A city's surrender and an unhappy Tudor queen

I am really sorry that I can only manage these hit and run visits, but I still feel that deadline dragon’s fiery breath on the back of my neck. While he is taking a break, though, I wanted to mention that July 12th, 1191 saw the surrender of Acre to Richard I and Philippe Capet, and it was also one of the Tudor Bluebeard’s many wedding anniversaries. Below is the scene from Lionheart about Acre’s surrender, pages 320-321, and below that are some snarky comments about the Tudors.
* * * * *
Friday, July 12th dawned hot and humid. Joanna, Berengaria, and their women passed the hours restlessly, unable to concentrate upon anything but the meeting taking place in the pavilion of the Templars, where Acre’s commanders, Sayf al-Din al-Mashtub and Baha al-Din Qaraqush, were conferring with Richard, Philippe, Henri, Guy de Lusignan, Conrad of Montferrat, and the other leaders of the crusading army. Berengaria kept picking up her psalter, putting it down again, while Joanna tried to continue Alicia’s chess lessons, but her gaze was roaming so often toward the tent entrance that the young girl managed to checkmate her, much to her glee.
“They will yield, yes?” Anna asked at last, giving voice to the question uppermost in all their minds. Her grasp of their language had improved in the six weeks since her world had turned upside down, and she continued in charmingly accented French. “Or they will all die, no?”
“Most likely,” Joanna confirmed, too nervous to put a gloss upon the brutal reality of warfare in their world—that a castle or town taken by storm could expect no mercy. Whether there would be survivors depended upon the whims of the victors or upon the ability of the defeated to raise ransom money. There had been a bloodbath after the Christians had seized Jerusalem in 1099, almost all of the Muslims and Jews in the city put to the sword. But Saladin had spared the Christians of Jerusalem four years ago after Balian d’Ibelin persuaded him to let them buy their lives; Joanna was proud that the money her father had sent to the Holy City over the years had kept thousands of men and women from being sold in Saracen slave markets.
Glancing over at Anna, she amended her answer, saying, “That is why they will accept our terms. They know their fate will be a bloody one if our men seize the city. By yielding, they can save themselves and those still living in Acre.”
Anna looked from Joanna to Berengaria, back to Joanna. “Why you fret, then, if outcome is certain?” Before either woman could respond, she smiled, dimples deepening in sudden comprehension. “Ah…I see. You fear for Malik Ric.” This was how the Saracens referred to Richard, and Anna had begun to use the name, too, much to Richard’s amusement. “He would be healed for another….” She paused, frowning as she sought the right word. “Another attack…that is it, no?”
“Yes, that is it,” Joanna confirmed, exchanging silent sympathy with Berengaria. While Richard was regaining strength with each passing day, he was by no means physically up to taking part in a battle, and yet they feared he would want to do just that; he’d been very frustrated at not being able to join his men in yesterday’s assault. Although they felt confident that Henri and the Bishop of Salisbury and Richard’s friends would not permit him to risk his life so foolishly, they well knew how stubborn he could be, and so both women were praying that today would end the siege.
They were about to send one of Joanna’s household knights back to the Templars’ tent to learn how the negotiations were proceeding when they heard it—a sudden roar, as if coming from thousands of throats, even louder than the sound Greek fire made when it streaked toward its target, trailing a flaming tail. Mariam darted toward the entrance and was back in moments, smiling. “Either they’ve come to terms or the whole camp has gone stark mad, for men are shouting and cheering and all the whores are hurrying out to help them celebrate!”
Joanna and Berengaria were on their feet now, embracing joyfully, determined to ignore the fact that this was but a respite, that Acre’s fall was only the first in a series of bloody battles on the road leading to the Holy City.
Within the hour, the noise level suddenly increased, alerting them that Richard must be approaching. He was flanked by Henri and the Earl of Leicester, with friends and lords following jubilantly in his wake. He still looked like what he was, a man recently risen from his sickbed, his cheekbones thrown into prominence by his weight loss, his complexion unnaturally pale for one with such high coloring. But his smile was dazzling and he appeared as happy as either woman had ever seen him.
“It is done,” he said huskily. “Acre is ours.”
* * * * *
Saladin had not been willing to accept the terms offered and had planned to send a swimmer after dark to tell the trapped garrison not to yield. But he was too late and they surrendered before he could send such a message. This would have dire consequences for the men later on, but that is a story for another day, one I told at some length, of course, in Lionheart.
Meanwhile, July 12th was the date of the last marriage of Henry VIII. For on this day in 1543, he wed Catherine Parr. It must have been a very unhappy day for her; she was in love with another man—Thomas Seymour—and she could not have been reassured by Henry’s marital track record. And indeed, she almost ended up in the Tower herself. Margaret George once sent me a cartoon showing Henry and an unhappy queen entering the tube (London’s subway to my American readers) and asking for two tickets to the Tower, a round-trip and a one-way. I think we can be sure that Katherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn were very happy on their wedding days. Jane Seymour? Maybe, but she remains an enigma to me; I am never sure if she was a pawn of her ambitious family or a willing conspirator. I don’t doubt that Anne of Cleaves was not a happy bride, certainly not as happy as she’d be when her marriage was later annulled. Foolish little Catherine Howard? She may have fancied being a queen, but surely not wedding the man Henry had become by then; he must have seemed downright elderly and unattractive to this shallow, silly teenager. But I think Catherine Parr’s wedding day was probably the saddest of all. What is truly tragic is that worse was still to come, for her marriage to Thomas Seymour brought her little joy and much grief.
Well, once again those pushy Tudors have crashed the party. Not surprising. For a dynasty that ruled only 118 years, they have managed to get the lion’s share of attention, both of historians and the public in general. So I’ll let them have the last word.