23. Consort for a Queen
Perhaps the marriage of Henry and Isabella and the unity it brought to the squabbles over the throne of Jerusalem, made the Lionheart think about the power of the bedchamber in solving even the most intractable of problems.
One morning, over a good breakfast of fresh fruit and sweet wine, with the May sun rapidly warming the air, the King, who was in a particularly jovial mood, spoke of romance. But it was a suggestion for a coupling of a particularly startling kind.
‘My sister, Joan, is only twenty-seven, a widowed queen, handsome, broad of hip; she has borne a child already who, conveniently for my plan, died young. Saladin’s brother, Saphadin, is, I am told, a handsome brute and the rock upon which Saladin builds his army.’
The King looked at us with a mischievous smirk on his face. Blondel, usually the quietest of the Grand Quintet, said what we were all thinking.
‘Sire, apart from the fact that Saphadin must be nearly fifty, one of them would have to convert. And whichever one did would never be able to show their face again in their own community.’
‘I know all that… but it would be a very elegant solution, and could bring peace for generations.’
Robert Thornham responded laughingly.
‘It’s a pipe dream, sire; it would be like mating a dog and a cat. God wouldn’t tolerate it, quite apart from what Rome and Damascus would make of it. Can you imagine telling the archbishops at home?’
The Lionheart’s bile was beginning to rise.
‘There have been marriages between Muslims and Christians before – even between emirs and countesses.’
‘But in this case you’re talking about Saladin’s brother and the sister of the King of England – a woman who also happens to be the Queen of a Christian realm.’
The Lionheart gave Robert one of those looks that meant the debate was at an end. But Robert could not resist one more comment.
‘Well, I wouldn’t like to be the one to ask Queen Joan!’
It was a quip he would regret.
‘Really! Well, you’ve just won yourself that honour. You leave in the morning for Acre. You can ask her.’
Robert’s expression turned from one of hilarity to a look of consternation, but he knew from the King’s demeanour that there was no point in protesting. The Lionheart then turned to me.
‘Who is the shrewdest Arabic speaker we have?’
‘One of the senior Templars, Benoit of Geneva, can reach Saphadin’s secretary, Abu Bekr. He speaks Greek and Latin and Norman.’
‘Get a message to him. I will invite Saphadin to dine with me. I will take my tent out into the hinterland, to neutral ground; I will have only my personal retinue with me. See to it.’
I was shocked by the plan, as was everyone present; it was bold, to say the least, and may only have been a tactical move. But the Lionheart seemed serious.
Three days later, the rendezvous was arranged in an area of orchards and vineyards to the east of Ramla.
When he arrived, with an entourage of elegantly dressed stewards and qaadis, the Sultan’s brother bore gifts of fruit, sweet drinks and Arab confectionery. He was indeed handsome. He was tall, with a long jet-black beard streaked with grey around his chin, and his lavishly embroidered satin coat in pale blue was in perfect balance with his midnight-blue turban. His rugged face was lined with the creases of a man of deep thought and wisdom.
Here was a man worthy of any queen.
The King was charm personified and they chatted amiably in Norman, although Saphadin stumbled from time to time and had to be helped by one of his qaadis and by Benoit of Geneva. One of Palestine’s glorious sunsets heralded dinner, an excellent repast created specifically for an Arab guest. The centrepiece was a lamb Maqluba with fresh vegetables harvested that morning, which had been prepared by a local Arab from Jaffa. There was no alcohol in sight, but several sharbats of orange, lemon and pineapple were served from tall brass flasks that we had brought from the coast. Saphadin was impressed.
After dinner, the two men strolled through the groves together as if they had not a care in the world. The mutual respect was obvious.
Blondel went in front of us and sang as we walked; the two translators were on either side of Saphadin and the Lionheart, while his equerry and I held back at a respectable distance.
After a while, Saphadin stopped and spoke to me.
‘Captain, I see you have lost your arm. Did we deprive you of it?’
‘No, sire, it was the work of Armenians, in Eregli.’
‘Barbarians! You are lucky, few men leave an encounter with them alive.’
The Lionheart put his arm on my shoulder.
‘Sir Ranulf is a fine warrior, my Lord Saphadin, and has become a good friend.’
‘That is good; warriors should be friends, brothers in chivalry.’
Saphadin walked on, and his tone became more serious.
‘You have treated me nobly, Melek-Ric, but let us talk as men. You have a proposition for me?’
‘I do. There is a future for this troubled land that could bring peace without more bloodshed.’
‘That is a prospect the Lord Saladin would treasure, as would I and men of all faiths.’
‘We could agree a truce, part of which would allow access to the Holy Places to all men. Sultan Saladin would have sovereignty over all land from the high ground fifteen miles from the coast, and the Christian lords would rule along the coast to the west.’
‘So we would rule in Jerusalem?’
‘Yes, but it would be a free city, as would Jaffa. The road between the two would be free to all; you would have access to the sea and we to the Holy City.’
‘But you have already made Henry and Isabella King and Queen of Jerusalem.’
‘Yes, they would reside there, and you would reside in Jaffa as Lord of the Holy Land, with jurisdiction over both Muslim and Christian Palestine. In Europe, we call such a person an emperor, as in Byzantium and Germany, where an emperor rules over kings.’
‘Indeed, we call such a man a Grand Caliph. But why would the Christian King of Jerusalem bow to a Muslim emperor?’
‘Because he would be married to a Christian queen.’
Saphadin stopped and looked startled; even Blondel stumbled over the words of his chanson for a moment. The Lionheart had made his outrageous suggestion; it was a heart-stopping moment.
Saphadin looked bewildered, as if playing a game of chess and trying to work out what was hidden behind a clumsy feint.
‘There has been nothing like this in history before, Melek-Ric.’
‘Perhaps Antony and Cleopatra?’
Saphadin knew his history; it was not a good example to choose.
‘Perhaps, but did they not lose in battle and commit suicide?’
The King was undaunted.
‘But we could make it work.’
‘And what of the small matter of who would be my queen?’
‘My sister, Joan, a noble lady, a widowed queen in her own right and still young enough to bear you heirs.’
Saphadin walked on, still trying to think through the implications of what the Lionheart had proposed. The King let him go on alone. Blondel stopped singing and made a discreet exit back to the camp.
