Richard was silent. He knew he could not prevail upon Philip to wait.

The battle had begun. Richard could not stay in his tent while this was going on. He tried to stand but he was too weak from fever. He could not go out there and join in the fight.

He called to his servants and commanded them to bring him a litter. This was done and when he lay on it he asked for his cross-bow.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘carry me out.’

They hesitated and he shouted at them: ‘Obey my orders, you oafs. Do not dare defy me.’

They were afraid and did his bidding and he insisted that they carry him to a spot near the walls of the city. There under cover of raw hides he watched what was going on and when he saw any of the enemy appear on the battlements he took a shot at them with his cross-bow, and as he was the finest shot in the army he rarely missed his mark.

But this was Philip’s assault. Richard could not be in command from his litter and this gave the French King his opportunity. He was determined to succeed . . . without Richard. He longed to be the master. Again and again he thought of those happy days when they were younger and Richard was not yet a king, his inheritance in jeopardy because of his father’s hatred of him and determination to put John in his place. The King and the beloved hostage. That was the way he wanted it.

And now this rivalry had been formed to corrupt their relationship. Both of them perhaps were kings before they could be lovers.

If he could take Acre while Richard was actually on the spot, this would indeed be glory. Some might even say that Richard had feigned illness because he knew he could not compare with the King of France. A ridiculous statement of course, and Philip would be the first to admit that Richard was his superior on the battlefield, but there was no end to the foolish things people said, and desperately Philip needed the glory Acre could give him.

He was going to take the Accursed Tower. That was important. The Tower which had been built with the thirty pieces of silver given to Judas and had before withstood his attack. He would undermine that Tower; it should crumble; the bricks should be taken away so that in time it tottered to the ground.

Over the walls of the city flew the deadly stones discharged by the giant mangonels; but down from the walls came the deadly Greek Fire.

One of Philip’s greatest delights was a movable screen of mantelets which had been given the name of The Cat. This protected his soldiers from arrows and stones. He had ordered that it be wheeled close to the walls and he himself was there to watch its protective effects. To his great dismay the Greek Fire sent down upon the attackers from the walls of the city caught it alight. Philip groaned in despair as he watched it burn.

Everything seemed to go wrong after that. Philip shouted abuse at his men and at God. It was so rare for him to lose his temper that they were aghast. The French King must be deeply disturbed so to lose his calmness in this way; the English King was suffering from a fever, and the Saracen armies seemed unconquerable. The Christian foot soldiers in their heavy armour over long padded coats, suffered cruelly from the heat. The only asset of these accoutrements was that often arrows could not penetrate them. Some were seen walking about with arrows lodged in their mail and which would have killed them but for it. But the discomfort was hard to bear.

Philip longed for France; he cursed the day he had sworn to set out on a crusade. How different the reality was from the dream! It had seemed so desirable. Marching along at the head of his men, making easy conquests, scoring over Richard – which did not seem too much to hope for since what he lacked in military skill he made up for in subtle diplomacy – winning glory, and a remission of his sins. And the reality – dust, the ever-present sand, the flies, the mosquitoes, the tarantulas and the incessant heat.

I want to go home, thought Philip. Oh God I would give anything to go home.

The Accursed Tower would not fall. Even when they made a breach in it it was not enough to break through. Seeing his dismay one of his finest soldiers, his Marshal of France and dearest friend Alberic Clement, cried out to him: ‘Despair not, Sire. I swear that this day I will either enter Acre or die.’

Alberic fixed one of the scaling ladders and sword in hand started to climb with some of his men following him.

God was not with them that day, mourned Philip. The ladder broke and the men fell to the ground with the exception of Alberic who was left alone hanging there exposed to the full fury of the enemy’s fire.

To see this dear friend die deeply wounded Philip.

He turned away from the arrows and the Greek Fire and went back to his camp.

He had begun to shiver. He was suffering from the same symptoms as those which had beset Richard.

So the siege of Acre had not been broken and the two kings were sick. The crusaders were despondent. They cursed God. They had come all this way to fight for His Holy Land and He had deserted them.

The fighting had slowed down. Richard was still carried out and beneath his protection of raw hides took shots at any enemy who came within his range. He was thus able to kill the Saracen who appeared on the wall of Acre wearing the arms of Alberic Clement. This gave him great satisfaction for he had heard of that brave attempt to scale the wall. But the fact that the King of France was indisposed and that he himself was ill had made the soldiers apprehensive. They feared they were to be left without leaders.

Richard began to think a great deal about the enemy and the man who led them, the great Sultan Saladin. The stories he had heard fascinated him. He had not before thought of a Mohammedan as human but it appeared that this man Saladin was humane, a man of sensitivity and culture. The fanatical manner in which his armies fought had long been a source of wonder and it seemed that these men were fighting for a cause even as the Christians were.

Saladin’s name was mentioned with an unmistakable awe.

As he lay on his litter cursing the evil fate which had smitten him down at this time, he wondered if it would be possible for them to meet.

Saladin himself was thinking a great deal about Richard. He had been aware of what was happening in the Christian camp. The spies who slipped into enemy terrain kept him well informed of what was going on. From the heights of Ayyadieh he had seen the arrival of Richard’s fleet; he had heard of his conquests in Sicily and Cyprus, and he felt a great desire to see this man, whose fame had spread throughout the Moslem Empire.

He talked of him to his brother Malek Adel, who was delighting in the news which had been brought in of Richard’s sickness.

‘We see in this the hand of fate,’ said Malek Adel. ‘As we feared our people in Acre could not endure the siege much longer, and lo, the great Richard has fallen sick. Allah has answered our prayers.’

‘Let us not be too sure that he will not rise from his sickbed. It may be that he has already done so.’

‘The people in Acre will be rejoicing,’ said Daher, Saladin’s son. ‘It is said that the great King is unable to walk, is carried out on his litter and lies there with his cross-bow. If we could find him thus we could capture him or kill him. Where would they be without their leader?’

Saladin shook his head. ‘I would not wish it. I do not care to take advantage of a great King thus.’

‘My lord,’ cried Daher, ‘he is our enemy.’

‘’Tis true, my son, but one must respect one’s enemy. I want to overcome him in fair battle, not to slip in and take him while he lies unprotected.’