‘They side with King Philip now, and with Marquis Conrad. Between them they’ve taken the army away from me—’
‘Hey, what’s this? You sound quite petulant, brother King. I’ve always stood up to Philip –’ he glanced round to see who would dare contradict him ‘– and you must do the same to this Italian.’
‘It’s different,’ Guy snapped, venting his anger on the man in whom he had placed so much faith. ‘With respect, my lord King, you do not know Conrad, so you cannot know how it is. The way he stole another man’s wife, a Princess of Jerusalem. The way he has wormed himself into the hearts of the soldiers. If you would just give me one firm date, the day and time of your arrival at Acre, I could put that news to good use. By God I could. They’ll see I’m not deserted—’
The king drove a fist into his open palm. ‘Jambes de De! Half the world seems anxious to turn me into a calendar! The Princess of Navarre; Breteuil here; even my mother asked when I would be returning to England. Well, I’ll tell you all, I don’t work by the rings on a candle. I never have. I need to be free, to assess the situation, to reach a decision, to act upon it.’
His face agitated by fear, Guy said, ‘We know you scorn arrangements, and the fixed rendezvous, but these things are important to us at Acre. We set out to besiege that city and strike a blow for Christendom. Now, because no one came to help us, it is we who are besieged. God knows why Saladin did not close in on us months ago. We are in a desperate plight there.’ He hesitated, decided that what he had to say had to be said now, and went on, ‘There is also my own position to consider. With the King of France in the camp, Marquis Conrad is ready to spring. He wants the throne, and by his marriage to Princess Isabella, he is strong enough to take it. But it’s my throne, and, because I swore fealty to you, yours. If it were not for that, I would have rid myself of it before now. Yes, sire, I would have given it away.’
Richard gazed down at him. After a moment he said, ‘We have heard of your reluctance.’ Then his expression of distaste mellowed and he slapped Guy on the arm. ‘We’re neither of us well suited to the job, are we? You would probably like to manage some untroubled estate in Guienne, whilst I – Well, what do I want? The life of a soldier, perhaps, though a sight better paid than any soldier of my acquaintance. A home, yes, or several homes, dotted about the world. A free life in the open air, that’s the thing, hunting and hawking in the company of active men.’ He had changed the focus of his gaze, and his voice had dropped to a murmur. He went on for a while, mapping a life that was as aimless as it was attractive. Then Robert of Breteuil interposed two quick questions. He had found that this was often the way to get an answer from the king – to mix reality into the dream.
‘How long, do you think, to deal with Cyprus, and when will you marry the Princess of Navarre?’
‘Marry Berengaria? I may as well do that tomorrow. You can get word to her.’
‘And Cyprus?’
‘Let me see. We’ll need three or four weeks to net the slippery Isaac.’ He turned his attention to Guy. ‘I will bring my army to join you in the first week of June.’
‘May I say that in the camp?’
‘Say it where you like. Let Sultan Saladin learn of it, why not? I’ve heard of his doings, so he must have heard of mine. Yes, shout it out. It will give him time to pack his things and move off.’
He rode to his wedding on a pure-bred Arab stallion, a gift from Berengaria’s father, Sancho of Navarre. Richard immediately recognized that his future father-in-law’s present was without equal in the island. The stallion had a slender neck, pointed ears, and a short, dish-shaped head. It had been trained in dressage, and delighted the cheering Crusaders by performing a faultless halted canter, bringing its hind legs forward together, then moving smoothly onward with a high step of its forelegs.
The king sat in his own parade saddle, a light wood and leather affair with a high, inlaid pommel and padded cantle. The seat and sides of the saddle were imprinted with gold and crimson stars, while the rear of the cantle was decorated with two gold leopards. The leopards stood facing inward, each with its mouth open and one forepaw raised, as though about to strike out at the other. The design of scattered stars was retained on the headstall and reins, and the metalwork was hammered from pure gold.
