“Shall we try St. Sebastian’s?” Aimery asked, in no mood to ride the streets a moment longer and pointing to the first monastery that came into view.
Eschiva was in the same mood. The sooner they could get out of the rain and their clothes and into bed together, the better. It mattered to her not at all that it was midday on a Friday. She’d happily do penance for any “sin” involved.
The brothers of St. Sebastian appeared a little flustered by the request for lodging from the Constable of Jerusalem and his wife—but they did have a guest lodge and it did have a room, and within a few minutes, Aimery and Eschiva were in bed behind the heavy damask curtains. They stayed there for hours, making love, dozing, talking, and then starting the cycle again.
It was not until dinnertime that they emerged and took a fasting meal of fish and rice with the abbot, before retiring to their lodgings again with a carafe of wine. Only now did Aimery confide, “King Richard’s letter to his sister contains an astonishing offer from Salah ad-Din.”
“King Richard has been negotiating with the Sultan?” Eschiva asked, surprised.
“Yes.” Aimery paused there. He considered diplomacy a continuation of war by other means, and was fairly confident that the English King saw it that way, too. Only this proposal was different.
“I’m surprised he would share the contents of negotiations with his sister,” Eschiva remarked. “I understand he might consult his wife, but you said it was his letter to his sister. Does he trust her more than his bride?”
“No, that’s not it. It’s just that the Sultan’s proposal affects the Queen of Sicily, not the Queen of England.”
“How is that?” Eschiva asked, puzzled.
“The Sultan proposes marrying his brother al-Adil to King Richard’s sister, and having them rule jointly over a restored Kingdom of Jerusalem.”
“That’s sheer nonsense!” Eschiva exclaimed dismissively. “You know as well as I do that no woman rules anything in the Muslim world. Why, she wouldn’t even be his only wife, and she could be repudiated at any time! Surely the King of England wouldn’t consider sending his sister into a harem!”
“Frankly, Eschiva, I don’t know King Richard well enough to know whether he would or not, but he asked me to deliver the letters personally so you could report back to me his sister’s real reaction—not just her formal response to him. Tomorrow I’ll drop you off at the palace and go off to do my other errands. I’ll collect you again in the evening, and you can then tell me what the Queen of Sicily honestly feels about the notion of becoming Queen of Jerusalem.”
Eschiva did not answer. She was not happy about either the proposal itself or the role of spy for the English King, but she did not want to argue with Aimery. They had been so happy together this afternoon, and she wanted it to stay that way right up to the moment he departed. Aimery felt the same way, so he changed the subject; he began telling her about the capture of Jaffa.
Eschiva was surprised by Queen Joanna’s welcome. In the months they had been together they had become friends—but Berengaria, with her more flamboyant, hot-blooded temperament, had been the one to throw her arms around Eschiva, or nudge her in the ribs when she was stifling a giggle, or otherwise be affectionate or playful as the occasion warranted. Joanna had retained a reserve that Eschiva ascribed to her widowhood, her imprisonment, and her more serious nature.
This morning, however, the moment Joanna spotted Eschiva, she jumped up and rushed over to her. “Eschiva! I’ve been waiting for you. Not that I begrudge you time with your husband, but we have to talk!” She already had her hand clasped firmly around Eschiva’s wrist, and was all but dragging her to the little chapel that had been built to serve the kings of Jerusalem as a private sanctuary. There was room here for little more than an officiating priest and at most four worshipers. Joanna firmly closed the door behind her to make sure they were not followed, hastily crossed herself in the direction of the Eucharist candle burning over the altar, and then faced Eschiva.
Her face was strained, her eyes bloodshot, and her breath was bad. She looked like she’d had a sleepless night. “You will not believe what my brother is proposing. He wants me to marry Salah ad-Din’s brother! A Muslim! He says it would be a way to end the war, the bloodshed, for all time! He says I would rule jointly with this al-Adil, and our children would ensure that the Holy City remained open to Christians ever after. I need your advice, Eschiva. Should I agree to such a proposal? Should I tell my brother to pursue it?” Even more than the way she looked, this agitation, completely at odds with her usual composure, revealed just how distressed Joanna Plantagenet was by this absurd idea.
