Fostus took an arrow through the back of his hand, snapped the shaft and pulled the barb out of his palm. He saw William stumble in the sand, and he led his own wedge in front, where they formed a wall behind which the French champion could find his feet. The debt was repaid many times in the next hour.
Now supported by Balian and Grand Master Ermengard, Richard fought his way through the wreckage of the Jerusalem Gate. A roar from the direction of the keep told him that the garrison commander had launched a counter-attack. The Saracens moved back, stunned by the speed and concentration of the assault. They outnumbered the Infidels fifty to one, yet seemed powerless to halt the hideous, scything machines. Richard’s axe treated toughened leather shields like parchment, and human limbs like straw around a bottle.
The rescue attempt broke every rule of war. The knights should have been on horseback, but the three destriers were still aboard ship, champing and seasick. On foot, the armoured knights should have advanced slowly, yet they favoured the small wedges, trotting forward, denying exhaustion. And so, street by street, they reclaimed the city. It was incredible, but their enemies were forced to believe it. Within the space of two hours Sultan Saladin, Emir Saphadin and Emir Takedin, along with twenty thousand Moslems, had been driven from Jaffa by a despairing garrison and an invading party that should not have survived the beach.
* * *
The queens started down from the tower. As they neared the main door, Maria took a sword from a weapons’ rack beside the guardhouse and thrust the hilt at Berengaria.
‘Why do I need this?’
‘Take it, my lady.’
‘But we are safe now.’
‘Just take it. Keep it with you for a while.’
They emerged into the sunlight to be greeted by Richard and Balian. Humphrey of Toron hung back, while Isabella edged away from the group.
Flamboyant to the last, Richard had made no attempt to remove the snapped and splintered arrows from his armour. He beamed at the women. Then his expression changed and he pointed at his wife. ‘Do you see this, messires? The Queen of England, bearing arms like a warrior. By God, that’s good!’ He shook with laughter, as proud and pleased as he could remember. Other Crusaders arrived and, because they were yearning to cheer somebody, chose Berengaria. Richard crooked his arm, waited for his queen to place her hand on it, then paraded her through Jaffa. The sword was growing heavy, but if this was the way to keep him by her – well, she reasoned, she could always have a lighter one made to order.
* * *
They moved away from the crowds and on to a promontory of rock beyond the west wall. They felt strangely self-conscious, something they would not have dreamed possible. Then Humphrey put it into words. ‘We are sinning,’ he smiled. ‘You and I, we should not be here together. Henry might take it amiss if he heard of it.’ Nevertheless, he put out his hand and she laid hers across it. They watched the sea roll in against the promontory. They could not have conversed amid noise, nor in total silence. The sea whispered encouragement to them. ‘Your arrival here was well timed, my lord.’
‘We were becalmed, else we’d have been here sooner. I was worried—’
‘No. Please.’
‘Can I not say I feared for your safety. You are what brought me through the fight. You must know it.’
She nodded slowly, her fingers moving, entwining with his. ‘This is not fair.’
‘This, or the rest of it? To have you snatched away – At least, Henry has some honour.’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘he treats me well enough.’ She felt his grip tighten and turned her head, blinking against the tears. ‘Isabella.’
‘They will be searching for us before long.’
‘Let them search. They know we are alive.’ He drew her gently under the wall. They would only be seen if someone ventured on to the promontory, or if a ship passed close to the city. He said again, ‘We are alive.’
‘Before we—‘
‘Isabella.’
‘Before all else – I must ask you something. Did you kill Conrad, or have it done?’
He looked directly at her for a moment. Then he said, ‘Did you?’
Chapter Eighteen
The Coast
Angust–October 1192
Richard Cœur-de-Lion aroused every emotion in men, save pity. He was at his best on the field of battle, at his most generous with strong companions who appreciated his own prowess. He was a man for men, a sportsman and hunter in time of peace, a fine tactician and a soldier of unsurpassed courage in time of war. He had inherited many of his more energetic traits from his father, Henry II. He also shared Henry’s arrogance and vanity, dislike of physical weakness, and abhorrence of cowardice in any form.
But he was not arrogant today. He was gravely ill, inflamed with fever, exhausted by the climate and the fourteen-month campaign. He had collapsed twice during the past week and, on Robert of Breteuil’s orders, his armour and clothes had been taken from him. His physicians were sworn to secrecy, but his absence had been noted. The army needed to see him, in order to draw strength from him. But they could not see him like this, for he had no strength to give.
For the first time since he had set foot in the Holy Land he laid aside the burden of decision. He asked the Grand Masters of the Temple and the Hospital for permission to leave Palestine, but first to have him transported quietly to Acre.
‘Jaffa has become an unhealthy place. I’m sure I would mend faster if I went north.’
‘You cannot go yet, King.’
‘Why not? Get me down to the harbour at night—’
‘The Saracens are still in the area. How can we defend Jaffa if you are not here?’
