kings did not kill kings, he’d returned to Tyre, the only city still in Christian hands. But Tyre was now under the control of Conrad d’Aleramici, son of the Marquis of Montferrat, an Italian-German aristocrat and adventurer who’d won the gratitude of the citizens by staving off a Saracen attack, and Conrad not only refused to acknowledge Guy as his king, he’d refused Guy entry into the city. Guy had no political skills or sense, but he’d never lacked for courage and he’d ridden off to lay siege to Acre. To the surprise of Saracens and Christians alike, this gallant, foolhardy gesture inspired others; and as the siege dragged on, more and more men joined Guy before the walls of Acre. He was still a king without a kingdom, though, his fierce rivalry with Conrad yet another problem confronting Richard and Philippe upon their arrival in the Holy Land.
The winter had been mild so far, but it was snowing when they reached the town of Sisteron, situated on both sides of the Durance in a narrow gap between two mountain ranges. Here they hired the local guides known as “marons” and encountered travelers who’d trekked from Italy into France and were eager to share their stories of hardship and peril, dramatic tales of deadly avalanches and steep alpine paths and dangers so great that it was easy to conclude Hell was an icy, frigid wasteland, not the fiery pits of flame proclaimed by priests.
Their progress slowed dramatically; on some days, they only covered three or four miles. The marons led the way, using long staves to test the snow’s depth, setting out wooden stakes to mark the path. It was bitterly cold now, their breaths lingering in the air like wisps of pallid smoke, men’s beards stiff with hoarfrost, tears freezing in the time it took to trickle down chapped, reddened skin. The cloud-shrouded jagged peaks sometimes blotted out the sun, and the winds roared relentlessly through the ravines, the eerie echoes reminding them that dragons were said to dwell in ice caves on the barren slopes. The routier Mercadier scoffed at these legends, though, wanting to know why any sensible dragon would choose to freeze its bleeding ballocks off instead of flying away to warmer climes.
Berengaria disapproved of his crude language, but appreciated his pointing out the obvious to their men; there was enough to fear in the Alps without adding dragons and monsters to the list. She had very ambivalent feelings about Mercadier, for Hawisa had acquainted her with his fearsome past. This dark-haired man with the sinister scar had an even more sinister reputation, one of the most notorious of the routiers who sold their swords to the highest bidder. It was said that grass withered where he’d walked, Hawisa murmured, eyeing Mercadier with fascinated horror. But he’d served Richard faithfully for the past seven years, she assured Berengaria, and his presence here showed the king’s concern for the safety of his mother and his betrothed. Berengaria agreed that Mercadier’s very appearance would be enough to frighten off most bandits, for he looked like one of Lucifer’s own. She found it disquieting, though, that Richard would admit an ungodly routier into his inner circle, and she realized how little she really knew about the man she’d soon wed.
The women had to ride astride now, for sidesaddles were too dangerous. They’d been forced to leave their carts behind in Sisteron, transferring the contents to pack mules and bearers, men who made their living as the marons did, by braving the mountain passes in all but the worst weather. The air was so thin that some were suffering headaches, queasiness, and shortness of breath, common complaints of those unaccustomed to such heights, according to the marons. They spent Christmas in the village of Briançon, just a few miles from the Montgenèvre Pass, but a storm blew in soon afterward, trapping them for more than a week, and they were not able to continue their journey until the approach of Epiphany.
They passed the night at a travelers hospice and departed at first light, after kneeling in the snow as one of the bishops prayed to the “Holy Lord, Almighty Father, and Eternal God,” entreating Him to send His angels of peace to show His servants the way and to let the Holy Spirit accompany them in their time of need. And then they began their trek up Montgenèvre.
The sky was a blanched blue-ice that seemed as bloodless and frozen as