But she was right about her brother also. Four days later, a scout cried, “A ship!” Joan stood on deck, peering back toward the west. Within an hour, the harbor was filled with English and Sicilian galleys, and Richard held her in his arms.
“Thank God, Richard. Thank God, you’re here.”
“I’ve had ships and messengers all over creation looking for you.” He shook her shoulders. “What is this I’ve been hearing about the usurper? He tried to lure you to shore?”
“Heaven knows what he planned. But he still holds some of your knights.”
“We’ll remedy that.” He turned to one of his men. “Send a message to Comnenus. He has one day to surrender my people and apologize for the insult to my sister and the princess. And I’ll expect restitution for my lost ships.”
“Sire, the beach is well fortified and shallow. You can’t mean for us to take them by storm from longboats.”
“I can’t?” He smiled grimly. “By God, we will.”
THE NEXT MORNING, JOAN WATCHED THE LONGBOATS STRAIN toward shore under a hail of arrows and stones. Buffeted by waves, a few were swamped; but Joan kept her eyes on Richard, stalwart and foolish, standing tall in the center of his boat.
They disembarked in a horde; Joan made out only that the men gained the beach. All day long she stood at the rail, while Berry hung on her arm with a thousand whispery questions she couldn’t answer.
Toward sunset, the king sent word to his loved ones—they would spend the night on solid ground. Taking note of Berry’s glistening eyes and nervous smile, Joan said, “You’ll sleep with me, Berry.”
She needn’t have worried; her brother was not in the fort. Isaac had made camp only five miles away, so Richard ordered the travel-weakened horses brought on shore to set out after him. In the morning he returned, loaded down with plunder—strong Cypriot horses, food, gold, and arms, but not Isaac, who had managed to flee.
Buoyed by success, Richard grew boastful and expansive, handing out gifts all too generously, playing tricks, matching wits with Joan. But when she saw him draw his bride-to-be under his mantle to kiss her and Berry emerging flustered and pink, she decided she must act.
“Richard,” she announced over supper, “I hear there is a lovely chapel here in Limassol, and the bishop of Evreux is in your company.”
He glanced up from his plate. “Eh? What are you up to?”
“A wedding. It won’t take but a few days to plan.”
Richard grunted, then looked to Berengaria. “Are you still willing?”
Berry blushed a deeper shade of red than Joan thought possible.
“I’ll talk to the bishop,” Joan said. “May twelfth. That gives us four days.”
Richard took a large swallow from his cup and set it down with a thud. “May twelfth? There is nothing inauspicious about the day.” He reached across the table and pinched Joan’s wrist. He said in Occitan, “I wasn’t going to forget.”
“I’m simply Mama’s agent,” Joan replied, also in Occitan, hoping Berry would not be offended.
“Ha! As am I, sister mine, as am I.”
ON MAY 11, GUY DE LUSIGNAN, THE ERSTWHILE KING OF Jerusalem, and his brother Geoffrey arrived in Limassol to beg Richard hurry to Acre. Not to aid in the siege, Joan noted cynically, but because King Philip had taken the part of Conrad of Montferrat, who had conferred upon himself the title “king-elect.” Irritated by their inopportune timing, she almost pointed out that Saladin was, in fact, king of Jerusalem, but better sense ruled her tongue.
At the same time, a scout reported Isaac Comnenus had fled with his army to Famagusta, on the east coast of the island.
Throughout the afternoon, while the men held conference, Joan attended Berry. The princess shuffled through her wedding preparations nervously, as if afraid to be joyful. Richard had been handed two perfect excuses to postpone the ceremony.
When Joan could no longer bear the uncertainty, she left Berry with Charisse and Sati and went to Richard’s quarters. Barging inside, she demanded, “What are you plotting?”
Richard flinched. The barber trimming his beard recoiled.
“God’s toes, Joan! Would you have my throat cut?”
“Maybe. Berry has tried on every gown in her trousseau twice. What are you doing?”
Richard pushed away the barber’s shaking hand. “What does it look like? You may report back to Mother that I did my duty bathed, barbered, and confessed of my sins.”
