Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 10

OCTOBER 1190

Messina, Sicily





It began innocently enough, with a dispute between one of Richard’s soldiers and a woman selling loaves of bread. When he accused her of cheating him, she became enraged, and he was set upon by her friends and neighbors, badly beaten by citizens very resentful of these insolent foreigners in their midst. They then shut the gates of Messina to the English and put up chains to bar the inner harbor to their ships. Infuriated that crusaders should be treated so shabbily, the English were all for forcing their way into the city. Only Richard’s appearance upon the scene prevented a riot. After dispersing his angry men with some difficulty, he summoned the French king and the Sicilian officials to an urgent meeting the next day at his lodgings, in hopes of resolving these grievances through diplomacy.



THE MESSINIANS WERE REPRESENTED by their governor, Jordan Lapin, Admiral Margaritis, and the archbishops of Messina, Monreale, and Reggio. The French king was accompanied by the Duke of Burgundy, the counts of Nevers and Louvain, Jaufre of Perche, and the bishops of Chartres and Langres. Richard’s companions included the archbishops of Rouen and Auch, and the bishops of Bayonne and Evreux. But before the conference began, he drew the French king aside for a private word.

“We cannot sail for Outremer until the favorable winds return in the spring. Since we’re going to be stuck here all winter, we cannot allow these stupid squabbles to continue. It will help immeasurably if you and I present a united front, Philippe. I assume I can count upon your support in these negotiations.”

“My men have encountered no troubles with the Messinians. The strife did not begin until your army arrived, so I’d look to them as the source of contention, not the local people.”

“How many men do you have with you—less than a thousand? I doubt that the French would be such welcome guests if they numbered as many as mine.”

“Or mayhap it is simpler than that, Richard. Mayhap your men are not as well disciplined as mine.”

“Need I remind you that Saladin is the enemy, not me?”

“And need I remind you that your men took the cross to fight the Saracens, not the Sicilians?”

And on that sour note, the peace conference began.



THE DISCUSSIONS WERE going better than Richard had expected, solely due to the diplomatic efforts of one man, the Archbishop of Monreale. Jordan Lapin and Admiral Margaritis were openly hostile, complaining angrily about the bad behavior of the English. Philippe declared that the French were impartial and offered to mediate, but he also agreed with all of the Sicilian accusations, much to Richard’s fury. Only the archbishop seemed willing to concede that there were wrongs on both sides; he alone did not reject Richard’s proposal to set fixed prices for bread and wine, and did his best to calm rising tempers.

Jordan Lapin was not as conciliatory. “Prices have risen because the demand for food has increased dramatically, not because our people are seeking to cheat your men. I should think that would be obvious to anyone with a brain in his head!”

“What is obvious,” Richard said curtly, “is that something is amiss when a loaf of bread suddenly costs more than three chickens, or the price of wine triples from one day to the next. Your king, may God assoil him, often said that nothing was more important than the recovery of Jerusalem. He would have been appalled that his subjects are seeking to defraud Christian pilgrims, men who’ve taken the cross.”

Jordan glared across the table at the English king. “My lord William would have been appalled to see those ‘Christian pilgrims’ behaving like barbarians in a city of his realm. And your lords do nothing to rein them in. When I complained to one of your barons about the way his men were accosting our women, he laughed. He laughed and said they were not trying to seduce the wives, just to annoy the husbands!”

Richard hastily brought his wine cup to his mouth, but not in time to hide a grin. “They are soldiers, not saints. Yes, some of them are going to flirt with women and get drunk and brawl in your taverns. But I can control my army as long as they do not think they are being gulled or duped. That is why it is so important to fix prices. Nor are your people blameless in this. I’ve heard them cursing my men in the marketplace, jeering and calling them ‘long-tailed English.’”

The governor interrupted to point out that the English were just as offensive, using the insulting term “Griffon” to refer to citizens of Greek heritage. Richard ignored him, turning his attention to Margaritis. “I’ve been told that your crews roam the streets, my lord admiral, seeking to start fights with any English they find.”

Margaritis shrugged. “They are sailors, not saints.” As their eyes met, the Greek admiral and the English king shared a brief moment of understanding, one soldier to another. It did not last, though. The governor reclaimed control of the conversation, insisting that Richard pay for property damages and threatening to declare Messina off-limits to all of his men. The Archbishop of Monreale again stepped into the breach, and was attempting to find common ground when the door burst open.

“My liege, you must come at once!” Baldwin de Bethune was flushed and out of breath. “Hugh de Lusignan’s lodging is under attack!”

The de Lusignans were some of Richard’s most troublesome vassals, but they were his vassals. Jumping to his feet, he started toward the door, pausing only when the governor demanded to know what he meant to do. “I mean to do what you are either unable or unwilling to do, my lord count,” he said sharply. “I am going to restore order in Messina.”