Eschiva was cautious by nature. Before giving her own opinion, she asked, “What did Queen Berengaria say?”
“You know Ria! She’s besotted with my brother. In her eyes he can do no wrong! She says if he thinks this is a good idea, then I should be happy to play such a blessed role as “peacemaker”—and that I should count myself lucky to wear the “sacred” crown of Jerusalem as well! But what do I care about another crown if the price is marriage to a—Do you know anything about this al-Adil? What sort of man is he? Richard says in his letter that he met with him, and that he was very cultivated and charming.”
“Man to man, no doubt!” Eschiva answered, more sharply than intended. “Nor do I doubt that the Sultan’s brother is highly educated, well-dressed, clean, a patron of the arts, and many other admirable things, but he remains a Muslim. Whether he marries you or not, he will retain his other wives and concubines! And don’t forget that in Islamic law he can divorce you on a whim without cause any time he likes. No sooner will your brother sail away than he will be free to cast you off!”
Joanna blanched. She had forgotten that.
“And even if he doesn’t, you will have no voice in public—maybe not even in private. You will certainly never be allowed to show your face again to any man but him! Oh, my lady, I cannot imagine a fate worse than marriage to a Muslim—unless it is slavery to one! You must not let your brother do this to you!”
Joanna responded by wrapping her arms around Eschiva as she whispered, “Thank you!” It was said with so much heartfelt relief that Eschiva’s eyes flooded with tears.
After a moment, Joanna drew back and looked deeply into Eschiva’s face. “Thank you,” she repeated. “That was the way I felt, but I kept asking myself if I was being selfish. All night long I wondered if Berengaria was right, and if the lives of all those men who will die in this struggle weren’t more important than my personal happiness. Is it really my right to put my own happiness ahead of the lives of all the good Christian men who will die if we reject this settlement?”
“It is not that simple, my lady,” Eschiva answered steadily and firmly. “Sharia law does not recognize women as full humans—their word is worth only that of half a man. A woman can not sit or speak in the presence of men outside her family. She can not show her face to men outside her family. In legal suits, she must be represented by her father, husband or son. Indeed, a married woman cannot leave her house without the permission of her husband—even if it is to go only to the baths. How then could your marriage achieve anything so praiseworthy as Christian access to the Holy Places? As I said, al-Adil can divorce you at will—and after he does, then he can also throw the Christians out again. This is a farce. A red herring. Your brother should feel insulted that the Sultan thinks he is stupid enough to fall for such a transparent ruse!” Eschiva was genuinely indignant.
“You are sure of that?” Joanna asked, brightening up for the first time since she had read her brother’s letter.
“Of course I’m sure of it—and anyone from Outremer could tell him so. I don’t mean the Lusignans—Guy and Geoffrey never bothered to learn anything about their foes—but if you asked my uncle, or Sidon, or even Humphrey de Toron, he would tell you the same thing.”
“Oh, Eschiva, you are an angel from heaven!” Joanna embraced her again in boundless relief. “You have not only r
eassured me that I’m not just being selfish, you have given me the answer I need. I will not protest on my behalf, but point out to my dear brother that he is being hoodwinked! Nothing will better ensure that he says ‘no’!
“And then we need to think of ways to entertain him and make him far too fond of me to ever contemplate giving me away against my wishes to anyone! He says in his letter he hopes to come visit us in about a week, and that’s a perfect chance to reinforce his affection. If only I knew what would please him most. He doesn’t really care about food that much. He loves hawking, but the weather is quite unpredictable.”
“Isn’t he a great connoisseur of music, my lady?” Eschiva asked tentatively.
“Oh, he adores it! He came of age in my mother’s court at Poitiers, and she always had the very best troubadours there. He even writes poetry himself, and he can play the cittern quite well. Do you know of any musicians here that are first class? I can’t say I’ve been much impressed so far,” Joanna confessed.
