IT HAD BEEN AN uncommonly warm day for March, even in the Limousin, and Richard’s crossbowmen had shed their mantles as they shot up at Chalus’s ramparts, protecting the sappers who’d been undermining its walls for the past three days. Morgan did not think the siege would last much longer. They’d already offered to surrender if they were guaranteed their lives, limbs, and weapons, an offer Richard had spurned.
Morgan shook his head as he remembered that, thinking the fools ought to have known that Richard always insisted upon unconditional surrender from rebels; only then would he show mercy. So it had been at Darum in the Holy Land, at Tickhill, Nottingham, Loches, and the dozens of castles he’d taken from the French king’s castellans and vassals. Morgan tried and failed to think of a castle siege where Richard had not demanded unconditional surrender; there were so many sieges that he could not recall them all. Five years of incessant warfare, constant and unrelenting. Glancing up at a kestrel gliding on the wind far above his head, he wondered what he’d do if a true peace was ever forged between England and France, if Richard no longer had such need of his sword.
He supposed he could settle upon his estates in Normandy, take a wife, and sire some children. He’d turned thirty-five in February, after all, and he’d finally given up hope of changing Mariam’s mind. He’d found himself thinking more and more of family in the past few weeks, and why not? He’d lost his Welsh family, so surely it was natural to want to start a family of his own. How likely was it, though, that the dove of peace would ever alight on this side of the Narrow Sea? Yet more likely than it had been, for the French king was hard-pressed on two fronts nowadays, both on the battlefield and in the diplomatic chambers. Philippe might be many things, but a fool he was not. He must know the time was drawing nigh for him to cut his losses, all the more so now that the Pope was threatening to place France under Interdict for his continuing maltreatment of the unhappy Ingeborg.
Richard’s command tent lay just ahead, and Morgan quickened his step. But he found only Arne, diligently rubbing goose grease into a pair of Richard’s leather boots. “You just missed the king, my lord,” he said with a shy smile. “After supper, he took his crossbow and went out to see what progress the sappers are making.”
Seeing Richard’s hauberk draped over a coffer, Morgan grimaced. “He did at least take his shield?”
Arne ducked his head, as if his king’s recklessness were somehow his fault. “I reminded him about his mail, my lord, but . . .”
“But you might as well bid the sun to stop rising in the east,” Morgan said wryly.
“He did wear his helmet.” Arne put the boots down, giving the Welshman a searching look. He was not of good birth, an orphan of little education or prospects. He ought to have lived and died in his small Austrian village, never getting farther than twenty miles from his home. But God had decreed otherwise, sending him to the Holy Land, sending him into the service of a great king. Morgan was a lord; royal blood ran in his veins. Yet Arne had shared with Richard and Morgan and Guillain what no other men in Christendom had—they’d been to Heinrich von Hohenstaufen’s Hell and battled their way back. He still bore the scars—on his throat, his face, and his memory—and that gave him the confidence now to speak freely to the king’s cousin.
“The king told me that you’d gotten a letter at Chinon from your brother, telling you that your parents are dead. My lord, I am so very sorry.”
Even after a fortnight, Morgan still struggled with disbelief. He realized that made no sense, for his father had lived to a truly vast age—eighty winters—and his mother had also been blessed with a long life. That ought to have been a comfort, and he hoped in time it would be. God had smiled upon them both, and He’d shown divine mercy, too, sparing them the separation and the grieving that was the inevitable fate of those brave enough to love. Ranulf had died in his sleep, and within the week, his ailing wife had followed him to eternal glory, for Morgan was sure they’d spend little, if any, time in Purgatory.
“Thank you, Arne. At first I grieved that I’d not been there, that I’d not had the chance to say farewell. They died in Epiphany week yet I did not know. So for two months, I thought they still breathed and smiled and prayed and felt the Welsh sun on their faces; despite what men claim, the sun does shine in Wales from time to time. Were they any less alive to me during those two months because I did not know? We live on in memories and deeds and prayers, lad; above all, in those we love.”
Arne was not sure he understood, but he murmured a dutiful “May God assoil them,” and vowed to add the names of Ranulf Fitz Roy and Rhiannon ferch Rhodri to the list of those for whom he offered up nightly prayers. For he did understand that there was power in prayer, even for ones such as he.
“Come, Arne.” Morgan smiled, determined to lighten the mood. “Let’s go find that errant king of ours. There is no use in lugging his hauberk along, but at least we can remind him that even lions get wet when it rains.”