Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 12

FEBRUARY 1191

Messina, Sicily





In the span of one week, Richard received two messages from his mother, dispatched from Turin and Lodi,a letter from Chancellor Longchamp’s cojusticiars in England, complaining of his arrogance and refusal to heed any opinion but his own, and a warning from Longchamp himself, reporting that Count John had recently returned to England in a disgruntled frame of mind, having learned of Arthur’s designation as Richard’s heir. But these messages were eclipsed by the one that arrived on February 1 from Outremer, an urgent appeal for aid from Guy de Lusignan, his desperation proven as much by the timing of his letter as by his words themselves, for few ships ventured from Mediterranean ports during the stormy winter months.



RICHARD HAD RIDDEN OFF after getting Guy’s message, heading for the royal palace to inform Philippe of the latest developments in Outremer. André de Chauvigny had been privy to the letter’s contents, and he was soon surrounded by Baldwin de Bethune, Morgan ap Ranulf, and Robert Beaumont, the new Earl of Leicester. Robert had been given the earldom by Richard that very morning, word having reached them in the past week of his father’s death. The elder Beaumont had chosen a land route to Outremer, and it had proven to be as unlucky for him as it had been for Frederick Barbarossa; he’d died in Romania that past September.

André glanced from face to face, then nodded. “The king will be announcing the news soon enough, so I see no reason to make you wait. The word from Outremer was not good. There have been many deaths, more from sickness than Saracen swords, and they are suffering from famine as well as plague. Amongst those who’ve died at Acre are Thibault, the Count of Blois, and his brother, the Count of Sancerre. The Archbishop of Canterbury was also taken ill, dying on November nineteenth. But the most significant death was that of the Queen of Jerusalem. The Lady Sybilla died of the plague in October, a few days after her two young daughters were called home by God.”

The other men exchanged troubled glances, understanding now why Richard had seemed so grim as he’d ridden out of camp. Guy de Lusignan’s hold upon power had always been precarious, given his widespread unpopularity, but with the death of his queen and daughters, he was rendered truly superfluous, for the bloodright to the throne had been vested in Sybilla.

“Who does the crown pass to now, then?” Leicester asked, for he was quite unlike his late, unlamented father and, having no false pride, was willing to ask if he did not know. “Does Sybilla have any other kin?”

“Yes, a younger half-sister, Isabella. But she was wed to a man even less respected than Guy de Lusignan, a lord named Humphrey de Toron who’d long been regarded as a weakling and milksop. Knowing that none wanted to see Humphrey crowned, Conrad of Montferrat saw his chance and seized it. Conspiring with the Bishop of Beauvais and Isabella’s mother, Queen Maria, who is now wed to one of the powerful Ibelin family, he argued that Isabella’s marriage to Humphrey was invalid because she’d been only eight when the marriage was arranged and eleven when it took place.”

“And how did Conrad benefit from this?”

André smiled. “Ah, Morgan, you Welsh do get right to the heart of the matter. Conrad offered to wed Isabella himself once she was free of Humphrey—for the good of the kingdom, of course. I daresay he’d have taken her if she’d been a misshapen, poxed hag, but Conrad has always had the Devil’s own luck, for the girl is just eighteen and said to be a beauty. Humphrey balked, though, and so did Isabella, saying she’d freely given her consent. There was some sympathy for Humphrey at first, but he lost it all when one of Conrad’s men challenged him to a duel to settle the matter and he refused. Isabella showed more backbone, insisting she loved her husband and did not want to be parted from him. But Conrad and her mother eventually bullied her into going along with it, arguing that only a strong king could save Outremer from Saladin. The Archbishop of Canterbury was made of sterner stuff, though, and flatly refused to annul the marriage, saying it was valid in the Eyes of God. But then he was stricken with the plague. As soon as he died, Conrad got the Archbishop of Pisa to annul Isabella’s marriage and they were quickly wed by Philippe’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais. So now Conrad is claiming the crown as Isabella’s husband and Guy de Lusignan is entreating Richard to come to his aid as soon as possible, arguing that he is the rightful king.”

There was silence after he was done speaking, for they understood the implications of Guy’s plea. Conrad was cousin both to the French king and the new Holy Roman Emperor, while Guy was Richard’s vassal, with the right to claim his liege lord’s protection. They could well end up fighting one another instead of the Saracens.



