Soon after, Joan learned that Philip had been taken sick. It seemed a quarter of the army was ill with arnaldia, a wasting disease with fevers that had their physicians mystified. They said Philip hadn’t risen from his bed for two days and some of his fingernails had fallen out.
Joan looked at her own filthy hands. No wonder everyone was sick. Tonight she would bathe, in seawater if necessary.
“Lady,” Charisse whispered, stirring, “you’re awake? I’ll set out your dress.”
“Where is Sati?”
Charisse shrugged. “She rose early.”
Joan wouldn’t voice her fears. She had suspected—from Sati’s guarded sighs, the way her eyes searched the horizon, her increasingly secretive prayers—that the maid was looking for a way to escape to the Saracens.
Joan donned a faded red dress, choosing to ignore the fraying hem and discolored bodice. She regularly wore only two of her gowns; the rest she kept packed away. After having been queen of one of the world’s wealthiest kingdoms, Joan had only a few trunks left to her name.
She stood to have her hair fixed. After two strokes, Charisse dropped the comb with a gasp. “Lice.”
Joan shut her eyes and held her breath until the urge to shudder passed. “It’s unavoidable. If that is the worst we suffer—”
“Lady.” Sati’s muffled voice came from the other side of the curtain that screened their beds. “The lord king has sent a page.”
“Oh?” Thank God she was still with them. The devil only knew what might happen if a beautiful Saracen woman were caught wandering alone in a crusaders’ camp. “I’ll be right there.”
Gingerly, Charisse wrapped a broad flat ribbon around Joan’s hair and tied it to the back of her dress.
“Yes?” Joan pulled back the curtain and greeted the boy. He was round-faced and wide-eyed, somebody’s nephew, too young to be here.
“The king requests you to come at once. He…he has the arnaldia.”
No wonder the boy looked so scared.
Joan took the shortest route, past the compound of the wounded, a cluster of tents she generally avoided. The groans of the suffering, the stench of gangrene and clotted blood appalled her. With aching lungs and burning thighs, she climbed the hill that gave Richard’s pavilion its vantage point.
As she yanked open the door, Geoffrey de Lusignan came forward, perspiration beaded on his lip.
“The physician just left. Now Chaplain Nicholas is with him.”
“Oh!” She felt a stab of fear as she drew her next breath. “Let me see him.” She brushed past into Richard’s sleeping chamber.
He lay on a wood-framed bed with a thick mattress. He had pushed off his sheet, and the room smelled of his fever sweats. The chaplain sat on a stool at the foot of the bed. He nodded in greeting but didn’t rise, appearing too exhausted to do so.
“Ah, sister mine. Come nurse me.” Richard looked pale and defenseless.
When Geoffrey delivered a chair to the bedside, she sat, tears stinging her eyes, and combed her brother’s matted hair with her fingertips.
“You are not so bad off,” she said, making her voice as crisp as Mama’s. “I have lice.”
Richard’s laugh was little more than a whimper. “Then you must also take sick. The physician said my hair will fall out.”
“Oh, Richard. Then how will we tell you and Philip apart?”
“King Philip is the one behind his troops,” Geoffrey said. “Our king is the man in front.”
Joan gazed up at Geoffrey gratefully. No doubt Richard preferred admiration to her banter.
“Let him sleep as much as he can,” Nicholas said, getting to his feet. “I can’t stay. Everyone wants to say confession today. Who would think sin would be so rampant in a crusaders’ camp?”
Joan nodded without thought for an answer, too worried about her brother’s body to be concerned for anyone else’s soul.
“I must be off, too, lady,” Geoffrey said. “The king has set me a few tasks.”
“Yes. Wait, I’ll see you out.” She escorted them from Richard’s bedroom to the area that served as entrance and dining hall. Armor, clothing, parchments, and maps lay scattered about.
She touched Geoffrey’s arm as he reached for the door. “What did the physician say?”
Geoffrey hesitated. “He said the king shouldn’t have taxed himself in yesterday’s heat. He should stay abed until he’s recovered.”
“Recovered,” Joan echoed. “What else?”
