CHAPTER 21

JUNE 1191

Siege of Acre

 

 

 

The French king was sheltering from the sun under a cercleia, a framework used to protect crossbowmen as they shot at the men up on the walls. Until his arrival at Acre, Philippe had never used a crossbow, for it was not a weapon of the highborn. Much to his surprise, he’d discovered that was not the case in Outremer, and since it could be mastered fairly easily, he’d let himself be tutored by Jacques d’Avesnes, a Flemish lord who’d won considerable renown during the siege. When a Saracen leaned over the battlements to shout taunts, Philippe and Guillaume des Barres both raised their crossbows and fired. The man disappeared from view and Guillaume deferred to his king with a smile, saying, “Your hit, sire.”

“For all we know, he merely ducked,” Philippe pointed out with a rare flash of humor. He’d been in good spirits since learning that Richard was bedridden with a fever, and that morning the other burr under his saddle had been removed when Conrad had returned to Tyre in high dudgeon after a heated confrontation with Guy de Lusignan’s brother Joffroi. Glancing toward Mathieu de Montmorency, he said generously, “You get the next shot, Mathieu.”

Jacques had begun teaching the youth and he nodded encouragingly as Mathieu nervously fiddled with the weapon, using a hinged lever to pull the hemp string back to the latch and, once it was cocked, aligning the bolt. But when he pulled the trigger, his aim was off and the bolt soared up harmlessly into the sky. The Duke of Burgundy and the Count of Dreux laughed at the crestfallen boy, joking that the Saracens were their enemy, not any passing birds. Mathieu cheered up, though, when Jacques patted him on the back, saying that he just needed a bit more practice.

Philippe had not noticed this byplay, for he was frowning at the sight of the approaching Count of St Pol. He had no reason to mistrust the man himself, but the count’s marital ties were suddenly suspect, for his wife was the sister of Baudouin of Hainaut. Philippe spent more time worrying about Baudouin these days than he did Saladin, for if Baudouin staked a claim to Artois whilst he was trapped here in Outremer, it would be very difficult to make good his own claim upon his return.

The Count of St Pol was accompanied by Philippe’s marshal, Aubrey Clement, and Leopold von Babenberg, the Duke of Austria. There was little space in the cercleia, but Leopold still acknowledged the French king with a formal obeisance, for he was punctilious about matters of rank and protocol. There had been a three-hour eclipse of the sun on the Vigil of the Nativity of St John the Baptist, and Leopold asked Philippe now if he believed it was an omen of good or ill fortune. Philippe neither knew nor cared, but he was pleased that the duke did not want to discuss Richard’s illness, which was the talk of the camp, and so he politely parried the question, asking Leopold what he thought. The latter at once launched into an enthusiastic discussion about astronomy and divine portents. Only half listening, Philippe kept his gaze upon the battlements in case a Saracen soldier should offer himself as a target.

“My liege!” This stentorian bellow came from Philippe’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais. He was striding toward them, so quickly that they knew he bore news of importance. But he was smiling broadly, so Philippe felt confident the news would not be unwelcome. Ducking under the cercleia, Beauvais sank down on his haunches next to the French king. “Have you heard? Richard’s doctors are now saying that his malady is Arnaldia!”

There were muffled exclamations of dismay from most of his audience. Jacques d’Avesnes, the Count of St Pol, the Duke of Austria, Aubrey Clement, and Mathieu jumped to their feet and hurried off to find out more, leaving the French king alone with Beauvais and his brother, the Count of Dreux, Hugh of Burgundy, and Guillaume des Barres. Reaching for a wineskin hooked at his belt, Beauvais took a swig and grimaced, for the liquid tasted as if it had been heated over a fire. “I suppose it is too much to hope,” he drawled, “that Richard’s bout with Arnaldia proves fatal.”

His brother and Hugh laughed and Philippe permitted himself a small smile—until he saw the shocked expression on Guillaume des Barres’s face. Philippe was torn between bafflement and irritation; why would Guillaume of all men care about Richard’s plight? Later, on his way back to his tent, he summoned Guillaume to walk at his side and sought an answer to that minor mystery. “You did not approve of the Bishop of Beauvais’s jest. I would think you’d be the last one to defend Richard after the shabby way he treated you back in Messina.”

Guillaume seemed surprised by the question. “I would be greatly grieved if the English king were to die, my liege, for I see him as our best hope of defeating Saladin. The recovery of the Holy Land is far more important than any rancor between Richard and me.”

