RICHARD KNEW HE MUST BE in Jaffa, for it was so ungodly hot. He tried to open his eyes, but the Outremer sun was too blindingly bright. He could hear people moving about, recognizing the voices of André and Master Ralph Besace, his personal physician. He was puzzled, though, to hear his mother’s voice, for Maman had not accompanied him to the Holy Land. Steeling himself against the glare, he squinted to see if she was truly there, and set off turmoil in the chamber.
“He’s awake!” This voice was familiar, too, that of another of his doctors, Master John of Brideport, which alarmed him, for he’d last seen Master John in Germany. Holy Christ, was he back at Trifels? He struggled to sit up and was at once urged to lie still. He did, realizing that wherever he was, it was not Germany. His mother was there, as was André, Will Marshal, his doctors, even his fourteen-year-old son, Philip, hovering behind the others. Before he could speak, a hand was laid upon his forehead. “God be praised, the fever has broken!”
By now Richard had recognized his surroundings, his bedchamber in the palace at Le Mans. As his wits cleared, it was coming back to him. He’d developed a sudden, intense headache, joking with André that God was punishing him for giving Johnny back his lands. He remembered feeling very hot that night, throwing off the covers to escape the suffocating heat. After that, nothing. “How long . . . ?”
“You fell sick on Monday eve, sire. Today is Maundy Thursday.”
He’d lost three days? “It was not the quartan fever?” he said, somewhat uncertainly, for he had no memory of the chills that always followed those bouts of fever. Both of his doctors assured him that he’d not been stricken with a recurrence of the ague that had plagued him for years. “What, then?”
“We do not know, my liege.” Master Ralph shook his head slowly. “It is passing strange that you’d become so very ill so suddenly. Were you feeling poorly ere that fever flared?” Richard mentioned the headache and sore throat, but his doctors still seemed baffled. Eleanor was beside him now, kissing his forehead to assure herself that his fever truly had broken. As he looked from face to face, he saw joy so intense that he realized they had not been sure he’d survive. He was both astonished and disquieted. He’d lost track of the times he’d confronted Death, but he’d never been ambushed like this before. In the past, Death had always given him fair warning. He was too tired, though, to give any more thought to his mysterious malady, not when sleep was beckoning so imperiously. He murmured a drowsy apology before surrendering to it, so abruptly that a frisson of fear swept the chamber. But after making sure that his breathing was regular and his pulse steady, both physicians declared that what he most needed now was rest. Master Ralph dared then to tell the queen mother that she ought to get some sleep, too, for God willing, it seemed likely the king would recover. Eleanor was too exhausted to argue with them. André and Will soon headed for their own beds. Philip balked and, wrapping himself in his mantle, he curled up in a nearby chair to keep vigil while his father slept.
WHEN RICHARD AWAKENED AGAIN, he could tell it was daylight for the windows of the royal chambers in the Le Mans palace were luxuriously fitted with glass. After getting up to use the chamber pot, he did not protest when the doctors insisted he go back to bed, for his body was recovering more slowly than his brain, and his legs felt weak. He was sitting up, finishing a bowl of soup, when John was admitted. “Come in, Little Brother. Sorry to shatter your hopes, but it looks as if I am not going to die.”
John did not even blink. “And glad I am of it, Big Brother. Had you gone to God in Holy Week, most of your lords would likely have chosen little Arthur as their next king, for I’m still tainted goods in many eyes. So I’d be grateful if you could stop flirting with Death for a while, at least until I can restore my reputation.”
The doctors gaped at him, openmouthed. But his gamble paid off, for Richard was amused by his cockiness, not offended. Pulling up a chair, John did his best to be entertaining, knowing what a poor patient his brother was. At first, he appeared to be succeeding. Soon, though, Richard seemed to be withdrawing into himself, dwelling upon thoughts that were not pleasant—or so John judged from the somber look on the older man’s face.
By then, Eleanor, André, and Will had joined John at Richard’s bedside. He was quiet, but they thought that only natural, and were encouraged that he had been willing to eat. He had to endure brief visits from the Bishop of Le Mans, the Archbishop of Rouen, the Earl of Chester, the Viscount of Thouars, and several other highborn lords and clerics. He slept again after that and, upon awakening, he found that shadows were infiltrating the chamber. Propping himself up on his elbows, he regarded them searchingly, his gaze moving from his doctors to his mother, his brother, his cousins André and Morgan, then on to Will Marshal; his chaplain, Anselm; his vice-chancellor, Eustace; and the newly arrived Dean of St Martin’s le Grand, William de St Mère-Eglise.