Holy War (46 page)

John set the quill aside and massaged his cramping hand. He had already written this same letter six times. He glanced at the heavily embroidered bag of blue velvet beside him on the floor of his tent. The ease with which he had taken it had surprised him. The keeper of the seal, Lord de Ferriers, was staying in a newly built home not far from where Joan lived. He had been out hunting when John arrived. A thin young servant with a blond beard as wispy as peach fuzz had answered the door. John told him that he was on urgent business of the king and had shouldered his way inside. A short search of de Ferrier’s chamber had turned up the seal.

John took a silver box from the velvet bag. He undid the latch and opened it. The seal sat inside, nestled on a bed of silk. It was a two-sided silver mould with both sides depicting Richard seated on his throne, a sword in one hand and an orb in the other. To either side of Richard’s head was a crescent, and above each crescent, a star emanating six wavy rays. When John had finished his letters to the great lords of the Kingdom, he would pour hot wax into the mould to produce a series of seals. When he affixed them to the letters with ribbons, his words would become those of the king. He took up the quill again.

We must end this strife. I, Richard, called Lionheart, King of England by the grace of God, Duke of Normandy, Aquitaine and Gascony, Lord of Cyprus and Count of Anjou, Maine and Nantes, summon you and your vassal lords to the Haute Cour, to be held two weeks hence in Acre, on the fifth day of April. There we will—

‘What is the meaning of this?’

Richard stood in the entrance to John’s tent. The king was red-faced and held a sword in his hand. John had expected nothing less. He calmly set down his quill and put his lap desk to one side. The letter he had been writing floated off the desk to land at Richard’s feet. John rose and bowed. ‘Your Grace.’

‘Spare me your courtesies, priest. They will not save you.’ Richard pointed his sword at the seal. ‘What are you doing with that?’

‘Serving Your Grace.’

‘By stealing from me? By forging decrees in my name?’

John met the king’s eyes without flinching. ‘Yes.’

Richard speared the letter John had been writing with his sword. He took it from the blade and began to read. The king’s forehead creased so deeply that his eyebrows touched. ‘What is this council of yours meant to do?’ he demanded.

‘Choose a king.’

‘We have a king: Guy.’

‘A king who is little loved by the native barons. A king you appointed. By tradition, the barons have named their own king. At the Haute Cour, they will decide once and for all between Guy and Conrad.’

‘This cannot be. Guy is my man. On Cyprus, I promised him a crown.’

‘The crown you gave him is tearing the Kingdom apart. Hugh and Conrad are besieging Guy in Acre. Worse still, there are rumours that Conrad will soon sign a treaty with Saladin. A treaty aimed against you, Your Grace. Meanwhile, your army is disintegrating. You have less than five thousand men. You cannot defeat Saladin with so few. Peace is your only option, and we cannot have peace without a true king. If you leave Guy to rule without the barons’ consent, the Kingdom will not survive a year.’

Richard crumpled the letter in his fist. ‘You go too far, John. This is treason. I am your king.’

‘Then act the part, Your Grace. Stop sulking in your chambers.’

Richard turned a darker shade of crimson. He took a step forward. For a moment, John thought the king would cut him down, but instead, Richard punched him with his free hand, catching John in the jaw and sending him reeling into the wall of the tent. John grabbed at the fabric to steady himself. Richard’s mouth was open, and his chest heaving. It took John a moment to realize that the king was laughing silently. His laughter grew in volume until Richard was roaring.

‘By God, it feels good to hit someone! You are right, John. I have spent too long drowning in my cups. Call your council. We will settle this matter once and for all, and then I will have my army back.’ Richard stood straighter. ‘This crusade is not over, John. Far from it. I only need one great victory to break the Saracens. I need only kill Saladin and Jerusalem will be mine.’

March 1192: Ramlah

‘Conrad will be king,’ Yusuf said.

Reginald lowered his wine glass. ‘He will be pleased to hear it, Malik.’

