Lionheart (56 page)

Richard scowled, for the mere mention of the bishop’s name was enough to ignite his temper. Beauvais had earned the undying enmity of the de Lusignans for wedding Conrad to his stolen bride, and he and the duke ran a gauntlet of hostile stares as they were escorted into the hall, followed by Druon de Mello, lagging behind as if he wanted to disassociate himself from their mission. After greeting Richard with very formal courtesy, Hugh apologized for disrupting their dinner and asked if they might speak briefly with him in private, saying that it was a matter of some urgency.

Richard had no intention of accommodating either man, and after a deliberate pause to finish his wine, he said coolly, “I think not. I am amongst friends here, men whom I trust. I assume the French king has a message for me, no? So let them hear it, too.”

The duke and the bishop exchanged guarded glances, while Druon de Mello actually took a few steps backward, like a man getting out of the line of fire. It was becoming obvious that neither Hugh nor Beauvais wanted to be the one to speak first, and Richard suddenly realized what they’d come to tell him. He swung around, his eyes seeking his nephew, and he saw his own suspicions confirmed in Henri’s grim expression. No one else knew what was coming, though, and they began to mutter among themselves as the silence dragged out.

Hugh outlasted Beauvais, for the bishop had no more patience than Richard did. “Our king has sent us to tell you that he has fulfilled his vow by taking Acre, and so he intends to return to his own lands straightaway.”

There was a moment of eerie, utter silence. Then disbelief gave way to outrage and the hall exploded. Men were on their feet, shouting, cushions trampled underfoot and red stains spreading over the tablecloths from spilled wine cups, amid cries of dismay from some of the women as their peaceful dinner turned into chaos. Richard was on his feet, too, raising his hand for quiet. “Shall I send your king a map? He seems to have confused Acre with Jerusalem.”

“We’ve delivered the message,” Beauvais said tersely. “Make of it what you will.”

“There is but one way to take it, and it does your king no credit. He swore a holy oath to free Jerusalem, and now he just . . . goes home? What do his lords say to that? What do you say? Do you mean to disavow your own oaths, too?”

Both men glared at him. “Indeed not!” Hugh snapped, at the same time that Beauvais pledged to remain in Outremer until it was a Christian kingdom again. They were so clearly insulted by the very question that their indignation gave Richard an idea.

“I have to hear this from your king’s own lips,” he declared. “Is he at the Temple?”

“When we left, he was about to sit down to dinner.” Hugh paused. “He’ll take it amiss if you burst in upon his meal without warning.” But he did not sound much troubled by that prospect, and Richard was sure now that Philippe had alienated his own men by renouncing his vow.

“I am willing to risk that,” he said, very dryly. Glancing around, he saw that there was no need to ask if others wanted to accompany him; most of the guests had risen, too. Reaching down, he squeezed his wife’s hand. “I am sorry, Berenguela, but it cannot wait.”

“I understand,” she said. Settling back upon her cushion, she watched as the hall emptied within moments, even the prelates hastening to catch up with Richard and the de Lusignans. She hadn’t lied; she did understand. It was still disappointing to have their first dinner end so abruptly, and she could not help wondering if this would be the pattern for their marriage in years to come, brief moments of domesticity midst the unending demands of war.

Joanna came over and sat down beside her sister-in-law. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement. “Why must women miss all the fun? What I would not have given,” she confessed, “to witness their confrontation!”

CONRAD LEANED TOWARD his friend Balian d’Ibelin, Lord of Nablus, speaking in the Piedmontese dialect that was the native tongue of the marquis and Balian’s Italian father to deter eavesdroppers. “The last time I enjoyed myself so much,” he murmured, “a funeral Mass was being said.”

Balian shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing that the French king had adopted the Frankish fashion of dining on cushions. “So you noticed it, too—that cloud of gloom and doom hovering over the Temple. Any idea what is going on?”