RICHARD WAS STILL in a foul mood the next day, infuriated that these political rivalries were putting the crusade at risk. Rather than brooding about it, he decided to exercise his stallion, setting out along the coastal road with his cousins and some of his household knights. It was remarkably mild for Candlemas, the sea shimmering like blue-green glass, the sun warm on their faces, their horses eager to run, and by the time they headed back toward Messina, Richard was in better spirits.

“Guy says that Conrad bribed the archbishop and others to gain their support,” he told André and Morgan, “and he claims Conrad was not even free to wed, having left a wife back in Montferrat and another one in Constantinople. Of course Conrad swore that they both were dead,” he said, with such obvious skepticism that Morgan saw he’d already made up his mind. He was going to support his vassal, just as Philippe would surely support Conrad, his cousin. As he glanced over at the English king, a Welsh proverb popped into Morgan’s head. Nid da y peth ni phlyco warned it was a bad bow that would not bend. From what he’d so far seen in Sicily, neither Richard nor Philippe were ones for bending.

“As if you did not have troubles in abundance,” André sympathized, “now you must quickly act to fill the vacancy at Canterbury. Lord knows who those fool monks would elect if left to their own devices.”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that for some time,” Richard admitted. “Archbishop Baldwin was elderly, not in good health, and likely to die in the Holy Land. So I already have a man in mind—the Archbishop of Monreale.” Richard grinned then, for he enjoyed catching others by surprise. “During our negotiations over Messina, he impressed me with his intelligence and integrity. He has taken the cross, too, unlike so many of his fellow prelates who were loath to give up the comforts of home. The Canterbury monks are as stubborn as mules, so they might well balk at electing one they consider a foreigner. But I’ll soon—” Breaking off suddenly, he reined in his horse. “What is happening up ahead?”

The road was blocked, men on horseback milling about, others dismounted, all of them watching a bohort, an informal tournament taking place in an adjacent field. Some of the bystanders were English, but most were French, and they were laughing and shouting rude advice as knights engaged one another with long reeds called sugar canes by the Sicilians. At the sight of his wife’s uncle, Jaufre swung his mount around to greet the English king. “We came upon a peasant taking his canes to market,” he said, pointing toward an elderly farmer; holding the reins of his donkey, he was watching with bemusement as these foreigners wielded his canes like lances. He did not seem indignant, but Richard still asked if he’d been paid for his crop, for he wanted no more trouble with the townspeople during the remainder of their stay.

“We kept handing over coins until he smiled,” Jaufre assured Richard, for Philippe was just as adamant that the Messinians not be cheated. “Why not join in, my liege? We have more than enough canes. Unless of course your men fear defeat?”

The challenge was good-natured, given with a grin, and Richard saw that his knights were eager to accept it. “Go on,” he said indulgently, and most of them quickly dismounted, squabbling with one another over the longest, sturdiest canes. Richard had no interest in joining them, for he had no need to hone his own skills and dismissed tournaments as mere rehearsals for the real event. But then the young Mathieu de Montmorency noticed the new arrivals.

“My lord king,” he cried out gleefully, “you are just in time! Surely you are not going to pass up a chance to knock a French knight on his arse? You can have my own cane to smite them!”

Mathieu offered it then with a dramatic flourish, and to the surprise of Richard’s men, he reached out and took it. They knew Richard deliberately encouraged the boy’s hero worship because it obviously annoyed Philippe. But they knew, too, his indifference to tourneys. “He must be as just as bored as we are,” André murmured to Morgan. As he followed the direction of Richard’s gaze, though, he drew a sharp breath. “Ballocks!”

Morgan and Baldwin looked, too, saw nothing out of the ordinary. When they turned questioningly to him, André said softly, “There’s the reason for his sudden interest, the man on that bay stallion—Guillaume des Barres.”

They both knew of the French knight, of course, for he was almost as celebrated for his martial skills as William Marshal. It made sense to them that Richard should want to test himself against such a worthy foe, and they saw no cause for concern; it was only a bohort, after all. But then André quietly told them of Richard’s history with the other man.

“It happened the year ere the old king died. Richard had not yet forged an alliance with Philippe, and when he got word that the French king was at Mantes, he made a raid into the surrounding countryside. There was a skirmish with the French and he captured Guillaume des Barres. Because he was a knight, Richard accepted his pledge, and continued the fight. But des Barres broke his parole and escaped by stealing a sumpter horse.”