TURNING AT THE SOUND of his name, Morgan saw a friend, Warin Fitz Gerald, coming toward him. “I just heard about the attack on de Lusignan’s house. The king chased the mob off?”

Morgan nodded. “They fled when he rode up with some of his knights. But he has run out of patience, Warin, and he returned to his lodgings to arm himself. I think he means to take the city.”

“About time! The lot of them are worse than vultures, eager to pluck our bones clean, and if one of our men dares to venture off on his own, he’s likely to end up dead in an alley or floating facedown in the harbor.” Warin paused, giving the younger man a quizzical look. “So why are you not happier about it, Morgan? We get to teach those grasping louts a much-needed lesson and have some fun doing it. Yet you look about as cheerful as a Martinmas stoat.” Warin was genuinely puzzled, for he knew the Welshman was no battle virgin; he’d bloodied his sword in the service of both the old king and Richard’s brother Geoffrey. “Why are you loath to punish the Griffons as they deserve?”

“I am not.” Morgan hesitated, not sure he could make Warin understand.

“When the king ordered the townsmen to disperse, they defied him at first, jeering and cursing and even daring to make that evil-eye gesture of theirs. He was infuriated by their defiance, angrier than I’ve ever seen him, and I’ve seen him as hot as molten lead.”

“So? Kings do not take well to mockery. What of it?”

Morgan paused again. How could he admit that he had misgivings about Richard’s judgment, that he feared Richard’s temper might lead him into doing something rash? He was spared the need to respond, though, for Richard had just ridden into the camp. The knights of his household were gathering around him, and Morgan and Warin hastened to join them. By the time they reached him, Richard had just chosen André de Chauvigny to lead the assault upon the town gates.

André was delighted, but surprised, too, for he’d never known Richard not to be the first one into the breach. “We will need time to make a battering ram, though—”

Richard was already shaking his head. “No . . . take axes and strike at the gate hinges. That will keep them occupied whilst I lead some of our men around to the west. There is a postern gate in the wall there and the approach is so steep that it is not well guarded. We ought to be able to force an entry easily enough, and once we’re inside, we can open the gates for the rest of you whilst our galleys attack the city from the sea.”

That met with enthusiastic approval. Morgan felt a rush of relief, realizing his qualms had been needless. There was nothing haphazard or impulsive about the battle plan Richard had just proposed; it was well conceived and tactically sound. But he had to ask. “How do you know about that postern gate, sire?”

“The day after my arrival in Messina, I went out and inspected the city’s defenses.”

Morgan wasn’t sure what surprised him the most—that Richard had the foresight to anticipate trouble with the townspeople, or that he sounded so coolly matter-of-fact now. It was as if the liquid fire of Sicily’s great volcano had suddenly iced over, he marveled, so dramatic had been this transformation from enraged king to calculating battle commander, and when Richard began to select men for that covert assault upon the postern gate, he was among the first to volunteer.



THE ASCENT WAS A STEEP ONE, but once they reached the postern gate, they discovered that Richard was right and it was unguarded. A startled sentry did not appear until their axes had smashed it open, and his cry of alarm was choked off by a crossbow bolt to the throat. Scrambling through the shattered timbers, they followed Richard into a ghost city, for at first it seemed like one. The street was deserted, and the few civilians they encountered fled before them. They advanced cautiously, knowing word would quickly spread of their intrusion, and people were soon shouting and cursing from open windows. Before long, rocks and crockery and arrows were raining down upon them, but they fended off the aerial onslaught with their shields. One bold householder flung the contents of a chamber pot and drenched an unlucky soldier, much to his outrage and the amusement of the others. He wanted to exact vengeance then and there, but was sternly reminded that they had more pressing matters. He was still arguing about it, though, when one of Richard’s scouts came racing back, warning that a large group of men were gathering ahead.

Richard dispatched some of his knights toward a nearby alley, saying it led into a street that ran parallel to their own. Morgan was one of the men chosen for this diversion and they took off at a run, hoping to cover as much distance as possible while they still had the element of surprise. Impressed by the thoroughness of their king’s reconnaissance, for the alley had indeed opened into a narrow lane, they hastened along it until they came to a wider cross street. By now they could hear the unmistakable clamor of conflict and they followed the sound, soon coming onto a chaotic scene.

Several carts had been overturned to form an impromptu barricade. The townsmen crouching behind it outnumbered Richard’s knights and crossbowmen, but they were mismatched against battle-seasoned, mail-clad warriors and were already giving ground by the time Morgan and his companions assailed them from the rear. Within moments the skirmish was over, the burghers in flight. Hurrying to keep pace with their king, the men followed him into another alley, barely a sword’s length in depth, and saw ahead of them one of the city gates.