“Well, you are more magnanimous than Richard would be if your positions were reversed,” Philippe said, after some moments of silence. He genuinely liked Guillaume des Barres, but he did not understand the knight’s willingness to forgive after such an unfair and public humiliation. Shading his eyes against the dazzling blaze of the noonday sun, he stared up at a sky that was a bleached bone-white, a sky in which there was not even a wisp of cloud, for this was the dry season and there would be no rain for months. Standing there in the midst of the chaotic siege encampment, he finally admitted to himself that his own realm mattered far more to him than the Holy Land ever could, and why not? Outremer had the Almighty to protect it but France only had Philippe Capet, a king far from home with a frail, small son as his heir. There was a certain relief in facing that fact at last. But it was a lonely moment, too, for he knew that none would understand, not even his brash cousin Beauvais. The one man who might have agreed was moldering in a tomb at Fontevrault Abbey.

AS HENRI MADE HIS WAY toward Richard’s pavilion, he was stopped repeatedly by men anxious to hear how the king was faring. To each query, Henri had the same response, one that made it seem as if Richard’s illness was of minor concern. Approaching the tent, he was not surprised to find soldiers and knights keeping watch. Before entering, he paused to greet two of the Préaux brothers, Guilhem and Pierre, and when he was asked the inevitable question, he gave them his most reassuring smile.

“Well, it will not surprise you to learn that he is surely the world’s worst patient. He has been fuming and fretting at being bedridden, and he’s learning to swear in Arabic, so his curses are even more colorful than usual.” They grinned and he added lightly, “But he was cheered up to hear that the French king has now been stricken with Arnaldia, too.”

As he expected, that evoked laughter, and he moved past them into the tent, thinking bleakly that if lies were sins, his confessor would be laying out penances from now till Michaelmas. Actually, he had indeed hoped Richard would be amused that Philippe was also ailing, surely God’s Chastisement for welcoming his rival’s ordeal. But Richard had merely grunted, then looked away. Henri had been troubled by that apathetic response, just as he was troubled by Richard’s growing lethargy. The temper tantrums that Henri had described for the Préaux brothers had occurred at the onset of his uncle’s illness. He’d not pitched a fit for more than a day now, and Henri was not the only one yearning for the return of the Richard they knew best—sardonic, playful, quick to anger, and utterly without self-doubts. It was as if a stranger had suddenly taken over Richard’s body, listless and silent and—a word Henri would never have thought to apply to his uncle—vulnerable.

As soon as he entered the pavilion, he was pulled aside by André de Chauvigny. “We had a message from Saladin’s brother. He said he’d heard the Franks were not happy about their proposed meeting, saying it endangered the Christian religion, and he asked if Richard had changed his mind because of the protests.”

Henri nodded; although Saladin had refused to meet Richard, he’d been willing to have his brother act on his behalf. “That could not have made Richard happy. As if he’d ever be swayed by what other men think!”

“He dictated a response to be sent on the morrow, saying the delay was due to his illness and no other reason. But he took it much too calmly, Henri. He ought to have been outraged by the mere suggestion that he could be overruled by the French king.”

“Arnaldia saps a man, André. I remember feeling as weak as a newborn babe. Yet once my fever broke, I was quick to regain my strength, and I am sure Richard will, too. Has he eaten anything since I saw him this morning?”

“Not much,” André admitted. “His queen tried to coax him into taking some chicken cooked in white wine, for it’s said to be good for the ailing. But he has no appetite. He’s about to be bled now. His fool doctors have been arguing all day about the best time to do it. Apparently it depends upon a man’s nature, and they could not decide if the king is sanguine or choleric. If he’s the former, he ought to be bled at sunrise, at noon if he’s the latter. Richard finally just told them to get it done straightaway, which probably proves he’s choleric,” André said with a faint, sad smile.

The pavilion was a very large one, said to be big enough to hold well over a hundred men, but there was little room, for it was crowded with Richard’s household knights, some of his queen and sister’s ladies, several bishops, and lords like Jacques d’Avesnes, the Earl of Leicester, and the newly bereaved Jaufre of Perche. Because André and Henri were known to be members of Richard’s inner circle, a path slowly opened, enabling them to reach the screen set up around the king’s bed.

