Lionheart (24 page)

The night was mild, the sky spangled with remote pinpoints of light. On this October evening, his Welsh homeland seemed as distant as those glittering stars. It was a pleasure to inhale air untainted by the coppery smell of blood or the stench of gutted entrails. He would, he decided, find the priory church and offer up prayers for the men who’d died that day. For Joanna’s sake, he would pray, too, for Messina’s dead.

The church was scented with incense, shadowed and still. Morgan knelt at the high altar and felt a calm descending upon his soul, God’s Peace entering his heart. After praying for those who’d died on this October Thursday, he prayed for his dead liege lords, for Geoffrey and Henry, hoping they would not see it as a betrayal—that he’d pledged his loyalty to Richard. He rose with some difficulty, for his body had stiffened in the hours since the battle, his muscles cramping and his shoulder throbbing with the slightest movement. It was already turning the color of summer plums, the bruises seeming to reach into the very marrow of his bones. But the injury could have been worse, could have been fatal. God willing, he would live out his biblical three-score years and ten. If not, better to die before the walls of Jerusalem than in the dusty streets of Messina.

He was about to depart when a gleam of light drew his attention. The windows were encased in glass, yet more proof of the affluence of Sicily, and he could see a faint glow coming from the cloisters. He peered through the cloudy glass, and then he smiled, for a woman was sitting on a bench in one of the carrels, a lantern beside her, a familiar red dog lounging at her feet.

She glanced up at the sound of his footsteps on the walkway, a flicker of recognition crossing her face, followed by a frown. Before she could speak, he said quickly, “Lady Mariam, forgive me for disturbing you. I’d been in the church, praying for those who’d died today.” When she did not speak, he moved closer, oddly pleased when Ahmer wagged his tail in a lazy welcome. “I came to tell the queen about the strife in Messina. I can tell you, too, if that be your wish.”

She was not wearing a face veil tonight, but her silver bracelets and bright silken gown still gave her an exotic appearance; he was near enough now to catch the faint fragrance of sandalwood, to see the graceful fingers clasped in her lap, decorated with henna in the Saracen fashion. But there was no light in those golden eyes, and he knew at once that this woman was in no mood for playful flirtation or teasing banter.

“What makes you think I’d want to hear about it?”

Her tone was challenging, but he took encouragement from it, nonetheless; at least she was not telling him to go away. “Messina is a Sicilian city,” he said, choosing his words with care, “and you are the daughter of a Sicilian king. If the bloodshed brought distress to the Lady Joanna, it must be even more distressing for you.”

“Actually, it was not,” she said coolly, much to his surprise. “I have no reason to grieve for Messina. Shall I tell you why? Because it is not Palermo.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“Why should you?” She’d been curled up on the bench like a sleek, elegant cat, her feet tucked under her skirts, but the tension in her body belied her casual pose. “The inhabitants of Messina are Greek. I believe you call them Griffons. Your men distrust them because they heed the Patriarch of Constantinople and not the Holy Father in Rome. But it is not their religious beliefs that I find objectionable. It is their loathing for those of Saracen blood. Aside from the ones who serve the king, few Saracens dare to dwell in Messina. So I do not mourn that the Messinians have reaped what they have too often sown.”

Morgan decided that it would take a lifetime to understand the crosscurrents and rivalries in this strange land called Sicily. “I am not sorry to hear you say that, my lady. I’d feared that you might see me as one of those ‘long-tailed Englishmen’ who’d wreaked havoc upon the innocent citizens of Messina, that you’d not believe we were provoked into taking control of the city.”

He knelt by the bench, ostensibly to pet Ahmer, and looked up intently into her face. “But it is obvious that you are greatly troubled this night. If it is not the bloodshed in Messina, what causes you such sadness? I know it is presumptuous of me to ask such a question. I have found, though, that sometimes it is easier to confide in a stranger, doubtless why so many drunken confessions are exchanged in taverns and alehouses.”

She ducked her head, but not in time. Catching that fleeting smile, he felt a triumphant flush, as warming as wine. “Take up my offer, Lady Mariam. I can be a good listener, and surprisingly perceptive for one of those long-tailed English. Although I ought to say at the outset that being called ‘English’ is a mortal insult to a Welshman.”

She gave him a speculative, sidelong glance. “I do not remember telling you my name. How did you learn it?”

“I was not only smitten, I was resourceful, too,” he said with a grin. “I befriended some of the abbey servants, asking about the lovely lady with amber-colored eyes who was likely a member of the queen’s household. They knew at once whom I meant, told me that my heart had been stolen by King William’s sister.”

She turned her head to look him full in the face. “They told you, then, that my mother was a Saracen?”

He started to joke that they may have mentioned it, but caught himself in time, sensing that his answer mattered. Dropping his teasing tone, he said only, “Yes, they did.”

He saw it was the right answer, saw, too, that she seemed to be wavering. “No,” she said, after a long silence. “You would not understand. You know nothing of dual loyalties, of the whispers of the blood.”

“Did you not hear me say I am Welsh,
cariad
? Who would know better than a Welshman in the service of an English king?”

Her gaze was searching. “What would you do, then, if your English king led an invasion into Wales?”

“If it were Gwynedd, my loyalty to my family and my homeland would prevail over my loyalty to the king. If he attacked South Wales, it would depend upon the justness of his cause, upon whether I felt that he was in the right.”

“You answered that very quickly,” she observed. “So quickly that I think you must have given it some thought.”