Here they encountered fierce resistance from the guards, and in the bloody street battle that ensued, men on both sides began to die. Morgan was caught up in the emotional maelstrom peculiar to combat, a familiar surge of raw sensation in which excitement was indistinguishable from fear. A soldier was lunging forward, shouting in Greek. Morgan was yelling, too, Welsh curses interspersed with the battle cry of the English Royal House, “Dex aie!”

His foe’s sword was already raised high. It swept down before Morgan could get his shield up to block the blow and he took the hit on his shoulder. A sword could slice through mail with lethal force, but only if it was a direct strike. Morgan was blessed that day, for the aim was off and the blade’s edge skipped over the metal links instead of cutting into flesh and bone. He staggered under the impact, somehow kept his balance, and slashed at his adversary’s leg. There was a spurt of blood and a scream. As the man’s knee buckled, Morgan slammed him with his shield, then hurdled his crumpled body and went to the aid of Baldwin de Bethune, whose sword blade had just broken against an enemy axe.

Baldwin’s foe turned swiftly upon Morgan, swinging his axe to hook the edge of the Welshman’s shield. But Morgan had been trained to thwart just such a gambit. Instead of instinctively resisting, he let himself be pulled toward his opponent and counterthrust, his sword cutting through the other man’s mail coif and slicing off his ear before the blade bit into his neck. As the man fell, Baldwin snatched up his axe, giving Morgan a grateful grin before the tide of battle swept them apart.

Some of Morgan’s companions were already starting to loot bodies, but there were still several pockets of fighting, as savage as any drunken alehouse brawl. Morgan caught sight of his king then, just in time to see Richard perform a classic maneuver known as a “Cut of Wrath,” making a powerful, downward diagonal strike that severed his attacker’s arm at the elbow. Without even pausing for breath, he whirled to take on a new opponent, this one wielding a spear. Morgan started toward them in alarm, for he’d never seen a spear so long. It looked almost like a lance, and he thought it could be difficult for a swordsman to counter its greater reach. But as the man charged him, Richard leaped aside and then brought his sword down upon the weapon, chopping off the spearhead before the man could react. He gaped at his demolished spear, then spun around and fled. Morgan was no less astonished, for the shaft had been reinforced with strips of metal and yet Richard had sliced through it as if it were butter.

As he reached Richard, a cheer went up, for their men had taken control of the gate. As they flung it open, their troops streamed into the city, and they raised another cheer, knowing that Messina was theirs.



RICHARD HAD PICKED UP the broken spear. “Look at this, Morgan. Have you ever seen such a weapon?”

Morgan hadn’t. Instead of a spearhead, a hooked blade had been attached to the haft. It was undeniably interesting, but it seemed neither the time nor the place to have a casual conversation about Sicilian innovations in weaponry. Richard had not waited for him to respond, though, and was already beckoning to André de Chauvigny. “Send some of our knights to guard the royal palace. If our lads go looking for booty there, Philippe will have a stark raving fit. There’s likely to be more fighting, too, so make sure that our men do not start celebrating until it’s safe to do so.”

“I’ll see to it,” André promised. “But afterward . . . they can have their sport?” Richard nodded. “Yes, but do not let it get out of hand, André. Remind them that we’re going to have to spend the winter here. Our men can have their fun, but keep it within reason. No slaughtering the citizens if they’re not offering resistance.”

Morgan was impressed by Richard’s composure in the midst of madness. His own emotions were still in turmoil. He’d killed at least one man and had nearly been killed himself, good reasons to get drunk, he decided. But then he had a better idea and hurried after Richard, who was heading toward the harbor, where smoke had begun to spiral up into the sky.

“My liege, someone ought to bring word to your sister that the city has been captured. She’ll be able to see the smoke from Bagnara and will be fearing the worst.”

“That is true,” Richard conceded. “Good thinking, Cousin. Are you volunteering for the mission?” When Morgan nodded eagerly, Richard slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “You’d best wash up first, then. Women tend to be squeamish about blood and gore.”

By the time they reached the harbor, the smoke had become so thick that an early dusk seemed to have settled over the city, the sun utterly obscured by those billowing black clouds. Richard was relieved to discover that the town was not on fire; it was the Sicilian fleet that was burning. Several of his admirals were already on the scene and they began complaining to him about the actions of the French, declaring they’d assisted the townspeople in keeping their ships from entering the inner harbor.

