Holy War (36 page)

His voice rose in volume. ‘You have no doubt heard tales of me, of my valour, my bravery, my skill at arms. Stories are only words. I will let my actions here speak for me. But I will tell you this: I am a man of my word, and I give it to you now. Your long wait is over.’ He pointed again to Acre. ‘The bitch will be ours before summer is through. And after that, I will not rest until Jerusalem is once more in Christian hands!’

The men were completely under his spell. They were nodding, their eyes shining in the firelight. It would take only one word to release them, and Richard gave them that word. He raised his voice into one final roar. ‘To Jerusalem!’

‘Jerusalem!’ the men shouted back. ‘Jerusalem!’ The call was mixed with cries of ‘Lionheart!’ The cries grew in number until the men around the bonfire were chanting as one. ‘
Lionheart
!
Lionheart
!
Lionheart
!’

Richard moved on, leaving the chants behind. John followed, along with the other lords and knights of the king’s retinue. He gave more or less the same speech at each of the bonfires. Each time it was greeted with the same enthusiastic response. By the time Richard finished at the last fire, his cheeks were flushed and sweat had soaked through his mail to wet his surcoat.

‘Are you well, my lord?’ Robert Blanchemains asked. ‘Perhaps you should retire to your tent.’

Richard shook his head. ‘I have no desire for sleep. John, come with me. The rest of you go.’

John followed Richard away from the bonfires, through the tents of the camp and up the bank of the rampart. The guards moved away respectfully. Richard stood with his hands on the palisade, his face lost in shadows, and stared out at the Saracen camp. ‘You have told me about the Saracens’ training and the tactics they employ, John. I wish to know more of their leader, this Saladin. You have said he is an honourable man.’

‘He is.’

‘Some of the men say he threw the bodies of our dead into the river to poison the waters. Thousands of our men died in pools of their own shit, struck down by the flux. Where is the honour in that?’

John’s brow knit. There was no easy answer. The Yusuf he had known would never have done such a thing. ‘We slaughtered women and children when we first took these lands,’ he said. ‘In some places, we even ate the dead. Perhaps Saladin only wishes to revisit upon us the atrocities we visited upon his people.’

‘
Hmph
. If it is blood and suffering he wants, I shall give him both.’ Richard stared at the lights of the enemy camp for a long time. Finally, he turned away, bringing his face into the flickering light cast by the torches on the wall. Sweat was beading on his forehead and his eyes were rimmed with red. The flush on his cheeks had spread to his neck as well. The king looked ill. When he spoke, his voice sounded strangely hollow. ‘Philip did not come to greet me. I have lost him, John.’

‘No doubt he was occupied, my lord. Perhaps you should retire to your tent.’

‘No,’ Richard snapped. ‘You all peck at me as if you were hens. I will retire to my tent when I am ready.’

John decided to take another tack. ‘Your wife will be missing you, my lord.’

Richard and Berengaria had been married on Cyprus in the midst of Richard’s sack of the island. The king frowned at the mention of her. ‘Berengaria will be glad I am gone. I frighten her, John. On our marriage night, she would not stop crying after I took her. I had to sleep in another room.’

‘Nevertheless, you must do your duty by her, my lord. You must strive to produce a son.’

‘My duty . . .’ Richard nodded. ‘Come, then.’

The king’s lords were waiting for him inside his tent. When Robert Blanchemains saw Richard, the steward’s eyes widened. ‘My lord, you are not well. Bring a doctor at once!’

‘I am well enough,’ Richard protested weakly. He sank into a folding chair.

When the doctor arrived, he took one look at Richard and scowled. ‘Why was I not sent for sooner? He has camp fever. He must be bled to cool his blood. Lay him down.’

Men came to carry Richard to his bed, but he waved them off. ‘I’m not an invalid,’ he growled. He pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the tent post. ‘Set my cot up there,’ he said, pointing outside the tent. ‘I wish to see the walls. I have waited months to reach Acre. I’ll not miss the siege while lying in my tent.’