Not to be outdone by his mount, Richard was accoutred with gold, single-spike spurs, a sword with a four-foot blade, a chased leather scabbard and a woven belt, called a baldric. The silver buckle on the baldric matched a second, imitation buckle fixed to the mouth of the scabbard. He was dressed in a sand-polished hauberk, a thick, rose-coloured over-tunic hung with rows of solid silver crescents, and a crimson peaked cap, around the crown of which had been stitched the outline of various birds and animals. His hair and moustache had been combed, and to save climbing into a bath he had doused himself with a pungent, not-too-expensive perfume. He was every inch the king and conqueror, and he regarded the ride through Limassol as something of a victory parade.
Joanna accompanied Berengaria from the castle. Both women were nervous, the bride because the lack of warning had necessitated a hectic, sleepless night, Joanna because she could not rid her mind of something her mother had told her in Messina. ‘I know my son, and so I know his faults. He will decide on the marriage as he would reach for a piece of bread. As soon as you hear of it, tell whoever you meet. Spread the news as far and as fast as you can. If not, you may find he has changed his mind and gone hawking.’
But he wouldn’t do that. He would not bring such disgrace on an innocent woman. He would not risk an insult to Spain and all her allies. He would not be so fickle, in so important a matter.
No? Then why am I shaking like a leaf in a storm?
She glanced at the silk-clad Berengaria, who asked, ‘Do I show signs of fatigue?’
‘You look quite beautiful.’
‘I’m terrified. Richard of England, to choose me.’
Joanna smiled at her and thought, yes, it is better to believe that than the truth. You were chosen by Queen Eleanor, dear Princess. Chosen for Richard, without his knowledge. But at least what I told you is true. You do look beautiful, and you show rare tact to dress so simply. I’ve seen my brother’s outfit, and it leaves no room for competition.
She put out a hand and Berengaria did likewise. The bride’s fingers were icy cold. Then they rode down the final slope and into the town. They drew erect, not touching, but still close together.
So on the morning of Sunday, 12th May, 1191, King Richard of England and Princess Berengaria of Navarre were married in Limassol Cathedral. Throughout the service – conducted by the Bishop of Evreux – Richard seemed relaxed and in a rare good humour. When it was over he sought out Robert of Breteuil and told him it was time to continue their pursuit of the wily Isaac.
‘Is that what filled your mind during the ceremony? It was a wedding, you know. You have a wife now. Do you not think you should spend the first night—’
‘I have sent an appropriate message.’
‘You sent a message.’
‘She’ll understand.’
With unrecognized sarcasm, Robert said, ‘It is a miracle that you were not netted in marriage years ago. With your remarkable compassion for the needs of women—’
‘Yes, I think I do know what they’re about. Anyway, this one has no cause for complaint, when she’s just been made Queen of England. Assemble the leaders, Robert, while I change and sponge off this sickly scent. Oh, and find something to drink. Being wed is dry labour.’
* * *
The hunt lasted three weeks. The Crusaders drove Isaac from Nicosia, then from the strongly fortified castle of Cerine. The Cypriot leaders deserted wholesale. Richard would have nothing to do with them; he prized loyalty above most things, and his sympathies were directed towards the common soldiers who fought to a standstill, rather than these noblemen who trotted unscathed into the English camp. Nevertheless, they brought with them valuable information – details of hidden postern gates
and secret passages – which enabled the Crusaders to capture the fortresses of Paphos, Buffevent and Deudeamur. During the last days of May, Emperor Isaac was cornered in the abbey-fortress of Cape Saint Andrew. He held out for a week, then presented himself before Richard.
The young knight who had described him aboard Trenchemer had been reasonably accurate. The self-styled Byzantine did have the eyes of a pig and the voice of a woman. He had lost weight during his flight around the island, but he was still paunchy, pale faced, in Richard’s terms an indoor creature.
He knelt in the dust at Richard’s feet. Then, worried that he was not showing sufficient humility, he lowered himself on his stomach.
‘There is no more I can do,’ he wheezed. ‘For the sake of my people I ask you to make an end of these hostilities.’
‘How can you speak for them?’ Richard taunted. ‘Most of them are in my custody.’
‘I offer you a generous settlement. Twenty thousand marks of gold, at the full weight, whilst I will go in person with you to Palestine. Out of my treasury I will pay for, I will pay—’ He choked as the dust rose in his face.
