The Red King, page 15
part #2 of Roger of Huntley Series
That was true, Richard admitted. Joanna was right about the Papal dispensation, as well. “Will you at least attend the banquet and meet al-Adil?”
“No, I will not.” Joanna turned and stalked from the chamber.
Richard swore. He had taken the cross almost light heartedly, believing it the way to immortality. But immortality was proving much more difficult to attain than he had thought. More frustrating, as well. Not to mention the fact that he was sick all the time. He needed to get this crusade over with, get away from this pestilential land, go home and deal with King Philip. It still seemed like negotiation was the quickest way to do that. And the safest. Saladin was preparing a trap for him in the Judean hills—he had to be. That’s what Richard would have done, were he the sultan.
If there were only a way to turn the tables, to lure Saladin out of the hills and destroy him . . .
Richard was tired of thinking. He summoned a page. “Find the count of Vouzin. Tell him to get Andrew and select a few worthy fellows. We’re going hunting.”
Chapter 38
The town of Lydda lay two and a half leagues inland from Jaffa, on the plain of Sharon. It sat athwart the ancient caravan road between Babylon and Egypt, and was famed for its orchards and as the birthplace of the warrior saint, George. The town was dominated by a castle built by the crusaders and by a Greek basilica constructed over St. George’s tomb. The basilica had been turned into a mosque by the Saracens. The castle had been reworked, as well. Its hall was not spacious enough to hold all the guests for al-Adil’s banquet, so the event was held outside, on the plain, in two huge pavilions—one red, one gold—their sides partly rolled up to let in air.
At a distance from these two pavilions, and well separated from each other, were the tents of the guests. The Christian nobles had come up in a group from Jaffa, while the Saracens had arrived piecemeal, as it suited them.
In the outdoor kitchens, sweating cooks, naked to the waist, toiled over spits of roasting lamb and mutton. Others stirred great vats of soups and broths and sauces. The smells of spices, crisping fat, and fresh-baked bead wafted across the grounds. There were fruits and nuts, sherbets of all flavors, and that new drink called coffee, which most eschewed because the temperature inside the packed tents was too warm for hot drinks. Musicians from both sides entertained the throng of guests—it was rumored that King Richard would sing a new song at some point—along with jugglers and acrobats.
Inside the pavilions the guests were seated alternately—Christian, Muslim, Christian—to encourage familiarity, but the language difference precluded that, save for the native Christians, most of whom spoke Turkish or Arabic.
No arms were permitted on the banquet grounds, only knives for cutting food. Muslims ate with three fingers of the right hand and used scented napkins to clean their hands afterwards, while the Christians ate meat off the points of their knives, shoveled in everything else with both hands, and wiped the grease from them on their tunics.
“Where the Devil is the wine?” wondered the purple-robed bishop of Beauvais as he accepted a grilled kebab from a servant.
“The Goat Fuckers don’t drink,” the count of St. Pol reminded him.
Gravedigger Leicester pointed at the kebab. “You may be eating one of their girl friends,” he said in a rare attempt at humor.
The emirs who were seated between the three men smiled and nodded politely, unaware of what their Christian guests were saying.
Queen Berengaria was the only woman present. She sat at the high table, looking lost. The emirs and Christian nobles paid her deference, but Richard ignored her.
Nearby, Alart and Andrew of Chauvigny looked a bit lost, as well. They were used to being Richard’s favorites, but he seemed more interested in his new friend, al-Adil, tonight, so they started a conversation with Berengaria, who seemed relieved to have someone to talk to.
The atmosphere in the pavilions was cordial, if not friendly. After the food was taken away the guests tended to congregate with their own kind, save again for those of the native Christians who had acquaintances on the other side. With no wine available, many of the Christians sought an excuse to go back to their tents and get into the wine or arrack they had brought with them. The banquet looked as though it would go on for a while, though, because Richard and al-Adil were huddled in deep conversation and it would be a sign of disrespect to leave before they did.
