A great battle took place in which many on both sides were killed; but the Christians were victorious and the spoils were great. There were almost five thousand camels as well as mules, horses, gold, silver and rich materials, besides foodstuffs such as flour and barley and skins for carrying water.
In Jerusalem Saladin mourned the loss of the caravan and fervently prayed that Richard should never know how weakly the city was defended. That he did not know was obvious as he was delaying the attack. Saladin did everything possible to let everyone believe that he was confident in his strong defence, but this was not the case and he knew very well that Richard’s greatest mistake was in delay.
He sent his spies into Richard’s camp with rumours that he, Saladin, had poisoned the wells outside Jerusalem; and Richard decided that without water they must retire from Beit Nuba and fall back on Jaffa.
Great was the jubilation in Jerusalem.
‘Praise be to Allah,’ cried Saladin, ‘He has saved Jerusalem for me.’
There was another enemy which raised its head against Richard: the ever-recurring fever.
He knew now that it had laid him low that he must return to England. He was tortured by nightmare dreams of what was happening at home. Not in this crusade was he to have the glory of winning back the Holy City.
Saladin was too mighty a foe. They were too much alike. They were the two greatest warriors of the age pitted against each other, and it seemed that neither could conclusively defeat the other. They respected each other. Richard thought: I can never take Jerusalem while Saladin lives. And Saladin thought: I can never drive the Christians out of Palestine while Richard the Lion-hearted leads them. We two should have been friends. We have too much respect for each other to be enemies. There is love of a strange kind between us.
There were times when Richard thought he was dying of the fever, but in his more lucid moments he realised that if he recovered there was nothing to be done but leave for home, his task incomplete. This, which was to have been the most glorious crusade, was to end in failure. He must go back, make his kingdom and his dukedom safe and come again with more men and more supplies. At least he had gained experience. Somewhere in his mind was the thought that Saladin could not live for ever and that he must wait for his death before he could conquer the Saracens.
There was ill news of the Duke of Burgundy, who had returned to serve under Richard after the death of Montferrat. He had an attack of fever and it seemed unlikely that he would recover. This gave the French the excuse they wanted to retire. Richard knew that all these men who had come out with such high hopes were now weary of the battle; they all longed to go home. They missed their families and their native land; they had dreamed of glory and found overpowering heat, devastating cold and poisonous insects.
‘It is time to go,’ Richard told himself. ‘I will come again and next time I shall succeed.’
Saladin was an honourable man. Perhaps he could make a truce with him. He would tell him the truth, for if he did not, Saladin would discover it. He was sick; there was trouble in his realm; while he fought in this land half his thoughts were of his home.
He called messengers to him and sent them to Saladin. Would Saladin consider a truce?
There was in fact nothing Saladin wanted more. His men, too, were weary of the fight. They, too, longed for their homes. They had suffered terrible losses and they greatly feared Richard the Lion-Heart.
Most willingly would he come to terms.
It was decided that the truce should last three years, three months, three weeks and three days starting from the following Easter. Part of the coast was to remain in Christian hands; and during the time of the truce Christians might have free passage and safe conduct to Jerusalem and be allowed to worship at the Holy Sepulchre. But they must come in peace and in small parties.
Richard knew that Saladin would keep his word.
‘Is it not strange,’ he said, ‘that I should know this and trust a heathen, when he who declared himself my good friend and ally, the Christian King of France, should conspire with my own brother against me?’
And he thought often of Saladin as Saladin thought of him; each was aware of the almost mystic bond between them.
In the palace at Acre the two Queens heard of his illness and that preparations were to be made for them to leave.
Joanna, watchful of her sister-in-law, noticed that she did not express the usual anxiety for Richard’s health. She was sorry. She had to admit that Richard had neglected Berengaria shamefully. True he was engaged on a mighty venture, but he made no effort to be with her and there surely must have been occasions when it was possible.
Berengaria had changed a little; her lips had tightened. Perhaps she was no longer in love with the romantic warrior.
Joanna was sad. She had to admit that Richard was ruthless. Had he not tried to marry her off to a Saracen? Yet he had made no effort to force her. She would have done anything rather than agree to such a marriage and he knew that. Poor Berengaria! She was learning with bitterness that there were often disadvantages in being born a princess.
The little Cypriot in her role of watcher asked herself whether there was not after all something to be said for being a dispossessed princess. No one would try to force her into marriage; and if marriage was not for her how could she have a neglectful husband to make her unhappy?
Berengaria said to Joanna, ‘When Richard comes I would speak to him alone.’
‘But of course you will be alone with him. You are his wife.’
A hard smile curved Berengaria’s lips. ‘None would believe it,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I find it difficult to do so myself.’
Joanna did not pursue the subject. She wanted to turn away from it. Perhaps some day Berengaria would confide in her when the wounds were less fresh.
Richard arrived, looking pale and somewhat hollow-eyed but considering the malignancy of the fever far better than might have been expected.
He asked the two queens to come to him and was surprised when Berengaria came alone. She thought how magnificent he looked. Illness could not destroy the appearance of great strength and virility.
‘So,’ she said, ‘we are to leave here.’
‘The news has come in advance of me?’
‘It is customary, my lord, to hear news of you not from your lips but those of others.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘There is so much to occupy me.’
‘That I know well and the company of others is preferable to that of your wife.’
He looked astonished. ‘Why say you so?’ he asked.
‘Indeed why, since it is truly unnecessary to voice such an obvious fact,’ she replied. Then she burst out passionately: ‘How think you I endure the pity of those around me?’
‘Pity, Madam?’ he said in surprise. ‘Should you be pitied . . . here in this comfortable palace? I and my soldiers should be the ones who are given that . . . marching in the heat or the mud, tormented by noisome insects . . .’
‘And your friend Blondel de Nesle?’ she asked. ‘Does he suffer so?’
‘The minstrels accompany the army. They have their work as do the others.’
‘I trust this Blondel is happy with his work.’
‘He would seem so.’
‘So much enjoying the favour of his master.’
He pretended not to understand. He said: ‘Music is an essential part of our army. A minstrel’s songs can lighten the spirit and put heart into weary men.’