Johanna took the letter; her gaze leaped down the page. After a moment, she was frowning.
“I’d hoped for something more friendly, after we talked so well together, back in Tyre.”
“Likely she thought it would be read, also,” Edythe said.
“Well,” Johanna said, turning the page over, to look at the seal. “It was.” There were old traces of wax on the paper; whoever had opened it hadn’t even bothered to reseal it carefully. “I do nothing that is not spied upon.” She flung the letter down.
Edythe took it, curious, wondering why then Isabella had sent it at all. She balanced it on her fingers, noting the thick paper, the ink nearly purple, the letters formed in an even slanted hand.
“My lady, mark this, it’s two sheets.”
Johanna swiveled toward her. Edythe was trying to pick apart a corner of the letter; her nails were short and stubby and no use at this, and Johanna tore the letter from her grip and ran her thumbnail along the edge.
Like splitting a walnut shell, the letter came apart into separate leaves. Johanna said, “Aha,” pleased. She gave Edythe a quick look. “Well done, O good and faithful.” She bent over the hidden letter, delighted.
Edythe thought, Yes, Plantagenet.
Around sundown, Edythe went across the circle of the tents, to Richard’s tent.
She sent a page in ahead of her, and when she went in, they were all looking at her. She stood and made a nice bow to cover a glance around the tent.
Like all of Richard’s housings, it was a jumble of war gear, chests, and armor. The air stank. The bare ground was packed hard and uneven. A mail shirt hung on its cross by the lamp, its circlets glimmering like an animal shell. The iron skull of his helmet hung crooked on the upright. He himself sat on the pallet in his shirt, and Rouquin stood behind him. Half a dozen other men took up the room around her: his cousin Henry of Champagne, and Guy and Hugh de Lusignan, and some Hospitallers.
She said, “I crave your pardon, my lord; I came to see how you did. I will come back.”
She could see that he was shivering, and his shirt stuck to his body, soaked with sweat. He had a cup of wine in his hand. He said, “Oh, excellently well. Well. Well.” He took a deep drink of the wine. He turned his gaze at the other men. “Everybody get out, now. My physician is here.”
They all filed out. Rouquin started to go, and Richard turned his head. “Stay.” He smiled at her. His teeth chattered. “Be our duenno.” Rouquin, behind him, rolled his eyes.
She said, “My lord, you should lie down. Change your clothes.” Going up beside him she put her finger to his throat, where a deep narrow artery let her feel the pulse of his brain. He shut his eyes. The pulse beat evenly: a good sign. Half his ill now was exhaustion, his humors balanced again, but very low, easily disturbed. He shivered under her touch.
He said, “What did the letter from my mother say?”
She backed up. She had to serve God again. She glanced at Rouquin, behind him. But this was fairly harmless; Johanna would show him the letter.
“I didn’t read it. Only chatter, I think. Your brother John was plotting and got caught and Eleanor made him cry over it.” She could imagine this; John gushed tears when he was in a rage, and Eleanor knew how to work it out of him. “Please, my lord, you need to sleep.”
“What did she say to Conrad?” he said.
She was still a moment. This was not exactly spying, but close. She licked her lips. She said, “She never called him King. But he was announced as the King. She said that he should have let you into Tyre, when we were up there. He said that it was a misunderstanding. You need to lie down.”
“Yes, yes.” He glanced at Rouquin. “You’re ready, then—tomorrow, in the forenoon, we can try this?”
“I will—”
Then there was a scuffle at the door, and Guy de Lusignan burst in. Edythe went out of the way. The King of Jerusalem hurried toward Richard, his hands out, beseeching. “It’s all over the camp that you have received Conrad—You swore to me you would support me.”
Richard hunched on the pallet. Edythe went quickly up and put a blanket around him; Rouquin had gotten Guy by the arm and was shoving him out the door. Richard lay down on the pallet and she tucked the blanket close around him, and rubbed his arms to warm him as he shivered.
He said, under his breath, “Good little monster.”
Rouquin came up. “What’s going to happen with that? Does that mean Conrad is the King?”