She noticed several steaming buckets of water against the wall. Her brother didn’t appear very martial in his undershirt and braies, a piece of linen draped across his chest. Hesitantly, she pressed, “What about Guy?”
“I invited him to the wedding. He’s very pretty, don’t you think? A widower…” He drew out the word, his voice warbling.
Joan ignored the taunt. “And Comnenus?”
“He’s withdrawn as far as he can go. I told Guy if he aided me in Cyprus I would support him against Conrad. You know everything. Are you satisfied?” He pointed to the door. “I’m going to be washed.”
“I’ll leave. I’m sorry, Richard. I just…” What? Why hadn’t she trusted him?
He shut his eyes, and the hard line of his jaw relaxed. “Mother needn’t have put the goad in your hand. I do want to marry Berry.”
“You do?”
“I am king. I have to be married to someone.”
An old wound reopened. “Don’t ever say that to her.”
ON HIS WEDDING DAY RICHARD WORE A ROSE-RED SAMITE tunic and cap, a matching mantle richly embroidered with golden threads, and a girdle of the finest Sicilian silk. Gold and silver encrusted the scabbard for his sword. Beside him, poor Berry possessed no more substance than a ghost.
Richard had asked that his own chaplain, a beefy Norman Englishman named Nicholas, say the wedding mass in the small Greek chapel of Saint George. Afterward, the bishop of Evreux placed a crown on Berry’s dark hair.
Even at the celebratory feast, Richard seemed to behave himself, yet Joan would not breathe easy until morning. As the shadows grew longer, Berry’s eyes grew wider and her complexion more pale.
“Come,” Joan said at last, “we’ll make you ready.” She rose from her chair, beckoning to Charisse and Sati.
Richard smiled up at them, then reached after his bride and let his fingers trail down her arm. Joan thought Berengaria might faint. She took her elbow and led her from the dining hall to Richard’s apartments.
The bedchamber was a shambles, the bed linens dirty and half torn from the bed. It stank of men’s sweat and boots. Berry’s face fell.
“Soldiers’ quarters,” Joan said brusquely. She should have thought to inspect the room.
Sati began straightening the linens; Charisse opened the shutters for air.
“Let me help you,” Joan said, awkwardly gesturing to Berry’s robe.
The frightened girl blinked and held up her arms. With Charisse’s aid, Joan managed to strip Berry to her chemise before Richard pounded on the door.
“How long does it take to undress?” he shouted, laughing. He sounded drunk. Joan cursed under her breath. She should have made sure he watered his wine.
“Give us a minute, Richard.”
Sati put a hand on the wild-eyed queen’s shoulder to steer her to the bed.
“Sit,” she said, and began unplaiting her hair.
Richard banged on the door again. Berry’s lips moved without sound. After their near death at sea, her fear would have seemed comical, except Joan knew exactly how she felt. She could think of nothing soothing to say.
Sati spread her fingers through Berry’s hair and said, “You are ready.”
The door shook.
“All right, Richard! Enough.” Joan pulled back the latch and opened the door.
Richard leaned against the wall, smiling maliciously. “You’ve done your duty, sister mine. It’s my turn.”
She wanted to slap him. When Charisse and Sati slipped into the hallway, Joan followed, feeling as
if she’d thrown a child to a lion.
He is thoughtless, not cruel. You must be doubly kind.
Her duty had just begun.
THE KING OF ENGLAND CONQUERED CYPRUS IN LESS THAN three weeks. Kindness was weakness, and Richard was nothing if not strong.
Immediately after the wedding, they had sailed for Famagusta, only to find Isaac Comnenus had already decamped. Instead of Greeks, an envoy from Philip and Conrad awaited Richard. His allies were growing impatient. Furious, Richard accused them of encouraging the tyrant to avoid battle, knowing the crusaders would soon have no choice but to move on.
He chased his enemy into the island’s interior and on to the mountain fortresses of the north, though he could ill afford a protracted search of Cyprus’s mountaintops. Then Guy and Geoffrey captured Kyrenia, a small town on the northern coast where Isaac’s daughter had taken refuge. As soon as he heard of Kyrenia’s capitulation, Isaac surrendered, begging only that he not be put in irons.