Richard was propped up on pillows, his wife and sister watching intently as a physician opened a vein near his elbow. Nervous under their scrutiny, the doctor was talking too much, explaining that this was the basilica vein and lancing here would purge noxious humors from the king’s liver, telling them what all already knew, that good health depended upon the proper balance of the four humors—blood, phlegm, white and black bile—and too much blood in the body was one cause of disease. Richard’s eyes were closed, but his lashes fluttered when Berengaria leaned over and murmured that his nephew was here.

“Henri,” he said, his voice so low that the younger man had to bend down to catch his words. “Take Joanna and Berenguela to dine with you. They’ve not eaten all day. . . .”

Both women at once protested. Henri was not to be denied, though. “This may not be gallant of me, but the two of you look worse than the king and he’s the one who is sick. You need a good night’s sleep for certes, but a few hours in my charming company will have to do,” he declared, persisting until they grudgingly yielded.

Master Ralph Besace, Richard’s chief physician, had been holding his wrist during the bloodletting, and he signaled now for it to cease, saying the king’s pulse was dropping too fast. Henri took advantage of the moment to usher the women away and out into the cooling night air. He knew they’d moved into the pavilion, setting up trundle beds behind a screen and taking turns sitting with Richard, but he doubted that either of them had slept more than a few hours in days. He chided them gently as they headed for his tent, pointing out that it would do Richard no good if they fell ill, too. But he did not expect them to heed him, nor did they.

Henri set a better table than most of his fellow crusaders, thanks to his friend Balian, who’d provided him with a cook familiar with Saracen cuisine and spices. Joanna and Berengaria were served a lamb dish called sikbāj, roasted scallops, and stuffed dates, but they merely picked at their food, quizzing Henri, instead, about his own experience with Arnaldia. To bring down his fever, Richard had been given ficaria and basil in wine, and when that did not help, the doctors had tried galingale and then black hellebore. Did Henri remember his treatment?

Searching his memory, he recalled taking columbine, pounded and then strained into juice through a thin cloth, and myrrh drunk in warm wine; the women made mental notes to mention this to Richard’s doctors. Richard was being given sponge baths with cool water, they related, and bled, of course, although one of the doctors insisted it was dangerous to bleed a man after the twenty-fifth of the month. How, they asked in despair, were they to know which advice to follow?

Henri did his best to console them, talking of the many men, like himself, who’d made a full recovery from Arnaldia, and suggesting prayers to Blasius, the patron saint for diseases of the throat and lungs, as Richard’s throat was very sore and he was troubled by painful sores in his mouth. When they were ready to depart, he rummaged around in his coffers until he found a favorite amber ring, for it was said to ward off fevers, and then walked them back to the royal pavilion.

Upon their return, they were initially alarmed to be told the Bishop of Salisbury had shriven Richard of his sins, but André was able to reassure them that this was merely a sensible precaution, not a sign that Richard had taken a turn for the worse. After all, he pointed out, men always confessed their sins ere going into battle. Once Joanna retired behind the women’s screen to get a few hours sleep, Berengaria pulled a chair up to the bed. The nights since Richard was stricken had been unusually quiet. She could still hear the thudding of stones as they crashed into the city walls, but otherwise a pall seemed to have settled over the camp. Richard showed no curiosity when she slipped Henri’s amber ring onto his finger, and when she brought him a hot beverage brewed from sage leaves, telling him it was said to heal mouth ulcers, he sipped obediently as she held the cup to his blistered lips.

It frightened her that he was suddenly so passive; she much preferred his earlier bad-tempered outbursts, even when they’d been directed at her. As the hours passed, she replaced the wet compresses upon his forehead, gave him wine mixed with the doctors’ latest concoction, smoothed ointment upon his blisters, and blinked back tears after he acknowledged her ministrations with the flicker of a smile. She was so exhausted that when Joanna appeared to relieve her vigil, she fell onto her bed fully dressed and was asleep almost at once.

Her transition from uneasy dreams to wretched reality was so abrupt that she awoke with a start, momentarily confused to find Joanna bending over her. “Is it my turn?” she asked, stifling a yawn. But then she saw the tears welling in the other woman’s eyes.

FROM THE CHRONICLE of Bahā’ al-Dīn Ibn Shaddād, a trusted adviser of Salah al-Dīn and an eyewitness to the events at the siege of Acre: “The Franks were at this time so much concerned at the increasing gravity of the King of England’s illness that they even discontinued for a while their attack on the city.”