Seeing their surprise, André shrugged. “I do not know why he dishonored himself like that. Mayhap he acted impulsively when he saw a chance to flee. Mayhap he feared he’d not be able to pay the ransom Richard would demand. I can only tell you that Richard was outraged when he learned of it and has borne des Barres a grudge ever since.”

Baldwin and Morgan agreed that Richard had a legitimate grievance. They did not share André’s unease, though, for when had a man ever been run through with a sugar cane? And surely des Barres would have the sense to keep out of Richard’s way.

Now that there was to be a French–English clash, the impromptu bohort seemed more like a genuine tournament, and Richard’s unusual participation ratcheted up the excitement. The knights lined up on opposite sides of the field, and since no one had a trumpet, the signal was the battle cry of the first crusade. “Deus vult!” “God wills it!” Their stallions kicking up clouds of dust, the men charged toward one another as the spectators shouted and cheered.

Just as André had suspected, Richard headed straight for Guillaume des Barres, his path as true as an arrow. Guillaume urged his mount forward and they came together in the center of the field. Richard got the worst of the exchange, for his cane broke when Guillaume parried the blow. He was circling around to get another cane from one of his squires when he saw the triumphant smile on the other man’s face. Disregarding the outstretched cane, he spurred his stallion forward as if they were on the battlefield, slamming into Guillaume’s bay with such force that he stumbled and Guillaume would have gone sailing over his head had he not grabbed the mane. But Richard had not emerged unscathed, for the impact loosened his cinch and his saddle started to slip. He swiftly dismounted, snatched the reins of the nearest horse, and vaulted up into the saddle to continue the attack.

By now they had attracted the attention of the spectators and even some of the men on the field, who’d lowered their canes to watch. Guillaume had managed to regain his balance. When Richard’s stallion charged him again, his bay shied and only his skilled horsemanship kept him from falling. Before he could right himself, Richard grabbed his arm and yanked, expecting to pull him from the saddle. He had not often encountered a foe with his physical strength, but now he found himself unable to dislodge the other man. Guillaume clutched his horse’s neck, clasping his knees tightly against the animal’s sides, and when Richard angrily demanded that he yield, he stubbornly refused, resisting the English king’s attempts to unseat him as if his very life depended upon the outcome.

All eyes were riveted upon them, the French dismayed to see one of their own in danger of being publicly humiliated, the English cheering their king on. But gradually the spectators fell silent, worried by the ferocity of the struggle, so utterly out of place in the midst of a bohort. It was the newly titled Earl of Leicester who sought to break the impasse. Impulsively spurring his stallion forward, he reined in beside Guillaume and reached out to grab the French knight. He had good intentions, wanting only to help his king. He did not know Richard that well, though. Those who did, winced.

“Get away!” Richard snarled. “This is between the two of us!” By now their exertion had begun to take a toll. Both men were flushed and panting, their chests heaving and their tunics soaked in sweat, their faces smeared with dust. After Leicester’s brutal rebuff, none dared to intervene. They could only hope that neither man would draw his sword and turn this bizarre duel of wills into a combat to the death.

“Yield, you misbegotten son of a whore!” Again and again Richard pulled with all of his considerable strength, but to no avail. The other man clung to his horse like a barnacle, refusing to admit defeat. At last Richard released his grip and drew back. Feeling as if his arm had been wrenched from its socket, Guillaume straightened up in the saddle, keeping his eyes warily upon the English king, for Richard’s fury showed no sign of abating. To the contrary, he was staring at Guillaume with such utter and implacable hatred that the Frenchman felt a chill, for now that the red haze of battle was subsiding, he was realizing how grievously his pride had led him astray.

He had no chance to offer an olive branch, though. “Get yourself from my sight,” Richard said, his words all the more alarming for the flat, measured tone in which they were uttered, “and take care never to come before me again. From now on, you are my enemy and there is no place for you in our army.”

Guillaume gasped, for that sounded ominously like a sentence of banishment. That was how the other men took it, too, and an uneasy silence fell, no one quite understanding how a friendly game with canes could end in an ultimatum and exile.



GUILLAUME DES BARRES was too edgy to sit and was pacing back and forth. When Jaufre walked over to offer a wine cup, he shook his head. “You think our king will be able to make him see reason?”

