Geoffrey smiled. “But neither am I, sire.”
Richard straightened, staring ahead. Abruptly, he walked out of the room.
Joan and Geoffrey gaped after him. Rudeness was not out of character for Richard, but they had done nothing that would provoke him.
“Excuse me,” she said, nodded to Geoffrey, and followed her brother. The worst he could do was order her away.
He walked stiffly and didn’t acknowledge her presence behind him, but when he reached his antechamber he held the door open until she entered also. The room was dim and empty but for two chairs, a dusty table, and a bowl of flowers Berry had placed there for welcome. The bowl was long dry, the flowers wilted.
Richard slouched into one of the chairs and said, “Sit, since you are here.”
She sat opposite him and leaned her elbows on the table. “What’s wrong?”
“Saladin’s power is at an ebb. His allies are reluctant to campaign in winter.”
“But so are yours.” Men who knew the region had warned Richard not to attempt an advance on Jerusalem until spring. Mud would make the mountains impassable. Still, she knew he would not be inclined to delay.
“Yes. And already the duke of Burgundy is threatening to go home.” He mimicked the duke’s whining. “‘I am King Philip’s representative. You are to treat me as your equal in command.’ Ha. I’ll treat him as Philip’s equal, not mine.”
He fell silent, and Joan dared not interrupt his brooding.
When he spoke again, his voice sounded weary. “Jeanne, if I march now, I could take Jerusalem, but unless I appoint myself king over it, there’s little point. Guy can’t hold Jerusalem without me.” He clenched his fists then slowly unclenched them. “Conrad might have been able.”
Joan caught her breath at the admission that he’d backed the wrong man. “You might reconcile.”
He shook his head, more with frustration than to refute her. “Conrad has been meeting with Saladin. He offered to lay siege to Acre as soon as I leave for Jaffa.”
“The traitor!” No wonder he was brooding.
“Yes, treachery. Which brings us to Johnny-boy.”
John. She had been dreading this since leaving Messina. She buried her head in her hands.
“He was supposed to stay out of England. Or at least refrain from meddling in the kingdom’s affairs. But he has been turning men from posts I assigned, installing his own lackeys. He has been collecting the new tax I levied to support this crusade, but he has not forwarded a penny of it for three months. And—”
“He met with Philip.” Patterns in the table’s dust seemed to take on ominous forms.
“John believes I stole his throne. But if our father meant to name him heir, he had ample opportunity to do so.” Lowering his head, he said, “Our father had too many sons.” No one could have missed the pain in the words. But then his voice grew sardonic. “Yet Saladin has even more. Worse for him, many of his emirs would prefer to see his brother succeed him. When he dies, his empire will crumble.”
“Is he ill?” She’d heard that rumor also.
“Not ill enough.”
“And what of el-Adil?”
Richard’s heavy eyebrows flickered. “What of him?”
“You’ve been negotiating, Richard. That’s no secret. What does he want?”
“Unfortunately, he is utterly loyal to his brother.” He stared at her a little too long. “Jeanne, if I cannot defeat this adversary, I must change my game. What I need is a workable peace. Saladin is old and ill. I hear he is losing the support of his emirs. The stumbling block is el-Adil. His spies are as efficient as mine. He knows my position and has not been willing to make any concessions.” He scraped back his chair and stood. “I do have a plan, but I’ll have to placate Guy somehow. Under such circumstances, everyone must accept what needs be done.”
His emphasis made her skin crawl. “What is your plan, Richard?”
The way he studied her face, she thought for a moment he might confide in her. “If it succeeds, you’ll know soon enough.”
JAFFA WAS A PORT CITY. ITS COLORLESS STONE HOUSES WERE piled one on top of the other, and the dirty streets thronged with men who looked as if they couldn’t remember their last decent meal. Inside the walled palace, a fountain graced the garden court, but though Richard pointed it out cheerfully, saying, “Just like Sicily,” Joan was not heartened. The gritty white stone walls had been stripped bare. The very air tasted of sand and salt. She was sick of the godforsaken Holy Land.