Seeing that Richard would be occupied for some time to come, Morgan sank down on a nearby mounting block. All around him was bedlam. Soldiers were looting shops and houses, gleefully carrying off the riches of Messina—candlesticks, furs, jewelry, bolts of expensive cloth, spices. They were also helping themselves to sides of bacon, sacks of flour, and baskets of eggs, claiming livestock, chickens, and horses. Some were helping themselves to local women, too, for screams were echoing from houses and alleyways. From where he sat, Morgan could see bodies sprawled in the street. He hoped he’d not lost any friends in the fighting. He was more shaken than he was willing to admit, and he decided to find a tavern, a public bathhouse, and a boat to ferry him across the Faro, in that order.



JOANNA HAD WATCHED in dismay as smoke darkened the sky above Messina. She was not surprised when the English lion was soon flying over the city, for Richard was the most celebrated soldier in Christendom. His sister rejoiced in his victory. But the queen could take no pleasure in the sight of a foreign flag on Sicilian soil. She did not doubt that the townspeople of Messina had been vexing, belligerent, and eager for profit, for they were known to be like that with their fellow citizens. They were still William’s subjects, her subjects, however, and she grieved that it had come to this.

She’d never expected that she’d have to choose between her two lives, her two worlds. But her precarious position was brought home to her by the Bishop of Bagnara, who’d demanded that she intercede on behalf of the Messinians and berated her as he’d not have dared to berate Richard. He was so incensed that he’d inflamed her own temper; she found herself fiercely defending her brother, burning yet another of her Sicilian bridges. After his angry departure, she’d remained at a window in her bedchamber, staring out across the straits at Messina for hours, her eyes blurring with tears.

Morgan’s arrival was the only flicker of light in a very dark day. Heedless of convention, she had him brought to her private chamber, greeting him so warmly that he actually blushed, for he was somewhat in awe of this beautiful cousin whom he’d known for less than a week. Joanna’s common sense told her that Morgan could not tell her what she yearned to hear. He could not deny that Messina had fallen to Richard’s troops. But she hoped that he might be able to explain the bloodshed in a way that would enable her to accept it as inevitable and thus reconcile her divided loyalties.

It had not occurred to Morgan that she might not see Messina’s fall in the same light that he did—as a triumph. The aftermath of battle could be intoxicating, and his senses were still reeling from the sweetness of his reprieve, as well as from several flagons of spiced Messinian wine. The sight of Joanna reminded him of the feats her brother had performed that day, and he launched into an enthusiastic account of the battle, lavishly praising the courage of their men and boasting of the ease with which they’d captured the city.

“Your brother’s strategy was brilliant, my lady. He is by far the best battle commander I’ve ever seen, leading the assault himself, always in the very thick of the fighting.” He started to tell her that more than twenty of Richard’s own household troops had died in the attack but decided it was better she not know that. “The king is utterly without fear and I understand now why his men vow they’d follow him to Hell and back. So would I, for he is doing God’s Work, destined to regain Jerusalem from the infidels.”

“You believe that, Morgan . . . truly?” And when he assured her earnestly that he did, Joanna discovered there was comfort in that thought, in the reminder that nothing mattered more than the recovery of the Holy Land. “If Richard is doing God’s Work, does that mean the Messinians were heeding the Devil’s whispers? Were many of them slain, Cousin?”

“Not so many.” He almost added, “Not as many deaths as they deserved,” but thought better of it, remembering Richard’s warning that women were distressed by violence. “There was plundering, of course, for that is a soldier’s right. But the king took measures to make sure there’d be no widespread slaughter.”

“I am glad to hear that.” She was silent for a few moments before saying softly, “Did . . . did my brother give any orders to protect the women of the city?”

Morgan found himself at a rare loss for words, suddenly realizing that she had come to consider Sicily as her home. He supposed it was to be expected that she’d pity the wives and maidens of Messina, for rape was likely to be a fear ingrained in every woman’s soul, even one as highborn as Joanna. He wondered if he ought to lie to her, decided she’d not believe him if he did. “My lady . . . men see that as a soldier’s right, too.”

She said nothing, but he’d begun to notice the signs of stress—her pallor, the dark hollows under her eyes. “It was not as brutal as it could have been, Madame,” he said, and Joanna gave him a wan smile, thinking that was a meager comfort to Messina, yet recognizing the uncompromising truth of it, too.

“It was good of you to bring me word yourself, Cousin Morgan. You’ll not be wanting to cross the Faro after dark, so I’ll see that a comfortable bed is made ready for you.”

“Thank you, Madame.” Morgan glanced toward Joanna’s attendants, who’d withdrawn across the chamber to give them privacy. The woman he’d wanted to see was not among them. “I was hoping I might pay my respects to the Lady Mariam.”

Joanna gave him a surprised look and, then, her first real smile of the day. “Mariam mentioned that she’d met one of Richard’s knights at the nunnery, a ‘cocky, silver-tongued rogue,’ she said, ‘with a great interest in learning Arabic.’ So that was you, Cousin?”

