A Sister's Crusade

by Ann Turner

  Other men took their cue from the king and jumped into the shallows to wade ashore. They were laughing and shouting to each other – all ready to start the campaign. If their morale had dipped during the voyage from Marseilles, it had been pushed firmly back to the front of their minds now. Saladin and his armies beware, the Christians had arrived.

  With his army marching behind him chanting war cries, and sitting astride his mighty dappled grey war horse, Great William – named in honour of his ancestor, King William the first, the Conqueror – King Richard rode through the crusader’s camp imposingly, to the wild cheering of the Franks and Germans already there. He held his broadsword high so that the sunlight glinted on the blade, making flashes of light blaze outward, and he accepted the adulation showered on him.

  There, in the centre of the camp, stood Philip. He was slight in build, but majestic in stance. He stood waiting for Richard to dismount and then kneeled to pay homage to his liege lord, Philip closing his hands around Richard’s hands that he pressed together, giving him the kiss of friendship on each cheek before helping his vassal to stand. In front of the cheering multiple armies, the Kings of England and France embraced again as equals, giving and receiving the kiss of friendship a second time.

  ‘Welcome to Acre, Richard,’ Philip said, tucking his hand into Richard’s arm to lead him to his tent. There, they could talk more and take refreshments.

  The two kings talked long into the night in Philip’s tent, drinking wine, eating dates and reminiscing about their youth, and the love and hate between them. Richard completely forgot about his queen and Hugh.

  While Richard was rekindling this friendship, Berengaria looked around her own tent as servants brought in furniture and supplied food. She again felt overawed by her sister-in-law, Joanna, who was organising the arrangement of the furniture. She was giving all the orders that Berengaria should have been issuing as reigning queen.

  ‘Do not worry, madam,’ Aubrette whispered into her ear. ‘Let her have her moment, speak quietly to her later and tell her that you are now senior to her as the Queen of England. She will have to concede to it, whether she likes it or not.’

  ‘Maybe so, but she has had time enough to become accustomed to our rank. I try not to let her lead me, but she comes from a self-confident family, who are used to leading and having their own way. I find it easier not to countermand her, because she knows of what she talks about,’ Berengaria replied, lamely.

  Hugh Fulbert slid in, unnoticed. He was unhappy at being snubbed by the French King and had had to watch silently as Richard was led away from him. He peered around the tent at the expensive furnishings and his full lips turned down, registering disgust.

  ‘This will not do at all, just look at it!’

  The women were all surprised by his comment. Joanna stopped mid-instruction, with a hand raised and finger pointing to a servant, and glared at her brother’s companion. ‘What means you?’ she asked.

  Hugh ran a jewelled hand over the arm of an expensive chair, expecting to see a layer of dust or sand. ‘This is a hovel. How can my king be expected to live in this?’ he sneered.

  ‘My brother, the King of England, is not here for comfort. He is here on a Holy Crusade, as are we all. Neither is he here to protect you, you offensive little man. You are nothing without my brother by your side, so do not think you can force your mind and thoughts on us. We are royalty, we both are queens, so mind your tongue and get out of here, you preening little peacock, before I order a soldier to cut it out. Will my brother find you so attractive then? The King and Queen of England shall live and sleep together here, not you.’

  Joanna stood directly in front of Hugh and drew herself up to her full height. With the bravado and assurance of her sister-in-law, Berengaria came and stood by Joanna, and the two women stared hard at Hugh.

  Aubrette, watching the humiliation of her husband, was unable to suppress a small laugh, to which Hugh quickly turned his head towards her. His eyes flashed with anger; he was speechless and outnumbered. Without a further word, he turned and stalked out haughtily to find another place to rest until his king came to his rescue.

  All the women in the royal tent collapsed into laughter when he had gone. Berengaria poured out wine for them all, even the young Cypriot princess, to toast the chagrin of Hugh Fulbert – with Aubrette cheering the loudest. Joanna paraded around, mimicking Hugh, which kept the women amused for some time.

  It was now that Rowena chose to reveal a secret that she had been keeping. ‘I am with child again and shall be brought to bed here in the Holy Land,’ she announced.

  The other women congratulated her, though Aubrette was less vocal – knowing her sister’s history with pregnancies. Rowena sensed her sister’s apprehension.

  ‘This will be a successful confinement, as the air will be better for me here. We are not in a country where the weather is so random,’ she assured. ‘I shall take care of myself and not put myself or this child in any danger.’

  The next day, after inspecting the siege, Richard decided he would arrange to meet the Sultan Saladin. He wanted to see his enemy for himself, and then discuss with him his terms for surrender. From the reports Richard had heard, Saladin would be his equal. He was a man who was also regarded by his own men as a great and fearless hero.

  Richard commanded a messenger to ride to the Saracens camp with the invitation to parley. The messenger returned with no reply from Saladin. He had been unable to deliver the king’s message, having been turned away by threat of death. This angered Richard; no one said no to him. He then wondered whether the Saracen leader had returned the message as a lure to bring him further into this war, to see for himself whether the legendary Christian king was as powerful as he had heard. It was a tactic Richard would have used himself.

