“That is easy enough to explain. Saladin and al-Adil were men of honor, whereas the French . . . Well, if they are not in league with the Devil, it is only because he does not want them.” No longer laughing, Richard said pensively, “The terms I offered Saladin then were virtually the same as the ones he finally accepted after I’d retaken Jaffa—aside from Joanna’s participation, of course. We’d have saved so many lives if we’d only been able to make peace that November instead of the following September. Not to mention that we’d have been able to go home months ago. As interesting as this adventure has been, Morgan, I could have gone to my grave quite happily without ever laying eyes upon Ertpurch.”
Morgan agreed heartily and they shared a quiet moment, regretting what might have been. Soon afterward, Richard went back to sleep, and Morgan napped for a time, too; he doubted that any of them would ever take sleep for granted again. He was awakened when Guillain entered the chamber. There was no sign yet of Arne, he reported, but the horses had benefited from several days’ rest and the farrier had discovered that Morgan’s gelding was in danger of losing a shoe, which he’d replaced. They were keeping their voices low so Richard would not be disturbed, and frowned as sudden barking erupted outside. Richard did not stir, though, and Morgan began looking for the dice.
But the barking did not stop, was so loud now that it sounded as if all the dogs in the village were in full tongue. The two men exchanged uneasy looks and Guillain crossed to the window, unbarred the shutters, and peered out. “Holy Christ!” He slammed the shutters and whirled around, the blood draining from his face. “There are soldiers outside!”
Morgan reacted instinctively, crying out Richard’s name and dashing across the room to bar the door even as he realized the futility of it. The urgency in his voice awoke Richard at once. “Soldiers, sire,” Guillain said hoarsely and Richard was at the window in two strides. Opening the shutters just enough to give him a view of the alewife’s yard, he saw crossbowmen and men-at-arms taking up position. Els and her sons were standing out in the street, looking bewildered, as her neighbors emerged to see what was happening. Several knights had dismounted and, as Richard watched, they drew their swords and began to approach the house, shouting his name and one of the few German words he knew, “K?nig”—king.
Richard latched the shutters again. His heart was thudding, his breath coming quick and shallow as his body reacted to the danger, while his stunned brain still struggled to accept what he’d seen. Morgan and Guillain looked just as shocked. None of them had truly believed that they’d be caught, for Richard’s self-confidence was contagious and they’d seen him defy the odds time and time again in the Holy Land. Now that his legendary luck had suddenly run out in this small Austrian village, it did not seem real to any of them, least of all to Richard.
He had his sword in hand now, but that was an unthinking response. For the first time in his life, he experienced what so many other men did in battle—pure physical panic. They were trapped, with no way out and only two choices—surrender or die. As he stared at the bedchamber door, hearing the thud of boots as the soldiers tried to kick it in, his emotions were in such turmoil that death seemed preferable to what awaited him outside this room.
Someone must have found an axe, for the wood suddenly splintered and the door’s hinges gave way. The chamber was poorly lit and the intruders halted in the doorway, blinking as their vision adjusted to the shadows. Their eyes swept past Morgan—not tall enough—lingered for a moment on Guillain, and then fastened upon Richard; as dirty and shaggy as his hair was, it was still the color of copper, as distinctive as his uncommon height.
They were yelling at him, waving their swords. But none of them moved into the room, and as he looked from face to face, Richard was astonished by what he saw—fear. He and Morgan and Guillain were hopelessly outnumbered, as helpless as fish caught in a weir, with only one outcome if they resisted, yet these men were afraid of him. That realization proved to be his salvation. His brain began to function again. He did have some leverage, after all—his reputation. It had happened more and more toward the end of his stay in the Holy Land—Saladin’s emirs and Mamluks, men of proven courage, veering away rather than cross swords with him. And these Austrian knights were no more eager to fight him than the Saracens. They respected his prowess, and that understanding gave him the courage to do what he had to do, to take that first, frightening step into the unknown.
“I will yield only to your duke,” he said, greatly relieved that his voice sounded as it always did, giving away no hint of his inner anguish. They looked at one another, then flung more German at him, and he tried again, this time in Latin. When it was obvious they did not comprehend, he said, “Morgan,” remembering that his cousin had picked up a smattering of German from Arne.