Morgan grinned, pleased beyond measure that Mariam had discussed him with Joanna; that was surely a good sign. “Do you think she might see me?” But when Joanna hesitated, some of his confidence waned.

“It might be better to wait for another time, Morgan. This has been a difficult day for her.”

Morgan was disappointed, but it made sense that Mariam would mourn the fall of Messina, for the blood of a Sicilian king ran in her veins. After taking his leave of Joanna, he was escorted to the priory guest hall. Richard had garrisoned Bagnara with a large number of knights sworn to see to Joanna’s safety, and the hall was crowded. Upon learning that Morgan had taken part in the assault upon the town, they were eager to hear his account, and he was quite willing to accommodate them. Eventually, men unrolled blankets and made ready to bed down. Morgan’s nerves were still vibrating like a taut bowstring and he knew sleep would not come for hours yet. Helping himself to a wineskin, he wound his way midst the bodies and bedrolls, and then slipped out a side door.

The night was mild, the sky spangled with remote pinpoints of light. On this October evening, his Welsh homeland seemed as distant as those glittering stars. It was a pleasure to inhale air untainted by the coppery smell of blood or the stench of gutted entrails. He would, he decided, find the priory church and offer up prayers for the men who’d died that day. For Joanna’s sake, he would pray, too, for Messina’s dead.

The church was scented with incense, shadowed and still. Morgan knelt at the high altar and felt a calm descending upon his soul, God’s Peace entering his heart. After praying for those who’d died on this October Thursday, he prayed for his dead liege lords, for Geoffrey and Henry, hoping they would not see it as a betrayal—that he’d pledged his loyalty to Richard. He rose with some difficulty, for his body had stiffened in the hours since the battle, his muscles cramping and his shoulder throbbing with the slightest movement. It was already turning the color of summer plums, the bruises seeming to reach into the very marrow of his bones. But the injury could have been worse, could have been fatal. God willing, he would live out his biblical three-score years and ten. If not, better to die before the walls of Jerusalem than in the dusty streets of Messina.

He was about to depart when a gleam of light drew his attention. The windows were encased in glass, yet more proof of the affluence of Sicily, and he could see a faint glow coming from the cloisters. He peered through the cloudy glass, and then he smiled, for a woman was sitting on a bench in one of the carrels, a lantern beside her, a familiar red dog lounging at her feet.

She glanced up at the sound of his footsteps on the walkway, a flicker of recognition crossing her face, followed by a frown. Before she could speak, he said quickly, “Lady Mariam, forgive me for disturbing you. I’d been in the church, praying for those who’d died today.” When she did not speak, he moved closer, oddly pleased when Ahmer wagged his tail in a lazy welcome. “I came to tell the queen about the strife in Messina. I can tell you, too, if that be your wish.”

She was not wearing a face veil tonight, but her silver bracelets and bright silken gown still gave her an exotic appearance; he was near enough now to catch the faint fragrance of sandalwood, to see the graceful fingers clasped in her lap, decorated with henna in the Saracen fashion. But there was no light in those golden eyes, and he knew at once that this woman was in no mood for playful flirtation or teasing banter.

“What makes you think I’d want to hear about it?”

Her tone was challenging, but he took encouragement from it, nonetheless; at least she was not telling him to go away. “Messina is a Sicilian city,” he said, choosing his words with care, “and you are the daughter of a Sicilian king. If the bloodshed brought distress to the Lady Joanna, it must be even more distressing for you.”

“Actually, it was not,” she said coolly, much to his surprise. “I have no reason to grieve for Messina. Shall I tell you why? Because it is not Palermo.”

“I am not sure I understand.”

“Why should you?” She’d been curled up on the bench like a sleek, elegant cat, her feet tucked under her skirts, but the tension in her body belied her casual pose. “The inhabitants of Messina are Greek. I believe you call them Griffons. Your men distrust them because they heed the Patriarch of Constantinople and not the Holy Father in Rome. But it is not their religious beliefs that I find objectionable. It is their loathing for those of Saracen blood. Aside from the ones who serve the king, few Saracens dare to dwell in Messina. So I do not mourn that the Messinians have reaped what they have too often sown.”

Morgan decided that it would take a lifetime to understand the crosscurrents and rivalries in this strange land called Sicily. “I am not sorry to hear you say that, my lady. I’d feared that you might see me as one of those ‘long-tailed Englishmen’ who’d wreaked havoc upon the innocent citizens of Messina, that you’d not believe we were provoked into taking control of the city.”