They were dining alone in Yusuf’s tent. A week ago, he had sent an envoy to Tyre, beckoning Reginald here. Yusuf had given up on peace with Richard. After the Lionheart’s retreat, he had thought the king would be eager to agree to terms, but Yusuf’s envoys had been sent away unheard. If Richard would not make peace, then Yusuf would crush him, even if that meant making an ally of his former enemy, Conrad.

‘I agree to the terms you suggested the last time we met,’ Yusuf said. ‘Conrad will help me reclaim Acre. I will grant him and his
heirs Tyre, Sidon and Beirut, to rule as their kingdom forever.’

‘And if Richard or Guy lays siege to Tyre?’

‘Then I will march to relieve the city. In return, I expect Conrad to supply troops for my battles.’

‘It will be done.’ Reginald raised his glass. ‘To the alliance between our peoples.’

Yusuf held up a glass of water. ‘To the defeat of the Lionheart.’

Both men drained their glasses. Reginald took a piece of flatbread and used it to scoop from a dish of tender chicken cooked with eggs, onions, carrots and pounded almonds, and spiced with cinnamon, coriander and cumin. He chewed for a moment and then sighed in contentment. ‘I am always glad to be a guest in your tent, Saladin.’

The tharidah
was
quite good tonight. Yusuf would need to remember to reward the cook.

‘I will be frank with you, Malik,’ Reginald continued. ‘This alliance could not have come at a better time. Richard is marching north for Acre.’ Yusuf nodded. His scouts kept him apprised of the English king’s movements. ‘There is talk of a council to settle the dispute between Conrad and Guy, but Conrad fears that Richard is moving against him. He has retired to Tyre.’

‘Then you must take our treaty to him with all haste. Once it has been sealed, he will march south on Acre and I will take my army north to strike Richard from behind. Together, we will crush the Lionheart.’

April 1192: Acre

John stood behind the English lords in the shadows along the wall. The council chamber looked much as it had the first time he had come to it, forty-four years ago, when he was little more than a boy. Thick columns ran in two rows down the length of the hall, with blazing lamps affixed to them. Now, as then, the hall was filled to bursting. Balian of Ibelin, Reginald of Sidon and Humphrey of Toron were all present, along with dozens of their liegemen. In addition, there were the Grand Masters of the Hospital and the Temple, the French under Hugh of Burgundy, and representatives of the Pisans, Venetians, Genoese and Provençals. The new patriarch, Rodolfo – his seat now in Acre instead of Jerusalem – stood in gold-embroidered robes, surrounded by priests. Guy and his men stood near by. Only Conrad had not come.

The doors at the far end of the hall swung open and all heads turned that way. Richard entered, his boots sounding loud on the stone floor. The king had set aside his armour for the occasion. He wore a closely fitted tunic of scarlet silk, and over it, a rose-coloured vest ornamented with rows of solid silver crescents. A thin circlet of gold sat atop his head. He crossed the hall to the dais where the King of Jerusalem traditionally sat and turned to face the court.

‘Lords of the Kingdom, friends and allies, brothers in arms!’ Richard’s deep, booming voice reached every corner of the hall. ‘I welcome you all to Acre and to this meeting of the Haute Cour. Only nine months ago, we all stood together outside these walls, fighting shoulder to shoulder as brothers against the infidel Saracens. In those bloody battles, my life was saved more than once by men who now stand here. I know that I am not alone. Each man before me now owes his life to men of other countries, other lords. Yet I have come to Acre to find you at one another’s throats. The time has come to put an end to our squabbling.’

John found himself nodding along to the king’s words. He was once more surprised by Richard’s eloquence. The king might be a bloody-minded fool, but he had a tongue of silver.

‘When our ancestors first came to the Holy Land, nearly one hundred years ago,’ Richard continued, ‘they elected their first king by common consent. From that time on, each King of Jerusalem was named by the Haute Cour. Your King Baldwin broke from this tradition by calling on the kings of England and France to decide his successor. It was by his authority that I named Guy of Lusignan king. Guy is a brave man, an honest and righteous man, whose actions have shown his worthiness for the crown. He led the siege at Acre, holding firm against tremendous odds. He joined in the conquest of Cyprus. He fought bravely at Arsuf.’

