sire; Acre will be a tough nut to crack, even for an army as formidable as ours.’

  The city was defended on three sides by the sea. But even on the seaward side, towering walls rose from the rocks to create an almost impregnable obstacle. A double wall protected the landward side, with eight large towers offering numerous shooting positions for missiles. We could see light from the braziers of the Muslim defenders flickering against the setting sun over the Mediterranean. It had been another blisteringly hot day, a stark fact that led Alun to reflect on the plight of those inside the walls.

  ‘Women and children, old men, thousands of restless troops, with less and less food, rationed water, stone walls that reflect heat like a blacksmith’s furnace. They’ve been besieged for two years with no prospect of relief. This is an enemy worthy of our journey, sire.’

  The King placed his arm on the man who had now become his close friend.

  ‘I agree, but I will soon bring them respite.’

  ‘Do you remember, my Lord, what Hildegard said in Rupertsberg, in her message to the Synod of Trier?’

  ‘I’m going to surprise you, but I do. I have learned much over the years. As she said, we should look around us and count our blessings. Most importantly, having reflected on the world and our place within it, we should think before we act and always take decisions carefully.’

  The Lionheart was pleased with himself and smiled at us both. He then reached out and included me in his embrace before turning to stare out to sea.

  ‘We face as great a challenge here in the Holy Land as any men have ever faced. Our enemy is a great general and, I am told, a fine man. His army is a match for any. Our Christian forces will be riven by jealousy and intrigue. Lusignan is already at odds with Montferrat, and I heard today that Philip Augustus is offering my knights three bezants to fight for him. And all of this is before the Germans arrive! Marshal and the others will always support me, but I want you two to know I would like you to be at my side at all times. I am easily seduced by fanciful words like those of Joachim of Fiore. I need you to remind me of the more considered words of Hildegard.’

  The three of us began to walk back towards the camp, at the edge of which we passed two of our heavily bearded Bretons guarding the perimeter. They snapped to attention as we passed. Typically, the Lionheart paused to talk to the two men, encouraging them to stay alert as Alun and I walked on. We were soon met by Mercadier, Godric and the Little Quintet, who were on their way to join the drinking.

  The air was cooling rapidly; it had become a characteristically beautiful Mediterranean evening, with a cloudless sky bristling with countless stars, one of which shot across the horizon like a burning arrow.

  Suddenly, the harsh reality of the cruel world we had arrived in breached the peace. One of the perimeter guards came staggering towards us; it was barely possible to tell that he was the same man we had seen only moments earlier. His face was obliterated by the blood that spewed from his neck; his beard was crimson, drenched by the torrent that he was trying to spit from his mouth. He had been sliced from ear to ear; he could not speak, nor could he gesture. Both hands were clasped to his throat as he tried in vain to stem the ebbing tide of the last few seconds of his life. He took only two more swaying steps before collapsing into the dirt.

  ‘Assassins!’ shouted Mercadier.

  The other guard was nowhere to be seen, but the Lionheart was about fifteen paces from us. He had drawn his pugio and was peering into the darkness.

  Godric bellowed, ‘There!’

  Three cloaked black shadows seemed to glide towards the King. They moved quickly but without a sound; only their silhouetted outlines were visible in the moonlight. We all raced towards the Lionheart as the three shadows closed to within a few paces of him.

  As they did so, an arrow cut through the air from Rodor, who had assumed a kneeling position to our right. The arrow struck the trailing shadow with such force that the victim’s torso twisted sideways as he recoiled from the impact. He fell to the ground and, without uttering a sound, squirmed in agony.

  The two leading attackers reached the King together. The first had the thrust of his knife parried by the Lionheart’s powerful forearm as he plunged his pugio deep into the man’s midriff. Again, there was no cry from the stricken man, only the dull thud of his body hitting the ground. The final intruder leapt over his fallen comrade, his dagger already making its strike, aiming for the throat of the King. But as he flung himself forwards, the blade fell short. The two clashed heads as they fell in a heap. The King was unconscious before he hit the ground, but his would-be killer was only stunned and held on to his dagger as he rolled away from his fallen victim.

  Just as we reached the scene, the killer got to his haunches, steadied himself and raised his weapon to strike at the prostrate body in front of him. In the same moment, Alun grasped the end of the man’s trailing cloak and pulled with all his might. This caught him off balance, and he toppled backwards. Although he jumped to his feet again with the alacrity of an acrobat, Alun’s instinctive action had bought a vital few seconds. Before the hooded shadow could strike again, the figure was confronted by an arc of pointed lances. The cornered man backed away as Mercadier and my men closed in. In desperation, he flung himself at Mercadier, who thrust his sword into his chest almost to its hilt.

  The man was motionless for a second, before he sagged i
n that limbo between life and death, then fell to the ground. The King’s momentarily still form began to rouse itself and he started to get up, aided by Godric and myself. Mercadier put his foot on the dead man’s chest to ease out his sword, and then spat on him.

  ‘These three look like Assassins. Their owners rip out their tongues when they are boys so they have no future, other than under the protection of their sadistic masters. They feed them well, give them women and hire them out to the highest bidder. The next fiend could be a yellow-skinned bowman from the east who can skewer a man from two hundred paces, or perhaps a coward with a serpent in a basket, who crawls into camp on his belly like the creature he carries.’

  The King, shaken and woolly-headed, asked the obvious question.

  ‘Sent by whom?’

  ‘Not by Saladin; it’s not his way. My geld would be on that snake, Philip.’

  The Lionheart looked dumbfounded.

  ‘We’re supposed to be allies!’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll ever forgive you for not marrying Alyse. Besides that, he wants to take the glory here and claim the Holy Land for the Franks.’

  ‘But I like him.’

  ‘You’re going to have to learn to like him less. As long as he rules in Paris and you rule in Caen, you will always be enemies.’

  We all learned a salutary lesson that night. Within moments of the King asking me and Alun to stay close to him in the months ahead, the significance of those words had been made all too obvious.

  Alun had saved the life of the Lionheart, something he never forgot.