RICHARD WAS VERY ILL. But he was aware only of intolerable, searing heat, his body afire with fever that burned ever higher with each passing day, his dreams dragging him into a terrifying world of hallucinatory, demonic visions, shot through with swirling, hot colors of blood and flames. In his delirium, he was haunted by his dead, by his father and brothers, only time seemed oddly fragmented. He was a man grown, then a young boy, calling out for the mother who’d always been his mainstay, but now locked away in a far-distant dungeon, unable to hear his cries for help. Spiraling down into the dark, he was so tired, so very tired that it seemed easier to stop fighting, to let go. He did not, though, instinctively struggling toward a distant, dim light, one that flickered and wavered but promised to lead him home.

When he opened his eyes, he winced, nearly blinded by the sudden brightness. Filtering the light through his lashes, he saw a woman’s face, streaked with tears. He wondered why his brain was so muddled. While she looked familiar, it took a heartbeat or two before he recognized his wife. Saying her name, he was shocked by how weak his voice sounded. Holy God, how long had he been ill?

“You’re awake!” Berengaria’s smile was like a sunrise. She slid her fingers across his forehead, then touched his cheek, above his beard. “Blessed Lady, your fever has broken! Richard, you are going to recover.”

“Of course I am. . . .” He wanted to ask who had doubted it, but his throat was too raw and he was grateful when she understood his need and reached for a cup. The wine was warm and soured by medicinal herbs; Richard thought it tasted delicious. Handing it back, he studied her face. “Were you here all the time, Berenguela?” When she nodded, he smiled. “I thought so. I felt your presence. . . .”

Berengaria closed her eyes, feeling truly blessed, so happy was she at that moment. “Richard, we must make a generous offering to the Almighty, for God has been so good to us. Mayhap we could even found a chapel once Acre is yours?”

“I doubt that Philippe is willing to cede all of Acre to me, little dove. How is he? I did not imagine it, that he was stricken, too?”

“No, he was indeed afflicted with Arnaldia. But his was a much milder case, and he is well on the road to recovery. He—Richard, no!”

Richard had already discovered that he was not able to get out of bed; his head was spinning. Shaken by his body’s betrayal, he let Berengaria settle him back against the pillows. He was drifting toward sleep again when the screen was jerked aside and then André and Henri were there, looking down at him and laughing.

“We thought we heard your voice!”

Berengaria felt a remorseful pang, starting to explain her own joy had been so intense she’d not thought of anyone else. But the men were not listening to her. They’d pulled up stools beside the bed, wanting to know if Richard was done lolling about and taking his ease, if he was ready to hear what had been happening in the past week. Richard was stunned to learn that he’d lost a week of his life, but he was eager to hear what he’d missed and they were eager to tell him.

Their sappers had been able to undermine a section of the Accursed Tower and French crews had brought down part of the adjoining wall, although they’d not been able to force their way into the city. The garrison commander had ventured out under a flag of truce to discuss terms, but Philippe had received him so disdainfully that he’d returned to Acre in a rage, vowing to fight to the death. Yesterday Philippe had ordered his men to launch another attack, which had ended in failure like the other French attempts. Conrad was back from Tyre, doubtless because he’d heard both Richard and Philippe were ailing. Some of Philippe’s sappers had broken into a countertunnel being dug by the Saracens. Both sides pulled back by mutual consent, no rational man wanting to fight underground like weasels trapped in a burrow, but they did manage to rescue some Christian prisoners who were being forced to help dig the tunnel.

Richard was delighted with that story and burst out laughing. Berengaria felt tears burn behind her eyelids, for she’d not been sure she’d ever hear that sound again. The doctors were there now, too, beaming at their patient as if they and not God had brought Richard back from the brink of death. Horrified to realize that Joanna did not yet know, Berengaria hastily sent a man to fetch her; one of Joanna’s ladies, her beloved Dame Beatrix, was grievously ill, too, now, and Joanna had begun dividing her time between Beatrix’s sickbed and her brother’s. After dispatching the knight to Joanna’s tent, Berengaria hurried back to her husband. She saw, though, that Richard had not noticed her absence. He was sitting up in bed, looking gaunt and pale, but his eyes were shining, and he was peppering Henri and André with questions about the siege, wanting to know if they thought the Accursed Tower could soon be brought down, if there’d been any messages from Saladin’s brother, if the French had suffered many casualties when their assault was repulsed.