“He should expect to lose his nails and hair. His mouth will bleed. He might lose teeth.”
“God in heaven. What else?” Joan waited until he continued in a husky whisper.
“Some men in camp are dying. But God won’t permit the king to die.”
“God keeps His own counsel.”
“That’s what he said.” Geoffrey sounded awed. “He said, ‘God keeps His own counsel. Fetch my sister. Joan will not let me die.’”
SHE EMPTIED RICHARD’S CHAMBER POT, CHANGED HIS SWEAT- drenched clothing, mopped his brow, and spoon-fed him lukewarm sops of bread and broth. Meanwhile, his officers interrupted his rest at all hours, and he refused to let her banish them.
Upon hearing Philip was well enough to supervise the French troops, he decided he must check on his own. When Joan insisted he stay in bed, he commanded his men to carry the bed outdoors. After each unwise exertion, he relapsed into fevered moaning and lethargy, then slept, only to wake and overtax himself again.
Then one night, Geoffrey de Lusignan appeared at the king’s tent. When he saw her, he seemed reluctant to speak, but Richard had heard his voice and called him to the bedside.
“What word?”
Refusing to look at Joan, Geoffrey said, “He said he’d send el-Adil.”
“Perfect. Bring him.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. Wasn’t el-Adil Saladin’s brother?
“I’ve been trying to meet with Saladin.” Richard finished with a rattling voice. He coughed, winced, and rubbed his chest.
Meeting in secret with Saracens? How foolhardy! What if they took him hostage or killed him? Or Richard’s allies might strike Geoffrey down just as readily for negotiating with the enemy.
Geoffrey frowned. “El-Adil is as anxious to observe our camp as you were for me to scout theirs. Are you sure he should see you this ill?”
Joan wondered who else would be brave enough to tell Richard he appeared weak.
“I am not dying. That much, he will see.”
“Then you may expect him the day after tomorrow.” Geoffrey avoided Joan’s stare. “This will not remain secret, sire.”
“No matter. England’s king needs answer to no one.”
JOAN EXPECTED SALADIN’S BROTHER TO BE OLDER, FOR THE sultan was an old man. But el-Adil looked to be William’s age. Beside Geoffrey he seemed tall, but when he passed the curtain she’d hidden behind, she guessed he was closer to her own height. In the center of his forehead, a few locks of gray-streaked black hair escaped from under a richly woven turban. He would have been handsome if not for a sunken scar extending from his right nostril to his ear.
Geoffrey led him into the king’s bedchamber. She crept close to the silk wall to listen—Geoffrey’s Arabic, though rough, put hers to shame. She repeated silently the words she needed to remember, the speech she had practiced for two days.
Richard praised the bravery of Saladin’s garrison but assured el-Adil that Acre would fall. The Saracen disagreed, saying reinforcements had come from Sinjar and Egypt, and an even greater force was on its way from Mosul.
“That simply means more of your people will die,” Richard said.
El-Adil asked what he proposed, but Richard answered vaguely. Joan suspected he wanted to hear Saladin’s offer first. After a few careful exchanges, he said he would send his envoy to Saladin again on July 1, in one week, with gifts to show his goodwill.
Hearing movement, she scrambled away from the wall. As soon as el-Adil emerged, she stepp
ed into his path and curtsied.
“Sir, I am the king’s sister. I—”
“Joan!” Richard roared from the next room. “What are you doing?”
She tried to continue quickly, but el-Adil’s panicked response made her forget the words. His body grew rigid, his cheeks ruddy, and he averted his eyes to the side of the tent.
“Oh,” she gasped, swallowing an oath. She wasn’t veiled—what must he think?
Richard threw aside the curtained flap of his bedchamber; his clothes were wrinkled and sweat-stained, his colorless face betraying the strain of rising. El-Adil rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, and he seemed to be holding his breath. There was nothing to do but finish.
“I want him to find a place for Sati. I’ve been watching her, Richard. She’s looking for a way to leave.”
El-Adil tilted his head toward Geoffrey and asked, “Is this the Sicilian queen?”
Joan answered him. “I was.”
Without looking at her, he said, “Your husband was greatly admired. A just and generous man.”