Although he reopened negotiations with el-Adil immediately, Richard didn’t wait for an answer before marching inland to claim two nearly demolished Templar castles and setting troops to rebuilding them. Joan imagined he had a twofold purpose—pressuring Saladin to accept his terms and preparing the way to Jerusalem if Saladin did not.
The second week in November he returned to Jaffa in order to receive el-Adil. Saladin’s brother brought a small retinue; Joan watched their approach from a window in the castle tower. Toward dusk, from the same window, she anxiously watched them depart. There were many, especially the French, who grumbled about Richard’s dealings with the enemy. What terms had he made? How acceptable would they be to his allies?
A page found her. “Lady, the king would like to speak with you.”
“Of course,” she said, a sinking feeling in her belly. Their mother’s words haunted her. Support Richard. Even when you know he is wrong.
Richard was in the bleak council room, surrounded by the residue of men’s celebrations: crumbs on the floor, spilled wine. The courtiers had all gone save for Geoffrey, bleary-eyed in the corner.
“Sister mine!” Richard called. “Come. Sit by me.”
She approached warily and chose a chair near but not beside him. Geoffrey roused to draw closer, though he didn’t sit. He appeared uncharacteristically nervous.
Richard beamed. “I knew el-Adil desired this. He’d have to, to put such a scheme before Saladin. In my heart, I thought the most we’d accomplish would be to drive a wedge between them, but Jeanne”—he leaned forward—“Saladin said yes.”
Geoffrey growled, “Tell her the terms. Don’t lead her by the nose.”
Richard shot him a dangerous look.
“You haven’t permission to speak.” He returned to Joan. “You’ll be queen of Jerusalem.”
Queen? The word struck like a blow, leaving her gasping. She wouldn’t marry Guy. She wouldn’t live in exile for the rest of her life.
“No, Richard.” The scratchy sounds she made were hardly words. “Please, not Guy.”
“Tell her,” Geoffrey said.
Richard didn’t take his eyes from her. “Not Guy. El-Adil will be king.”
She thought she’d misheard. A Saracen king? And herself queen? Marriage to an infidel?
“No.”
“Jeanne, I’ve given my word.”
“No!” Trembling, she stood. She could hear her own voice rising, echoing off the bare wall. “Would you sell your sister to the very devil? I’ll curse you. I’ll curse your sons—”
He sprang from his chair, face ablaze, but Geoffrey was quicker, stepping forward to block the king chest-to-chest.
“After you flaunted yourself before him!” Richard shouted.
“Sire, don’t!” Geoffrey begged.
Richard’s eyes darkened. His voice shook. “Say yes, you useless, barren witch. Or we lose everything.”
What good was a truce after the departure of the crusaders? If el-Adil were king, Saladin would still hold Jerusalem. How dare Richard do this to her?
She drew herself up tall and threw the word back at him. “No.”
“Get her out of my sight!” he roared. “She is no sister of mine.”
THE WOMEN RETURNED TO ACRE. BANISHMENT FROM Richard’s grace was far worse than any prison; time passed more slowly than ever it had in Palermo. There was little to sew or spin, little for women to do but pray. Joan’s only comfort was that Richard had sent Theodora with them. Not
that they enjoyed her smug company, but it meant Richard was no longer enjoying her either.
Richard sent no messengers. Rumors abounded, but only hearing of his exploits in bits and fragments, nothing made sense.
The week after Easter, an English abbot arrived in Acre with an urgent message. Richard’s chancellor had been overthrown and exiled by Prince John. Discovering that the king was not in Acre but Ascalon, the abbot hurried along, leaving Joan and Berry in despair.
“What will Richard do? What can he do?” Even after Berry ceased hounding her, the refrain echoed inside Joan’s head.
The abbot was two months gone when the answer came. Returning to her chambers after morning prayers, Joan was startled by a sharp hiss. Down the shadowed hallway, she caught a glimpse of a plain knight with a large nose and weak chin.
“Geoffrey!” She flew down the hallway.
“Lady,” he said, but spoke quietly and stepped close to the wall as if seeking the shadows.
“Richard didn’t send you?”
He shook his head.
