Holy War (49 page)

‘He will kill you, Yusuf, and if you fall, your army will scatter. There will be no peace. Richard will take Jerusalem, and the war between our people will never end. You must not fight him.’

Yusuf scowled. ‘I am not afraid to die.’

‘I know. You are the bravest man I have ever known. That is why you will retreat, because you do not fear the jeers of your enemy, because you know that the lives of your people matter more than glory, more even than your honour.’

Yusuf hesitated. Richard was still fifteen yards away. Man after man waded forward to try for the glory of striking down the king. Richard hacked off a mamluk’s hand. He nearly cleaved a warrior’s head from his body. He stove in the next man’s helm.

‘This is Richard’s last chance, Yusuf,’ John said. ‘All you have to do is survive, and you will win.’

John was right. Richard was younger and stronger, and he fought with a ferocity that Yusuf could not match. If he faced the king, Yusuf would die in these waters. All he had fought for would be lost. He lowered his sword, and reached out to pull John to his feet.

John gripped his shoulder. ‘I knew you were no Richard.’

‘Thanks to you, friend.’ Yusuf took a step back, then turned and moved toward the beach. ‘Retreat!’ he shouted. ‘Fall back, men! Back!’

C
hapter 27

August 1192: Ramlah

Richard hacked up a gob of greenish-brown phlegm and spat it on the floor of his tent. It landed just beside John’s foot. ‘We will march!’ the king declared, and then he was overcome with a fit of coughing that left him red-faced. ‘I will not squander our victory at Jaffa.’

After driving off Yusuf’s army, Richard had established his camp outside the citadel of Jaffa. The Saracens had attacked again five days later, and though Richard had only fifty-four knights and several hundred men-at-arms, his two thousand Pisan crossbowmen had made the difference. Volley after volley of crossbow bolts had shredded the enemy charge and sent the Saracens running. The victory had inspired Richard, and here they were in Ramlah once more, on the road to Jerusalem. No one but Richard believed they could take the Holy City. It was a tribute to the king’s hold on his men that they had marched at all. John and the other lords had spent the march urging him to turn back, but in vain. Now it looked as if camp fever might accomplish what their words could not. Richard had taken ill shortly after the battle in the waves, and his sickness had grown worse with each passing day.

‘But my lord,’ Blanchemains protested, ‘you are too ill to ride.’

‘I am well enough,’ Richard grumbled and struggled up from his folding chair. He took a few steps and then leaned heavily on the tent post. His face had turned pale.

His doctor – a skeletal man in monk’s robes, his nose peeling from sunburn – stepped forward. ‘Please, Your Grace. I beg you to lie down. You must rest.’

‘I will rest—’ Richard blew bright yellow snot from his nose. ‘I will rest when Jerusalem is in Christian hands once more.’

‘You won a battle at Jaffa, Your Grace, not the war,’ John cautioned. ‘Saladin still lives. His army is intact. Jerusalem is as difficult a prize as ever.’

‘And I am still the Lionheart! I tell you, I will have Jerusalem.’

‘At what cost, Your Grace?’ Bishop Walter put in. ‘Is Jerusalem worth losing England? Worth losing Aquitaine? Longchamp writes that your brother John has claimed you are dead and that he has seized the throne for himself. And King Philip has taken advantage of your absence to take land in France. If we do not return soon, you will have no kingdom to go home to.’

‘Fie!’ Richard pushed off from the tent pole. ‘Fie on all of you!’ He stumbled from the tent, his court following. ‘My horse!’ he shouted. ‘Bring my horse! Where is my armour?’ The two young squires glanced at one another, and then looked to Blanchemains. ‘What are you looking at him for?’ Richard roared. ‘I am your king. Bring my armour, dullards!’

The squires retrieved the king’s padded vest, his mail hauberk and coif, mail leggings and mail mittens. As he dressed, Richard glared at his councillors, daring them to speak. He was breathing heavily by the time he pulled on his conical helmet.

‘Your Grace—’ John began.

Richard rounded on him. ‘Peace? You wish me to make peace, yes? I will not have it, John. I will have Jerusalem!’