Edythe stood; she remembered what Johanna had said, that everybody spied on her, and knew it was true. She told herself she could not have done otherwise. That seemed shaky. She looked around the room. They had brought in wine in casks, and she took Richard another cup. She would find him some broth. She set the cup beside him; he was talking to Rouquin, his voice a labored whisper.
“It doesn’t make any difference. The announcement doesn’t matter, and she’s only my sister in any case. Guy’s safe, he has no choice but me. Go away, I’m tired.” She went out across the circle of the tents again, wondering whom she served.
The priests and bishops with the Crusade told Mass every day in their tent-church, and every few days in the open, before the whole army around them. The women sat on the slope, separate from the men, Edythe behind Johanna, and Lilia beside her. Berengaria sat a little apart from them. The little Queen looked pale and sad, but she prayed with a fierce passion that rocked her on her knees, back and forth. Edythe did the outer motions, but she felt as separate from them as if she were standing on a star. She could not stop thinking of herself as a Jew, and yet she hardly knew what that meant, except she was not like the others.
The Crusaders attacked Acre across the belfry in the morning, all together, as fast as the narrow space would let them. Rouquin’s men went first, with Richard’s on their heels, and swept the wall clear; the Templars and Hospitallers followed, and they surged toward the gate. Then, climbing the belfry, King Guy’s men began fighting with King Conrad’s and the drive lost its force. The Saracens fired flaming arrows from the crevices of the ruin and catapulted stones down on them, and they had to fall back.
The sun was near the peak of the sky. Rouquin looked over his tired, dispirited men and sent them to their own fires, to eat whatever they had. With Mercadier at his heels he trudged up the slope toward Richard, who had been watching all of this from his litter. Beside him, under a canopy made of a cloak draped on lances, was King Philip.
Guy de Lusignan got there before Rouquin, chattering like a squirrel.
“You see how it is, my lord—I cannot turn my back—”
Richard snarled at him, and he quieted. Rouquin came up nearby; Richard was scowling down at Acre, the lines deeply graven into his face. His pale hair was damp with sweat. The rest of the army had dispersed and the Templars had gone to their prayers, but Henry of Champagne was coming this way, everybody’s fair young cousin, always smiling. Rouquin wiped his face on a rag. He felt a gouge over his eye and looked at the rag and saw new blood.
Philip said, “I say try the gate instead.” He sat twisted on his cushioned stool, his hands in his sleeves. A white hood covered his head and his eyes looked rheumy. Rouquin turned his gaze down on the city.
In the noon light Acre looked like a lumpy mass of gold, with the citadel poking up out of it and the sweep of the seawall cradling it against the blue water. It was hard to see what else they could knock down. The rubble from the bombardments got in their way now as much as the wall might have.
“Hold,” he said. “What’s this?”
Beside him, Richard turned, and Rouquin pointed: The gate was pushing outward, and a man with a white flag came through.
“Hunh,” Richard said. “They want to talk.” He sat up and swung his legs off the litter and made himself stand. “Get this thing out of here.” The bearers hurried the litter off.
Philip squirmed on his stool, but he did not rise. He blinked rapidly, his gaze directed at the little group of men plodding up
the road toward the Crusader Kings.
“My lord, look there,” said Mercadier.
Rouquin lifted his head. Off to the east, just beyond the edge of the Crusader camp, a troop of horsemen rode up over the spine of the ridge.
“God’s blood,” Richard said, “they know everything that goes on. He’s miles away and I’m in between, but everything that happens is by Saladin’s direction.” He sent a page for Humphrey de Toron.
Rouquin blurted, “They are great soldiers.”
Richard said, “Who else is worth fighting?” He was standing strong enough, and he moved away from Philip, hunched on his stool like a schoolboy. “But we’ll beat them.”
Several others of the Crusader camp were fast approaching, seeing what was up: Conrad of Montferrat strode in between Richard and the stool. On his heels was the German duke. Conrad thrust his chest out. “You won’t want to conduct any talks without me, since I speak most excellent Arabic.” Seeing Guy, he sneered, and Guy sprang hotly forward, his face flushed, his mouth open to yap.
