had sickened in the past week and they were convinced Jaffa had become as unhealthy as a cesspit because of all the noxious odors. One glance at the man in the bed confirmed that Richard had been stricken, too. His sheet was soaked in sweat, his chest glistening with a sheen of perspiration, and his face was deeply flushed. He struggled to sit up as they approached the bed, and they could see that his eyes were glazed, unnaturally bright. “Jesu,” he mumbled, his voice very husky, “I’ve never felt so wretched. . . .”
“You’re giving off enough heat to set the tent afire.” André looked around for a washing basin, dipped a towel in the water, and put it on Richard’s forehead. “Is it the quartan fever again?”
Richard swallowed with an effort. “Yes. The chills came in the night, then the fever. . . .”
André explained tersely for Henri’s benefit that Richard had been laid low by quartan fevers in the past, the last attack happening during their stopover at Rhodes. “I’m not surprised you’ve taken ill. It is a wonder you’re still amongst the living, given the way you push yourself. This is what we are going to do. We’re sending a galley to Caesarea to fetch Master Besace. In the meantime, I’ll find a Jaffa doctor to tend to you, and yes, you’ll have to stay in bed—even if I have to tie you to it, Cousin.”
He braced himself then for the inevitable argument. When it did not come, when Richard merely nodded, André and Henri exchanged troubled looks. If Richard, a notoriously difficult patient, was suddenly cooperative and reasonable, that meant he was much sicker than they’d realized.
CHAPTER 37
AUGUST 1192
Jaffa, Outremer
As the distant walls of Jaffa came into view, Henri found himself tensing, just as he had three weeks ago, not knowing what he’d find. Then, he’d feared that the city had fallen; now he feared that his uncle had died during his brief trip to Caesarea, for it had soon become obvious that Richard was gravely ill, so ill that he’d dispatched Henri to convince the French to join them at Jaffa. Henri had done his best, employing all of his eloquence and powers of persuasion; he’d thought it was a hopeful sign that they’d ventured as far as Caesarea, and he could see that some of the French knights wanted to answer the summons. But the Bishop of Beauvais was now in command, Hugh of Burgundy having returned to Acre after falling ill, and Beauvais forbade them to join Richard at Jaffa. Few dared to defy him, for he wielded the French king’s name like a club and they all knew he’d pour poison into Philippe’s ear upon their return to France. So Henri was sailing back to Jaffa with just a handful of men, those who had the courage to value their crusading vows more than their king’s favor. While he was not surprised that Guillaume des Barres was one of them, he was surprised that Jaufre of Perche was one, too, and as he glanced at the young count standing beside him at the gunwale, he wondered if Jaufre realized he’d made a dangerous enemy in the bishop.
“How bad is it?” Jaufre asked, his eyes tracking the sleek forms of several dolphins keeping pace with their galley; every now and then there’d be a silvery splash as they leaped clear of the water. “I’m guessing things must be dire indeed if the king was willing to swallow his pride and seek French aid again.”
“We cannot lose Jaffa,” Henri said resolutely. “Some of the poulain lords arrived by galley in the past fortnight, but we are still greatly outmanned. We have less than three hundred knights, and Saladin’s army is growing by the day. He has gotten reinforcements from Mosul and our spies say more are expected from Egypt. We’ve been trying to repair the town walls, but so many are sick. And they’ve all been shaken by the king’s illness. . . .”
“Does Saladin know the king is ailing?”
Jaufre’s naïve question earned him a wry smile from Henri. “He probably knew it ere Richard did. The man has more spies than there are priests in Rome. Richard has been yearning for pears and plums, all he seems able to eat, so Saladin has been sending baskets of fruit and snow from Mount Hermon to ease his fever. If Beauvais and Burgundy knew that, they’d see it as proof that my uncle and