He knelt by the bench, ostensibly to pet Ahmer, and looked up intently into her face. “But it is obvious that you are greatly troubled this night. If it is not the bloodshed in Messina, what causes you such sadness? I know it is presumptuous of me to ask such a question. I have found, though, that sometimes it is easier to confide in a stranger, doubtless why so many drunken confessions are exchanged in taverns and alehouses.”

She ducked her head, but not in time. Catching that fleeting smile, he felt a triumphant flush, as warming as wine. “Take up my offer, Lady Mariam. I can be a good listener, and surprisingly perceptive for one of those long-tailed English. Although I ought to say at the outset that being called ‘English’ is a mortal insult to a Welshman.”

She gave him a speculative, sidelong glance. “I do not remember telling you my name. How did you learn it?”

“I was not only smitten, I was resourceful, too,” he said with a grin. “I befriended some of the abbey servants, asking about the lovely lady with amber-colored eyes who was likely a member of the queen’s household. They knew at once whom I meant, told me that my heart had been stolen by King William’s sister.”

She turned her head to look him full in the face. “They told you, then, that my mother was a Saracen?”

He started to joke that they may have mentioned it, but caught himself in time, sensing that his answer mattered. Dropping his teasing tone, he said only, “Yes, they did.”

He saw it was the right answer, saw, too, that she seemed to be wavering. “No,” she said, after a long silence. “You would not understand. You know nothing of dual loyalties, of the whispers of the blood.”

“Did you not hear me say I am Welsh, cariad? Who would know better than a Welshman in the service of an English king?”

Her gaze was searching. “What would you do, then, if your English king led an invasion into Wales?”

“If it were Gwynedd, my loyalty to my family and my homeland would prevail over my loyalty to the king. If he attacked South Wales, it would depend upon the justness of his cause, upon whether I felt that he was in the right.”

“You answered that very quickly,” she observed. “So quickly that I think you must have given it some thought.”

“I have,” he admitted, “for there is no love lost between the Welsh and the English. Not that Richard thinks of himself as English. He enjoys ruling over them, but does not see himself as one of them, being a true son of Aquitaine. So you see, my lady, our loyalties are almost as murky as those of you Sicilians.” Starting to rise, he found that he had to steady himself with a hand on the bench. “Jesu, I think I aged ten years in the streets of Messina. So . . . now that you know how I would deal with a crisis of conscience, shall we discuss yours?”

Mariam’s face was guarded, but her fingers had begun to clench and unclench in her lap. He was willing to wait, and at last she said, “Richard wants Joanna to accompany him to Outremer and she has asked me to come with her.”

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the bench. When she nodded, he sat down beside her, expelling an audible sigh that had more to do with his aching bones than the proximity of this desirable female body. “We are very enlightened in Wales, allow children born out of wedlock to inherit if they are recognized by their fathers. I would guess that Sicily is as backward as England and France in that regard, but since you’re the daughter of a king, I’m guessing, too, that you’ve been provided for. So you are not dependent upon the queen’s bounty and could remain in Palermo if you wish.”

Taking her silence as assent, he shifted gingerly on the bench before continuing. “Those helpful abbey servants told me you’d been with Lady Joanna since her arrival in Sicily, so clearly there is a deep affection between you. Why would you balk, then? I can think of only two reasons. Many women would shrink from the hardships and dangers of such a voyage—but not you, Lady Mariam. That leaves those ‘whispers of the blood.’ You feel a kinship with the Saracens of Sicily, and fear that you may feel kinship, too, with the Saracens of Syria.”

She stared at him in astonishment. “You do not know me. As you said, we are strangers. So however did you guess that?”

“We Welsh have second sight.”

“I think you do. What is your name—Merlin?”

“Ah, so Lady Joanna has introduced you to the legend of King Arthur, who was Welsh, by the way.” Getting stiffly to his feet, he reached for her hand and brushed a kiss across those hennaed fingers. “Ask your queen to tell you about her Welsh cousin. Good night, my lady, and God keep you safe.”

“Wait—I have not solved my ‘crisis of conscience’ yet!”

“Yes, you have. You just were not asking yourself the right question.”

Mariam did not know whether to be annoyed or intrigued, finally deciding she was both. “At least tell me what ‘cariad’ means.”

“You can safely assume it is not a Welsh curse, my lady.” Although he’d already moved from the moonlight into the shadows, she could hear the smile in his voice and could not help smiling in return.

Once he’d gone, she slipped off the bench and began to pace the cloisters pathway, Ahmer trailing loyally at her heels. What was the right question, then? She’d been raised at the royal court, but “Merlin” was right; she’d always felt a kinship to her mother’s people, the “Saracens of Sicily.” Even though most of them still practiced the faith of Islam and she was a Christian, she’d heard those whispers of the blood. Just as “Merlin” had heard the whispers from . . . Gwynedd, was it? What had he said about the other Welsh, though? Ah, yes, that his loyalty would depend upon the justness of the cause.