“Yes.” Joan added haltingly, “As are you.” When Jerusalem fell, he’d set a thousand Christian prisoners free.
He stole a glance then raised his eyes twice as quickly, blushing harder. To Joan’s surprise, Richard remained silent. She struggled to remember her speech.
“In Sicily, when I was a child, I was given a maid. She wants to live among people of her faith. But—”
“Send her to my brother. She will have a place in his household.”
Joan bowed. “Thank you.”
“Geoffrey,” Richard said, “please take the lord el-Adil back to his escort.”
As Geoffrey led el-Adil away, Joan braced herself for her brother’s fury, but he wore a curiously benign expression. He slung an arm over her shoulder.
“Help me back to bed. You nearly killed me.”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“I’m not angry. Will he take Sati? She can be one of my gifts to Saladin.” Joan jumped when he barked a laugh. “Did you see his face? By God, sister mine, you damn near killed him!”
AFTER A FEW MORE WEEKS OF FIGHTING, THE SARACEN GARRIson capitulated—against Saladin’s orders. In addition to the city, they surrendered the Egyptian galleys in the harbor and promised the return of fifteen hundred Christian prisoners, the True Cross taken at Hattin, and a payment of two hundred thousand dinars. In return, they were granted their lives.
Joan, Berry, and Charisse watched from a hilltop as the garrison opened the gate and marched out across the plain into captivity, their wives and children following. For the first time, Joan felt glad Sati was gone.
Geoffrey de Lusignan brought them horses so they could join Richard’s party, massing before the gate. The nearer they drew, the worse the stench. The ground was still saturated with old blood and tissue, intermingled with the scent of vinegar, the only liquid capable of extinguishing Greek fire. Berry’s skin looked sallow, and Joan wagered her own face was green.
Richard waved and called, “At my right side, sister mine, for Mother’s sake. And Berry beside you.”
The cortege began moving. The English and French would enter through different gates simultaneously. Germans, Franks, Danes, Pisans, Genoese, Austrians, and any of the other small contingents might march behind, if they so chose. Joan suspected they might choose not to. Weary of being disregarded by Richard and Philip, many of those crusaders were selling their arms to raise passage home.
“When we leave,” Richard said, leaning toward her, “you’ll stay here with the bishop of Evreux. I’ll leave a light garrison and the pilgrims.”
“Who will Philip leave to guard his half?”
Richard turned his head and spat. “Philip? That dog. I asked him to take oath with me we’d give the Holy Land three years or die.”
“Three years!” Her heart sank.
“He refused. He says he’s sick with dysentery. The maggot is going to crawl home to France. Wait and see. He’ll whisper in Johnny-boy’s ear, God damn them both.”
“Richard!” Hot dusty air flooded her lungs. “Mama is with John.”
Richard grunted. Then he drew rein and shouted, “What! How…the cur!”
Joan followed the direction of his gaze to the citadel. Three banners fluttered above the portcullis: Richard’s, Philip’s, and that of Duke Leopold of Austria, a vassal of the Holy Roman emperor. The spoils were supposed to be split two ways, not three.
“Pull it down!” Like Papa in a temper, Richard was so red-faced, Joan feared he would fall from his horse in a fit. “Two bezants to whoever brings me Austria’s flag!”
The first three knights to reach the portcullis climbed over each other’s shoulders until one tore the banner down and ran it back to the hands of the king. The shouts and curses of Leopold’s men inflamed Richard further. He dashed the banner to the ground and trampled it beneath the hooves of his horse.
Joan breathed easier as his color returned to normal. The tantrum seemed to sate him. But at what cost? The Austrian duke was no threat here, but Richard had already jeopardized relations with Emperor Henry by making a treaty with Tancred.
She wondered if Philip would be entertaining Leopold that evening. Richard said himself it would take a united Christian army to take and hold Jerusalem. Yet if he wasn’t careful, he’d be crusading alone.
N I N E T E E N
KING PHILIP DEPARTED ACRE ON THE LAST DAY OF JULY. Richard did not leave until August 25. By then, he and Joan were no longer speaking. Princess Constance had once called Richard barbaric and Joan had defended him. Barbaric now seemed too gentle a word.
