Arne gasped, too stunned to respond. But Morgan had a good ear for languages and he’d picked up a little German from the boy during their months together. Recognizing the words “englische” and “k?nig,” he found it all too easy to interpret the horrified expression on Arne’s face, and he began to laugh loudly. His companions were quick to comprehend and Arne and Anselm hastily forced laughter, too. “Tell the count,” Morgan directed the boy, “that our master will be greatly flattered that he could have been mistaken for a king. But we can assure Count Engelbert that he is a mercer and pilgrim, no more than that.”
When Engelbert reached for the ring, they held their breaths. He inspected it without haste, running his thumb over the flaming jewel, the intricate gold leaf design done so lovingly by a Pisan goldsmith. And then he slid it back across the table toward them.
“I cannot accept this. Tell the king of the English that I respect his vow and his struggle to free the Holy Land from the infidel Saracens. But tell him this, too—that he is in grave peril and must leave G?rz at once, for I cannot guarantee his safety should word get out of his presence here. The Emperor Heinrich will richly reward any man who delivers your king into his hands.”
AFTER FINDING AN INN, Richard and his men had eaten their first hot meal in over a week. He’d then sent Arne and Baldwin to buy horses, and they’d delighted G?rz’s horse traders by buying the best animals the town had to offer. Arne was then dispatched with Anselm and Morgan to seek safe conducts from the count, and while he awaited their return, Richard went to the stable to inspect Baldwin’s purchases. They were not as bad as he’d feared, although he soon concluded that Baldwin had been overcharged. When the other man glumly admitted as much, Richard found a smile, assuring Baldwin that paying too much for horses in G?rz was not likely to cost him any sleep.
“Sleep.” The word had taken on the sweetness of honey, for none of them had gotten a full night’s rest since leaving Ragusa. They were alone in the stable, the grooms having gone off for their evening meal, and so they could at last talk freely, having remained mute for most of the day, not wanting to draw attention to themselves by speaking French. Stooping to examine a roan gelding’s foreleg, Richard straightened up with an effort, feeling as if he’d aged twenty years overnight.
“I never paid beds much mind unless one had a woman in it,” he admitted to Baldwin, “but right now the pallets back in that filthy, flea-ridden inn are looking better to me than the royal palace at Acre.”
Baldwin nodded, and pointed toward the shadows where one of the Templars had dozed off while still standing. “We’d best have the innkeeper awaken us in the morn, or else we might well sleep past Christmas. How long dare we stay?”
“That will depend upon how successful Morgan and Anselm are. If they cannot get in to see the count or if he balks at giving safe conducts, we’ll have to leave at first light. But if that ring buys his goodwill, I think we can risk a day or two here. God knows we all need a chance to rest up—”
Richard checked himself, having heard footsteps in the front of the stable. Baldwin tensed, too, and reached over to awaken the Templar, who was instantly alert, his a soldier’s reflexes. The king’s admiral, Robert de Turnham, and Guillain de l’Etang were hurrying toward their stall, their faces taut and troubled, and behind them, Richard caught a glimpse of Anselm and Morgan, trailed by Arne, whose puppylike energy seemed suddenly sapped. It was obvious that Robert and Guillain already knew what had transpired at the castle, but they both stepped aside once they reached Richard, deferring to his chaplain and cousin, and he realized that he was about to receive yet more bad news.
“Are we alone?” Anselm asked in Latin, catching himself from adding “my liege,” for it was not easy to stop using the acknowledgments of rank. “Can we talk here?”
When Richard nodded, Anselm and Morgan exchanged glances and then the Welshman said bluntly, “Count Engelbert . . . He knows who you are. When we presented him with the ring, he said . . .” Morgan paused for breath and to recall the count’s words precisely. “He said, ‘Your master’s name is not Hugh. You serve the English king.’”
“Christ Jesus,” Richard said, very softly. “How could he . . .” He stopped then, for that did not matter. “How did you get away?”
“Did you lead them back here?” Baldwin’s tone was accusing, and both Morgan and Anselm bridled.
“No!” they said in unison, speaking at once and drowning each other out as they tried to explain. Richard held up a hand for silence, pointing then at Morgan to continue. “He did not arrest us. He would not even accept the ring. He said that he respected your vow and what you’d done against Saladin.”
Richard considered this, for once doubting his fabled luck. Could he really have found an honorable man midst Heinrich’s lackeys and lickspittles? “And he said nothing about Conrad?”
Morgan shook his head and Anselm confirmed it. “Nary a word, sire.”
“He did mention Ragusa, lord,” Arne interjected, “asking if we’d stopped there. I said no, of course.”