“I do,” Jaufre said, hiding his doubts with a display of hearty confidence. “Once Richard’s anger cools, he’ll see the unfairness of it.”

“But what if he does not?” This mournful query came from the window-seat where Mathieu de Montmorency was huddled, knees drawn up to his chest. Jaufre felt a twinge of pity, for the boy had been even more shaken than Guillaume by Richard’s threat. Jaufre had not liked this glimpse of Richard’s dark side, either, but unlike Mathieu, he’d never seen the English king as the living embodiment of the chivalric code. He was about to offer Mathieu the same assurances he’d just given Guillaume when the youth twisted sideways on the seat and leaned out the open window. “The king is back! But he looks so grim! Do you think that means . . .”

“He always looks grim, lad,” Jaufre said, thinking that Philippe doled out smiles the way a miser doled out coins. Within moments, Philippe strode into the hall. One glance at his narrowed eyes and thinned mouth told them that his mission had been a failure. He was trailed by the Duke of Burgundy, who shook his head and grimaced.

“He would not heed you, my liege?” Now that he was facing the worst, Guillaume’s nervousness had ebbed, and he sounded quite calm, his the sangfroid of a man who’d spent most of his life soldiering.

“No.” Philippe bit off the word so tersely that they could see the muscles clenching along his jawline. “He remains adamant, insisting that you be dismissed from my service. He dared to give orders to me, an anointed king and his liege lord!”

“So be it,” Guillaume said softly, and then raised his head, squaring his shoulders. “I will leave Messina as he demands, for I do not want to jeopardize our quest. Nothing matters more than the recovery of the Holy Land. But I will not abandon my vow. If I cannot accompany you to Outremer, my liege, I will go on my own.”

“No, you are going nowhere!” Philippe said sharply, and Guillaume looked to the other men for guidance.

Seeing that the Duke of Burgundy was not going to intercede, Jaufre suppressed a sigh. “Sire . . . Guillaume is right. Ours is a sacred quest, one that requires sacrifices.”

Philippe’s lip curled disdainfully. “Sacrifices? What sacrifices has Richard made?”

“Mayhap it was the wrong choice of words. I ought to have said ‘compromises.’ I am not defending Richard. He is in the wrong, not Guillaume. But he has been the one to compromise in the past.”

Philippe’s gaze was so piercing that Jaufre took an involuntary step backward. But farther than that he would not go. “You may not want to hear it, my lord king. It has to be said, though. After Richard seized Messina, you demanded that he lower his banners and replace them with yours. Even though you’d taken no part in the capture of the city, he agreed to fly the flags of the Templars and Hospitallers instead of his own. He compromised. And when he got that gold from Tancred, he gave you a third, even though you had no claim to Queen Joanna’s dower. Again, he compromised. Now . . . now it is your turn.”

To Jaufre’s relief, he got support then from an unexpected source—from Hugh of Burgundy. “As much as it pains me to say it, Cousin, Jaufre is right. You do need to compromise, however unjust Richard’s demand. Humor him for now, if that will keep the peace between you. Mark it down as a debt owed, one to be repaid when the time is right.”

Philippe did not have much regard for Jaufre’s opinion, suspicious of his marriage to Richard’s niece, but he did respect Hugh’s judgment. After a long, labored silence, he beckoned to Guillaume. “I will ask Tancred to give you shelter at Catania. But this I promise you—that when I sail for Outremer, you will sail with me.”



PHILIPPE’S ANGER BURNED all the hotter that Guillaume had behaved so honorably, offering no protests, no complaints about the injustice of the banishment. He was still fuming hours later when a messenger arrived, bearing a letter from Heinrich von Hohenstaufen. Breaking the seal, he scowled to see it was in Latin, for he had no knowledge of the language that was the voice of the Church, a verbal bridge linking the countries of Christendom. Rather than summoning a scribe or clerk, he handed the letter to his cousin. “You know Latin, Hugh. What does it say?”

Hugh scanned the contents, then looked up at the others in genuine surprise. “He says that Richard’s mother is in Italy! They crossed paths at Lodi last month.” After a moment to reflect, he said, “That is one mystery solved, then. At least now we know how Richard learned of Frederick Barbarossa’s death ere we did.”