From a silver ewer, al-Adil drizzled pomegranate sauce over a rack of lamb. “Your wife is quite beautiful,” he told Richard. “But your sister is not here?”
Richard cut a slice of the lamb, ate it, and licked his fingers clean. “No. She is indisposed. That womanly thing, you know.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I was hoping to meet her.”
“She feels the same way, I assure you.”
The lamb juices and the pomegranate sauce mingled with the brown rice on al-Adil’s plate. He stirred the rice to soak them up and took some in his fingers. “So she is acceptable to the marriage?”
“Yes, but there is a difficulty. Because she is a queen by her previous marriage, our Pope must rule on any new union she is entered into.”
Al-Adil raised his brows. “And . . . ?”
“And there is a new Pope, so the process has to start all over.” Richard spread his hands helplessly. “I have petitioned the Pope on this matter and asked for a speedy reply. In the meantime, his representative wishes me to demand the return of the True Cross you captured at Hattin as part of any peace settlement.”
Al-Adil thought that over. “You still hold Meshtub and a few of our generals you captured at Acre. Will you release them without ransom in return for your Cross?”
“I believe I can convince our council to do that,” Richard said. “Now what about Jerusalem? As an open city, I’m thinking we should specify there be no military presence allowed within a certain distance of its walls.”
“What of your so-called ‘military orders,’ the knights of the Temple and the Hospital? They possessed much property in al-Quds. Would they agree to entering the city unarmed?”
Richard hadn’t thought of that. “I will see what I can do.” No members of the military orders had been invited—or would have accepted an invitation—to the banquet. Richard sighed. “Forgive me, but I was under the impression that we could get the framework of a treaty finalized tonight.”
Al-Adil cut more of the lamb and smiled. “Have patience, my friend, these things take time. I promise you, you will be rewarded in the end.”
“Time is something I do not have much of. My chief nobles clamor for me to march on the Holy City.”
“I am sorry to hear that. There has been too much blood shed already, too many fine men killed. Many of our emirs demand that we attack you, as well, but my brother prefers not to fight.”
Richard wondered if al-Adil was telling the truth about the Saracen leaders wanting to attack. Hugh of Burgundy and that pirate of Deraa would say that al-Adil was trying to make Richard think the Saracen army was in better fighting shape than it actually was. Either way, Richard, whose main striking force consisted of heavy cavalry, had no desire for a battle in the hills. “I feel the same,” he said.
A blue-clad figure appeared beside them at the head table. “I hope I am not late.”
“Qaymaz!” Richard exclaimed with delight, rising and pumping the newcomer’s hand. “It is good to see you. That falcon you gave me is excellent, by the way. I hunt with him frequently.”
Qaymaz placed a hand over his heart and bowed. “It pleases me that your majesty finds my gift to his liking.”
Richard passed the emir a bowl of sugared almonds. “Come, my friend, tell me what you’ve been up to.”
§
Outside the pavilions, a figure moved silently. The figure wore a black cloak and a hood covered his face, though the night was not cold. At his side was a dagger.
The moon was new. Only starlight provided illumination. The figure paused in deeper shadow thrown by a grove of date palms. His eye searched the two pavilions until he found the man he sought. He traced the path he would have to take to get to his quarry, walking it through in his mind, step by step.
He waited till the guards passed on their rounds, then he gripped the dagger and moved forward.
From out of nowhere a strong hand took his arm. “No,” said Balian of Ibelin.
Henry of Deraa whirled. Like himself, Balian was dressed in black. “I expected you to try something like this,” Balian said.
Henry attempted to pull loose but Balian held him tight. “I’m going to kill that bastard,” Henry swore.
“You’re just going to walk in there and stab him?”
“That’s right.”
“The guards will cut you to pieces.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Balian shook his head. “This is not the time for such deeds. We are under a flag of truce.”
Henry’s good eye blazed with anger. “You remember what Qaymaz did to my steward. There was a flag of truce then, too.”