Richard stared up at them. Then he gave a wry smile, a smile directed against himself. ‘All along I have claimed I am indispensable; no one can do what I can do, or if they can do it, I do it better. Well, well. It has rebounded on me. But tell me, Masters, now that the land army has arrived, are we not strong enough—
Ermengard and Robert of Sablon exchanged a glance. Then Ermengard said, ‘You must know the worst. The army is aware of your condition. God knows how it got about, but there it is. They know you are ill and they are leaving by the shipload.’
‘What? Have they been paid?’
‘They’re not the sort to go empty-handed. We took control of your coffers—’
‘You took my money?
‘We could hardly reward them with blessings.’
‘But that’s my money!’
‘With which to buy men. And in this case, pay them off.’
‘How much remains?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then how many have gone?’
‘Some three thousand of the infantry. Sixty or seventy knights.’
‘Not possible!’
‘Proved possible. We have the tally.’
‘Yet you will not take me to Acre. Am I to be the last Christian in Palestine?’
Ermengard took a deep breath. ‘The belief is this, King. We have all fought a long and hard campaign—’
‘I’ll ennoble you, is that what you want?’
‘but we have little to show for it.’
‘You call the coast little? Tyre, Caesarea, Acre—’
‘We want a treaty.’
‘Haifa, Arsuf, Jaffa, Ascal – With Saladin?’
‘Who else?’
‘If I secure this treaty, then will you let me leave? I don’t mean Jaffa. I mean the country.’
Ermengard nodded. ‘And God speed you, King.’
* * *
Throughout August letters were exchanged between Richard Cœur-de-Lion and Sultan Saladin. The king’s condition worsened, and a further thousand Crusaders started for home. At Acre, Hugh of Burgundy died. His followers no longer felt obliged to remain and they, too, bought passage for Europe.
On 28th August, Moslem emissaries arrived at Jaffa with the text of Saladin’s final peace offer. In this, he agreed that the coast between Tyre and Jaff
a should remain in Frankish hands, along with the inland towns of Ramleh and Lydda. But Ascalon was to be destroyed. The treaty would last for three years from the date of signature, and during that time Ascalon would remain desolate. At the end of three years, the site would go to the dominant party. Both sides were to have unrestricted passage throughout Palestine, and all Christian pilgrims were to have right of access to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem.
As a settlement, it cost the Moslems very little. They did not mind having foreigners on the beach.
The treaty was signed on Wednesday, 2nd September, 1192; by the Moslem calendar, 22nd Shaban, 588 A.H., the years that had elapsed since the Hegira, the Exile, when the prophet Mohammed fled from persecution in Mecca to the disciples who awaited him at Medina.
Six days later, Richard raised himself from his bed to celebrate his thirty-fifth birthday in the company of his queen, his sister, and a number of invited barons.
He was now seriously concerned by events in England, and he sent Berengaria and Joanna ahead, hoping that the queen’s presence would have a sobering effect on his brother John. He travelled with them as far as Acre, and from there wrote a last letter to Saladin. It remained forceful in tone, but it rang hollow.
‘I sought a treaty of only three years’ duration so that I might return to my own lands, raise money and men, then lead a further expedition to the rescue of Jerusalem and to liberate Christ’s Holy Land.’
Ever the diplomat, Saladin informed Richard that if it was written that Islam must lose the land, he could think of no more deserving a victor than Malik Ankiltar.
The adversaries shared one regret. Each had heard and read much about the other, but they had never met. Perhaps next time?
* * *
But for now it was over. On 9th October, Trenchemer was rowed clear of the port. The oars slid inboard and the sails filled with wind. The arms of the stitched Cross spread out, as though in a final embrace, and Sea Slicer slid away from the groups of silent men and women, from the lighthouse at the end of the harbour wall, from the walled city and from the Christian East.
The onlookers thought of what they had gained: the coast from Tyre to Jaffa, the right to worship in Jerusalem, a three year respite from war. And, in human terms, they remembered what they had lost: Frederick Barbarossa, Emperor of Germany, drowned in the Salef; his son, Duke of Swabia, dead from disease in the camp outside Acre; Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, perhaps poisoned; Marquis Conrad of Montferrat, assassinated; James d’Avennes, cut down in battle; the French leader, Hugh of Burgundy, another victim of disease. And the nameless thousands, men and women, soldiers and civilians, who had died for the Holy Cause, or because of it.
Since the arrival of Philip of France at Tyre, one and a half years earlier, the Kingdom of Jerusalem had witnessed the activities of four kings and four queens. But now the glittering array of monarchy had dwindled. Of the kings, only Henry of Jerusalem was left. Of the queens, there was still Maria, still her daughter Isabella. It might be enough.
* * *
Humphrey and Ernoul were the last to climb the steep port steps. Bred to castle life, they had climbed steeper flights a thousand times before. Yet by the time they reached the top they were breathless and leaden-limbed. It was as though the very act of watching Richard’s departure had thinned their blood.
They decided to dine in one of the better-provisioned taverns, then drink themselves cheerful again.