Philippe shook his head impatiently. “That does not matter. What does is the reason for that witch’s presence in Italy. What could be important enough to justify such a long and difficult journey at her age?” He was looking at Hugh, but it was obvious to the others that he was no longer seeing the duke, his gaze turning inward. “Why did he send for her?” he muttered, as if to himself. “What is that swine up to now?”



AT ROME, Eleanor had another chance meeting, this time with Philip d’Alsace, the Count of Flanders, who’d also taken the cross and was on his way to Outremer. He decided to accompany them south to Naples, and as she watched Eleanor conversing composedly with the count, Berengaria could only marvel at the older woman’s self-possession, for Hawisa had confided that the queen had good reason to detest Philip. He’d been wed to Eleanor’s niece, her sister’s daughter, Hawisa revealed, and after some years of a childless marriage, he’d accused her of adultery. The man said to be her lover had been brutally murdered, but Philip had not divorced his wife; instead he’d compelled her to turn her inheritance, the rich county of Vermandois, over to him. According to Hawisa, many people felt the charges were false; the alleged lover’s brothers were so outraged that they’d rebelled. And yet Eleanor made sure that the count saw only the queen, never the angry aunt, still more proof to Berengaria that she was entering an alien world where statecraft seemed to matter more than family feelings or even the teachings of the Holy Church.

In Naples, Aliernus Cottone, the city’s compalatius, welcomed them effusively, hosting a lavish feast in their honor and turning one of Tancred’s castles over to them for the duration of their stay in his city, a stone fortress on a small island in the harbor. They then settled down to await the arrival of Richard’s ships. Now that she was within days of her reunion with her son, Eleanor’s spirits soared, but Hawisa’s plummeted, for she was not eager to see her new husband, William de Forz.

Berengaria’s emotions were more ambivalent; she was excited to meet Richard again, but she was nervous, too, now that her new life was about to begin, for she was starting to realize how much would be demanded of her as England’s queen.



RICHARD’S GALLEYS ENTERED the city harbor at nightfall. Richard had sent one of his admirals, William de Forz, and two of his kinsmen, André de Chauvigny and Morgan ap Ranulf, to escort his mother and betrothed to Messina. The men were tired, dirty, and hungry after their voyage, and they were grateful when Eleanor sent them off to their sleeping quarters, where baths and food awaited them. De Forz departed at once, insisting that his wife personally tend to his needs. André and Morgan soon followed, after giving Eleanor letters from Richard and Joanna.

Eleanor picked up an oil lamp and sat down to read the letters. But as she was about to break the seal on the first one, she glanced up and saw the forlorn look on Berengaria’s face. After spending more than three months together, she’d concluded that the girl would make a suitable wife for her son; her quiet courage and common sense were qualities he’d appreciate. She’d been pleased that Berengaria had shown no signs of the “neediness” that Richard had fretted about, but she could understand why the young woman was disappointed that there’d been no letter for her, and so she said, with a wry smile,

“Even the most intelligent of men can lack a woman’s perception or insight, child. That was surely true of Richard’s father, who had not a spark of romance in his soul. When we were first wed, he bestowed compliments so sparingly that I finally complained. He said he saw no point in flattery, for if a woman was a beauty, she already knew it, and if she was not, she’d know he lied.”

While Berengaria was slightly embarrassed that Eleanor had seen her chagrin, it was the first time that Richard’s mother had spoken to her like this, woman to woman, and she reveled in the intimacy. “Is Richard like his father?”

Eleanor started to speak, then realized, somewhat to her surprise, that she did not know how her son was with a woman. She’d been cheated of so much during her years of captivity, losing time with her children that could never be gotten back. But one lesson she’d learned long ago was that regrets served for naught. And so she smiled at Berengaria, saying, “Yes, they were more alike than either one would admit. So I can speak from my own experience when I tell you that life with Richard will not always be peaceful. But it will never be dull.”

Berengaria returned Eleanor’s smile, remembering a dinner conversation they’d had in Rome with an Italian countess. She’d asked playfully what quality they most valued in a husband, offering wealth as her own criterion. Hawisa had quipped that the ideal husband was one who was absent, while Eleanor had chosen one with wit, a man who could make her laugh. Berengaria would have picked kindness, thinking of her father and the tenderness he’d always shown her mother. She’d not spoken her thoughts aloud, though, not wanting them to think her naïve. She wished now that she could ask Eleanor if her son was kind. But she would have to find that out for herself.