Conrad shrugged. “God knows Philippe is never the most cheerful of men. But I’ve not seen his nerves as raw as this. When Leopold dropped his wine cup, I swear Philippe jumped like a scalded cat.” Glancing down the table at the Austrian duke, he said softly, “There’s another one not exactly bubbling over with joy. I heard he’d had a row of some sort with Richard, but when I asked, he well nigh bit my head off.” Poking at the meat on his trencher with his knife, he sighed. “And the food is as dismal as the company. Well, if I am already doing penance for my sins, I might as well add some new ones. You want to check out that bordel in the Venetian quarter tonight? I’m told they have a Greek whore as limber as an eel.”

Balian regarded the other man in bemusement. “You do remember that your wife is my stepdaughter?”

Conrad was utterly unperturbed by the implied rebuke. “And I cherish Isabella,” he said urbanely. “No man could ask for a better wife. But I’m talking of whores, not wives.”

Before Balian could respond, there was a commotion at the end of the table; a nervous servant had dropped a tureen of soup. Philippe’s mouth thinned, but he kept his temper under a tight rein, for a boy’s clumsiness was a small sin when he was facing such monumental challenges. Absently crumbling a piece of bread into small pellets, he studied his dinner guests. Aside from Conrad of Montferrat, Balian d’Ibelin, and Leopold von Babenberg, they were French lords and bishops, men who’d done homage to him, men he ought to be able to trust. But could he?

His cousin Robert de Dreux had been monopolizing the conversation, but Philippe permitted it because Robert was being highly critical of the English king, implying that there was something very suspicious about Richard’s ongoing communications with their Saracen foes. “Look at the way they’ve been exchanging gifts! Since when does a Christian king court the favor of a Saracen infidel?”

Richard had no friends at that table, but this was too much for Balian to resist, for he had a highly developed sense of mischief. “I heard that Richard sent Saladin a captured Turkish slave,” he said in conspiratorial tones. “But is it true that Saladin sent Richard snow and fruit when he was ailing? Snow and fruit—no wonder you are so mistrustful, my lord count.”

Robert de Dreux regarded him warily, not sure if he was being mocked or not. Balian seemed to be supporting him, his expression open and earnest. But he was a
poulain
, the vaguely disparaging term used for those Franks born in Outremer, and that was enough to raise doubts in Robert’s mind about Balian’s sincerity.

Philippe set down his wine cup with a thud, sorely tempted to tell his dolt of a cousin that he was being ridiculed. He did not, though, for he would need Robert’s support once word broke of his intent to leave Outremer. But would he get it? Robert’s brother Beauvais had reacted much more negatively than he’d expected, for the bishop was the most cynical soul he’d ever met. So had Hugh of Burgundy. He was studying the other men at the table, trying to determine which ones were likely to balk, like Beauvais and Hugh, when there was a stir by the door. A moment later, Philippe was bitterly regretting having agreed to cede security to the Templars, for their white-clad knights were making no attempt whatsoever to stop the English king from barging into the hall, as arrogantly as if he thought all of Acre was his.

Conrad and Balian stiffened at the sight of the de Lusignans, and Leopold shoved back his chair, regarding the English king with frozen fury. The other guests were bewildered by this intrusion, looking to their king for guidance. Philippe half rose, then sank back in his seat, struggling to get his emotions under control, for he knew he must be icy-calm to deal with this crisis. It would not be easy, though; his hands involuntarily clenched into fists as Richard strode toward the high table. He was expecting an immediate verbal onslaught, but Richard had another strategy in mind.

“My lord king.” Richard’s greeting was gravely courteous, even deferential, as befitting a vassal to his liege lord, a tone he’d rarely if ever adopted in the past with Philippe. After politely acknowledging Conrad, Balian, and the French barons, but not Leopold, he offered an apology for interrupting their dinner. “Alas, this could not wait. We needed to speak with you as soon as possible,” he said, gesturing toward the men who’d followed him into the hall. “We’ve come to ask you to reconsider your decision to return to France, for if you leave, our chances of recovering Jerusalem will be grievously damaged.”