“Stop,” Richard said, and they fell silent. Guy looked down at his feet. The Saracen horsemen were almost there, and the group from the city was creeping up the road. All around, the Crusaders on the slope were standing, drawing closer, quiet and heedful. Even some of the women had come out of their tents. Humphrey de Toron slipped in among them, bowing.
Conrad said, “What is he doing here? He doesn’t even fight.” His lip curled. “Along with what else he doesn’t do.”
Richard said, “He will translate for us.” He glanced at Philip, who was tugging on his lower lip, frowning.
Conrad veered toward him. “You need no—”
“If he makes a mistake, tell me,” Richard said. “I see no fault in this.”
Humphrey gave Conrad the briefest of glances. The Saracens drew rein a few yards from them, and several of them dismounted and came forward. Humphrey spoke to the one with the fanciest headgear, who was obviously the leader, and that man gave him a slight bow and replied. It was clear they knew each other.
Humphrey said, “My lords, I present to you al-Malik al-Adil Saif ad-Din, the brother of the servant of God Yusuf ibn Ayyub, Salah ad-Din, Sultan of Egypt and Syria.”
“Yes, yes,” Rouquin said, under his breath. He had heard of this man already, several times; the Crusaders called him Safadin. “Get on with it.”
In fact Humphrey said a deal more, and Richard bowed, and Philip, finally, got to his feet and bowed, and the Saracen bowed back. Humphrey turned and spoke Arabic to the Saracen, taking just as long to present each of the Kings to him. Finally they all bowed again. Conrad stood the whole time with his arms folded over his chest and his mouth crimped shut. Rouquin glanced at the people from Acre, leaning on their flagstaff in the hot sun. One of them abruptly sat down in the road.
Richard said, “What is their purpose here?” He spoke to Humphrey, but he was looking with an intent curiosity at all of the Saracens, especially the men from the city. Philip lowered himself back onto his stool.
The man with the flagstaff spoke to Safadin, who said something short in reply, and then faced Humphrey and spoke. Humphrey said, “They want terms.”
Philip sighed. The men around them began to murmur and quickly hushed, solemn. Richard said, “They’ll surrender the city.”
“Yes. They want to know the price, if they yield, to spare them all.”
Through the crowd a crinkling, half-hushed excitement leaped. All across the whole slope, no one spoke. The Saracen Safadin stood straight as a pike, his head back and his eyes sharp.
“How many men are we talking about?” Richard said.
Humphrey and the man by the flagstaff spoke back and forth, and Humphrey said, “He doesn’t really know. Maybe three thousand.”
Richard said, “We will take the city. The garrison is free to go, under this ransom.”
He held up one finger at each demand. “Two hundred thousand dinars. Saladin will free all of his Crusader prisoners. And he will return the True Cross to us. Then every man in Acre walks free.”
Safadin burst out at once, barely letting Humphrey get through the change of words. Clearly the Saracen himself understood French; his dark, furious look showed his mind even before Humphrey was done. “Such an enormous sum! It is not possible.”
Richard spoke straight to the Saracen; one hand swept toward the defenders by their white flag. “These are valiant men. They have fought like devils, or angels; they have given you their heart’s blood, and you with the coffers of half the world say a little money is too much to redeem them.”
The two Kings of Jerusalem stirred and nodded. On the stool, Philip muttered, “For once I think we agree.” He glanced at the man beside him, who went off and came back with a cup. The crowd packed around them all craned forward, breathless.
The black-haired German Duke Leopold began, “Maybe if we—”
Richard spoke to Safadin. “Do you argue for the honor of Acre? Or for the convenience of the Sultan?”
The Saracen again barely let Humphrey get the words out. His voice was edged, emphatic. “There is not so much money in the whole of Syria. I would give my hope of heaven to free these men, but I cannot do that either.”
Leopold said, “Maybe—”
The King of France tilted forward. “Then they decline the terms.”