One of Richard’s leaders murmured, ‘Let him up, King. It’s not necessary to—’
‘What will you pay for?’
‘One hundred knights and, uh, five hundred foot soldiers.’ Not daring to spit in the king’s presence, he swallowed a ball of wet dust and turned his head to one side. ‘All I ask,’ he mouthed, ‘is that you do not lead me from here in iron fetters.’
‘You insulted my sister, and my present wife, the Queen of England—’
‘For which I crave forgiveness.’
‘imprisoned some of my men, stole English property—’
‘For which I – I crave forgiveness.’
‘yet you say no iron chains.’
Isaac nodded, rubbing the side of his face against the ground.
With a sudden smile, Richard said, ‘Very well.’ He beckoned to his chamberlain, Robert Fitz-Godfrey. ‘Take him in hand. I’ll be back.’ Then, still smiling, he strode away among the tents.
Richard kept his word; Isaac was not weighed down with iron manacles. But he was made to stand swaying in the hot sun while the English smiths prepared a set of heavy chains forged from gold coins and silver plate…
Cœur-de-Lion was now ready to take the final step east.
Cyprus was placed under the control of English justiciars. The Crusaders embarked at Famagusta, and the fleet set sail.
On 8th June, 1191, four years after the Christian defeat at the Horns of Hattin, and almost two years since King Guy had pitched his scarlet tent on the summit of Mount Turon, Richard of England reached the camp at Acre. Like Philip of France, he had finally honoured his vows.
Chapter Nine
Tyre
June 1191
The dray lurched into a pothole, snapping Ernoul’s teeth together. He cursed unimaginatively, and glanced round for the hundredth time, watching for signs of a dust cloud, listening for hoofbeats. Back at camp, Lord Balian had offered to let Constable Fostus ride with him. At the time, Ernoul had declined the offer. Not even Fostus could have achieved much against a horde of Ramieh, and his loss would have spread ripples of alarm throughout the camp. So the young squire had told Balian, ‘I will be safer alone, my lord. I’m of no value to them, one way or the other, and they’ll let me through when they see the nature of the load.’
Now, for all his talk, he would have given a year’s pay to have had Fostus with him.
The road ran parallel to the Great Sea, sometimes hidden from it by scalloped sand dunes, more often exposed to the gusts of salt spray that were carried inland by the light west wind. It was lonely out here, and Ernoul imagined how an eagle hawk would view it – the crude wagon jolting along between the expanse of blue water and the desolate coastal plain. Of course, the hawk might not think the man at all lonely, for it could see what lay around the next bend, and in the hollows of the dry wadis.
Ernoul cleared his throat and tried to put the thought from his mind. If he was found, he was found. There was nothing he could do about it.
The dray lurched again, then leaned over, forcing the squire to hold tight to the unsprung bench. The horses made a half-hearted attempt to pull the wagon free, then stopped. Ernoul treated himself to a long groan, climbed down from the bench and shuffled to the rear of the dray. The five, iron-bound chests that made up the load had slipped sideways. One wheel of the wagon was buried almost to its axle in sand.
‘Magnificent,’ he said. ‘The fifth time this morning. I’d get there faster if I carried them on my back.’ He dragged bundles of brush from the dray, unstrapped a spade and knelt beside the sunken wheel. When he had cleared the sand from the front edge of the wheel he packed the hole with brushwood and replaced the spade. Then he climbed on to the end board of the dray and re-arranged the chests. He had stripped down to his gambeson and under-tunic, but he still felt as though he was encased in hot metal. He had been tempted to remove his boots – they were full of sweat-damp sand – but he had not done so. That would come later.
He straddled the bench, urged the horses forward and felt the dray right itself and roll clear of the hole. Then he jumped down again to reclaim the dry bundles. Brushwood was scarce along this stretch of the coast.
He continued northward. The chests banged together on the floor of the dray, reminding him of his mission.