She sighed raggedly. “You shouldn’t have come. I won’t have you out of favor on my account.” His grimace said he had not come to be scolded. “But I’m glad you’re here,” she admitted. “I’ve been so desolate. My brothers are—” She caught her tongue. It was unfair to speak ill of men he must serve.
“How much do you know?”
“Nothing. We’ve heard nothing since the abbot left us.”
Geoffrey clenched his jaw, trying to decide where to start. “When King Richard heard about his chancellor, he called a council to elect a king for Jerusalem. Conrad was chosen.”
“But of course, they would. What was he think—” Joan stopped again. Clever Richard. “I suppose he gave Cyprus to Guy as consolation?”
“No. He sold it to Guy.”
With a wry laugh she said, “Typical.”
She wondered what Theodora would make of that. No one would attempt to wrest the island from Richard, but from Guy? Any knight with more ambition than discernment might be willing to champion her cause for such a prize.
“Then he sent Count Henry of Champagne to Tyre to tell Conrad of his good fortune. And three days later, two Turks cornered Conrad on a street and struck him dead.” Joan gasped, but Geoffrey said hurriedly, “The murderers confessed to being followers of al-Din Sinan.”
“The Old Man of the Mountain?” Joan felt a frisson of awe. The Old Man was a Saracen mystic, an enemy of Saladin and Christians alike. It was said he put his followers into trances, and they would kill at his will. Joan had thought it a myth, though Richard claimed he was real enough to terrify Saladin. “Why would he kill Conrad?”
“Conrad ambushed one of his caravans. But the French accuse your brother of bribing him.”
“That’s absurd!” Richard needed Conrad. “Why kill him after finding a way to reconcile?”
“The French feel no compulsion to back their slander with reason. They say your brother has also paid al-Din Sinan to have King Philip murdered.”
“Pshh,” she said, shaking her head. “Who would listen to such lies?”
“Everyone who wants to believe ill of your brother, lady. But that’s not the whole of it. When Count Henry brought word to the widow—”
“Humph. You can’t tell me she was too upset by his death.”
“No, indeed.” He smirked. “She married the count.”
“No!” It grew more incredible with each word. She closed her eyes to think. “Richard would prefer Henry to Conrad. The French will make much of that.”
“Count Henry has reunited the French, Conrad’s men, and Guy’s, and is marching south to join King Richard. If we win Jerusalem, no one will care who murdered Conrad.”
“And if we fail?”
Geoffrey’s voice dropped low. “If we fail, Conrad’s death will be counted the least of your brother’s sins.”
T W E N T Y
A MERE TWELVE MILES FROM JERUSALEM, THE CRUSADING army degenerated into factions. They abandoned the goal, though it lay within sight; Richard had no choice but to make a truce. Under its terms, though the crusaders might keep the coastal cities they had taken, Saladin retained Jerusalem. The Holy Crusade had failed.
Eleanor had told her daughter to support Richard. Joan had not. His failure was her own.
The women’s ship left Acre late in September. Richard insisted his queen set sail before winter’s approach turned the seas treacherous. They were to sail to the east coast of mainland Sicily and then travel overland across the peninsula to Rome, where they should await him.
After three weeks of uneventful sea passage, they landed on the coast of the Sicilian mainland in the city of Bari. There they learned how quickly fortunes could change. King Philip had already petitioned the pope to condemn the king of England for sins committed in the Holy Land: bribing assassins to kill Conrad, despoiling the Christian island of Cyprus, and colluding with Saladin to reach an ignoble peace. Joan prayed the presence of Queen Berengaria would remind the pope of Richard’s faithful service. If the Church turned against him, his fate would be sealed.
The lord of Bari welcomed them grandly. He called Joan “my lady queen” and told her they still grieved over King William. He provided them with strong horses and knowledgeable escorts, and Joan discovered the expedience of well-maintained Roman roads. They covered over two hundred miles to Rome in a week.
Hospitably received by a Navarrese bishop, a cousin of Berry’s, Joan luxuriated in simple comforts: warm baths, soft beds, palatable food. She found the very antiquity of her surroundings gratifying. Man might damn himself by bringing soldiers against the city, or mock its purity by setting up false popes, but the Holy See would endure. Mass was not simply mass, but a pilgrimage. Surely, from these exalted altars, God would hear her prayers.