Aftermath
The East, The West
Richard’s homeward journey was blighted by misfortune. An early winter storm drove his galley north to the island of Corfu. Unwilling to wait while the vessel was repaired, he took passage aboard a corsair ship, intending to sail up the Adriatic Sea, then continue overland. A further storm wrecked the ship near Zara in Dalmatia, and Richard realized that if he was to reach safety, he must first cross hostile territory. He adopted the red and white uniform of a Templar, then made his way through Slovenia and Austria, reaching Vienna a full month after leaving Palestine.
But he was not a man to wear disguise well, and he was recognized and taken before Duke Leopold of Austria. The duke reminded him of that day at Acre, when Richard had seen fit to have the Austrian banner thrown down from the walls. The price of that insult, he said, would be 150,000 silver marks…
* * *
Philip of France was elated by the news of Richard’s imprisonment. He lost no time in raising men for an attack on the Lionheart’s continental possessions, and he encouraged John – known scornfully as Softsword – to stir up civil strife in England. Sure that Philip would succeed in capturing Normandy, John hurried to France and swore fealty to him.
When Richard heard that his brother was plotting to seize the English throne, he commented equably, ‘John will never gain a thing for himself, so long as someone resists him with a feather.’
* * *
In February 1193, Sultan Saladin lay dying at Damascus. His memory had begun to fail, and by the end of the month he suffered from near total paralysis. His physicians were in despair, for although his mattress and blankets were soaked through, he was no longer able to consume liquids.
On Wednesday, 3rd March – 27th Safar, 589 A.H. – the Sultan regained consciousness for the last time. He commanded that the contents of his treasury be dispensed to the poor, without regard to race or creed. Then, as his chronicler Beha ed-Din read from the Koran, Saladin uttered a long sigh and died.
He was fifty-four years of age, and was survived by nineteen sons and a daughter. They enjoyed no personal bequests, for the only property that could be directly ascribed to him consisted of one horse, a coat of mail, a dress sword, one gold dinar and thirty-six smaller silver coins.
* * *
In England, a crippling quarter tax had been imposed, whereby everyone, clergy or laity, was subjected to a levy of one fourth of their money, jewellery and chattels. Even so, Richard Cœur-de-Lion remained in captivity until March 1194.
* * *
On the day Philip Augustus heard that Richard had been freed, he wrote an urgent note to John – ‘Look to yourself, for the devil is unchained.’
* * *
Two months after Richard’s release, Guy of Lusignan, King of Cyprus, died on the island. The throne was offered to his banished brother Amalric. The elder Lusignan accepted.
* * *
In September 1197, King Henry of Jerusalem was in a second-story room in the palace at Acre, entertaining a group of Pisan emissaries. In tragi-comic circumstances, the king moved back during the conversation and toppled out of the unshuttered window. The Pisans rushed forward and gaped down at his lifeless body, which lay twisted on the cobblestones of the stable yard.
Isabella was a widow again. But she was no longer merely the Lady of Toron, nor the Lady of Montferrat. She was the Queen of Jerusalem, and it became imperative to find her a husband. The man who was chosen was detested by Balian, Maria, Humphrey and by Isabella herself. Yet, although the Lords of Nablus and Toron were among the most powerful in the Kingdom, they could not sway the vote.
In January, 1198, Queen Isabella was married to her fourth husband, Amalric of Lusignan, lately King of Cyprus.
* * *
April 1199 saw the forty-one year old King Richard in the Limousin district of France. He was at war with Philip Augustus, and in the throes of besieging the ramshackle castle of Chaluz.
A few days earlier, a farmer from Limoges had unearthed some Roman coins and plate, and news of the find had reached Richard. Always eager to lay his hands on trophies that could be sold for profit, or melted down, he claimed the find as treasure-trove. But the discovery had been made on land owned by Lord Aimer of Chaluz, and he contested the king’s claim.
Then a rumour circulated that, as well as the coins and plate, a rare statue had been dug up – a solid gold piece, depicting twelve knights, or were they the twelve apostles, seated at a table dormant. Richard hurried to Chaluz and, accompanied by a worried Robert o
f Breteuil, strode about beneath the castle walls. He had made an appointment with the farmer, and was late for it, and had arrived at the rendezvous without his link-mail hauberk. So the crossbow quarrel that flew from a slit in the castle tore through his shoulder, hurling him to the ground.
The wound became inflamed, then turned gangrenous. His mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, hastened to be with him. Having given such short shrift to women throughout his life, Richard couched himself in his mother’s arms and died thus, on the evening of 6th April. The Dowager Queen conducted his body to Fontrevault for burial. King Henry II was already buried there, and she herself would embrace death in that city eleven years later.
* * *
The family of Nablus lived on in the Christian East, helping to govern a Kingdom that was less than a hundred miles in length and, for the most part, two or three miles in width. On Saladin’s recommendation, Lord Balian had been granted the seigneurie of Caymont, at the southern end of Mount Carmel. Fostus and Ernoul continued to serve him, and the squire began to write his histories. Humphrey of Toron earned an enviable reputation as the finest linguist Islam had ever known, and he spent an increasing part of his time in the Moslem courts. He was not turning against Christendom; he was avoiding the pain of being so close to the woman he loved, but could never again possess.
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 23