BERENGARIA DID NOT LIKE Hawisa’s new husband. William de Forz dominated the conversation at dinner the next day, not even letting the Count of Flanders get a word in edgewise. He dwelt upon his command of Richard’s fleet at interminable length, making ocean voyages sound so perilous that Berengaria shivered, thinking of the turbulent, untamed sea that lay between Italy and Outremer. But what followed was even worse, for he began to tell the women about the great perils awaiting their army in the Holy Land.

“Plague and famine haunt that unhappy kingdom,” he proclaimed theatrically, “posing far greater threats than the most bloodthirsty of Saracen infidels. During the winter when ships could not reach the camp at Acre, food became so scarce that a penny loaf of bread sold for as much as forty shillings, a single egg cost six deniers, and a sack of corn one hundred pieces of gold. Horses were worth more dead than alive, and men were reduced to eating grass to survive. If the bishops of Salisbury and Verona had not raised money to feed the poor, the Good Lord alone knows how many might have died.”

André and Morgan exchanged amused glances, for de Forz’s posturing made it sound as if he’d been present at the siege of Acre instead of getting the news secondhand from Guy de Lusignan’s letter to Richard. “The arrival of three supply ships eased the famine,” he continued, “but there was no protection against the plague. Death relentlessly stalks that bloody ground, and high birth is no defense. The Queen of Jerusalem and her young daughters died at Acre. So did the Count of Blois and his brother. The Archbishop of Canterbury. The Grand Master of the Templars. And your grandson, Madame, the young Count of Champagne. . . .”

When Eleanor gasped, de Forz belatedly hastened to reassure her. “Nay, he is not dead. But he was struck down by the same illness that killed his uncles, and for a time they despaired of his life. They say the very air of Outremer is noxious to newcomers, for how else to explain why so many are stricken so soon after their arrival?”

Morgan noticed Eleanor’s sudden pallor. Glancing over, he saw that Berengaria was looking distressed, too, and he frowned, marveling that de Forz could be such a lack-wit. Did he truly think Richard’s mother and betrothed wanted to hear of all those deaths, of all the dangers the king wald be facing in Outremer? “The king built a wooden castle on the hill above Messina,” he said abruptly, determined to banish the fearful images de Forz had been conjuring up, “and he had all the sections marked so it can be taken apart and packed up when he departs for Outremer. He has done the same for his siege engines, too, so they can be easily reassembled at Acre.”

The women seemed interested in that, but de Forz was not ready to relinquish control of the conversation. “Tell them what he calls the castle, Morgan,” he said with a grin. “Mate-Griffon, or Kill the Greeks!” He then launched into a melodramatic account of Richard’s seizure of Messina before returning to his favorite subject, the killing fields of the Holy Land.

By now André had also noticed the effect de Forz’s blustering was having upon Eleanor and Berengaria. Leaning forward, he interrupted smoothly, “I think the queen and the Lady Berengaria would rather hear about the king’s meeting with the prophet, Joachim of Corazzo.”

“Indeed I would.” Eleanor turned toward Berengaria, intending to explain that Joachim was a celebrated holy man, renowned for his knowledge of Scriptures and his interpretations of the Book of Revelations. But Berengaria needed no such tutoring.

“I’ve heard of him!” she exclaimed, her eyes shining. “He says that there are three ages, that of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit, and that the Last Days are nigh, which will precede the Last Judgment.”

“Exactly so, my lady,” André confirmed. “The king wanted to hear his prophesies for himself, as he’d heard that Joachim identifies Saladin as the sixth of the seven great enemies of the True Faith. We were much heartened by what he told us—that Saladin will be driven from the Kingdom of Jerusalem and slain, and it will be King Richard who brings this about.”

Berengaria felt a thrill of pride, greatly honored that her betrothed was the man chosen by God to fulfill these holy prophesies and vanquish such a deadly foe of the Church. She found it very encouraging, too, that Richard had sought the mystic out, for that showed his faith had deeper roots than his worldly demeanor might indicate.

“Joachim claimed that the Antichrist, the last of Holy Church’s seven tormentors, is already born,” André resumed, “and dwelling in Rome. According to Joachim, he will seize the apostolic throne and proclaim himself Pope ere being destroyed by the Coming of the Lord Christ.”

