|
After visiting Tyre, the English fleet made its way southwards towards the tiny city of Acre where the conflict dragged towards a decision.
Berengaria, Joanne and Richard arrived at a crucial moment at the scene of one of the most remarkable sieges in history. Saladin was poised to strike a decisive blow, against which even the forces of the French, under Philip, and the Germans, under the Duke of Austria, would have proved inadequate. The munitions, the men, but above all the personality of Richard was what was required to tip the scales back in favour of the Franks. The welcome accorded the English was suitable for people who were to be the saviours of the Christian hope.
The Plantagenet fleet appeared off Acre early in the morning: the first land to appear to them was the tallest tower of the besieged city, and then, little by little, the other fortifications. Around the town lay the countless multitudes of besiegers, drawn from every nation of Christendom, toughened by years of toil, hardship and famine.
Beyond them could be seen the Turkish army, covering the mountains and valleys, their tents catching the brightness of the morning son. Clear amongst them was Saladin's pavilion, as well as those of his brother Saphadin and Taki ed Din, Saladin's nephew.
Richard, experienced general that he was, counted the Saracen army as he approached.
The English party landed from their ships - Berengaria and Joanna aboard the Trent de Mer - on the beach to the North of the town. The English were greeted with thunderous cheers from everyone who could be spared from the battle lines, including the princes and nobles, and even Philip himself. Richard de Templo says that the earth was shaken by the acclamations, the people testifying their joy by shouts and the blare of trumpets. The landing was not an easy one: the June wind blew hard, and Berengaria's cloak was entangled in the rigging, and she lost her shoes, an inauspicious beginning to a trying time in her life. 1
Philip himself carried the English queen ashore in his arms.
Meanwhile, Richard was led to a tent prepared for him, where he immediately began to enter into an examination of the progress of the siege.
Everywhere, there were sounds of gladness, as the relieved Christians celebrated: trumpets clanged, horns sounded, pipes shrilled, accompanied by the deeper notes of the tambourine and harp, soothing symphonies, like many voices blended in one.
There was ballad singing, reciting the deeds of ancients, wine bibbing, a joyous mixing of high and low, and the night passed in constant dances. The night was made day by torches, so that the Turks hoped the whole valley was on fire.
The conditions endured by the Crusading women were extreme, even by the usual bestial standards of medieval sieges, which were never the glorious pageants imagined in the illuminations on manuscripts.
The Itinerarium, an eyewitness account, describes how periods of famine over three years had sapped the will of the Crusaders.
When the middle ranking troops as well as the lowest infantry were tormented with hunger, the situation seemed hopeless. Morale crumbled as Conrad of Monferrat - he who had designs on the throne - sneaked in food supplies to his allies and those he wished to influence. As the winter of 1190 had drawn on, a season of plenty had turned to dearth. Stomachs once belching with overindulgence were now rumbling with emptiness, which the owners tried to make up for by eating everything they could find. Knights resorted to the most extreme measures, even eating their battle steeds raw - specialised beasts worth a lifetime's income for a rich person.
The people of Outremer had become used over nearly a century of occupancy of their land to a life of luxury in the periods between fighting: now, the dearth was permanent, and so they suffered the more. Horses' guts sold for the astronomical sum of ten shillings, and delicately bred nobles were seen grazing on any plants that grew in the wasteland, like beasts of the field.
On the rare occasions that a batch of bread was in an oven, a large mob would gather, clamouring and shouting, and vainly holding out money while the strongest pushed in ahead.
Some people were seen running about like mad dogs, gnawing bones that even those animals had rejected.
This picture is confirmed by the chaplain of Baldwin, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who arrived in October 1190.
The chaplain complained that the army was out of control, giving itself over to disgraceful pursuits and indulging in idleness and lust. The nobles were preening themselves amidst the chaos, while the lower ranks were in want and found none to relieve them: purity, sobriety, faith, love and charity were notable by their absence.2
With the arrival of Richard's 25 crammed English ships, this hellish chaos was transformed, and hope sprang anew.
Almost immediately on his arrival, however, Richard was laid low by the fiercest onset of the illness that was to plague him and other Franks, including Philip: arnaldia. Painful, smelly and unsightly, this soldier's disease must have been a purgatory in the primitive conditions of the siege camp.
But even this did not stop Richard proceeding with plans to seize the city.
Of Berengaria, Joanna and the Princess, however, there is no word, a silence that may speak more loudly than words. Maira Mitchell imagines the queens happy in each other's company, embroidering in a fortress within the camp called the Tower of the Chevaliers, in the care of two guardian knights, Stephen Longchamps and Bertram de Verdun.
There is, however, simply no evidence about what they did, except that they were together, and that they were present throughout the whole siege. It is impossible to ascertain whether they were in Richard's company. There is, for example, no mention of the women nursing him during his illness, as might have been a conventional expectation.
It seems possible that the new Queen would not have found her groom physically attractive during an illness that deprived him of his hair, and in which his skin peeled off in strips. Indeed, perhaps she too suffered the same illness, and was confined to her own sickbed.
All that can be reasonably clear is that after leaving Cyprus, Richard and his Queen lived separate lives, and that this separation continued to deepen throughout their remaining years. An absence of communication either official or unofficial, and a total lack of mutual
|
|