Balian’s voice was calming but stern. “You will have your revenge, but not tonight. It would embarrass the king.”
“I don’t give a fig for the king,” Henry swore. “He embarrasses us with these negotiations. Anyone with half a brain can see that Saladin is stalling for time. He knows Richard won’t be here forever. All he has to do is wait him out, and Richard is playing right into his hands.”
Balian sighed. “I know. But I cannot let you kill Qaymaz in this manner. We are men of honor and must behave as such, no matter how much it displeases us.”
Gradually Henry’s rage dissipated as he saw the truth in what Balian said. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Perhaps you should get away from the army and return to Deraa for a time?” Balian suggested. “Or maybe Acre? That’s where I’m going. We could visit Geoffrey.”
Henry thought about it. “No, I’ll stay here on the off chance that Richard comes to his senses and moves on the Holy City. When do you leave?”
“In a few days.” Balian said. “After that, I’m off to Tyre.”
Henry perked up. “Tyre?” That was unusual.
“Yes, I have business interests there that must be attended to. That’s the story, anyway.”
As a long-time friend, Henry knew that Balian had few business interests in Tyre. Shrewdly, he said, “Will you see Conrad while you are there?”
Balian held out his hands. “Conrad is lord of the city. It would be a breach of courtesy if I did not pay him a visit.”
“What will you talk to him about?”
“The future,” Balian said, and there was much left unspoken in those words. “Shall I give him your respects?”
“By all means,” Henry said.
“Good. Now go from here, before the guards catch you.”
Chapter 39
Bonjute breezed into the room where Geoffrey lay sick. Her riding dress was dusty and sweat stained. “Still alive, I see,” she remarked brightly. She opened the curtains to let in the sea breeze. “I don’t wish to be prophetic, but it’s dark as a tomb in here.”
Geoffrey groaned. “Shouldn’t you be on a ship to someplace? The Antipodes, maybe?”
“I would be, if I could. There are no ships going farther than Cyprus because of the danger from pirates, and I have even less desire to spend the winter in Cyprus than I do to spend it here.”
Geoffrey changed the subject. “How was your ride?”
“Hot. It’s nearly impossible to get through the streets. Half the army has come back from Jaffa, it seems, and the city is overrun with whores, with more coming every day.” She made a face. “They’re probably all coming to see you. Pity you can’t take advantage, isn’t it?”
“I’m tired of you going on about my infidelities,” Geoffrey said. “I missed the part about you being Our Lady of Chastity.”
Bonjute drew herself up. “Anything I’ve done—well, almost anything—I’ve done for you. To advance your career.”
“Maybe I don’t want my career advanced.”
“I’m aware of that, you boob, but I do want it. Mary Mother of God, don’t you get tired of living in the woods?”
“We don’t live in the woods, and I don’t get tired of it.”
“That’s because you have doxies stashed all over the shire, especially that trollop at Carmel Priory. Well, I miss the court, or at least a place where people speak an actual language, like French, not that ungodly grunting you hear in Trentshire. But until you achieve higher office than Lord of the Sheep Herders, I’ll never get anywhere beyond our little kingdom of mud.”
“I should think you’d be happy in Acre, then. It’s almost like the court is here.”
Bonjute harrumphed. “There are no proper women here, save for Joanna and Berengaria, and Hugoline of Montjoie. I’m not crazy about Joanna, but I quite like Berengaria and Hugoline. Poor dear, Berengaria’s in for a rude awakening if she thinks Richard is going to get her pregnant. She tries so hard to be a good queen, too.” She shrugged. “Anyway, Joanna and Berengaria are in Jaffa now. The rains will be here soon, so I guess we won’t take Jerusalem again this year. I have no idea what the army is waiting for.”
“I’m sure Richard has his reasons.”
Bonjute harrumphed again. Her opinion of the king had changed a lot in the last year, Geoffrey noted. She cast a glance at him. “I suppose you really are sick. Otherwise you’d be in Jaffa with your men. I know you’re not staying here because of me.”