De Forz cut in again, chuckling. “The king disputed Joachim on that point, suggesting that the Antichrist was already on the apostolic throne, the current Pope, Clement III!”

That evoked laughter, for they all knew how much Richard disliked Clement. But to Berengaria, Richard’s sardonic gibe skirted uncomfortably close to blasphemy, and she could manage only a flicker of a smile. She forgot her discomfort, though, with de Forz’s next revelation.

“Soon thereafter, the king made a dramatic act of penance, summoning his bishops to the chapel where he knelt half naked at their feet and confessed to a sinful, shameful past in which he’d yielded to the prickings of lust. He abjured his sin and gladly accepted the penance imposed upon him by the bishops, who commended him for his repentance and bade him live henceforth as a man who feared God.”

Berengaria caught her breath and then smiled, suffused with such utter and pure joy that she seemed to glow and, for that moment, she looked radiantly beautiful. “How courageous of him,” she murmured, more impressed by that one act of devout contrition than by all the tales she’d heard of Richard’s battlefield heroics. “Scriptures say that ‘God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble.’”

Eleanor murmured a conventional piety, but, unlike Berengaria, she was more puzzled than gratified by Richard’s spectacular atonement. She was convinced that her husband’s equally spectacular penance at the martyred Thomas Becket’s tomb in Canterbury had been more an act of desperation than one of contrition. She knew, though, that Richard was more emotional and impulsive than his father. Moreover, he had a flair for high drama that Henry had utterly lacked. Was that enough to explain his mea culpa in Messina? Were his sins so great that he felt the need for a public expiation?

Once the meal was over, a harpist was summoned to play and the guests broke into small groups. William de Forz withdrew to a window-seat with the Count of Flanders for a spirited discussion of recent political developments in Outremer. Morgan was flirting with Berengaria and several of her ladies. Eleanor could not help noting that Hawisa stayed as far away from de Forz as she could get, and she felt a flicker of sympathy, for she’d become fond of the outspoken countess and she knew what it was like to be yoked to an unwanted husband. She chatted for a time with the Navarrese envoys and then seized her chance to draw her kinsman aside for a private word.

“You know Richard as well as any man alive,” she said quietly, “for you’ve fought beside him for years. Tell me, André . . . what impelled him to make an act of atonement like that?”

“I think it was because of what Joachim told him, Madame. He said that the king is destined to fulfill those prophesies, that Almighty God will grant him victory over his enemies and glorify his name for all eternity. Naturally, such a prophesy gladdened the king’s heart, but I believe it caused him to search his soul, too. To be told that his deeds could bring about the salvation of mankind is both a great honor and a great burden. I think he wanted to be sure that he was worthy, and so he felt the need to cleanse himself of past sins.”

Eleanor was glad that she’d asked André, for his explanation made perfect sense to her. “Well,” she said with a smile, “he surely emerged as pure as one of the Almighty’s own lambs after such a public scourging of his soul.”

“Indeed, Madame.” André’s answering smile was bland, for not for the surety of his own soul would he have discussed Richard’s sins with his mother, even a mother as worldly as this one. Theirs was a friendship that went deeper than blood, for it had been forged on the battlefield, and he thought it likely that only Richard’s confessor knew more about his cousin’s vices than he did, for some he had witnessed, some he had shared, a few he had suspected, and others neither he nor Richard considered to be sins at all.

Turning away then to fetch Eleanor more wine, André found himself dwelling upon those questions that all true Christians must grapple with. He believed that he was a good son of the Church. But he did not understand why lust was so great a sin. Why must his faith be constantly at war with his flesh? He listened dutifully when priests warned that he must not lie with his wife in forbidden positions or on holy days or Sundays or during Lent, Advent, or Pentecost. He did not always follow those prohibitions, though, and this was a source of dissention in his marriage. But why was it a sin if Denise mounted him or if they made love in the daylight? Why was a man guilty of adultery if he burned with excessive love for his own wife?