“I have,” he admitted, “for there is no love lost between the Welsh and the English. Not that Richard thinks of himself as English. He enjoys ruling over them, but does not see himself as one of them, being a true son of Aquitaine. So you see, my lady, our loyalties are almost as murky as those of you Sicilians.” Starting to rise, he found that he had to steady himself with a hand on the bench. “Jesu, I think I aged ten years in the streets of Messina. So . . . now that you know how I would deal with a crisis of conscience, shall we discuss yours?”

Mariam’s face was guarded, but her fingers had begun to clench and unclench in her lap. He was willing to wait, and at last she said, “Richard wants Joanna to accompany him to Outremer and she has asked me to come with her.”

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the bench. When she nodded, he sat down beside her, expelling an audible sigh that had more to do with his aching bones than the proximity of this desirable female body. “We are very enlightened in Wales, allow children born out of wedlock to inherit if they are recognized by their fathers. I would guess that Sicily is as backward as England and France in that regard, but since you’re the daughter of a king, I’m guessing, too, that you’ve been provided for. So you are not dependent upon the queen’s bounty and could remain in Palermo if you wish.”

Taking her silence as assent, he shifted gingerly on the bench before continuing. “Those helpful abbey servants told me you’d been with Lady Joanna since her arrival in Sicily, so clearly there is a deep affection between you. Why would you balk, then? I can think of only two reasons. Many women would shrink from the hardships and dangers of such a voyage—but not you, Lady Mariam. That leaves those ‘whispers of the blood.’ You feel a kinship with the Saracens of Sicily, and fear that you may feel kinship, too, with the Saracens of Syria.”

She stared at him in astonishment. “You do not know me. As you said, we are strangers. So however did you guess that?”

“We Welsh have second sight.”

“I think you do. What is your name—Merlin?”

“Ah, so Lady Joanna has introduced you to the legend of King Arthur, who was Welsh, by the way.” Getting stiffly to his feet, he reached for her hand and brushed a kiss across those hennaed fingers. “Ask your queen to tell you about her Welsh cousin. Good night, my lady, and God keep you safe.”

“Wait—I have not solved my ‘crisis of conscience’ yet!”

“Yes, you have. You just were not asking yourself the right question.”

Mariam did not know whether to be annoyed or intrigued, finally deciding she was both. “At least tell me what ‘
cariad
’ means.”

“You can safely assume it is not a Welsh curse, my lady.” Although he’d already moved from the moonlight into the shadows, she could hear the smile in his voice and could not help smiling in return.

Once he’d gone, she slipped off the bench and began to pace the cloisters pathway, Ahmer trailing loyally at her heels. What was the right question, then? She’d been raised at the royal court, but “Merlin” was right; she’d always felt a kinship to her mother’s people, the “Saracens of Sicily.” Even though most of them still practiced the faith of Islam and she was a Christian, she’d heard those whispers of the blood. Just as “Merlin” had heard the whispers from . . . Gwynedd, was it? What had he said about the other Welsh, though? Ah, yes, that his loyalty would depend upon the justness of the cause.

She came to an abrupt halt, and then bent down and put her arms around the dog. “He was right, Ahmer. I
was
asking the wrong question. Do I believe that Jerusalem should be retaken from the Syrian Saracens? Yes, I do.” Hugging the puzzled dog, she began to laugh, so great was her relief. “Of course I do!”

THE ARCHBISHOP OF MONREALE was not sure what sort of reception to expect in Catania. He knew that he and Chancellor Matthew had not been in the king’s good graces lately, for they’d been telling him what he did not want to hear—that an alliance with the English would better serve Sicily’s interests than one with the French. Now that the English king had dared to seize the second city of his realm, whose voices was Tancred more likely to heed—those demanding vengeance or those urging moderation and restraint?

Before he could make his presence known to the king, he was intercepted by the chancellor. Following Matthew into the chapel, he said dryly, “I assume we are not here to pray?”

Matthew smiled. “Given my sinful past, I have need of all the prayers I can get. But I wanted to speak with you ere you see the king. Jordan Lapin and the admiral got here first, and as you’d expect, they were in a rage, the killing kind. Not only did the city fall whilst they looked on, their houses were amongst those plundered by the English. So quite understandably, they are hell-bent upon war. As are Tancred’s brother-in-law and most of his council, especially after they learned of the French king’s offer.”

“What offer, Matthew?”

“You’d almost think Messina was a French city, so great was Philippe’s fury. Some of it is wounded pride. The Messinians had appealed to him for protection, and then he had to stand by and watch whilst Richard captured the city in less time than it would take a priest to chant Matins. But much of it seems to be pure and honest hatred. If I were a gambling man, I’d be giving odds that the English and the French turn upon each other long ere they ever reach the Holy Land.”

“The offer, Matthew,” the archbishop prodded. “What was the offer?”

“Philippe sent the Duke of Burgundy to Tancred, suggesting that they form an alliance against Richard, promising the use of French troops in an attack upon the English.”

The archbishop’s jaw dropped. “What does the king say to this?”

“His head is at war with his heart. He knows that Heinrich von Hohenstaufen is our true enemy, but Richard’s arrogance is a bitter brew to swallow. I’d still hoped to be able to convince him that Richard would make a more useful ally than Philippe. But now I fear that this offer from the French might tip the scales in favor of war with the English.”

“I think I’d best see the king straightaway, then,” the archbishop said, “for I have information about the French king that he needs to know.”