“And the blacksmith said we could put our horses in his stable,” Arne chimed in again, “whilst the alewife said she would cook for us if we provided the food!”
The boy sounded as pleased as if they’d been invited to stay at a royal palace. But after what they’d endured for the past three days, the alewife’s house in Ertpurch sounded good to Richard, too. “We’re lucky that we sent you and Morgan on ahead to scout for us, Arne,” he said, and the youngster grinned from ear to ear, blushing at the praise.
“Very lucky,” Morgan said, but there was something in his tone that caused Richard to tense, suddenly sure there was more to their account of their visit to Vienna than he’d so far heard.
“Even if the townspeople were not so suspicious, we’d not have dared to enter Vienna.” Morgan’s dark eyes met Richard’s grey ones steadily. “I knew that as soon as I saw the red-and-white banner flying over the castle.”
“Leopold’s,” Richard said, sounding unsurprised, and Morgan nodded.
“It is pure bad luck that the duke is here and not at one of his other residences.” Leaving unsaid the rest—that not only did Duke Leopold bear Richard a lethal grudge, he was one of the few men who would recognize Richard at once, making it impossible to dispute his identity should it come to that.
ERTPURCH WAS AS UNPREPOSSESSING as Morgan had described, a cluster of single-story cottages with thatched roofs, a church, a smithy, a baker’s oven, a handful of shops, a cemetery, and fields that were covered now in snow. Beyond was the camp of men come to trade and sell horses; Arne explained that foreigners were not permitted to sell goods in Vienna and so did their business outside the town’s walls. Now that he was back in his homeland, he was chattering nonstop, proud that he could tell them so much about Vienna and the duke. He’d never been to Vienna until today, he confided, and had always imagined it was a goodly city, but it seemed downright meager after he’d seen Acre and Jerusalem. He was eager to share with them all the gossip he’d heard about Leopold, evoking amusement when he revealed that the duke was known as “The Virtuous,” but by then, they were approaching the alewife’s cottage and he had to save the rest of his stories for later, for they dared speak French only behind closed doors.
The alewife, a thin, fair-haired woman named Els, welcomed them warmly, and they understood why as soon as they entered her modest dwelling; it was obvious that the widow needed the money. Her young sons watched, wide-eyed, as she escorted the men into the house’s bedchamber. It was small and sparsely furnished, for she’d moved her bed out by the hearth, apologizing that she had so little bedding to spare. But it was the best shelter they’d had since escaping from Friesach and they had no complaints. She bustled about, finding a few blankets for them, a chamber pot, and several tallow candles, and then shared the leftovers from her family’s meal: boiled cabbage, barley bread, and a pottage of turnip greens, beets, and onions, washed down with some of her excellent ale.
They were grateful for her generosity, and Morgan played the gallant to great effect, kissing her hand and murmuring Welsh compliments that made her laugh even though she understood not a word of it. It was a huge relief, though, when she finally retreated, leaving them alone in the shabby bedchamber. Apart from the cheese tarts Arne had purchased in Vienna, they’d had nothing to eat for three days, and they fell upon the simple fare ravenously. Guillain cut trenchers from the loaf of bread and Arne ladled the pottage onto them, but when he turned to offer the first serving to the king, he got no response. Richard had stretched out on his blanket, wrapping himself in his mantle, not even bothering to take his boots off. When Arne bent over to set the food on the floor beside him, he was taken aback to see that the older man was already asleep.
“He’s not hungry?” he asked, looking to the others for guidance. “Should we wake him up to eat? It’s been so long. . . .”
“Let him sleep, lad.” But they all kept casting glances toward Richard as they ate, and when they were done, Morgan rose and leaned over the sleeping man, putting his hand on his cousin’s forehead. He did not stir at the touch, and Morgan sank back on his haunches, nodding in response to Guillain’s silent query. “He’s feverish,” he said, confirming what they’d both suspected and feared for several days.
Arne gasped in dismay. “What will we do? We cannot seek out a doctor!”
“No, we cannot,” Morgan agreed grimly. “On the morrow, lad, you must go into Vienna, find an apothecary, and buy aqua vitae; I’ve always heard it is good for fevers. Buy blankets, too, for we’re like to freeze in here without them. Chicken is the best food for the sick, but no vendor will sell it during Advent, so get eggs and bread and garlic.”