Berengaria watched him for a while and then backed away from the bed. Catching the eye of one of the doctors as she moved around the screen, she beckoned him over. “If the king asks for me,” she said quietly, “tell him I have gone to ask the Bishop of Salisbury to say a special Mass tonight in celebration of this miracle.”

WHEN BERENGARIA ENTERED Joanna’s tent, she was met with so many smiles that she knew Beatrix’s crisis must have passed. This was confirmed by her first glimpse of the older woman, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully for the first time in almost a week. Joanna looked exhausted but happy, rising to greet her sister-in-law with a quick hug. “God has indeed been kind to us,” she murmured, “sparing Richard and now Beatrix.”

As they crossed the camp toward Richard’s pavilion, Joanna confided that the best proof of Beatrix’s improvement was that she was now fretting about losing her hair and nails. “I told her she need not worry about hair loss yet, for Henri said it did not occur till weeks after he’d been stricken with Arnaldia. Has Richard been fretting about that, too? He is very vain, you know,” she said with a fond smile, “for he well knows how much he has benefited from looking like a king out of some minstrel’s tale.”

“I do not think he has room in his head for nary a thought but the siege,” Berengaria said honestly. “He is remarkably single-minded, and now that he is on the mend, he wants only to take part in the fighting. I am hoping that you’ll be able to help me keep him occupied this afternoon.”

“That is why I brought this along,” Joanna said, brandishing a book richly bound in red leather. “Chrétien de Troyes’s Yvain, the Knight of the Lion. When Richard starts to get restless, I’ll insist upon reading it to him.” Glancing at Berengaria’s serene profile, she sighed softly, for a newlywed wife ought to be able to hold her husband’s attention without aid from his sister. They were mismatched, her brother and his Spanish bride, a falcon mated to a dove. But that would not matter as long as she could give him fledglings. Most wives found their joy in their children, not their husbands. She bit her lip, thinking of a small tomb in Monreale Cathedral, and then, shaking off her sadness with a determined effort, she began to tell Berengaria that two of her Sicilian male servants, missing for more than a fortnight, had apparently surfaced in Saladin’s camp. “At least that is what Henri heard. So I suppose their conversion to Christianity was not as sincere as I was led to believe,” she said ruefully.

By now they’d reached Richard’s tent. Their knights were delighted when the women said their services would not be required for the rest of the afternoon, for the Accursed Tower was said to be close to collapse. As they hurried off, Berengaria and Joanna entered the pavilion, only to halt in surprise, for it was deserted except for several men dozing in the July heat. Since solitude was not an attribute of kingship, they exchanged puzzled looks; why would Richard have been left alone like this? Struck by the same premonition, they hastened around the screen, where they found a rumpled, empty bed.

“My ladies?” Spinning around, they saw one of the soldiers, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “May I be of assistance?”

“Where is my lord husband, the king?”

“Last night more of the wall adjoining the Accursed Tower was brought down by our sappers, and the king wanted to be there today when it is breached,” he said, so calmly that they both wanted to shake him. “His doctors advised against it, but the king insisted and had himself carried out on a silken quilt so he could take command.”

RICHARD HAD HIS CERCLEIA set up near the city’s defensive ditch. The crusaders had labored for weeks to fill it, and the camp was still talking about the heroic sacrifice by the wife of a sergeant. She’d been helping to lug rocks to the ditch when she’d been struck by a Saracen arrow. Dying in her husband’s arms, she’d begged him to throw her body into the ditch, so that even in death she could contribute to their holy cause. Today, the objective was to clear away some of the rubble from the collapsed section of wall. This was a highly dangerous task, for it exposed men to the fire of the enemy archers above them, yet there was no shortage of soldiers willing to accept this perilous undertaking. As they zigged and zagged toward the breach, they held shields aloft to deflect the arrows and spears raining down upon them.

Richard’s arbalesters were providing as much cover as they could, each one flanked by a second man holding a cocked crossbow. As soon as a man shot, he was handed the second crossbow, and by rotating like this, they were able to keep up a steady fire. Richard was doing the same, and when one of his bolts found its target, a Saracen leaning precariously over the wall to shoot down at the men below him, he gave a triumphant laugh, relieved that his lingering illness had not affected his aim. His men glanced over and grinned, for his presence on the front line had greatly boosted morale; they loved it that he was always ready to risk his life with theirs, that he’d been carried out here on a litter since he was not yet strong enough to walk.

