Richard drew his dagger and leaned over the map, using the blade as a pointer. “By way of Hungary, whose king is my kinsman by marriage, and then Bohemia, for its duke would never do Heinrich a good turn.” He paused, smoke-grey eyes moving intently from face to face. He saw what he expected to find; they looked troubled but resolute. He’d known they would be loyal, theirs a brotherhood forged on the battlefields of Arsuf and Ibn Ibrak and Jaffa; they’d fought with him and bled with him and would die with him if need be. His throat tightening, he summoned up a smile, saying, “But if any of you have a better idea, for God’s sake, speak up now.” None did, for what was there to say?
As they rose to go, Richard told the Bishop of Salisbury and his Welsh cousin to remain. Once they were alone, he studied Hubert Walter in silence for a moment, knowing the prelate would not like what he was about to say. “I want you to return to Tancred’s court with the Count of Conversano, Hubert. He’ll provide you with an escort to Rome.”
Caught by surprise, the other man shook his head vehemently. “I want to accompany you, my lord king!”
“I know you do. But I have greater need of you elsewhere. I want you to confer with the Pope, do what you can to stiffen the man’s backbone. Now that he’s finally offered papal recognition to Tancred, I do not want him to renege for fear of Heinrich. And then I want you to get to England as quickly as you can. My lady mother will be doing her best to rein my fool brother in, but that’s no easy task, not with Johnny bound and determined to entangle himself in Philippe’s web. You ought to be safe enough, traveling under the Pope’s auspices, and the protection Holy Church offers a man who’s taken the cross should serve as your shield.” White teeth flashed in what was not a smile. “It ought to protect me, too, but I’d as soon not put it to the test.”
Hubert looked unhappy, but he did not argue, knowing it would be futile. Richard was already turning toward his cousin. “I’d say you got more than you bargained for when Joanna beseeched you to keep me out of trouble on our journey home.”
Morgan had not realized Richard knew of Joanna’s entreaty that he sail on the Holy Rood. Ostensibly her concern was for her brother’s health, as he was still recovering from the quartan fever, but Morgan knew she was also worried that Richard would not be traveling with their cousin, André de Chauvigny, who seemed to be the only man able to curb Richard’s more reckless impulses.
“I fear, sire, that would be a task beyond my capabilities.” Richard assumed he was joking, but he was speaking nothing less than the truth, for the king’s family and friends did not understand how a man so careful with the lives of his soldiers could be so careless with his own.
“The count did have some good news midst all the bad,” Richard said, with a sudden smile. “My sister and my wife landed safely at Brindisi, and were given a lavish welcome by Tancred and his queen, doubtless trying to make amends to Joanna, as well he should. It happens that the Count of Conversano, Hugh Lapin, was Joanna’s gaoler in Palermo. He’d treated her well, though, and he said, in great relief, that she was very gracious when he arrived at Brindisi to escort her and Berengaria to Tancred’s court. . . .”
Richard paused, for Morgan was beaming, and it occurred to him that this might be the last real smile any of them would see for some time to come. After dismissing both men, he sank down on his bed, grateful for this rare moment alone. He’d put up a brave front for his men, but he was shaken, too, by this sudden downturn in their fortunes. How many more weeks would they be at sea now? His memories of their stormy voyage to the Holy Land were still so vivid that he’d declared sailors ought not to be allowed to testify in court, for they were clearly quite mad. The Holy Rood crew had laughed uproariously, taking his jest as a great compliment. But Richard’s knights saw too much truth in it for humor, for none of them understood how any man could choose to spend more time on shipboard than absolutely necessary.
Richard lay back on the bed, thinking grimly of the winter trek that they’d face, assuming they landed safely at some Adriatic port. He was not as confident as he’d sounded when he’d insisted that the Hungarian king would be friendly. It was true that Bela’s queen was the widow of Richard’s elder brother. But Marguerite was also the sister of the Lady Alys, the French princess who’d been betrothed to Richard in childhood and repudiated so he could wed Berengaria of Navarre, and he supposed she might feel that Alys had been treated rather shabbily. Would her feelings matter to her husband? He had no way of knowing. At least Bela was known to be very hostile to the Duke of Austria and no friend to the Holy Roman Emperor. His bleak musings were interrupted by the entrance of Fulk de Poitiers, his clerk of the chamber, and he sat up hastily.