André took the abbot’s seat beside the bed. Richard seemed to have aged ten years in the weeks since they’d last met. Pain had etched deep grooves around his mouth and his hollowed cheekbones showed he’d lost an alarming amount of weight in the week since he’d been wounded. His face was so bloodless that André thought it was like gazing down at a carven marble effigy, drained of all life and color. But his body offered tragic testimony to the mortality of men: the skin on his chest was swollen, blistered, and turning black; his shoulder poultice oozing a foul-smelling pus. André was never to know how long he sat there, watching the rapid rise and fall of that rib cage, almost as if he were willing every breath into the other man’s lungs. But then Richard’s lashes flickered.
“André . . .” His voice was a husky whisper, this man who’d been able to shout down the wind, and André had to lean closer to catch his words. “A favor . . .”
“Anything . . .” André’s own words came out as a croak and he had to repeat himself. “Anything . . .”
“No saying ‘I told you so,’ Cousin. . . .”
André could not speak, his throat having closed off, and he could only nod.
“I sent for my mother, hope she’s hurrying. . . .” Richard glanced toward a wine flagon by the bed and André poured with a shaking hand, tilting the cup to Richard’s lips. “We’ve tried to keep it quiet . . . giving Johnny time to get away. . . .” His eyes looked badly bruised and had a glazed, feverish sheen, but he seemed quite lucid to André. His words were halting, though, with long pauses as he fought for breath. “You know where . . . where that damned fool is? Brittany . . .”
“That damned fool,” André echoed, not even knowing what he said.
“If the Bretons hear first, Johnny’ll have . . . have shortest reign in history. . . .”
“My liege?” The abbot had come to stand beside André. “I am confident your lady mother will soon be here. Are you sure you do not want us to send for your queen?”
“Too late. . . .”
The abbot apparently knew that was true, for he did not argue. “Is there a message you’d have me deliver to her, sire?”
Richard’s lashes swept down, veiling his eyes. “That I am . . . sorry . . .” When he asked for wine again, André hastily obliged. The abbot had stepped away from the bed and his next words were pitched just for André’s ear. “Women . . . always think men owe them apologies for something. . . .”
André nodded again, and somehow managed to keep his voice steady as he said, “True enough. Apologies, like charity, cover a multitude of sins.”
After that, they were silent for a time. André could tell whenever the pain got worse; Richard would shut his eyes, shudder, and bite down on his lower lip until it bled, so determined was he to stifle any groans or cries. Watching his suffering was as difficult as anything André had ever done, but he meant to keep vigil as long as Richard could get air into his laboring lungs.
“Fauvel . . . He’s yours, Cousin. Do not . . . not let Johnny steal him. . . .”
“No . . .” André knew by now what was expected of him, what Richard wanted as his life ebbed away, one waning heartbeat at a time. “So you entrust your kingdom to John, but not your horse?”
A ghost of a smile found the corner of Richard’s mouth. “Kingdoms come and go. . . . A stallion like Fauvel is special. . . .” He winced then, turning his head aside as if seeking the shadows that held sway beyond the smoldering lamplight. “André . . . give Argento and my sword. . . .”
“Your son?”
“Yes . . . for Philip . . .” It was little enough to leave the lad. Had he only been born in wedlock . . . Richard had never experienced the sort of severe pain he’d endured since the gangraena had struck, but there was an odd sort of mercy to it, for it kept him from dwelling upon what lay ahead for his Angevin empire. With Johnny at the helm, how long ere he ran the ship up onto the rocks? Yet Arthur would have turned the tiller over to Philippe straightaway. At least Johnny would not be the French king’s puppet. . . . At least he’d not be that.
THE MAN SHOVED ROUGHLY over the threshold was frightened, but defiant, his the courage of utter despair. There was so much hatred in the chamber that he could barely breathe; the very air seemed seared with its heat. Mercadier’s men thrust him forward, one of them seizing the chance to kick him in the ribs as they forced him to his knees. He darted a quick glance over his shoulder, saw nothing but hostile faces; even a man clad in the bleached robes of the White Monks was regarding him with accusing eyes. Raising his head, then, he stared challengingly at the man in the bed. It was no small feat to slay a king, especially this one. Did it count for less that he’d not known he was aiming at the Lionheart?
Richard turned to another man standing close by, saying something too low to be heard, then waited as pillows were propped behind him so that he could look upon the prisoner. Death was not only in the chamber with them, it was perched on the edge of the bed. But when he spoke, his fading whisper was belied by the intensity of his gaze. “Your name?”
“Sir Peire Basile of Pouyades.”
“A knight?”
“I am,” he said proudly, but no more than that, for he’d vowed he’d not beg for his life. That would serve for naught, only bring shame to his name, his family.