Henri handed him a loaded crossbow. “This time aim for that tall one in the green turban.”

“What . . . you do not like his taste in clothes?” Richard asked, giving his nephew a curious look as he reached for the weapon.

“The hellspawn is wearing Aubrey Clement’s armor.”

Richard’s eyes flicked from his nephew’s grim face to the man up on the battlements. He’d been told of Aubrey’s death three days ago during the French assault. The marshal had been the first to reach the walls, but when other knights sought to follow, their ladder broke, flinging them into the ditch. Trapped alone on the battlements, Aubrey had fought fiercely until overwhelmed by sheer numbers, and his friends could only watch helplessly as he was stabbed multiple times.

“Are you sure, Henri?”

“Very sure. He is even wearing Aubrey’s surcote. Those dark splotches are his blood. The swine has been taunting us like this for the past two days, daring us to avenge Aubrey. But the man has the Devil’s own luck, for none of our bolts have even scratched him.”

Richard turned back to the wall and then swore, for the Saracen in the slain marshal’s armor was no longer there. “I see what you mean,” he said, and gestured toward a nearby flask.

André picked it up and flipped it over to Richard. His royal cousin’s pallor was so pronounced that he knew Richard ought to be back in bed. But he knew, too, that there was no point in suggesting it. Instead he reached for his own crossbow and resumed shooting up at the walls.

They were all soaked in sweat by now for the heat had become sweltering as the sun rose higher in the sky. Still, men continued to make that dangerous dash toward the walls, even as others ventured out to drag the wounded back to safety; the dead would have to wait till darkness for their recovery. Just before noon, they were taken by surprise by the arrival upon the scene of Conrad of Montferrat.

“My liege,” he said, in casual acknowledgment of Richard’s rank. “I’d heard you were out here, had to see for myself.” Making himself comfortable next to Richard, he murmured, “Trying to make Philippe look bad for staying in bed?”

Richard gave him a sharp look, but Conrad had already turned toward the Accursed Tower, staring in astonishment at the frantic activity around the breach. “Jesu, look at those crazy fools! In the past, we could not get men to volunteer for death-duty like that. How’d you do it?” His eyes searched Richard’s face, half admiring, half envious. “Even when we ordered them, they still balked.”

“I did not order them. I offered two gold bezants for every rock they bring back from the breach.”

Conrad’s jaw dropped and then he gave a shout of laughter. “Now why did we not think of that? Why waste time appealing to men’s faith when bribery works so much better?”

“Not bribery. A reward for risking their lives. Do not tell me they do not deserve it, my lord marquis. Not unless you intend to get out there and start clearing away that rubble yourself.”

Conrad’s eyes glittered even in that subdued light. But Richard was no longer paying him any mind. Snatching up his crossbow, he aimed and fired in one smooth motion. The bolt struck his target in the chest. The Saracen staggered, blood gushing from his mouth, and all around Richard, men began to yell and cheer, pumping their fists and slapping one another on the back, while Conrad looked on in bafflement.

“It was a good shot,” he said dryly, “I’ll grant you that. But surely all this joy is somewhat excessive? Unless that was Saladin himself you just dispatched to the Devil.”

His sarcasm did not go over well with Richard’s men, who were beginning to bristle. Richard showed white teeth in what was almost a smile. “You can tell Philippe,” he said, “that I just avenged his marshal.”

THE FOLLOWING DAY, the French assaulted the city again, taking heavy losses. The Saracen garrison sent a swimmer across the harbor to warn Salah al-Dīn that they must surrender if he could not come to their aid. They then proposed to yield Acre in return for their lives. When this offer was turned down, they offered to free one Christian prisoner for every member of the garrison and to return the fragment of the Holy Cross, captured by Salah al-Dīn after his victory at Ḥaṭṭīn. The Franks, the name used by the Saracens for their foes, insisted upon the return of “all their lands and the release of all their prisoners.” This was refused. The crusaders’ trebuchets continued to pound away at the walls, and on July 11, Richard’s men and the Pisans combined for another attack on the breached wall by the crumbling Accursed Tower. They were eventually beaten back, but they’d come so close to forcing their way into the city that the garrison realized defeat was inevitable.