The court gathered in the great hall of the local Greek palace for Guy’s triumphant return. As Joan took her place next to Richard, he grumbled regrets that he had no time to pry the mosaics from the walls. She didn’t bother replying. Enough of Cyprus’s prodigious treasure was portable. It was not simply his greed she found offensive, but his lack of discernment. The mosaics were pretty but hardly fine.
A herald announced King Guy, who marched in and nodded to Richard, proudly, as if they were on equal footing. His floral perfume permeated the four corners of the room. He was a handsome man, as everyone said, yet Joan considered his looks too sculpted, too delicate. William had been far more beautiful and not half as vain.
“Lord King,” Guy said, “I give you the Cypriot ‘emperor.’”
The gilded door opened once more; two guards half led, half dragged the captive across the carpets. A gasp rose from the assembly, followed by laughter. Isaac Comnenus was fettered with immense silver chains. Richard’s sense of humor—he had not put Isaac in irons. The joke must have cost a fortune, but everyone would sing of it.
Richard asked, “And where is the girl?”
“Bring Lady Theodora,” Guy commanded.
The daughter who entered the next moment, head held high, was no child. Although her face was youthful, she had a woman’s body—rounded hips, a small waist, and a bosom so large it seemed unnatural. No one had bound her hair, which fell to the small of her back, shining like a crown of black glass.
“The tyrant is yours,” Richard told Guy, his voice coming from deep in his throat, “but the girl I remand to my sister’s keeping.”
Joan winced. He should have sent the girl to a nunnery. His intention was clear enough.
Mama was right about men. The devil take them all.
E I G H T E E N
ON THE EIGHTH OF JUNE, 1191, KING RICHARD OF ENGLAND arrived at Acre. It seemed the whole Christian world had come: French, Danes, Flemish, Champagnois, Germans, and now the Normans under England’s ruler. United, the Christian horde would be insuperable.
The king of France had been there since the twentieth of April. In seven weeks, he had assembled a catapult and a large siege tower, which he attempted, several times, to put to the walls. He ordered men called sappers to dig tunnels beneath the Accursed Tower, one of the Saracens’ primary defensive towers. But King Philip had not taken Acre.
King Richard was welcomed with daylong festivities. Trumpets and cymbals sounded loudly enough to alert the Saracens that their position had become even more tenuous.
Richard asked Joan to sup with him that evening, but he did not include Berry. He claimed it was because Philip would be there—Joan thought it a weak excuse. Philip could not truly have expected Richard to marry Alice after what Papa did.
Her brother’s pavilion was centrally located in the English camp. His tent was multichambered and made of silk, the workmanship obviously Sicilian. She entered through an actual wooden door, hung by leather hinges from a sturdy frame. The entrance hall served also as dining room. The table before her held a fortune in silver plate, and the smell of meat roasting had reached her all the way outside. How must that sit with men who had gone hungry for two years?
Richard stood beside the table, gnawing a knuckle of pork. Obviously, it had not occurred to him to wait for his guests.
“Hunh,” he greeted her, chewing. “Philip will surely be glad to see you.”
“It’s not as if Philip doesn’t know about Berry,” Joan said, continuing the argument she’d been having with her brother in her head. Besides, did Richard think she was blind to the amount of time he had been spending with Theodora? “How long do you intend to ignore your wife?”
He tossed the knuckle to a hound sitting quietly in a shadowed corner. The dog pounced, and she heard the bone crack between its jaws.
“Shut your mouth. I want you to sit quietly and try to look pretty.” He wiped his hand on the tablecloth then circled his finger beside his head and teased, “Why didn’t you do that Sicilian thing with your hair?”
She sat without answering and awaited Philip’s arrival. The French king gave her a thin smile and took the seat opposite, then obliged her by ignoring her throughout the first course. By the second, an argument was in full force. Richard wanted to reorganize the entire siege strategy. Philip insisted he was making good progress and could take Acre in another month, with or without Richard’s help.
Richard scoffed. “You’ve set your sappers at the Accursed Tower.”
“The wall is weakening.”