It sometimes seemed to him that the Church Fathers knew little of the daily struggles of ordinary men and women. In his world, fornication was not a vice, at least not for men, and it was his secret belief that adultery ought to be a conditional sin, too. What of married men who’d taken the cross? Were they supposed to live as chastely as saints until they could be reunited with their wives? Even the worst sins, those held to be against nature, any sex act that was not procreative, seemed less wicked under certain circumstances. If a poor couple could not afford another child, was it truly so evil to try to avoid pregnancy? He thought the sin of sodomy was more understandable, more forgivable, when committed by soldiers, for what did clerics know of the solidarity of men at war or the sudden, burning urges that followed a battle, a narrow escape from death? All knew that was a vice of the monastery, and surely the Almighty would judge soldiers less harshly than easy-living, privileged monks? No, it seemed to him that there were greater sins than those of the flesh, and no sermons about the Devil’s wiles and eternal damnation had explained to his satisfaction why the Lord God would have made carnal intercourse so pleasurable if such pleasure was a pathway to Hell. Certain that celibacy was an unattainable goal for most men and women, he’d found himself a confessor who’d lay light penances and he took communion before battles so he’d die in a state of grace. More than that, he was convinced, a man could not do.

He’d just returned to Eleanor with a goblet of sweet red wine from Cyprus when his cousin Nicholas de Chauvigny hastened toward them. “Madame, the compalatius has just ridden in and is requesting to speak with you.”

As they awaited his entry, Eleanor commented to André that Aliernus Cottone had doubtless heard of their arrival and wanted to bid them welcome on King Tancred’s behalf. That seemed likely to André. But he changed his mind as soon as the compalatius was ushered into the hall, for his discomfort was obvious to all with eyes to see.

Eleanor noticed it, too, and she began to assess the man at Aliernus’s side. His costly garments proclaimed him to be a lord of rank, as did the sword at his hip, and unlike his companion, he seemed utterly at ease, with the smug complacency of one who enjoyed being the bearer of bad tidings.

The Count of Flanders had sauntered over to join them, his nonchalant smile belied by his narrowed gaze, for Philip read men as well as Eleanor did. After exchanging greetings, Aliernus introduced the stranger as Count Bernard Gentilis of Lesina, Captain and Master Justiciar of Terra de Lavoro, and then said, with the resolve of one determined to get an unpleasant task over with, “The count brings unwelcome news, Madame. I will let him speak for himself, though.”

Eleanor realized then that Aliernus’s disquiet was actually the embarrassment of a man confronted with a duty he did not like. “My lord count?” she asked silkily. “I assume you come from King Tancred. Since he is allied with my son, the English king, I cannot imagine that any news from him would be unwelcome.”

“I have been instructed to tell you, Madame, that you may not sail from Naples. My lord king has decided that your entourage is too large to be accommodated in Messina, and you must continue your journey by land.”

There was a moment of shocked silence before the hall erupted in angry protest, William de Forz identifying himself grandly as the king’s admiral and André dismissing the count’s explanation as utter rubbish. It was Philip d’Alsace, though, who shouted the others down, demanding to know if this idiotic order applied to him, too.

The Count of Lesina seemed unperturbed by the hornet’s nest he’d stirred up. “No, my lord Count of Flanders, you may go wherever you will,” he said with insulting indifference. “My orders apply only to the English queen.”

By now Berengaria had moved to Eleanor’s side, looking bewildered but resolute, and the older woman gave her a quick glance of reassurance. The quarrel was heating up and Eleanor interrupted before it could get out of control. Drawing Philip and Richard’s men aside, she said in a voice pitched for their ears alone, “We accomplish nothing by arguing with this man. We need to learn why Tancred has issued such an inexplicable order, and only my son can do that. I think you ought to return to Messina on the morrow and let Richard know what has happened.”

This delay meant that they would arrive in Messina after the start of Lent and she would not be able to see Richard and Berengaria wed. It was a great disappointment, but she was not about to let anyone see that, for she’d had much practice at hiding her heart’s wounds. Instead of raging as she yearned to do, she said calmly, “Tell Richard that we are well and will continue our journey south whilst he resolves this matter with Tancred.”



RICHARD’S ASTONISHMENT gave way almost at once to outrage. He resisted his first impulse, which was to berate the Count of Flanders for not remaining with his mother and Berengaria; he could not blame Philip for his eagerness to reach the Holy Land and an overland passage would add another month to his journey. Instead he said, “How would you like to meet the King of Sicily, Cousin?” Not waiting for Philip’s reply, he beckoned to one of his knights. “Ride to Catania with all due speed, and tell Tancred that the King of England will be there by week’s end, if not sooner.”