FRIDAY, JULY 12, dawned hot and humid. Joanna, Berengaria, and their women passed the hours restlessly, unable to concentrate upon anything but the meeting taking place in the pavilion of the Templars, where Acre’s commanders, Sayf al-Dīn al-Mashtūb and Bahā’ al-Dīn Qarāqūsh, were conferring with Richard, Philippe, Henri, Guy de Lusignan, Conrad of Montferrat, and the other leaders of the crusading army. Berengaria kept picking up her psalter, putting it down again, while Joanna tried to continue Alicia’s chess lessons, but her gaze was roaming so often toward the tent entrance that the young girl managed to checkmate her, much to her glee.

“They will yield, yes?” Anna asked at last, giving voice to the question uppermost in all their minds. Her grasp of their language had improved in the six weeks since her world had turned upside down, and she continued in charmingly accented French. “Or they will all die, no?”

“Most likely,” Joanna confirmed, too nervous to put a gloss upon the brutal reality of warfare in their world—that a castle or town taken by storm could expect no mercy. Whether there would be survivors depended upon the whims of the victors or upon the ability of the defeated to raise ransom money. There had been a bloodbath after the Christians had seized Jerusalem in 1099, almost all of the Muslims and Jews in the city put to the sword. But Saladin had spared the Christians of Jerusalem four years ago after Balian d’Ibelin persuaded him to let them buy their lives; Joanna was proud that the money her father had sent to the Holy City over the years had kept thousands of men and women from being sold in Saracen slave markets.

Glancing over at Anna, she amended her answer, saying, “That is why they will accept our terms. They know their fate will be a bloody one if our men seize the city. By yielding, they can save themselves and those still living in Acre.”

Anna looked from Joanna to Berengaria, back to Joanna. “Why you fret, then, if outcome is certain?” Before either woman could respond, she smiled, dimples deepening in sudden comprehension. “Ah . . . I see. You fear for Malik Ric.” This was how the Saracens referred to Richard, and Anna had begun to use the name, too, much to Richard’s amusement. “He would be healed for another . . .” She paused, frowning as she sought the right word. “Another attack . . . that is it, no?”

“Yes, that is it,” Joanna confirmed, exchanging silent sympathy with Berengaria. While Richard was regaining strength with each passing day, he was by no means physically up to taking part in a battle, and yet they feared he would want to do just that; he’d been very frustrated at not being able to join his men in yesterday’s assault. Although they felt confident that Henri and the Bishop of Salisbury and Richard’s friends would not permit him to risk his life so foolishly, they well knew how stubborn he could be, and so both women were praying that today would end the siege.

They were about to send one of Joanna’s household knights back to the Templars’ tent to learn how the negotiations were proceeding when they heard it—a sudden roar, as if coming from thousands of throats, even louder than the sound Greek fire made when it streaked toward its target, trailing a flaming tail. Mariam darted toward the entrance and was back in moments, smiling. “Either they’ve come to terms or the whole camp has gone stark mad, for men are shouting and cheering and all the whores are hurrying out to help them celebrate!”

Joanna and Berengaria were on their feet now, embracing joyfully, determined to ignore the fact that this was but a respite, that Acre’s fall was only the first in a series of bloody battles on the road leading to the Holy City.

Within the hour, the noise level suddenly increased, alerting them that Richard must be approaching. He was flanked by Henri and the Earl of Leicester, with friends and lords following jubilantly in his wake. He still looked like what he was, a man recently risen from his sickbed, his cheekbones thrown into prominence by his weight loss, his complexion unnaturally pale for one with such high coloring. But his smile was dazzling and he appeared as happy as either woman had ever seen him.

“It is done,” he said huskily. “Acre is ours.”

THE ACRE GARRISON agreed to surrender the city and all of their weapons and siege engines, including the seventy galleys of Salah al-Dīn’s fleet, anchored out in the harbor. They promised on the sultan’s behalf to pay two hundred thousand dinars, and to return the Holy Cross. Fifteen hundred Christian prisoners were to be freed, as were one hundred men specifically named. Conrad of Montferrat was to receive ten thousand dinars for his help in negotiating the settlement. The garrison was to be held as hostages until the terms were met, and then they and their families would be freed. When the news reached Salah al-Dīn, he was horrified, and after consulting with his council, he determined to send a swimmer back after dark to the beleaguered city, telling the garrison that he could not accept such terms. But he soon learned it was too late, for at noon his men saw the “banners of unbelief ” raised over the walls of Acre.