C
hapter 20

July 1191: Acre

‘
My lady, you wished to see me?’ John asked as he stepped into Joan’s tent. The dim interior was a relief from the brutal summer day outside. The heat rose in waves from the sandy ground between the Frankish camp and the city, making the walls of Acre seem to dance.

Joan sat between two handmaids, one of whom was reading. Joan was sharpening a knife with smooth, practised strokes. She wore a light cotton tunic, through which John could see the outline of her small breasts and flat belly. Sweat glistened on her arms and in the hollow at the base of her neck. John forced himself to look away.

‘Leave us,’ Joan told the handmaids. ‘Sit, father.’ John moved towards a stool in the corner. ‘No. Here.’ She pointed her dagger towards the stool beside her.

John sat, but as far from Joan as he could. ‘What do you want of me, my lady? Do you wish to confess your sins?’

Joan’s laugh was deep and throaty. ‘What sins could I have possibly committed? It is almost a month since we reached Acre, and I have hardly set foot outside my tent. My dear brother says he fears for my life and honour.’ Her blue eyes met John’s. ‘I want you to help me, father.’

‘I will help as I am able, my lady.’

‘I pray that is true, John. It is no secret that I wish to be free of my brother. I am just as much a prisoner here in this tent as I was in Sicily. At least Tancred was content to let me live in peace. Richard will marry me to some fat old lord in France or Spain in order to forge an alliance. He will tell me it is my duty to obey.’ She gave the dagger a last angry stroke with the whetstone and set it aside. ‘But I tell you, I am not some pretty thing to be disposed of. I am not the innocent maid that I was when my father sent me to Sicily. I have known men.’

John took note of the plural, but said nothing.

‘I have been a queen,’ Joan continued. ‘I will choose my own fate. I thought that King Isaac might help me on Cyprus. When the storm struck, it was I who urged the captain to make for the island. I gave Isaac a choice. He could have disposed of Berengaria and the others and said I died with them at sea. I would have lived at his court in secret and married him once my brother returned to France. Or, I offered him money in exchange for a ship to sail on to Constantinople. The fool chose neither. He threw me in prison and sent ships to find Richard and demand a ransom. My only consolation is that Isaac paid for his idiocy.’

‘Does Richard know of this?’

‘No, and I would deny it if you told him. Besides, what would it matter if he did know? I am his sister and a lady. Richard may be a bloody-minded fool, but he is nothing if not honourable where women are concerned. High-born women, at any rate. He would never harm me. I am more useful as a bride.’

John was frowning. ‘But even Richard could not forgive this. You asked Isaac to kill his wife.’

‘I was doing her a favour. Better death than a life married to my dear brother.’

‘I am sure Berengaria would see things differently. The girl never did you any harm.’

Joan raised a thin eyebrow. ‘Did Saladin do Richard any harm? Men kill one another every day, fighting for gold or land or titles. Why should women do any differently?’

Joan might be beautiful, but she was deadly as a snake. She reminded John of Agnes. ‘I will pray for you, my lady,’ he said curtly and rose. ‘But I cannot help you.’

‘Sit, father. I am not done with you.’ She had the same steely voice of command as her brother. John thought she would have made a formidable commander had she been born a man.

He sat. Joan turned so she was facing him and leaned forward, allowing him to see down her tunic to the curves of her breasts. He looked away. ‘Say what you will, my lady, and be done with it.’

‘You served Saladin once. I hear he is an honourable man. When he took Jerusalem, he did not allow his men to rape and pillage. If I went to him and threw myself upon his mercy, what would he do?’

‘Surely you cannot be thinking—’

‘And why not? Perhaps I might marry one of Saladin’s sons. Better a Saracen husband of my choosing than to be sold by Richard.’

‘Saladin would treat you honourably, but to marry a Saracen, you would have to convert to their faith.’

‘If I must. My soul is a small price to pay for my freedom.’

‘You would not be free, my lady. You would be kept in a harem, secluded from all men who were not part of your husband’s family. You would not be allowed in public without a veil and guards to accompany you.’