“And if it falls, no one will be able to get through the rubble. Your infantry will have to scale a mountain of debris. You’ve chosen the worst possible spot.”
Philip stood. They glowered at one another. Joan refilled Philip’s goblet before Richard’s unobtrusive cupbearer thought to do so.
“Sit, please, my lord. If you leave, I’ll be alone with Richard in this temper.”
Philip sat, grudgingly, and Joan suspected she’d diffused their anger only by taking it upon herself.
Richard raised his jeweled cup and swirled it. “Do as you like. I’ll lay my own siege.”
“I didn’t expect cooperation.”
“Meaning?”
Philip sneered, deferring to Joan. “What do you think of the valiant Guy de Lusignan?”
She kept silent.
“He captured Isaac Comnenus,” Richard said.
“He captured a girl,” Philip scoffed, pulling on the edge of his mustache. “Everyone here supports Count Conrad of Montferrat for king of Jerusalem over Guy. I only confirmed their choice.”
“You hadn’t the courage to make an unpopular decision?” Richard mocked.
“I don’t make stupid decisions simply to prove I can enforce them.”
Joan felt the knot in her stomach tighten.
Philip was the first to look away. He sighed, then stabbed a piece of boar with his knife and put it into his mouth. Joan couldn’t watch him chew. His blind eye dipped and bowed.
“You’d do well to make peace with Conrad,” he said, without looking at Richard.
“If Guy hadn’t kept Saladin occupied here for two years, Tyre would be in infidel hands. Conrad would do well to make peace with Guy.”
Joan said, “I thought they’d reached an understanding until you two stirred the pot.”
“Their ‘understanding’ was to make war against each other as soon as Saladin is beaten.” Richard chopped at his food so hard the table rumbled.
“At least they are willing to wait until then.”
Richard’s knife stilled. After a pause, he looked at Philip and shrugged. “My mother’s tongue.”
Philip smiled grimly. “You shouldn’t encourage her.”
“God’s feet,” Joan muttered. Richard had invited her to be the shield that blunted their blows.
The French king rose once again. “I’ve overstayed my welcome. Madame”—he made a curt bow—“I’ll leave you to your supper.”
Richard waved his k
nife at him and continued to eat; Joan scrambled to her feet to curtsy.
With Philip gone, she sat and stared at the table. Richard got up and opened the door. After peering outside, he flapped it open and shut several times. “The man stinks.”
“You both do. You know, Sicilians have a fascinating custom. They call it ‘bathing.’”
He returned, grimacing, and sat. “Eat something. You’re thinner than I found you at Messina.”
She put a morsel in her mouth. Then another, so she would not have to speak.
Toying with his food, Richard said, “Guy is an idiot. His brother Geoffrey is worth three of him.”
She’d heard it said that Geoffrey de Lusignan was a remarkable warrior. Older than Guy by several years, he was inoffensively plain, with a large nose and small chin. She choked down her meat.
“Is it true Philip shouldn’t have placed his sappers before the Accursed Tower?”
“He saw it himself. He was ready to move them, but won’t now I’ve pointed it out.” He sounded pleased, and Joan couldn’t follow his reasoning. “The Saracens will concentrate their defense there. It will give me opportunity to mine the south wall of the city with my own sappers.”
So Philip’s men would suffer the worst of it, and Richard would claim the victory.
“That is low, Richard.”
“If sense ruled him, he’d move them anyway. I can’t be blamed for Philip’s pride.”
“No,” she said, rubbing her temples. But he could be faulted for his own.
JOAN DREAMED OF THE ZISA’S GARDEN. SHE WOKE DISGRUNTLED. How simple life was when one was imprisoned.
For three weeks, she had tried to support Richard while he neglected Berry, trysted with his Cypriot captive, and squabbled with Philip as if they were both spoiled children rather than kings. When Philip executed another assault against Acre, Richard refused to take part, claiming they’d do better to wait until his men finished assembling the catapults he’d brought from Sicily. That wretched day the garrison beat drums to signal they were under attack, and Saladin responded with an assault against the crusaders’ camp. Joan had never been so terrified.
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