  The two kings led their forces on an assault of Acre, fighting bravely amid the heaving mass of foot soldiers and horsemen from both sides. There was cutting, thrusting and stabbing at the enemy, and men fall fatally all around. The cacophony of war was deafening, with bloodcurdling screams and the tremendous sounds of trebuchets hurling missiles into the solid walls.

  In a brief lull, when he had a moment to pause and wipe his bloodied sword clean on the flank of Great William, Richard began to feel the first sensations of ill health prickling through his body. It was not the unaccustomed stifling heat, nor the flies and mosquitoes, but the onset of the tertian fever that plagued him. Not now, not her, Richard thought to himself, miserably. He would not give the French King the pleasure of breaking the siege of Acre without him, yet the signs were obvious and he knew he would soon be too ill to continue. He looked at his hands and watched them shake. It was no more than a tremble, but this was one of the first symptoms. Even so, he would refuse to give in to this illness until he could no longer hold his sword in his hand and was unable to sit in the saddle.

  34

  Alarm spread like a contagion throughout the crusader’s camp. Both the Kings of France and England had fallen ill. Philip was a strong king, but his constitution was weak, and the fever that had incapacitated him on the journey outward had overcome him again. Richard was god-like, a warrior who had never been beaten, but he was now confined to bed with the debilitating and recurring fever that gripped him periodically. His body would shake and his luscious, thick hair would become thin and lank. His skin would flake and become scaly in appearance. During the attacks, he was as weak as a newborn baby. Frustrating as it was, Richard knew from experience that the only way to overcome it was to be patient and let it depart in its own time. His physician assured his troops that the king was a phoenix and would rise from the ashes of this fever even more powerful and more determined to beat the Sultan Saladin and wrest Acre and Jerusalem from his infidel hands than before.

  Berengaria and Joanna cared for Richard during his illness, administering medicines, placing cool fragrant cloths over h
is brow and keeping the bed linen clean and fresh. As his health gradually improved, he ordered a litter to carry him through the camp to prove to his men that he would be strong again and that their fears were uncalled for. He heard some cries of “Lionhearted” as he was carried, to which he responded: “I am Richard the Lionheart! All my enemies tremble before me! God tests me with this fever! He knows I shall become stronger!”

  Meanwhile, Philip lay on his bed exhausted. He would not parade himself around the troops as Richard did. This new bout of illness had put into focus where his loyalties truly lay. He wanted the glory of the crusade, but he had left his country alone for too long, as well as his infant son and his queen. He needed to return to France to strengthen his son’s claim to the throne. The hurdle to all this was telling Richard. The English King was fiercely dedicated to the cause above all else, even his new queen, and would not look kindly on Philip’s decision to leave. But he would not be bullied and would depart the Holy Land.

  Hugh began to feel omitted again and moved around in a constant sulk, wondering whether he was losing his king’s affections. On one of their rare moments together, Richard explained that circumstances were out of his control, and this crusade took up all of his time and his mind. All his efforts and strengths were invested in this. Hugh would pout and complain, and Richard would later send him a gift to appease him. There were only a certain number of jewelled rings, chains or silks a man could wear.

  Sitting around a table, Richard and Philip were opposite each other, and Simon and a Frenchman were on the other two sides. Richard had regained much of his strength and looked healthier than Philip, who retained a pallid complexion.

  ‘Richard, once we have captured Acre, I shall return home and take my army with me,’ Philip said, quietly. Richard scowled, but Philip continued, pulling the velvet cap from his head to expose thin straggles of hair. ‘Look at me, I am still feeble from this last illness. I need to return to set my affairs in order in France, anyway, and I feel there is nothing more for me here. If I die here, there will be civil war in France, as my son is too young to rule and there will be others ready to seize my vacant throne. Here, my men are dying from their injuries, diarrhoea, vomiting, insect stings, snake bites, the heat, the cold – they have had enough and so have I. I do not wish to die here.’ He leant forward. ‘Your men are not immune to this torture either. I have seen and heard complaints from your army already. An Englishman spews and shits just the same as any Frenchman.’

  ‘Nonsense! You risk your immortal soul and the souls of your men if you abandon us. All this perturbation is sent to test us. We knew it would not be easy; we knew the risks,’ Richard argued.

  Simon and the French captain watched the two men carefully, both ready to intervene if the meeting grew heated or physical. However, looking at Philip’s pallid complexion and scrawny physique under his velvet robe, that was doubtful.

  ‘I have heard the men call you Lionheart – even your illness has added to your legend. I cannot compare with that kind of adulation. I’m just a pale shadow now.’

  The English King sat back in his chair, frustrated. ‘You cannot go back, Philip. The armies need you.’ He paused, struggling to admit his feelings. ‘I need you,’ he entreated in a moment of humility, but Philip was not to be dissuaded. He had made his mind up and would not be intimidated.

  ‘I shall prepare for my departure once the walls are breached,’ he continued, calmly.