Richard went to where de Preaux held the reins of his horse. He pulled himself into the saddle and swayed for a moment before grabbing the pommel to steady himself. ‘What are you standing there for?’ he demanded. ‘Break camp and form ranks!’ He urged his horse forward. ‘Break camp, men! We march for Jerusalem, to give the devil Saracens a taste of our steel! Break—’

Richard’s eyes rolled back in his head. He tilted to the side and fell from the saddle to land with a crash. The doctor rushed to his side and felt his head and neck. He put his cheek close to the king’s mouth. ‘I do not believe he is injured, but he is grievously ill. He must rest.’

Blanchemains gestured to the men-at-arms who stood guard outside Richard’s tent. ‘Take the King inside.’

‘What do we do now?’ de Preaux asked as Richard was carried away.

‘We make peace,’ John said.

‘Against the King’s will?’

Blanchemains nodded. ‘I am high steward. With the King ill, command falls to me, and I say this war is over. It has been over for some time.’

August 1192: Acre

‘Five years,’ Humphrey said.

‘Two years and eight months,’ Selim replied.

They sat across the table from one another in the chancellery of the palace at Acre. John sat beside Humphrey, quill in hand. With Richard ill – drifting in and out of consciousness – peace negotiations had proceeded quickly. Now after two weeks, they had agreed to the treaty’s major provisions. The Franks would keep most of what they held: the coastal strips from Jaff a to Caesarea and from Acre to Tyre, along with Antioch and Tripoli. Ascalon would be surrendered to Yusuf, on the condition that he tear down the walls and leave the city unfortified. Free travel would be allowed between the two kingdoms. The Franks would be able to make pilgrimage to Jerusalem. All that remained was to decide upon the length of the truce.

‘Two years and eight months?’ Humphrey raised an eyebrow. ‘Eight months?’

John whispered to him. ‘A peace of that length would expire in May, at the start of campaign season.’

Humphrey scowled. ‘We make peace, and you are already planning for war, Selim.’

‘My brother wants only peace,’ Selim assured him. ‘John, you know my people. After nearly driving the Franks from our lands, this peace will taste like defeat to them. But the prospect of revenge will sweeten the dish. It will win their acceptance of the treaty.’

‘Two years and eight months is not long enough,’ Humphrey said.

Selim rose and went to the window. ‘What will you do once peace is made, Humphrey?’

Humphrey glared at him. This was a tactic that Selim employed frequently. Rather than butting heads over an issue, he would change the subject to something entirely different.

‘I shall return to Aleppo,’ Selim mused. ‘Perhaps I shall retire from public life. I could spend my days with my family. Or perhaps become a holy man like you, John.’

John laughed. ‘I am a priest, not a holy man. Four years, Selim.’

‘Three years, eight months.’

Humphrey rubbed his chin. He nodded. ‘Very well.’

John began to write down the details, his quill scratching on the parchment while Selim looked over his shoulder. Finally, he set the quill down. ‘It is done.’

‘Alhumdillah.’

‘Our lords must still approve,’ Humphrey cautioned.

‘Saladin will agree.’

‘As will King Henry,’ John said. ‘Richard—’

The king’s name was still hanging in the air when the door opened. Blanchemains entered. There was an ugly bruise forming on the high steward’s cheek. ‘Richard is awake,’ he declared. ‘He wishes to speak with you, priest.’

It was a short walk to the king’s chambers. As he approached, John could hear loud cursing from beyond the door. One of the guards outside nodded to him. ‘God save you, father.’ He pulled the door open.

As John stepped inside, he spotted a flash of metal flying towards him and jumped aside just before a goblet slammed into the door, which was swinging closed behind him.

‘What have you done, priest?’ Richard roared. The king was leaning on the table at the centre of the room. He wore only a thin linen bed tunic.

‘The Lord High Steward—’

‘I did not ask you about Blanchemains. What have you done?’

‘I negotiated a peace, Your Grace.’

‘Peace.’ Richard spat as if he could not stomach the taste of the word. ‘I swore to take Jerusalem. Would you make an oath-breaker of me, John? You can stuff you treaty up your arse. I’ll not agree to it.’