She came to an abrupt halt, and then bent down and put her arms around the dog. “He was right, Ahmer. I was asking the wrong question. Do I believe that Jerusalem should be retaken from the Syrian Saracens? Yes, I do.” Hugging the puzzled dog, she began to laugh, so great was her relief. “Of course I do!”



THE ARCHBISHOP OF MONREALE was not sure what sort of reception to expect in Catania. He knew that he and Chancellor Matthew had not been in the king’s good graces lately, for they’d been telling him what he did not want to hear—that an alliance with the English would better serve Sicily’s interests than one with the French. Now that the English king had dared to seize the second city of his realm, whose voices was Tancred more likely to heed—those demanding vengeance or those urging moderation and restraint?

Before he could make his presence known to the king, he was intercepted by the chancellor. Following Matthew into the chapel, he said dryly, “I assume we are not here to pray?”

Matthew smiled. “Given my sinful past, I have need of all the prayers I can get. But I wanted to speak with you ere you see the king. Jordan Lapin and the admiral got here first, and as you’d expect, they were in a rage, the killing kind. Not only did the city fall whilst they looked on, their houses were amongst those plundered by the English. So quite understandably, they are hell-bent upon war. As are Tancred’s brother-in-law and most of his council, especially after they learned of the French king’s offer.”

“What offer, Matthew?”

“You’d almost think Messina was a French city, so great was Philippe’s fury. Some of it is wounded pride. The Messinians had appealed to him for protection, and then he had to stand by and watch whilst Richard captured the city in less time than it would take a priest to chant Matins. But much of it seems to be pure and honest hatred. If I were a gambling man, I’d be giving odds that the English and the French turn upon each other long ere they ever reach the Holy Land.”

“The offer, Matthew,” the archbishop prodded. “What was the offer?”

“Philippe sent the Duke of Burgundy to Tancred, suggesting that they form an alliance against Richard, promising the use of French troops in an attack upon the English.”

The archbishop’s jaw dropped. “What does the king say to this?”

“His head is at war with his heart. He knows that Heinrich von Hohenstaufen is our true enemy, but Richard’s arrogance is a bitter brew to swallow. I’d still hoped to be able to convince him that Richard would make a more useful ally than Philippe. But now I fear that this offer from the French might tip the scales in favor of war with the English.”

“I think I’d best see the king straightaway, then,” the archbishop said, “for I have information about the French king that he needs to know.”



TANCRED LOOKED HAGGARD, his sallow complexion and red-rimmed eyes testifying to anxious days and sleepless nights. “Sit down, my lord archbishop,” he said wearily. “But do not waste your breath arguing that the English king’s enmity toward Hohenstaufen matters more than his outrageous seizure of Messina. I’ve already heard enough of that from the chancellor.”

“You well know that the English king is no friend to the Holy Roman Emperor, my liege, so there is no need to remind you of it. I would rather talk with you about the French king.”

“Matthew told you of the Duke of Burgundy’s message? I admit I was taken by surprise. But the duke brought a letter in Philippe’s own hand, apparently written whilst the city was still under attack, for it is splattered with ink blots as if he were gripping his pen like a sword. Show him the letter, Matthew. Let him see for himself.”

“I do not doubt the sincerity of the French king’s rage, sire. But his actions after the fall of the city do raise doubts about the sincerity of his offer. As angered as he was by Richard’s attack upon Messina, he was even angrier to see the English flag flying over the city afterward. He demanded that the French flag be flown instead, reminding Richard of a pact they’d made at Vézelay to share equally all spoils during their campaign.”

Tancred stiffened. “You are sure of this?”

“I am, my lord. As you’d expect, Richard did not take kindly to the demand. I heard that his first impulse was to tell Philippe exactly where he could fly those French flags, in vivid and rather obscene detail. But when he calmed down, he agreed to replace his banners with those of the Hospitallers and the Templars, putting the city in their custody until he could come to terms with you.”

Tancred slumped back in his chair as the other men exchanged troubled glances. Richard was not going to be satisfied until Tancred turned over Joanna’s dower and William’s legacy. But once this was done, he’d be more amenable than Philippe to an alliance against the Holy Roman Empire. Tancred knew this, for he was far from a fool. But would he be willing to put Sicily’s welfare above his lacerated pride?



RICHARD ARRIVED in Bagnara bearing gifts—casks of wine for his knights and a beautiful chestnut mare for his sister, white mules for her ladies. He brought word, too, that peace reigned in Messina now that the dead had been buried, hostages taken for the citizens’ good behavior in the future, prices set for bread and wine, and some of the plundered goods returned. He was in such high spirits that Joanna suspected he had more to tell her, and that would prove to be true.