The speed with which Marquis Conrad had removed his young wife to Tyre had separated her from many of her personal possessions: trinkets, souvenirs, objects of value only to her. For eight months Isabella had asked Conrad to have them brought from the camp at Acre, but only now had he relayed the request to Balian and Maria. They had not heard from her since she had left for Tyre. How could they, when all her letters had been intercepted by Conrad’s men, read by him, and then destroyed? Likewise, she had received none of the letters written by Balian, Maria and Humphrey.
Balian had complained bitterly to Conrad. ‘You decoyed me from this place, and in my absence stole the princess from Lord Humphrey. That, in itself, is one of the foulest deeds—’
‘Aah, it’s done, Ibelin, it’s done. And Isabella doesn’t complain, so why should you?’
‘You’re a liar, Marquis Conrad. It’s one of your lesser failings, but it’s a constant one. We’ve had no word from Isabella since you abducted her—’
‘She has nothing to say to you. Nor to that sodomite Humphrey.’
‘Watch yourself! There’ll be a time, when this campaign is over—’
‘You’re threatening me.’ He laughed in Balian’s face. ‘By the horns, you’re threatening me!’
‘I will always threaten you,’ Balian measured. ‘And, at the first opportunity, I’ll kill you.’
Conrad opened his thin arms. ‘Now is your chance.’
The Lord of Nablus shook his head, an inch to the right, an inch to the left. His gaze did not leave Conrad’s hollowed face. ‘It could have been done many times.’
‘But we must first follow the fortunes of the Kingdom, eh?’
‘Yes, damn you. I have always given that the prior claim.’
‘You are too perfect, Lord Balian—’
‘No, Marquis. I still have to do one perfect thing, and nudge you from the world.’
Just for an instant Conrad hesitated. Then he snapped, ‘You don’t endear yourself to me, Ibelin, so don’t expect favours of me. Princess Isabella will remain at Tyre until I choose otherwise.’
‘Will you allow her one letter from her mother?’
‘No.’
‘Will you pass on a spoken message?’
‘No.’
Yet, after eight months, he had agreed to let Isabella have the chests of trinkets.
Ernoul glanced down and saw that he had curled one hand around his left boot. He brought the hand away and turned his attention to the road.
Two miles farther on he saw the Saracens. He reined in and squinted through the dust cloud that ros
e around them. Twenty, he counted, thirty, sixty, a hundred at least. They advanced in two columns, keeping to the sides of the road. Cruel-looking men, with eyes the colour of olive stones and mouths that curved like their own decorated scimitars. Arrogant men, always proud, but since Hattin imbued with fresh determination. Their expression said, we knew it would be so. We are in our country. It is the will of Allah.
The squire’s heart tapped against his ribs. He unrolled his travelling cloak and threw it around his shoulders. Then he waited for the Saracens to halt and order him down and examine the chests.
The first riders passed on either side. He turned his head and a few of them glanced at him to see if he was reaching for a weapon. He smiled weakly, cold in the sun. The dust rolled over him, settling on the dray. The workhorses flicked their heads from side to side, fascinated by the Arab stallions. The first hundred riders trotted by, followed by a second hundred, and a third. The young squire slapped at his clothes, then raised the hem of his cloak and held it across his face. Hidden by the linen mask, he spat into his cupped hand and wiped the sandy spittle on the skirt of his tunic. Christ, he thought, they’re out to suffocate me. They’ll ride up and down until there’s no air left. Well, make your search, you pigs! What prevents you? Surely I don’t terrify you, do I? Get on with it before I expire, deaf, blind and breathless!
He had closed his clogged eyes, and now he dug a finger in his ears to clear them of sand. He heard the muffled drum of hooves, the creak of saddles, the clatter of scimitars. The wind soughed across the road and he hunched down to wait. Five hundred? A thousand? How many more armies does Saladin possess?
After a long while he wiped his eyelids and opened his eyes. The road ahead was empty. With a grunt of surprise he let the cloak fall and twisted round on the bench. The rear of the columns had already disappeared into the rolling dust cloud.
‘Hey,’ he croaked, ‘don’t you want – I could have been carrying weapons. Hey! Am I not even worth a search? You don’t know what I’m carrying! I could have –’ He tailed off as he realized the truth. They had known. Moslem spies were among the most efficient in the world. They’d known.
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 11