She laughed again. ‘You think my present life so different, John? I have not been without guards or handmaidens since I was a child.’ She placed a hand on his knee. He could feel the warmth of her touch through his leather breeches. ‘Help me. I can escape camp, but I need you to present me to Saladin, to tell him who I am.’ She ran her hand up his thigh. ‘I will reward you as I am able,’ she whispered as she lightly traced the bulge beneath his breeches.

John caught her wrist and pulled her hand away. There was a time when he might have taken her, as he had once taken Agnes. But he would not make that mistake again. He was too old for such foolishness, old enough to be Joan’s father. ‘I am sorry, my lady. I cannot help you.’

Joan snatched her hand away. This time her voice was cold. ‘You disappoint me, John. I had thought you a bolder man.’

‘I am a man of honour.’

‘Honour.’ She said the word with scorn. ‘You are a fool, father. Honour will not win you friends nor buy you drink or warm your bed. Take your honour and go.’

A rumbling sound, like a distant rockslide, drowned out her last words. It was followed by shouting. Then a horn sounded. John hurried outside to find the camp in chaos. Men were rushing towards the city, and he looked that way. Philip’s diggers had finally undermined the wall. A stretch twenty yards across had collapsed. Smoke from the fires the diggers had used to burn the tunnel’s supports rose from the debris in the gap. The first Frankish soldiers were just starting to clamber up the rubble. Thousands more were rushing towards it. John saw Peter de Preaux sprint past him, and William de Roches at the head of a dozen knights. Robert Blanchemains rode past, accompanied by Andre de Chauvigny.

God save the city’s defenders
. No, not God. It would have to be him. He turned the other way and strode into camp to find Richard.

The king was pulling on his boots as he sat on a stool outside his tent. The camp fever had taken its toll. Richard had lost weight and there were bags under his eyes. The rest of his face was bright red, the skin peeling. Despite John’s council to the contrary, Richard had scorned any offer of shade and spent his first day in the Holy Land lying outside his tent as he watched the bombardment. He said that he had spent his life in the field and had never had any reason to fear the sun.

‘My armour!’ the king roared at one of his squires. ‘Bring my mail, you fool!’

Just then, another skinny young man stumbled from the tent with Richard’s mail slung over his shoulder. Richard took the armour and pulled it over his head. The squire laced up the collar and helped him into his surcoat. The first squire had not moved.

‘What are you still standing there for? Fetch my shield and helm. You, bring my sword and battle-axe.’

The king’s doctor had been standing by, wringing his hands. He now stepped forward. ‘My lord, I must council you to return to bed.’

‘I have had enough of lying about. I’ve not come all the way from England to miss the battle.’

‘But you are ill, Your Grace.’

Richard raised a mailed first. ‘I’ll make you ill, by God.’ The doctor backed away. Richard noticed John and grinned. ‘A battle at last, father! It will do me more good than lying in bed.’

John was not so sure. The king’s condition was much improved, but he had been desperately ill, hardly able to eat for days. The doctor no doubt had the right of it, but if John wished to curb the bloodshed that would start once the city fell, he would need Richard at his side. ‘As you say, Your Grace. We must hurry, or we will miss the fight.’

Richard slapped him on the back. ‘I knew that the mail you wear is not just for show. Squire, bring the priest a shield, too!’ The king buckled his sword belt about his waist. The squire handed him his battle-axe, a huge double-bladed weapon which the king slung across his back. The second squire came forward with two shields and the king’s helm. Richard took the tall kite-shaped shield on his left arm and handed the other one to John. He tucked his helm under his free arm. ‘Come, John.’

Richard set out through the camp with determined strides, but by the time he and John reached the barricade facing the city, the king was breathing heavily. King Philip stood atop the rampart under the flag of France and surrounded by his nobles. Richard stomped towards a gate in the barricade without sparing his fellow king a glance. The two had hardly spoken since Richard’s arrival at Acre.