rage when he was told that Richard had taken the cross? I heard that he would not come out of his chamber for days, just like when Archbishop Thomas was slain!”
Willem chose to address her last query first, reaching over to steady her grip on the wine cup. “That is not so. The king was not happy about it-I’ll not deny that. And he did some brooding for a few days, but he was not so much angered as he was troubled. He was also vexed, of course, that Richard had done this without consulting him first.”
“If he thinks Richard will ever be as biddable as John, he is blinder than old Peter, my almoner. Some hawks are too wild to be tamed, can never be broken to the creance and jesses.” Hawisa devoted herself then to eating the bread but was soon ready to resume her interrogation of her husband. “I know you have a great fondness for the king, love, and I’ll not deny he has been right good to you. But I do not understand why he has so little interest in the Holy Land. Most men would be proud that their son had taken the cross as Richard did. As I recall, he was not happy when Hal took the cross, either, and he would not let John go back with the Patriarch of Jerusalem. Nor has he fulfilled his own vow to go on pilgrimage to atone for the archbishop’s death.”
This was their one serious bone of contention, that Hawisa did not see the king as Willem did. He did not want another argument on the subject, but he could not keep a defensive note from entering his voice. “Yes, Harry did vow to take the cross, but soon after, his sons and queen rebelled, and he could hardly leave, then, could he? And since then his kingdom has been in ferment thanks to those same sons. He has been extremely generous, though, with his financial support, has given the vast sum of thirty thousand silver marks for the defense of the Holy Land.”
“Yes, but you told me once that the money is being held by the Templars and Hospitallers, cannot be dispensed without the king’s consent. Is that not like giving a gift with the proviso that you can always change your mind and take it back?”
“Indeed it is not. The bulk of the money was to be spent when the king was able to travel himself to the Holy Land. In any event, Guy de Lusignan and his barons drew heavily upon the funds this year to increase their army in the face of Saladin’s growing threat.”
“And that was a great success,” Hawisa said caustically. “I daresay the king considers that money well spent.”
“I assume the rest of it is being used to defend Jerusalem, and Harry would never begrudge a penny of that,” Willem insisted. Seeing that his wife did not look convinced, he said, “You cannot blame the king for fearing for the safety of his sons in so dangerous a place as Outremer. And as it happens, I did ask him why he was not more concerned about the threat to the Holy Land.”
Hawisa’s eyes brightened with interest. “Did you now? And what did he say?”
“He gave me one of those looks of his, where he cannot believe anyone could ask so foolish a question. And then he said, ‘Of course I care about the fate of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. But I care more about the fate of the Kingdom of England.’”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
January 1188
Gisors, Normandy
Henry was at Barfleur waiting for favorable winds when he learned of the French king’s new threats. It seemed that Philippe was no more pleased than Henry by Richard’s decision to take the cross, for he was warning that Richard must wed Alys before he departed for the Holy Land or Gisors must be returned at once to the French Crown. If not, he would lay waste to Normandy. Henry reluctantly delayed his return to England and agreed to confer with Philippe at their traditional meeting place, the ancient elm tree near Gisors Castle.
Henry was not sanguine about their chances of reaching an accord. He could not really blame Philippe, for in the latter’s place, he’d have been making the same demands. But he was not about to yield up Gisors, for he was convinced the Vexin was rightfully part of Normandy. Neither he nor Richard wanted the marriage, though. Richard had never shown any interest in Alys, and Henry had learned to his cost how dangerous a marital alliance with the French was, for he was convinced that Hal would not have been so easily led into rebellion had he not been the French king’s son-in-law. The last thing he wanted was to give Philippe an opportunity to suborn another one of his sons. He felt some pity for Alys, but if the price of her freedom was the loss of the Vexin or outright war, it was too high to pay. A king must do what was best for his realm.
The conference started badly with Philippe insisting at the onset that there’d be no compromises on this issue, and Henry saw they were in for a long, difficult day. Only half listening to arguments he’d heard many times before, he found his attention wandering: to the crowd of onlookers eager to watch the spectacle of two kings in conflict, to the lowering winter sky that was threatening snow, and then to approaching riders. Even at a distance he could see they were well mounted and richly garbed, his gaze drawn to a man wearing a stiff linen miter that marked him as a prince of the Church.
No longer even making a pretense of listening to Philippe, Henry watched as they dismounted, the spectators parting to let them pass. The prelate was resplendent in a blue chasuble and purple dalmatic, both of finely spun silk, brandishing a crozier with a delicate ivory crook. But his face was unfamiliar. By now Philippe had paused to watch, too, and shook his head when Henry asked, “Is he one of yours?”
Identification came from the Count of Flanders. “I know him!” he exclaimed in surprise. “We met in the Holy Land…Joscius, the Bishop of Acre.”
“No,” Henry corrected, for he’d spotted the lamb’s wool pallium around the man’s shoulders. “He’s no longer a bishop, Cousin. We’re being honored by a visit from the Archbishop of Tyre.”
Greetings were prolonged for the archbishop was accompanied by a number of high-ranking churchmen and the two kings by many of their lords and barons. But once the amenities had been observed, the archbishop drew Philippe, Henry, and Philip aside and shared with them the heavy burden he’d been carrying since leaving Outremer that autumn. As dire as the news of the battle at the Horns of Hattin had been, this was far worse. After a brief siege, the Holy City of Jerusalem had been captured by the Saracens.
As word began to spread, the grieving swept through the crowd like a rogue wave, engulfing men and women alike. People wept openly, cursed aloud, fell to their knees on the frozen ground to pray. It had been less than a hundred years since the first crusaders had retaken Jerusalem for Christendom, but no one had expected the city to fall to the infidels. Surely the Almighty would never let such an atrocity happen?
The kings and their highborn vassals were no less stunned than the spectators. The Count of Flanders was striding up and down, slamming his fist into his palm again and again. Philippe was making the archbishop repeat the story, as if he expected the ending to change upon hearing it again. And Henry’s shock was giving way to horror, for he was a student of history and he knew what had happened when Jerusalem had been captured by the Christian army in God’s Year 1099. It had been a massacre. Men, women, and children alike were shown no mercy, and it was reported that the bodies of the slain Muslims and Jews had been stacked up in the streets like kindling and knights rode in blood up to their horses’ ankles. The archbishop was still occupied with Philippe, and Henry beckoned to one of his companions, clad in the distinctive red cross and white mantle of the Knights Templar, the warrior monks who prided themselves upon being the soldiers of God.
“Tell me the worst,” he demanded. “How many died when Jerusalem fell to Saladin?”
To his amazement, the knight shook his head. “There was no slaughter of the citizens.”
“Are you saying that Saladin allowed the city to surrender peacefully?”
This time the Templar nodded. “Balian de Ibelin, the Lord of Nablus, was commanding the defense of Jerusalem. When he saw they were doomed, he went to Saladin under a truce and asked to be permitted to surrender. Saladin refused, reminding him of the thousands of Muslims who’d died when the Christians had taken the city. Lord Balian warned him that if they had nothing left to lose, they would kill all of the Muslim prisoners they held, then they would destroy the Dome of the Rock and all the Holy Places in the city, those sacred to Christians and Muslims both, and burn Jerusalem to the ground. Saladin then agreed to ransom the citizens. You saved thousands from slavery or death, my lord king.”
“Me? Ah…Balian paid for the ransoms with the money I’d provided for the Holy Land.”
