“Indeed,” she had remarked one evening when she was with the queen, “it sometimes seems as if the Christian virtues are better exemplified in the Moorish sultan than in many a Christian king, making one wonder how so wrong a theology could produce so fine a man.”
The queen was not pleased with the remark.
But all of these exploits had happened some time ago. It was now several weeks after that battle at Jaffa, which had ended indecisively. Richard had promised that his army would march in triumph into Jerusalem, and in this he might have succeeded had it not been for the jealousies of the Christian princes engaged in the crusade with him and the offense some of them took at the haughtiness—often remarked—of the English monarch. In truth, Richard often displayed an unveiled contempt for his brother sovereigns who, while equal in rank, were still far his inferiors in courage and military abilities.
Disputes and obstacles delayed every action while the ranks of the crusaders, even to Joan’s feminine eye, were thinned daily. Saladin had learned well that his lightly armed soldiers were ill suited to close combat with the armored Europeans; but Saladin had the advantage of numbers and the speed of his horsemen in the many little skirmishes that occurred.
As the army of the crusaders dwindled in numbers, Saladin’s followers became bolder in their form of petty warfare. Clouds of light cavalry sometimes surrounded and almost besieged the Christian camp.
“They’re like swarms of wasps,” Richard complained. “Easily crushed when you can get hold of them, but their wings enable them to elude superior strength, and their stings can do great harm.”
Valuable lives were lost in the perpetual warfare as Saracens picked off Christian foragers. Communications were cut off, convoys seized; the crusaders were forced to purchase the means of sustaining life by life itself.
In the queen’s pavilion the hardship had been most felt in the deteriorating quality of their food. “We’ll soon be eating no better than the poorest peasant in England,” Berengaria complained, although she had no idea how any peasant lived.
The climate, too, was hard for men from the north, unused to the hot days and cold dews. Not even the iron constitution of Coeur de Lion could withstand the combined effects of the unwholesome climate and his ceaseless exertions, and he fell ill. Whatever victories the crusaders had enjoyed heretofore were Richard’s victories, and the effects of his illness on the crusade and on the camp in general, were great. Saladin, who had so often displayed his admiration for Richard, readily agreed with the Council of Princes to a thirty days’ truce, that Richard might recover.
When Richard’s illness took on a serious aspect, however, the general tone of activity about the camp changed. Hope of a triumphant march into Jerusalem began to fade, and with it faded the numbers of the crusaders as well. Now desertion thinned the ranks still more as entire bands, ceasing to hope for success in their venture, withdrew from it and turned homeward.
In the camp the interval of the truce was employed not as might be expected, in recruiting new warriors, reanimating their courage and preparing for a speedy advance upon the Holy City; but rather in securing the camp with trenches and fortifications, so that it looked as if when the fighting began anew they prepared to repel the attack of a powerful enemy rather than assume the proud aspect of conquerors. A cloud of gloom descended.
“Well,” Berengaria’s voice intruded upon Joan’s thoughts. “Your tongue is usually so quick, can you think of nothing to say to amuse me?”
Again Joan racked her brain for some subject of conversation that had not been already exhausted.
“This morning I heard talk of a holy man,” she said, trying to make this news sound interesting, “a fanatic who lives in the desert near Engaddi.”
“A Christian holy man?” Berengaria asked doubtfully. “Do you think the Saracens would let him live long unmolested?”
“I have heard they revere such men. They regard them as madmen and feel that a madman is possessed of special powers and special insights—even a Christian madman.”
Berengaria was thoughtful for a moment and Joan was pleased that her little piece of information had provided the queen a moment’s diversion. But she was less pleased with Berengaria’s next remarks.
“But this is it!” the queen cried, her china-doll face radiant with childish delight. “A holy man, possessed of special powers. Why, we shall make a pilgrimage to him and pray for my husband’s recovery.”
She jumped up excitedly from her chair. Joan stood too, feeling anxious over the direction matters had taken.
“Noble madam,” she said, “you cannot be serious. We are surrounded by Moslems and Engaddi, from what I can judge, is three, maybe four days’ journey from here. Think of the danger of such a journey.”
“God protects his pilgrims,” was the queen’s reply. “I’m going to ask my husband’s permission right now. Come, Clorise.”
With a frightened look, Clorise leapt up and hurried after her mistress. There was nothing Joan could do but follow in their wake. She knew the queen well enough by now to know that once she had gotten an idea in her head there was no dissuading her. The queen was little more than a child, and a badly pampered one at that. Joan’s only hope was that Richard would forbid the journey in question, but it was a slim hope. Her kinsman was weakened by illness, and even when he had been in full health he was weak before his wife’s entreaties.
“This is my fault,” Joan thought unhappily. “If she goes to Engaddi, I will be duty bound to go with her.”
CHAPTER TWO
...most like the roar
of some pain’d desert lion....
—Arnold
Not many people willingly approached the tent of King Richard these days. Confined to his bed, he fretted over the reports of inactivity in the camp, like a caged lion viewing his prey from behind his bars. He was by nature a man of violent passions, rash and impetuous, and now his temper had too little outlet. His attendants moved in terror of fresh outbursts, and even his doctors were loath to assume that authority that a good medical man must assume over his patient. Richard chafed, and when the frustration became too great for him he roared like his namesake, while those around him quaked.
Of all those in attendance upon the monarch, only one did not tremble at the sound of his voice and make every effort to avoid his vicinity; this was Sir Thomas de Multon, Lord of Gilsland in Cumberland. His nature was not unlike that of his monarch’s and throughout Richard’s illness he had quietly but firmly maintained a control over the invalid that no one else dared to assume. Sir Thomas was a blunt and careless soldier, taciturn to the point of sullenness and disdaining in speech and actions the courtly arts. But he was a well-battled soldier who had served Richard as well with his sword as he now did in sick attendance, and that the impatient monarch allowed de Multon’s authority over him was a sign of the deep respect the two comrades-in-arms shared for one another.
Now, while the ladies approached, Richard lay on his sickbed, despising it. Sir Thomas, having just administered a potion, stood beside the bed. He was a man of giant proportions, and the contrast between his strapping figure and the wasted one of the sovereign was shocking.
“Well, is there no good news from the camp?” Richard asked impatiently after a long silence, his eyes sweeping the interior of his tent. On the floor a trio of greyhounds, his former hunting companions, eyed him with a look of curiosity at this unaccustomed inactivity they were forced to share.
“Things are much as they have been,” Sir Thomas said, watching his king closely to see if the medicine had any more effect than the others had.
“All our knights behaving like women, in other words,” Richard said. “The cream of Europe’s knighthood, and not a spark of valor in evidence.”
Richard’s blue eyes, always