The last part of his sentence went unheard, drowned out in the ensuing uproar. All eyes fastened upon Philippe, midst exclamations of shock and anger. Conrad rose so quickly that his chair overturned. “What nonsense is this?” he snarled at Richard. “The French king would never abandon us!” Not all of the French barons were as sure of that as he was, though, unnerved by Philippe’s white-lipped silence and the fact that so many highborn lords and prelates had accompanied the English king, backing up his contention by their very presence.

“I would that were true,” Richard assured Conrad, managing to sound both sincere and sorrowful. “But the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais say otherwise. Nothing would give me greater joy than to be told they are mistaken. Are they, my lord king?” He turned his gaze back to Philippe, his expression hopeful, his eyes gleaming.

Philippe reached for his wine cup and drank, not for courage, but to help him swallow the bile rising in his throat. “I have no choice,” he said, very evenly, determined not to let Richard bait him into losing his temper. “My health has been dangerously impaired by my recent illness and my doctors tell me that if I do not return to my own realm for treatment, it might well cost my life.”

“Indeed?” Richard’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I was told that your illness was not as serious as my own bout with Arnaldia.” He left it for their audience to draw the obvious conclusion—that he’d nearly died and all knew it, yet he was not renouncing their holy cause.

Philippe realized how lame his health excuse would sound. But what else could he offer? He could not very well admit that his concern over securing possession of Artois mattered more than the liberation of Jerusalem or that he’d loathed every moment of every day since his arrival in Outremer and could not abide the prospect of months, even years, in the English king’s company. “My doctors insist that I have no choice but to return to France. Lest you forget, my lord Richard, my heir is a young child, often ailing. If I die in the Holy Land, my realm would be thrown into turmoil.”

Richard was thoroughly enjoying himself by now. “Your worries about your heir are understandable,” he said sympathetically, one king to another. “I have concerns about mine, too.” Looking around the hall, he saw that Philippe was utterly isolated; even his own men were staring at him in stunned disbelief. Dropping the pretense of commiseration, then, he went in for the kill, his tone challenging, blade-sharp. “It is no easy thing to take the cross, nor is it meant to be. It is a burden that all true Christians willingly accept, even if they must make the ultimate sacrifice for Our Lord Christ. You took a holy vow to recover Jerusalem from Saladin, not to assist in Acre’s fall and then go home once you lost interest. How will you explain your failure to your subjects? To God?”

Philippe’s eyes had narrowed to slits, hot color staining his face and throat. “You are not the one to lecture others about holy oaths!” he spat, unable to contain himself any longer. “Time and time again you swore to wed my sister, lying to my face whilst you were conniving behind my back to marry Sancho of Navarre’s daughter!”

For the moment, all the others were forgotten, and it was as if they were the only two men in the hall, in the world, so intense was the hostility that scorched between them. “If you want to discuss the reason why I refused to marry your sister, I am quite willing to do so,” Richard warned. “But do you truly want to go down that road, Philippe?”

The French king did not, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. But memories of the bitter confrontation in Messina had come flooding back, memories of that humiliating defeat at this man’s hands. He felt like that now, well aware that Richard had their audience on his side, just as he had in that wretched Sicilian chapel. “You want me to stay in Outremer?” he said, his voice thickening, throbbing with fury. “I will disregard my doctors’ advice and do so—provided that you honor the agreement we made in Messina. We swore that we would divide equally all that we won, did we not? Yet you have not done so.”

“What are you talking about? I even gave you a share of my sister’s dower and you had no right whatsoever to that!”

“But not Cyprus!” Philippe was on his feet now, sure that he’d found a way to put Richard in the wrong. “I am entitled to half of Cyprus by the terms of our Messina pact. Dare you deny it?”