Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,172

was.

When he was ushered into Richard’s tent, he saw that they were just finishing their evening meal. Richard had quickly adopted the local custom of dining at low tables while seated upon cushions. His wife did not look as comfortable as he did, sitting upright, her skirts carefully tucked around her ankles. She smiled at the sight of Henri, for he was a favorite with all of the women. Joanna smiled, too, and Richard beckoned him over, signaling for Henri to be served wine and a dish of syrup mixed with snow. Henri was happy to lounge on the cushions and display his greater familiarity with the Holy Land, explaining that this was a delicacy of Saracen origin; the snow was brought down from the mountains in carts covered with straw.

The final course was a platter heaped with figs, carobs, and clusters of a local fruit that few of them had ever seen before—its soft flesh encased in a greenishyellow skin. They were known as “apples of paradise,” Henri said, gallantly peeling one for Joanna and then for Berengaria. Because of its suggestive shape and size, it had another name among the soldiers, “Saracen’s cock,” but he refrained from sharing that bit of bawdy army humor, sensing that Richard’s queen would not find it amusing. Instead, he leaned over and asked, low-voiced, if the rumors were true.

“You mean about my squabble with Philippe this afternoon? So word is already out?”

“Well, apparently you were shouting at each other loudly enough to be heard back in Cyprus.”

“I suppose we were,” Richard conceded, with a tight smile. “Philippe wants us to launch a full attack on the morrow. I reminded him that some of my ships are still at Tyre, waiting for favorable winds, and they are carrying most of my siege engines. It makes sense to wait until they reach Acre. Why risk men’s lives today when victory seems more assured on the morrow? But of course he would not heed me, for if I say ‘saint,’ he has to say ‘sinner.’ So he’s going ahead with his plan, the damned fool. I’ll set my soldiers to guarding the camp, but I am not letting them fight under his command. Not that they’d want to—most men would not follow Philippe out of a burning building.”

That evoked a burst of laughter from his audience, save only the Bishop of Salisbury, who suppressed a sigh, knowing it was inevitable that Richard’s quip would reach Philippe’s ears. Richard noticed Hubert’s disapproval and elbowed him playfully in the ribs. “I know, my lord bishop, I know. You’re thinking I ought to be more circumspect. You may be right, but what fun would that be?” Midst another wave of laughter, he rose to his feet, remembering in time to kiss Berengaria’s hand before inviting Henri along on his final circuit of the camp that night.

They were accompanied by André and a number of the knights; others soon tagged along, so that their walk began to resemble a procession. Richard kept up a rapid fire of questions aimed at Henri. Had he heard that Jaufre’s father had been given the Sacrament of the Faithful? Had he been told that Baldwin de Bethune’s father was also grievously ill? Did Henri know that he’d been bequeathed Philip of Flanders’s trebuchet, much to Philippe’s vexation? Henri soon stopped trying to answer, for they were constantly being interrupted by men eager to greet the king, seek a favor, report a breach of discipline, or bring an act of bravery to Richard’s notice.

They spent over an hour observing the trebuchets in action. This was a new weapon in siege warfare, in which a long beam pivoted on an axle, the shorter arm holding a heavy counterweight, the longer arm, or verge, attached to a sling. Richard watched with a critical eye as the verge was winched down and huge rocks were loaded into the sling, telling Henri that he’d brought stones from Sicily which were much harder than the softer limestone found in the Holy Land. He was hands-on in all that he did, and he could not resist the temptation to release the hook himself. As the counterweight plunged downward, the verge shot up and the sling cracked like a whip, emitting a high-pitched humming sound. All the men followed its trajectory intently as the rocks hurtled toward the city, cheering when they slammed into the walls in a cloud of dust and rubble. Told that Philippe had named his primary trebuchet