The man by the flagstaff was talking to the others with him. The man sitting on the road struggled to his feet. They all spoke at once, leaning together, as if they propped each other up, their hands lifted toward Safadin as if they prayed. Behind Richard, Humphrey whispered, “He says they have had no supplies and can get no more, they’ve had nothing fit to eat for months, even the rats are gone, they cannot keep on.”
Richard grunted. Rouquin had been through a few sieges and knew what rat tasted like; he said, again, under his breath, “They are great soldiers.” Richard glanced at him and moved off a step, away from everybody.
Philip said, “You have our terms.” He shot a pointed look at Richard. “I say we have them by the balls. Make them pay.”
Richard was looking toward Acre, the broken golden city below him. He said, “What’s the moon?”
Rouquin said, “Fat, but not full yet.”
“Then I have a few days more.” He turned to the Saracen and spoke directly to him. “Those are the terms. Accept them or no peace.”
The Saracen lifted his reins. “You are a hard man, Malik Rik. Let the contest continue.” He gave a long look at the man by the flagstaff, mounted his horse, and galloped off. His men followed him. The defenders dragged their truce flag back down to the gate.
“Well, now,” Richard said.
Philip gave a dry chuckle. His red-rimmed eyes darted toward Richard, and he turned and let his servants half-carry him back to his tent. The rest of the crowd was turning away, too, disappointed. Rouquin let out his breath, and went to see to his armor.
Seven
ACRE
The sun went down in a bloody haze of smoke and dust. Edythe stood at the door to the Queen’s tent, where the air was cooler, if not sweeter. Back in the tent, Johanna said, “When we have Acre, at least, it will be done. They can call it done, and go.”
Edythe thought nothing so halfway as merely taking Acre would satisfy Richard. She let the tent door drop and went in to set more candles. Johanna looked tired. Edythe brought the Queen a cup of oxymel for comfort. Lilia had disappeared again. They went to bed early.
In the night the blare of horns woke her with a start; sitting up, she could hear horses galloping, somewhere in the distance, and shouting. The horses were coming nearer. She threw the thin cover back. Lilia was still gone, and she was alone on the pallet. She called, “My lady,” and then someone screamed, right outside, and she heard feet running, dozens, hundreds of feet pounding past the tent, and the brass shrieks of horns near and far.
“Edythe,” Johanna cried, and she went from her pallet to the Queen’s. Johanna was standing, pul
ling her gown over her head—Edythe helped her get the skirts down straight and tied her laces.
“What’s going on?” Edythe said; she wore only her shift, and she looked hastily around for more clothes.
Johanna said, “I don’t know—” A man in mail strode in the tent door, carrying a sword.
The two women shrank back; Johanna flung out her arm to cover Edythe’s nakedness and Edythe looked for a weapon. The knight’s face was wild, but not from the sight of them. He saluted them and cried, in a trumpet voice, “We have guards around you, lady—fear not—stay as you are—” He dashed out again.
Johanna said, “We’re being attacked.” Her hands rose, to pray, or to thrust something off.
They were alone in the tent, even the pages gone. Edythe flung a kirtle over her head and down, yanking at the laces on the back. She got the dress settled on her shoulders and tied the belt awkwardly backward and could not get it tight enough. Johanna trimmed up the wick of the only lamp burning and the light bloomed, yellow.
Edythe thought suddenly of Berengaria.
“My lady, the little Queen—”
“Go bring her,” Johanna said. “Better we’re all together.” She lit another lamp from the first. “Where is Lilia?”
Edythe went out the tent flap into the dark. A guard stood on either side. One was trying to get a torch to burn. The air was windy, warm, full of grit and the stink of smoke and garbage. She could hear drums down behind the ridge where the tents stood—east toward Saladin’s camp. Down there also a wild shouting rose, and the neighing of horses. The Saracens were attacking—they must be striking through the midden there, a battle in the garbage.
The torch caught flame and cast its heavy light around them. A crowd of men and boys ran by her from the south, headed toward the fighting, some in mail, some waving swords, many barefooted. The ten yards along the ridgeline to the church tent, where Berengaria certainly was, looked impossibly far. She burst into a run just as another swarm, these on horseback, thundered across her path.
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