  Now infuriated, with his anger giving him strength, Richard violently thumped the table and sprung to his feet. He grew scarlet with rage, and leant across the table, shaking a fist in the French King’s expressionless face. The French captain threw himself across the table to protect his king, cursing Richard vehemently, and Simon also leapt to his feet, his hand going to the grip of his sword.

  ‘Then damn you, Philip; damn you and your pathetic excuses. Run back to France and hide! When Judgement Day arrives, what shall you tell God and all His angels? That you ran from danger like a frightened woman and hid behind your wet nurse’s skirts?’

  ‘Retenir dev mon roi,vous cur!’ the French captain shouted, slapping his hand on Richard’s arm. The English king recoiled back, enraged at being manhandled by the Frenchman.

  ‘Keep your dirty French paws off my king!’ Simon countered and glared into the captain’s face, bristling for a fight.

  Richard shook the Frenchman’s hand off and straightened up, not taking his steely blue eyes from Philip’s impassive face. He spat on the floor at Philip’s feet and departed the tent.

  Hugh was lingering outside, waiting for Richard to appear, having heard the raised voices. ‘My king,’ he began, stepping forward, and shrank back as Richard stormed out with a face like thunder. Simon was hurrying close behind.

  Tonight, thought Hugh. Tonight I’ll make him forget Philip.

  The king headed in the direction of the tent he shared with his wife and he burst in, surprising the women. Berengaria and her ladies dropped in confused curtsies, but he waved to them to stand up and threw himself in a chair.

  ‘That coward Philip is leaving once we have won Acre,’ he grumbled, taking the cup of wine offered to him by his wife. ‘The walls of Acre still resist us, and he is thinking of packing up and going back to France.’ Slowly, his temper was calming.

  Berengaria sat on the floor by her husband’s legs and leant her head against his knee. Absently, he began to stroke her head as he would his favourite hound and twirled locks of her hair between his fingers. This small gesture of affection pleased her.

  ‘Then the glory will be yours alone, Richard,’ she said, simply. Nothing could have pleased the king more than hearing this and, in a sudden rush of tenderness for his wife, Richard bent over and kissed the top of her head. Her heart thumped with joy.

  ‘I think I shall spend the night here with my wife, and maybe she will sooth me with more sweet words,’ he said, gently, with all of his good humour restored.

  To hear this gladdened the queen’s heart. Would he make love to her instead of his usual brisk emotionless task? Would this be the night she conceived their child?

  ‘I am yours to command,’ said Berengaria, making sure to speak the right words to keep this moment alive.

  Richard smiled as he relaxed – perhaps being married was not as bad as he had first feared.

  Simon would have taken this as a cue to also spend the night with his wife, but he knew he must not touch Rowena in her present state for fear of harming his unborn child. Aubrette, meanwhile, knew that her husband would do everything possible to avoid spending the night with her, so she secretly hoped she might slip out with Simon. She saw him glance in her direction, which meant he was thinking the same. Aubrette would make an excuse to leave later, when she knew he would be waiting for her. They would find a hidden corner under the cover of darkness, or lay together under one of the supply carts in their mutual bliss, where passers-by would see their undulating bodies and assume they were a common soldier and a prostitute.

  The next day, the women were all content with life. Rowena felt well with this pregnancy, Aubrette had spent the night with Simon, and Berengaria experienced the first night of true passion with her husband. Only Hugh was left alone and desolate. He knew the other crusaders did not like him and the previous night had made him realise how far this hate extended. No man had wanted to speak to him or want to be seen with him; they were hostile and threatened him with violence if he came too close. He found solace with a young and naive Frank.

  The two kings still fought side by side and ate from the same table, but the close friendship they had once shared was evaporating. Instead, an underlying sense of dislike was beginning to reveal itself with irritating frequency. This echoed down the ranks to their armies and, when the men were not fighting the Saracens, there were outbreaks of dissent between the English and French. Both Richard and Philip were forced
to intercede and severely punish the offenders. They executed the ringleaders, which was seen as hypocrisy by many. If their leaders could not show a united front to defeat a common enemy, then why should they?

  Still Acre held, battered, scarred but resistant to the crusader’s onslaught. The trebuchets fired mighty boulders, smashing holes that gaped wide in the walls and sending debris catapulting outwards in all directions, but still the city held firm. They shot fireballs through the air, whistling and screaming like banshees, but the walls stubbornly refused to cede. There was hand-to-hand combat, with great losses on both sides. Still the stubborn walls held firm.

  Richard rode through the dense battles on Great William, his sword slashing and hacking at the enemy, felling them. Great William reared up on his back legs, his hooves coming down, crushing bodies below. They were easy to bring down as the infidels wore loose linen clothing under light armour, which was ideal for the sweltering hot conditions but useless against crusader weapons.

  The two queens and their women were instructed to remain in their guarded tent, as Saracens would frequently break into the Christians’ camp. All the women felt reassured by the detachment of guards close by; they were brave soldiers who would lay down their lives for the Queen of England and Sicily’s Dowager Queen. From the royal tent, the women looked after wounded men, who were bathed and bandaged. This made the women feel useful in the bloody campaign.