“No, the musicians here in Acre are very second-rate, but . . .”
“Yes?”
“In Tyre, my lady, my uncle has a squire who is not at all bad, and his wife is truly a gifted singer.”
“A woman? A respectable woman who sings?” Joanna asked, astonished.
“She comes from a humble background, my lady, but I have never heard anyone sing as beautifully as she. When she sings and her husband accompanies her on the harp, it is truly like the music of the angels.”
Acre, late November 1191
Alys had never heard the phrase “stage fright,” but it described her state of mind perfectly. She was almost paralyzed with fear, and Ernoul found himself leading her to one of the benches lining the wall and making her sit down. He handed her his lute and went in search of some wine. If she didn’t relax, they were going to make a terrible hash of their performance tonight. Ernoul had hopes of impressing the English King and winning a real reward, but all his dreams hinged on Alys performing exceptionally well. At the moment the prospects looked dim.
The hall was so crowded that the air was stifling. King Richard had returned with what looked like hundreds of his fellow crusaders, including the Lusignans, Henri de Champagne, and Hugh de Burgundy. Apparently, based on the conversations Ernoul had overheard, not many women had ventured as far south as Jaffa, and the food supplies were more utilitarian than delectable. As a result, many crusaders had slipped back to the “fleshpots” of Acre, bored and unwilling to remain in the Spartan conditions of Jaffa. Richard and the other lords were here to round them up again.
Kings Richard and Guy occupied the central seats at the high table, flanked by Queen Berengaria on Richard’s right and Queen Joanna on Guy’s left. Henri de Champagne was beside his aunt Joanna, and Hugh de Burgundy sat beside Berengaria. At both ends of the table were churchmen: the Archbishop of Tyre, who returned from his embassy to the West this past summer, and the Patriarch. Meanwhile, in the hall the servants were clearing away the last of the sweets, and the entertainment was about to begin.
Ernoul looked frantically for an unclaimed goblet, filled it from the nearest pitcher, took a sip himself to steady his nerves, and brought the rest back to his wife. Alys was staring at the high table and breathing heavily. “I can’t go through with this, Ernoul,” she whispered.
“It’s too late to back down now,” he told her sternly.
“But they say he writes his own music!” Alys protested, her eyes glued on the English King, who was certainly a sight to behold. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, dressed tonight in red samite sewn with golden lions, and he wore his crown. His red-gold hair, though still short from his bout of Arnoldia, caught the light from the lamps, and in the Western tradition he wore a neatly clipped beard as well. Above the beard his face was tanned from the Palestinian sun, and it was an unquestionably handsome face, well-proportioned, with strong, straight features. Yet more than his good looks and impressive clothes, it was his reputation for courage that made him so intimidating.
Stories about his daring and his near-escapes from death circulated everywhere—even in Tyre. Ernoul knew that once when King Richard had gone hawking with only a few companions, Saracens had ambushed them. King Richard had only escaped capture because one of his knights called out that he was the King. The loyal knight had quickly been seized and carried off for what his Saracen captors thought would be a king’s ransom, while the real King escaped.
On another occasion, King Richard had come to the rescue of squires sent foraging for horse fodder. The Templars sent to defend the squires had been overwhelmed by hundreds of Turkish cavalry. Just as the Templars and squires were being led off to slavery and death, some of the King’s household knights rode to the rescue. But they, too, were overwhelmed as more Saracens joined their comrades. Hearing their cries for help, the English King sent two of his nobles with their knights into the fray while he armed himself. Before he could join, however, some four thousand fresh Saracens fell upon the Templars, the squires, and their rescuers. Seeing these odds, King Richard’s companions had urged him to hold back, saying it would be better if all the others perished than for him to risk his own capture, or death. King Richard, so everyone said, had furiously rebuked them, saying he would not withhold aid to those to whom he had promised it. He then plunged into the fight, and soon put the whole Saracen army to flight. Such were the stories circulating about this king already called the Lionheart.
