Pride kept Georgios from opening the pouch then and there, but he was reassured by the heft of it, and grinned. “No regrets. I’ll never have to buy another drink again, not with the stories I’ll have to tell about my voyage with the king called Lionheart.”
He and Petros were soon joined by Spyro and they stood watching as Richard and his men headed east, toward G?rz. Arne looked back once and waved, and then the road curved into the trees and they disappeared from view. Spyro started to turn away, muttering under his breath, “God help them.”
Petros heard and frowned. “He’ll make it,” he insisted. “Fortune smiles on him.”
Georgios was counting the coins in the pouch, but he glanced up at that. “He’ll need more than luck,” he said, and this time Petros did not argue.
THE CASTLE AT G?RZ dominated the valley, situated on a hill overlooking the town, the pale winter sky behind it stabbed by snow-crowned alpine peaks. Ringed by thick stone walls and deep ditches, it looked as if it could withstand a siege until Judgment Day, not a reassuring sight to the men standing in the street below. Morgan was the first to speak. “Let’s just hope we do not get to take a tour of its dungeons,” he said, and started up the path, followed by Anselm and Arne.
They gained admittance without difficulty, but Count Engelbert was holding court in the great hall, hearing petitions and complaints and resolving local disputes, so it was not until late afternoon that they were ushered into his presence. He was seated at a trestle table with a scribe perched on a stool nearby, his writing utensils spread out on a small lap desk. The count was younger than they’d expected, under thirty. If not for the high-quality wool tunic, the fur-trimmed mantle, and the garnet ring on his finger, he’d have attracted no attention, for he was thin of face and stoop-shouldered, his hair a nondescript shade of brown. But his gaze was direct, even piercing, dark eyes revealing both intelligence and the suspicion of strangers that was so common in their world, for most people never strayed far from the places where they were born.
“So . . . you are pilgrims on your way home from the Holy Land.” Either his command of Latin was limited or he preferred to converse in his own tongue, for he addressed himself to the one German-speaking member of their party. “Who are you?”
Suddenly nervous, Arne hesitated, but after getting encouraging smiles from Anselm and Morgan, he took a step closer to the table. “We are led by the Flemish lord Baldwin de Bethune, and our master, Hugh, who is a merchant in fine silks back in his homeland.” The words of his rehearsed story were coming more easily now. “We are traveling, too, with some Templar knights. They ask, my lord count, that you issue a safe conduct allowing them to pass through your domains, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, for whom they fought.”
The count’s face could have been carved from the same stones as his castle for all the emotion he showed; they had no idea what he was thinking. “Did you get to see Jerusalem?” he asked after an uncomfortably long pause. When Arne said they had, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. “So you visited the Holy Sepulchre?” Getting another confirmation from Arne, he reached for the silver wine cup at his elbow and took a sip. “And did you stop in Ragusa?”
Arne gaped at him. “No, lord! We put in for supplies in a town called Pula.” He added hastily that they’d been heading for Trieste, but had been blown off course by the contrary bora winds.
This was met with another silence, and he glanced imploringly toward his companions. Although they’d been unable to follow the conversation, Anselm and Morgan sensed that it was not going well. Deciding it was time to reveal to the count just how much his cooperation would be worth, the chaplain reached for his scrip and passed its contents to Arne. The boy squeezed it tightly for luck and then set it on the table with a flourish, thrilled to be able to hold something so valuable, however briefly.
As it reflected the torchlight, the ring seemed to catch fire, its massive ruby glowing in a setting of beaten gold. “This is a gift from my master, the merchant Hugh,” Arne declared proudly, “to show our appreciation for your goodwill and hospitality, my lord count.”
The count’s eyes had widened at first sight of the ring. He did not pick it up, though, and instead turned and abruptly dismissed his scribe. Leaning back then in his chair, he regarded them pensively. “Your master’s name is not Hugh,” he said at last. “You serve the English king.”