Bring Richard home safely. Let us reconcile.
But God mocked her. In November, a Pisan sailor sought audience with Queen Berengaria. With grave foreboding, Joan watched him drag his feet across the marble floor of the bishop’s hall. In his outstretched hands, he held out a torn mantle of red samite, faded but unmistakably Richard’s.
Releasing a strangled cry, Berry sprang forward, tearing it from him to clasp against her cheek. “Where did you get this?”
With a moan, he answered, “A ship foundered on the Istrian coast. Debris washed ashore.”
Berry sank to her knees.
“Were there survivors?” Joan asked, her voice sounding hollow, the words dropping into a void. Richard was not dead. The mantle could have been lost a thousand ways.
“None have been found, lady.”
“The dead?”
“None have been found.”
Later, after Berry had been put to bed with a posset, Joan paced in the villa’s receiving hall, unable to escape her thoughts. Before undertaking the crusade, Richard had named their nephew Arthur, Geoffrey’s son, as his heir, specifically excluding John. But Arthur was a child. And John had already proven he would not be content with the inheritance Papa had left him. Who would Philip back now that Richard was gone? Who would Mama support?
She’d told Berry the mantle meant nothing. She’d told Charisse she wouldn’t cry because Richard was not lost. But now, alone, she wept. Death had prevented her reconciliation with too many estranged loved ones. Surely, it was God’s punishment for her willfulness. If He would only bring Richard back, she would not cross him again. She’d never quarrel with anyone she loved again—if only Richard lived.
IN ROME, THEY WERE SURROUNDED BY RICHARD’S ENEMIES. For a week, they had turned away all visitors, so deep was their grief and their fear. Yet some had come twice, even three times—sincere mourners or wolves circling? Joan doubted she had the wits to discern. She knew only that she had a duty to Berry, and no desire of her own save to go home. But to return to Aquitaine, they had to cross Italy, Provence, and Toulouse, all held by enemies of England.
They were waiting to be summoned to supper—a su
pper no one would eat except the Cypriot captive, Theodora. Listless, silent, Joan turned her sewing over in her hands, unable even to stitch. Berry held a prayer book closed on her lap.
A dull rap sounded on the door.
Charisse opened it enough for them to hear a servant announce, “Ladies, another visitor requests audience. Sir Aimery of St. Gilles.”
“St. Gilles.” Joan’s heart leapt to her throat. Might this be the answer to her prayers? “Aimery is lord of St. Gilles in Provence. If he can help—”
“Count Raymond is lord of St. Gilles,” Charisse said. “Aimery is merely the castellan’s son.”
Joan insisted, “He’s Ermengarde’s brother.” For that reason alone, she would hear him, even if it was foolish to imagine he could help. She cast a pleading look at Berry, who clutched the prayer book tighter.
“Bring him to us,” she said, her voice trembling.
The servant led Aimery into the hall. Shrouded in a pale blue mantle, he appeared a beacon of calm amid the room’s harsh red-and-gold decor. He swept a low bow.
“My sympathies, ladies, and those of my sister and my lord count.”
“How does your dear sister?” Joan asked, refusing to acknowledge condolences. Richard was missing. She would not admit his death until she saw his sea-bloated corpse.
“Well of late,” he said, straightening. “Though widowed, if you’ve not heard.”
“Widowed? Oh, poor Ermengarde.”
“No. You needn’t pity her. Lord Raymond’s wife invited her to be an attendant at court. She’s grown quite content.”
Joan started at the news. Ermengarde in Toulouse? She should feel glad for her friend, but…had Lord Raymond suggested it to his lady? It was not a question she could ask.
Berry said. “Please, tell us what brings you.”
“My lord Count Raymond invites you to Toulouse for Christmas court. A somber one under the circumstances, but one he hopes might bring you comfort. Afterward, an escort will see you to Aquitaine.”
Joan bit her tongue. Instinctively, she trusted Aimery, yet who could trust Count Raymond of Toulouse, enemy of her father’s house and vassal of Philip of France?
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