The palace steward was bending to speak into Ernoul’s ear. “The King is ready for you, Master Ernoul.”
Ernoul turned to Alys and took the now-empty goblet from her trembling hands. “It’s no different than singing for Lord Balian and Queen Maria Zoë, or for the Marquis and Queen Isabella,” he tried to assure her.
Alys met his eyes, her lips a grim line, and firmly shook her head as she whispered, “Yes, it is!”
“No, it’s not.” Ernoul took his harp from her and pulled her to her feet.
Alys was sure she was going to faint right away. Her knees felt like jelly, and she could not seem to put one foot before the other. She couldn’t. Just then she felt someone slip an arm around her waist and hand her a glass with cool water in it. Eschiva hugged Alys and whispered in her ear, “Don’t look at them, Alys. Look at me. I’m going to stand right behind Queen Joanna. Focus on me while you sing. It will be fine.”
Alys took a deep breath, and with Ernoul on one side and Eschiva on the other, she advanced to the space before the high table. Eschiva gave her a last hug and withdrew. Around them the room was gradually quieting down in anticipation of the entertainment. It didn’t go entirely silent. Particularly at the fringes, people were still talking, and now and again a laugh rang out. Those at the high table, however, were still and attentive. Joanna was leaning on her elbows expectantly. Berengaria was holding on to her husband’s hand while looking eagerly at Alys, and King Richard was considering her with lynx-like eyes that seemed to want to eat her alive. Alys caught her breath, and Ernoul whispered, “Look at Eschiva and Aimery.”
They were now both standing behind the high table.
Alys focused on the familiar couple, and Ernoul started to play the harp, a series of warm-up chords and scales. Then he gave her the opening sequence of the “Song of Palestine” and hissed (none too gently): “Sing!”
She opened her mouth, and nothing came out. She saw Eschiva clasp Aimery’s arm and then nod to Alys and mouth: “You can do it.” Alys closed her eyes, and suddenly the sound was there. It was faint and quavered slightly at first, but with each note it grew stronger.
There was applause when she finished, but Ernoul did not give her a chance to flee. He took up another song immediately, one of her favorites, and soon the room was under her spell. Alys was still singing with her eyes closed, but Ernoul risked glancing at the high table and was gratified by the expressions on both queens’ faces. They were clearly delighted and impressed. King Richard, in contrast, looked relaxed and pleased, but not partic
ularly captivated.
The applause was greater this time, and Ernoul bowed briefly, but struck up the next song before it had died down. He played the introduction and turned his eyes to Alys with a desperate plea in his eyes. This time she met his eyes and smiled. The fear was behind her. Suddenly they were back on the quay at Tyre, the day they fell in love—only they were singing Ernoul’s song, together. Her eyes smiled as they held his—and looking only at him, she began to sing as he played.
“Salah ad-Din, you have the grave,”
A gasp went through the great hall, and the King of England started so violently that he splashed wine from his goblet onto the beautiful linen tablecloth.
“And you have made our brothers slaves,
But we survived, we are alive,”
Alys’s voice was so clear and true, it rang to the rafters and sent chills down men’s and women’s spines.
“Salah ad-Din, you have the Tomb
But it is dark, deserted gloom
For Christ is risen! And by our side!”
At the high table, Queen Berengaria crossed herself reverently, and so did the two churchmen. King Richard, at last, was leaning forward, his interest finally piqued.
“We are with Him, we have no fear
Of you, your army, or your emirs.
Christ on our side, we cannot die!”
Around them other men were stirring, and Ernoul now opened his mouth and sang with Alys. Man and wife sang with eyes fixed on one another, and their faces suffused with an inner glow of euphoric joy as the melody mutated slightly.
“Christ is with us, Salah ad-Din.
Christ is with us, we cannot die,
But we will fight you—until you do!”
It was not planned, but there were many men in that hall who knew the song, including Aimery de Lusignan. They could not contain themselves any longer, and as Ernoul and Alys raised their voices for the last verses they joined in, their voices far less melodic or trained, but all the more convincing as they called out:
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