But we had a mighty enemy in the King of France. His love for Richard had turned sour, and there is never greater hatred than that which has grown out of an old love.

News came in now and then from the Holy Land. Richard was going from success to success. His name was continually mentioned. He was the hero of the Third Crusade. I was sure that it was he and his men, not Philip Augustus and the French, who had taken Acre.

There was talk of a mighty Saracen warrior who it was said was a match for Coeur de Lion. His name was Saladin. There were stories of a meeting between the leaders. Saladin was as outstanding among the Saracens as Richard among the Christians. It was certain that two such men would have the utmost respect for each other.

Richard’s illness persisted. There were bouts of ague and fever. I think they were his real enemies.

Richard and Saladin had come to a point when they must make terms, and Saladin’s brother wanted to marry Joanna. I was outraged at the thought; so, it seemed, was Joanna. But Richard apparently was so impressed by Saladin that it did not occur to him that the proposition was not acceptable. Why should not Christian and Saracen love each other rather than make war? Joanna might convert Malek Adel to Christianity. But what, I asked, if Malek Adel made a Moslem of Joanna?

Inevitably it came to nothing. I could imagine Joanna’s rage at the suggestion.

There had been a truce. Saladin would not surrender Jerusalem, but he allowed the Christians to make pilgrimages to the holy shrines when they wished, and he gave them a strip of the coast between Jaffa and Tyre so that they could travel unmolested.

Many of the crusaders went to Jerusalem and worshipped at the shrines. Richard did not go.

He was reputed to have begged the Lord not to let him set eyes on Jerusalem: he had set out to deliver the Holy City from the enemies of Christianity, and in this he had failed, so he should be denied a sight of it. He had made the way easier for pilgrims, but that was all his campaigning and tremendous expense had been able to achieve. His greatest enemy had been the ague and the fever, from which he suffered still; they had plagued him just when he should have been going into battle.

He respected Saladin, and Saladin respected him, but he had failed in his mission, and he could see there was no use in continuing. It was time to go home.

My relief was intense. So now he would come back and I could hand over the reins of government to him. I need not lie awake wondering what mischief was brewing in John’s mind.

I was an old woman. It was time I had a little rest.

I was planning that Richard should be home for Christmas. I was happy and excited. There should be minstrels and the music he loved. How I longed to see him again.

Berengaria would be with him. Was she pregnant? What joy there would be if she were!

I was very happy.

But Richard did not come home for Christmas.

The weeks passed and still he did not come. I began to realize that something was wrong.

Each day I waited for news. Tension was rising. I knew that John was biding his time. Where was Richard? Why did he not come back home? We had known that he was on his way, but why did he not come?

Something terrible had happened. It was frustrating to live in ignorance. He had just disappeared without trace.

I think that was the most agonizing period of my life. I had seen many tragedies, but this, wrapped in mystery as it was, seemed the hardest to bear.

I needed him. The country needed him. He must return soon or all England, all Normandy and his possessions in France would be thrown into confusion. The people were becoming restive. What sort of king was this to desert his country and go off to fight in other lands? And now the fighting was over, why did he not come home?

Joanna and Berengaria had arrived safely in Rome. They had sailed on the same day as Richard but not in his ship. I could glean nothing from them. They had not seen Richard since they left the Holy Land.

It was the same story whichever way I turned.

Richard had simply disappeared.

Then one day Richard’s chaplain, Anselm, arrived at Court. He had a tale to tell which threw a faint glimmer of light on the mystery. This was the story he told me.

When Richard had arrived in Acre after leaving Cyprus, the French King, who had been eagerly awaiting his arrival, was overjoyed to see him. He made a significant gesture by wading out to the galley in which Berengaria had been sailing, lifting her in his arms and carrying her ashore so that she need not get her feet wet. That implied that all animosity over Alais was at an end.

