Richard regarded him for what felt like several centuries. “Your life is . . . forfeit, you think. . . . You’re wrong. . . . I bear . . . bear no grudge. You . . . are free to go, Peire Basile. . . .”
The other men were no less stunned than the crossbowman and there was an immediate outcry. Only André was not shocked by Richard’s astonishing act of clemency. The audience for this last act of his cousin’s play was reacting as he would have expected them to do. He found approval on the faces of Morgan, Guy, and the abbot, for the former worshipped at the Church of the Chivalric Faith and the churchman had often preached the divine virtues of forgiveness. But William de Braose, Guillain, and Richard’s seneschal were not at all happy with this reprieve, and Mercadier looked utterly outraged.
Peire Basile would later wish he’d said something, anything. But shock and disbelief had stolen his powers of speech, and before he could recover, his guards had dragged him to his feet and pushed him toward the door. André quickly gestured for the others to follow, for he knew Richard had no interest in hearing them debate his decision. Yet one more mystery for the ages, he thought, gazing down at the dying man. Men would long wonder what he’d have done had he survived this wound. Would Peire Basile have lived or died then? André honestly did not know, for Richard was capable both of great magnanimity and the utmost ruthlessness.
Arne had gone over to close the door after the last of the men departed. André was amused, yet touched, too, by the conflicted expression on the squire’s face—pride that his king had spared his slayer’s life like one of the knights in a troubadour’s tale, but disappointment that the man would also be spared earthly punishment for a crime so great.
Leaning over the bed then, André murmured, “Well done, Cousin. You burnished the Lionheart’s legend whilst earning yourself some much-needed credit with the Almighty.”
Richard did not seem to have heard, for he did not open his eyes, nor did he speak. But André thought he caught the hint of a smile.
ELEANOR WAS TERRIFIED that she would not arrive in time. A horse litter was too slow, so despite her age, she rode a fast mare. But although she pushed her body to the utmost and beyond, managing as much as twenty-five miles from dawn till dusk, it still took over five and a half days to cover the one hundred forty miles of eternity stretching between Fontevrault Abbey and Chalus. The nights were the worst, for she slept only in snatches, and when she did dream, her son was in great danger—sometimes in a German dungeon, sometimes at the Chalus siege camp—and she could not help him.
They reached Chalus at midmorning on April 6. As soon as she was assisted from her saddle, the Abbot of Le Pin and her son’s Welsh cousin came hurrying toward her. They greeted her warmly, saying the king would be so pleased to see her. Understanding that they were playing to an audience—the soldiers who did not know how seriously Richard had been wounded, even French spies—she smiled, saying she was on her way south to visit her daughter in Toulouse. Only when she was sure none were within earshot did she dare to ask softly, “Does he still live?” And when they nodded but said nothing, she knew it would not be for long.
She was not surprised to find André there; he was the brother Richard ought to have had. It was Mercadier who shocked her, for as he bent over her hand, she thought she saw tears in the routier’s icy eyes. As Morgan reached for the door latch, she realized how much she feared crossing that threshold.
The chamber was stifling and shadowed, for it had to be shuttered against prying eyes. André moved a chair to the bed for her and she lowered herself onto it, wondering if she’d ever be able to rise again.
Richard’s eyes opened when she took his hand in hers. He’d been sure she’d get there in time, for she had never let him down, never. “So sorry, Maman. . . .” So many regrets. That he’d not made peace with his father. That he’d not been able to free the Holy City from the Saracens. That Philip could not have been Berenguela’s. That the French king had not drowned in the Epte. That he’d not taken the time to put on his hauberk. That his mother must now watch him die.
She held his hand against her cheek. “You’ve been shriven, Richard?”
“Yes . . . So many sins . . . Took half a day . . .”