“ I AM SORRY I could not come over sooner, Joanna, but for the past few days I’ve been having secret negotiations with the Archbishop of Monreale and the chancellor’s son; the old man’s health did not allow him to make the trip from Catania.”

“There is no need to apologize, Richard. I know there were not enough hours in the day to get everything sorted out. Besides, Morgan has been very conscientious about keeping us informed of developments in Messina. Hardly a day has passed without him paying us a visit.”

“Yes, I’d noticed the lad was spending much of his time here in Bagnara this week. Need I remind him that you and he are cousins, irlanda?”

“I do enjoy his company, for I suspect he is a bit of a rake, and women always find men like that irresistible,” she said with a laugh. “But it is not my charms that are luring him across the Faro. He is very taken with Mariam.”

Richard was not sure who Mariam was, had no real interest in finding out. “Are you not going to ask how the negotiations with Tancred are going?”

“Since you have that cat-in-the-cream look about you, Brother, I’m guessing they are going well.”

“Better than that, lass. Tancred and I have made peace, and he has agreed to compensate you for the loss of your dower lands. How does twenty thousand ounces of gold sound to you?”

To Joanna, that sounded very good, indeed. “That is wonderful, Richard!” she cried, and flung herself into his arms. “And what of William’s legacy?”

“Another twenty thousand ounces in gold,” Richard said, sounding very pleased with himself. “Officially it is to be an advance payment for the marriage of his daughter to my heir, and is to be paid to the girl when the marriage takes place . . . if it ever does. It is a satisfactory arrangement, saving Tancred’s pride and giving me the use of the money in the Holy Land. I might well need to draw upon your share, too, Joanna, depending upon how long we’re in Outremer. Would you have any objections to this?”

“Of course not, Richard! I’d not begrudge you my last copper follaris,” she promised, generously and a little recklessly. “You said there is to be a marriage? Tancred’s daughters are very young, but is he willing to wait until you have a son? He does not know about Berengaria, after all.”

“No, Tancred preferred a flesh-and-blood heir for his girl. So I had to provide one for him.”

“But Johnny already has a wife. You told me you’d permitted him to wed the Gloucester heiress.”

“I did. Since they’d not been granted a dispensation for their marriage—they are cousins—I suppose it might have been possible to have it annulled. But I was not about to pay the Pope’s price for a favor like that. Fortunately I had another prospect, this one happily free of any marital entanglements—my little nephew Arthur.”

“Good Heavens, Richard!” Joanna was shocked that he seemed so casual about the succession to the English Crown, switching heirs as if it were of no greater matter than switching saddles. But then she realized why; he did not expect either John or Arthur to succeed him. And God willing, Berengaria would give him a son; she fervently hoped so. What of Johnny, though? How would he take this?

“I was very fond of Johnny once,” she said. “We were the two youngest, together at Fontevrault Abbey, and it was only natural that we’d form a bond. Granted, I have not seen him since I was ten and he was nine, so I know naught about the man he’s become. But you indicated that he sees himself and not Arthur as your heir. Will he not be very disappointed when he hears of this treaty with Tancred?”

“I suppose,” he said and shrugged. “But I never formally named him as my heir. He must have realized that it is likely I’d wed and sire a son of my own and, if not, that is his misfortune, not mine. I have already dispatched Hugh de Bardolf to England; he sailed this morning. With luck, he’ll bring the news to my justiciar, Longchamp, ere Johnny gets wind of it. If you’re right and Johnny does take it badly, Longchamp will make sure that he does no more than sulk.”

Joanna hoped that would be so. “I am glad that you’ve come to terms with Tancred, Richard. As dearly as I love Constance, I would not have wanted to see Heinrich ruling over Sicily. From what I’ve heard of the man, he is one to nurse a grievance to the grave. I do not know about Johnny, but I am sure you’ve made an enemy of Heinrich. He is going to be utterly enraged when he learns that Tancred’s kingship has been formally recognized by England. With this treaty, you may have earned his undying enmity.”

“I would hope so!” he said and laughed, sounding so carefree and confident that she could not help laughing with him.



WHEN PHILIPPE LEARNED that Tancred had agreed to pay Richard forty thousand ounces of gold, he was infuriated and claimed half of that amount as his share. Richard was no less infuriated by this demand, pointing out that Joanna’s dower could not possibly be considered spoils of war. The French king remained adamant, though, and Richard eventually and very grudgingly agreed to give Philippe a third, for he feared that the French might desert the crusade if he did not. After they’d patched up this latest dispute, they settled down to pass the winter in Messina and to await the return of favorable winds in the spring. But unbeknownst to Philippe, Richard was also awaiting the arrival of his mother and betrothed.