“My fever may have eased a bit,” Geoffrey said wishfully.
“Enough for you to chase me around the house? Oh, wait—it’s other women you chase around the house, not your wife. How silly of me.”
“Maybe that’s because having sex with you is like being with a vintenar drilling his troops—‘one, two, three.’ ”
“Maybe that’s because you do it like someone who wishes he were somewhere else. Maybe if I dressed like a prioress, you would get more excited.” She put her hands under her breasts, pushing them up. “ ‘Let us pray.’ ”
“I’ve told you, I’m not—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Geoffrey. There may be as many as a dozen women in Trentshire that you haven’t bedded, but she’s not one of them.”
They were interrupted by Pero, Geoffrey’s wizened chamberlain, who entered with an arthritic flourish and bowed. “My lord, you have—”
Balian of Ibelin strode into the chamber past Pero, followed by the count of Champagne. “Geoffrey!” Balian said, arms wide. “Good to see you!”
Both men bowed to Bonjute, and Henry of Champagne said, “Lady Bonjute. It is good to see you, as always.”
Bonjute inclined her head. “You lie most delightfully, my lord.” She straightened. “I’ll leave you to whatever it is you men do. Meanwhile I’ll go off and thrash some servants. That damned Jehan will have done something wrong, I’m sure. I’d throw her out if she wasn’t such a good cook. Will you gentlemen be staying for supper? We can put you up during your stay in the city, if you like.”
“We’re staying at my house,” said the count of Champagne, “but supper would be wonderful.”
The two men bowed again as Bonjute left, then they took positions on either side of Geoffrey’s sick bed. “You look well,” the count of Champagne told him.
“As my wife says, you lie most delightfully,” Geoffrey told him. Then he added, “I heard about James.”
Balian let out a heavy sigh. “Count Henry and I were the ones who found his body—what was left of it. Poor fellow.”
Henry tried to make the best of it. “He died a Christian gentleman.”
“He still died,” Geoffrey said gloomily.
There was an awkward silence, then Balian said, “So, how are you enjoying the good life?”
Geoffrey snorted. “I’d be enjoying it a lot more were there actually something good about it. But tell me, what’s going on with the army? Why haven’t you marched on Jerusalem? We hear all sorts of rumors.”
“We know no more about it than you do,” Balian said. “We beat the stuffing out of the infidels, and now we sit in Jaffa, doing nothing, while Richard rides around the hills seeking single combat. It’s insane.”
Champagne said, “Richard hopes Saladin will surrender the city through negotiation. His idea is to get Saphadin—you know, Saladin’s brother—to marry his sister Joanna.”
Geoffrey reacted with surprise. “What! How is Joanna taking that?”
“About as you would expect,” Balian said.
“About as any Christian woman would take it,” the count of Champagne added.
Geoffrey said, “You know Saphadin, Balian. Would he go through with something like that?”
“I don’t know him all that well, but I doubt it. My guess is that he’s making a fool of us.”
“Then why the negotiation? Is Richard afraid of a fight? That doesn’t sound like him.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Balian admitted.
“Perhaps he was unnerved by our battle at Arsuf,” the count of Champagne said thoughtfully. “It was a great victory, but it was a near-run affair. I was on the far left, and I can tell you that the Saracens came near to overrunning the rear guard and left wing, and had they done that, the battle’s outcome might have been far different. Our counterattack came at the last possible moment, and it wasn’t ordered by Richard.”
“It wasn’t?” Geoffrey said.
“Actually, it was led by one of your men,” Balian told him.
Geoffrey frowned. “My men?”
“Yes, the commander of that company they call the Death’s Heads.”
“Roger?” Geoffrey said.
“If that’s his name.”
“My God, that fellow never ceases to amaze.”
“He won’t amaze you any more, I’m afraid. He was killed.”
Geoffrey stared down at his blanket. “He was a good fellow. I’m sorry to lose him. Damn this war.” He looked up. “No word of Ailith, I suppose?”