‘You have no choice, Your Grace.’

‘What was that?’

‘You have no choice, my lord.’

Richard moved surprisingly fast for someone who had been confined to bed only moments before. He rounded the table, crossed the room in four great strides and swung for John’s head. John ducked the blow and slipped away. Richard was breathing heavily after his sudden exertion. John moved to put the table between them.

‘Hugh of Burgundy died while you were ill, Your Grace. The French troops have left for France. Many of your men have gone as well. The rest only wait to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem before departing.’

‘It does not matter,’ Richard said between breaths. He went to the table and slumped into a chair. ‘King Henry will lend me the men of the Kingdom.’

‘They were not enough to defend Jerusalem. They are not enough to retake it. You must make peace.’

‘I am king, damn you!’ Richard slammed his fist on to the table so hard that the flagon of wine at its centre jumped. ‘Do not tell me what I must do!’ He coughed and spat. ‘You are bastards. All of you, bastards.’

‘We only sought to serve you, Your Grace.’

‘By betraying me?’

John’s forehead creased. Richard’s words were closer to the mark than the king knew. John had always been a man of honour, and it was his duty to serve Richard as best he could. Instead, he had prayed for the king’s failure and done his part to assure it. But John had no regrets. Joan had been right: honour would neither save lives nor protect the innocent. John had done what was right, honour be damned.

‘I only did what you should have done, Your Grace.’

Richard’s voice became dangerously quiet, almost a whisper. ‘You think you know my duty better than I, priest?’

‘I know it.’

Richard stood, knocking his chair over, and John tensed, ready to fight if needs be. ‘I promised you an earldom if you made peace on my terms, John. You failed. I shall have you cast in chains for our return to England.’

‘I will not be returning to England, Your Grace.’

‘You will go where I say! You are my man.’

‘I am God’s man.’ John met Richard’s blue eyes. ‘And I thank God for that. You are a great warrior, but you have put your sword in the service of only you, not God. I will not serve you a moment longer. Not if my life depended on it, Your Grace.’

‘I will have your head,’ Richard growled.

‘Then you will have no peace.’

Richard clenched the edge of the table. His face shaded purple with rage. ‘Go, then. Go! Go before I kill you myself!’

‘Your Grace.’ John bowed. ‘Godspeed on your journey.’

September 1192: Ramlah

Rain pattered off the roof of the pavilion. The men inside were huddled together uncomfortably close; the Franks on one side of the table where the treaty sat, the Saracens on the other. John had watched the pavilion’s shadow slowly shrink away to almost nothing while the treaty was read in its entirety, first in French, then in Latin and finally in Arabic. He clenched his teeth as Imad ad-Din droned on. The leg John had injured at Arsuf was aching, and blood had started to seep through the bandages to wet his tunic.

Yusuf’s secretary finally finished reading, and Henry stepped forward. As king of Jerusalem, he would be the first to take his oath. The other Frankish lords would give their oaths to him. ‘I, Henry, Count of Champagne and Lord of Jerusalem, ruler of the Kingdom, in the presence of Balian of Ibelin, Humphrey of Toron and many other honourable men, both Christian and Muslim, swear that I will abide by the terms of this treaty . . .’

After John had left Richard, the king had continued to rage for a full day, but in the end, he had agreed to honour the terms of the treaty. He had little choice. He was desperately needed in England, and even though he still longed to fight, he had no army.

Henry was reaching the end of his oath. ‘And if any of my lords do not observe the terms therein, then let their lands be forfeit. And if I or my successors do not observe this treaty, then let our word be counted for nothing, and our rule stripped from us. All this do I swear on this third day of September, in the eleven hundred and ninety-second year of Our Lord.’

Joscius, the archbishop of Tyre, whom Henry had named his chancellor, stepped forward with the king’s seal. It was two-sided: one side showing the king seated on his throne; the other, the tower of David, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Dome of the Rock. Two seals had been prepared in advance, one for each copy of the treaty. Joscius attached them to the treaties with ribbons that had been embedded in the wax.