Saladin had been given less than three weeks to come up with the ransom the garrison had promised. Never mind that he had not agreed to the terms or that no Christian king at war for so long could have produced two hundred thousand dinars in such a short period of time. Richard accused the Saracens of stalling to keep him in Acre until the campaigning season was over. He said he could not drag the captives along, nor afford the soldiers necessary to guard them. Perhaps these things were true. But had he forgotten how generously Saladin treated the Christians in Jerusalem? What of Richard’s word to the garrison, who had surrendered on the condition that their lives and families would be spared?
On the twentieth of August, after three weeks of listening to her brother grumbling over Saladin’s duplicity, Joan woke to trumpet blasts. She sped to the castle gate to see Richard armed and mounted, with a troop of knights.
“What is happening, Father?” she demanded of Nicholas, Richard’s chaplain, the first man she recognized in the crowd.
“The king is executing the captives.”
Feeling dizzy, Joan clutched the chaplain’s arm. “What…what do you mean? Not the women and children?”
“He said all.”
She ran blindly to her brother’s side, forcing her way through the knights, choking on the dust stirred by their horses. “Spare the innocents, Richard. You—”
He struck her with the back of his gauntleted hand, knocking her to the ground. If he made any answer, she never heard it. She didn’t know who picked her up, who brought her inside.
They beheaded twenty-seven hundred Saracens in one day. Then the army was gone.
She listened to dispatches of the crusaders’ progress. Richard chose the coastal route to travel south to Jaffa. The fleet followed to keep the men provisioned. The sea protected the right flank, and the shields and armor of the infantry protected the left. Plagued by summer’s heat and the constant harassment of Turkish arrows, the men marched on, bent to Richard’s will.
When Saladin saw the usual tactics would not stop the crusaders’ relentless advance, he forced a pitched battle near Arsuf. How the heralds sang of it. The Saracens outnumbered the Christians three to one. Had Richard’s troops not possessed complete confidence in his generalship, they would have broken ranks and been cut down. But Richard claimed victory that day. The Saracens were so disheartened that they abandoned
Jaffa, burning it before retreating east toward Jerusalem.
How proud Papa would have been.
By mid-September the crusaders had settled in Jaffa, where Richard set his men to rebuilding the fortifications. However, because he had forbidden any women save laundresses to accompany the march, soldiers now took unauthorized leave to return to Acre.
Richard returned to roust the reprobates. Arriving at the palace, he accepted the court’s welcome, suffered Berry’s fluttering embrace, then set her aside to regard Joan.
She knelt at his feet. Mama would have cared nothing for Saracen prisoners. “Forgive me for questioning your judgment, my lord.”
He clamped a hand on her shoulder and raised her, muttering, “I had not known you loved infidels so well.”
They remained in Acre while Richard received messengers and sent dispatches. As if regretting their quarrel, he made an effort to be pleasant, even managing a small celebration for her birthday, killing a stag for supper and finding among the pilgrims an Occitan troubadour.
With Richard holding court, the dining hall served as a gathering place throughout the day and into the evening. At first, Joan had felt uncomfortable mingling with knights taking their ease, watching Theodora saunter about in silks that fluttered like a Saracen slave dancer’s costume. But then Geoffrey de Lusignan asked Joan to play merels. For two weeks, they’d been engaged in a tournament. A native of Poitou, he spoke fondly of their shared homeland, though as a middle son of a younger son he would not likely return. Especially since Richard had promised him lordship of Jaffa and Ascalon.
“Your move, my lady,” Geoffrey urged.
She bit the inside of her cheek and laughed. “You know very well you’ve won this round.”
He chuckled. “Yes, well. It took a while to break your streak. I was beginning to worry I’d need a new adversary.”
Behind them, Richard snorted. He’d been in a sour mood all evening, and she hadn’t realized he was following their game. He leaned between them to stir the pegs with his fingers.
“I had thought better of you, Geoffrey. If you can’t beat your opponent, you should consider changing the game. Joan is not very good at chess.”
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