The two Kings embraced affectionately. Now the conquest of Acre seemed certain. It had been inspiring to see the effect Richard had on the men. He looked magnificent, of course. They cheered him, the sick rose from their beds, and they cried: “Coeur de Lion is here. Now we shall be victorious.” There were men from Germany, Italy and Spain as well as from France.

Now the Kings of France and England conferred together and planned to march on Jerusalem once Acre had fallen. Philip Augustus warned Richard of the mighty Saladin. Moreover, the Saracens had a deadly weapon which they called Greek Fire. Richard knew of this: he had encountered it before. It was sulphur, wine and pitch mixed together with Persian gum and oil, which produced an almost inextinguishable fire. A mixture of vinegar and sand was the only substance that appeared to be of any use against it—and that not very successfully. Greek Fire had impeded progress considerably.

Richard had a new contrivance with him called Mate Griffon. It was a tower on wheels which could be run up against a castle wall, so that men on top could step onto the castle and take it. It was easier than battering the way in.

They planned the assault on Acre. Richard wanted to perfect his weapons before they began. There was a mangonel, a machine which threw stones high in the air so that they fell into a city, causing great damage. This was jocularly called “the Bad Neighbor.” The Saracens invented a machine to throw the stones back which they called the “Bad Kinsman.”

In the midst of these preparations Richard was attacked by the ague and fever. Anselm had no need to tell me of his frustration. He was really ill. Berengaria and Joanna nursed him. Berengaria was delighted to look after him, for when he was well she scarcely saw him and she was deeply enamored of him.

The King would have liked them to wait until he was well before they began the assault, but that was not possible. He could not, however, be prevailed upon to stay in his tent while the battle was going on. He ordered that a litter be brought and he was taken out on it; he shouted his orders to his men; but to see Richard the Lionheart in such a state robbed them of their spirit.

The battle ceased temporarily and the siege was still unbroken. The strangest thing happened then. Richard had heard a great deal about Saladin. His followers saw him and immediately believed in victory. It was the same as with Richard. But Richard was sick, and it was said that he was near to death.

The two men were very much aware of each other. Richard was eager to meet Saladin. He knew that he had a formidable enemy and that in his state he could not hope to compete with him. Richard’s view of Philip Augustus as a soldier was not great. He might score in diplomacy but the battlefield was another matter. Richard knew that Acre could not be taken with Philip Augustus in command.

He must meet Saladin and see if some terms could be arranged. Saladin was not only a great fighter but a man of honor. He was too fine a man to show meanness or pettiness, and he and Richard respected each other as one great leader did another. They instinctively knew certain things about each other because they were so much alike. Richard sent a messenger to Saladin’s camp asking if he would meet him.

Saladin’s reply was that he could not talk with the King of England except over food and drink, and if they ate together as friends, how could they fight each other?

The messengers were allowed to return to their camps unharmed.

Then this strange thing happened. Richard was in his bed, prostrate with fever, when one of the guards came to tell him that a messenger was without and wished to speak with him.

“Bring him in,” said Richard.

The guard did so and remained, suspecting treachery. Richard commanded him to leave.

The messenger leaned over Richard and touched his brow.

“You know who I am,” he said.

There was such accord between them that Richard had no hesitation in answering: “You are Saladin.”

“I am Saleh-ed-Din,” he said.

“Why do you come to me on my bed of sickness?”

“Because I have a talisman which can cure you.”

“We are fighting against each other.”

“You are my enemy on the battlefield. In the sickroom you are my friend.”

“Is it possible to be both?”

“We will prove it to be.”

He held a stone object in his hand. The King was helpless before his enemy but he had no fear. It might have been an assassin’s dagger which was held over him, but, helpless as he was, Richard believed that this man had come in friendship.

When the stone was laid on Richard’s brow, he was aware of a coolness sweeping over him. He felt a little better.

“You need chicken and fruit. You do not have them in your camp. They shall be sent to you.”

“This is beyond belief.”

“There is much that is beyond belief.”