‘He lost us the Kingdom at Hattin!’ someone shouted from the crowd.

Richard scowled. ‘And won it back at Acre! Guy is a worthy man. Conrad – I will let his actions speak for him. He has insulted all of you by not deigning to grace us with his presence today. If the choice were mine, I know the man I would choose. But my word alone is not enough. It is for this Haute Cour to select a king, as they have by tradition. So today, we will decide
– Conrad or Guy – and that choice will be honoured by all: French and English, Pisans and Venetians, supporters of Conrad and supporters of Guy. Any who oppose the rightful king – myself included – will be declared traitors and outlaws, and will be driven from this land.’

Richard paused for a moment to let the threat sink in. ‘Now we will choose. Who favours Guy of Lusignan?’

A smattering of men led by Guy’s vassals and Richard’s English lords shouted ‘Aye!’ Richard’s brow creased at the less than enthusiastic response, but he forged on. ‘And who favours Conrad of Montferrat?’

‘Of Jerusalem!’ someone shouted.

‘Aye, of Jerusalem!’

A swell of voices rose in favour of Conrad. The acclamation quickly resolved into a chant: ‘Conrad of Jerusalem! Conrad of Jerusalem!’

Richard had flushed red with anger. ‘So be it!’ he growled and stormed from the hall. Guy fell in beside him, and John pushed through the crowd to follow. He caught up with them in the courtyard outside the hall.

‘You promised me the crown!’ Guy complained.

‘I know what I promised,’ Richard retorted between gritted teeth.

‘Conrad cannot be king! He has been conducting secret negotiations with Saladin. The man is a traitor!’

Richard turned to John. ‘This is your doing, priest!’

‘You have what you wanted, Your Grace,’ John replied. ‘The civil war is at an end. The barons are united behind their king.’

‘
I
am their king!’ Guy protested.

‘Not any more.’

Guy pointed an accusing finger in John’s face. ‘You have been against me from the first, priest.’

‘No. I have been for the Kingdom.’ John knocked Guy’s arm aside, and Guy’s hand fell to the dagger at his belt.

‘Enough squabbling!’ Richard roared. He took a deep breath. ‘I will set this right. You will be king again, Guy.’

‘But the barons have spoken, Your Grace,’ John reminded him.

‘Guy will be king of Cyprus. The island is mine by right of conquest. I need no council to dispose of it.’

Guy bowed. ‘Thank you, Your Grace. You are most generous.’

Richard nodded and strode from the court, leaving Guy behind, still bowing. John hurried after the king. ‘What of Conrad? Will you support him?’

‘No. I do not trust him.’

‘But you have given your word not to oppose the king.’

‘Then I shall have to find another king, shan’t I?’

April 1192: Ramlah

Thwack
!
Thwack
! Yusuf watched as the axes dug into the trunk of the old oak, sending wood chips flying. The two mamluks
were alternating blows.
Thwack
,
thwack
!
Thwack
,
thwack
! The pile of woodchips on the forest floor grew steadily, until finally, with a creak that grew into a rumbling crash, the tree fell. The leaves had hardly stopped shaking when men swarmed over it, cutting away branches and dragging the wood away.

‘The branches will provide wood for catapults and siege towers,’ Az-Zahir said. Yusuf had placed him in charge of building siege engines. It was work that his clever son was well suited for. ‘The trunk will become a battering ram.’

‘Well done, my son. Keep me apprised of your progress.’

Yusuf urged his horse forward. He rode out from the shade of the massive, spreading oaks and on to a grassy field dotted with tents. He had moved his army north in preparation for the attack on Acre. They were camped two miles inland from Caesarea. South of the tents, a cloud of dust hovered over two dozen men playing polo. Yusuf nodded in satisfaction. Games meant that the men were in good spirits. After months of falling back before the Lionheart, it was good to be on the offensive again.

As Yusuf neared his tent, Al-Afdal cantered up. ‘Reginald of Sidon has returned, Malik!’