Morgan felt as if his brain had gone blank, but with a great effort, he managed to dredge up a few words. “Herzog! Herzog Leopold!” They reacted at once to their duke’s name, and he added, “Hier,” gesturing around the room to indicate Leopold was to come here. They seemed to think this was a very good idea, for several were nodding and saying, “Ja,” with obvious enthusiasm. “They understand,” Morgan said, with a sigh of relief. “They’ll fetch Leopold.”
The Austrians stayed by the door, swords drawn, but seemed content to wait. They were all staring at Richard, nudging one another, and he heard the word “L?wenherz” being repeated. He’d guessed its meaning even before Morgan translated it as “Lionheart.” Crossing to the bed, he retrieved his frayed, stained mantle and draped it around his shoulders as if it were royal robes of state.
The bravado of that gesture brought tears to Morgan’s eyes. He’d initially been wary of Richard, for his allegiance had been pledged to Richard’s brother Geoffrey and his father, the old king. But he’d come to know Richard well in the past two years, and now he felt the depth of the other man’s desperation and despair, the proudest of the proud shamed before enemies he’d scorned. He did not doubt that Richard would have found it easier to be taken prisoner by Saladin. Watching as Richard braced for whatever humiliation and danger lay ahead, preparing to brazen it out, he found himself remembering Guilhem de Préaux, who’d claimed that he was Malik Ric to save Richard from capture. He would have made that sacrifice, too, had it only been in his power—not just because Richard was his king or his cousin, but because theirs was a bond only those who fought together and faced death together could fully understand.
He saw his own misery reflected on Guillain’s face. There were tears in Guillain’s eyes, too, as he said softly, “I am sorry, sire.” Richard shook his head, letting his hand rest for a moment on the knight’s arm. Morgan found his own mantle and untied his money pouch from his belt. He knew the soldiers would take every pfennig for themselves and he was determined to get the money to the alewife if he could; better she should have it than Leopold’s lackeys. His eyes lingered for a moment on Arne’s bedding. He hated to think what might have befallen the boy in Vienna.
Much too soon, they heard the noise outside that signaled Leopold’s approach. Richard had never dreaded anything more than what was to come. This was likely to be their last moments alone, and he reached out to embrace Morgan, then Guillaume. “I’ll be damned if I’ll wait cowering, like a fox run to earth,” he declared, sheathing his sword, and then starting toward the door. The soldiers moved aside to let him pass, so hastily that it was almost comical. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, Morgan thought irreverently as he and Guillaume followed close behind.
There was a crowd waiting as Richard emerged from the alewife’s house into the pallid winter sunlight, soldiers, villagers, and a large contingent of knights who’d accompanied their duke. Leopold was mounted on a magnificent white stallion and was just as magnificently garbed, his hat and mantle trimmed with sable fur, his scabbard studded with gemstones, his hands adorned with several jeweled rings. His appearance did not fully match Richard’s memory of him, and then he realized why: this was the first time he’d ever seen Leopold smile.
Leopold did not dismount at once, for that enabled him to look down upon the man who was some inches the taller of the two. “When they told me about the boy they’d picked up in the marketplace, I confess I had my doubts,” he said, still smiling. “But by God, it is you.”
Richard regarded him stonily, before saying tersely, “My lord duke.” He stayed where he was until Leopold swung from the saddle, only then stepping forward and unsheathing his sword. Most of Leopold’s men already had their weapons drawn, and they brought them up quickly then. Ignoring them, Richard held out his sword, hilt first, to his captor, saying nothing.
Leopold accepted the sword, then subjected Richard to a deliberate, slow scrutiny, taking in the tangled hair, long beard, mud-caked boots, and begrimed mantle, which only partially covered the once-white Templar’s tunic, now streaked with dirt and sweat. “You do not look very kingly now, do you, my lord Lionheart? Indeed, you look like a man we’d expect to find in a hovel like this. How true that Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.”
Richard welcomed the fury that now surged through his veins, sweeping away all shame and fear. “Since you’re quoting from Scriptures, you’d do well to remember another verse. God is not mocked, for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. There will be no forgiveness for harming men who’ve taken the cross, neither from the Church nor Almighty God. You’d best think upon that whilst there is still time. Is this petty revenge worth eternal damnation?”
Hot color flooded Leopold’s face and throat. “You’ve forfeited your right to Church protection by your crimes in the Holy Land!”