Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 34

JULY 1192

Acre, Outremer





The last Sunday in July was unusually hot even for an Outremer summer, but in late afternoon a westerly wind began to stir the fronds of palms and to rustle the silvery-green leaves of the ubiquitous olive trees. To take full advantage of it, Isabella, Berengaria, Joanna, and their ladies retreated to the palace roof, sheltering from the sun under a canvas canopy as they enjoyed the feel of a cooling sea breeze on flushed, sweltering skin.

Isabella had made herself as comfortable as her pregnancy would allow, resting her feet upon a footstool, easing her aching back with several small pillows. She’d been stitching a chrysom robe for her baby while Mariam read aloud to them from Chrétien de Troyes’s Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart. She put her sewing aside when Mariam excused herself to go belowstairs, and Anna at once hastened over. She was always eager to engage Isabella in conversation, and Joanna and Berengaria suspected it was because a faint scent of scandal trailed in Isabella’s wake. So far Isabella had good-naturedly indulged the girl’s curiosity, but the older women kept a watch on her, knowing Anna’s exuberance could be misread as impudence.

“I only had one brother,” Anna said sadly, “and he died. I still miss him. Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“Yes . . . I had an older half-brother and sister from my father’s first marriage, who are both dead.”

Anna mulled this over, for she found the genealogy of the kingdom’s Royal House to be rather confusing. “Oh, of course! Your brother was the Leper King!”

Joanna winced, and Berengaria and Sophia frowned. But Isabella did not lose her composure. “Yes, Baldwin was sometimes called that. There are people who believe leprosy is divine punishment for sin. The Pope even declared that Baldwin’s leprosy was the judgment of God. In Outremer, we know better. My brother was well loved by his subjects and greatly admired for his courage and gallantry.”

Seeing then that Anna was distressed by her faux pas, Isabella deftly changed the subject, saying, “And I have four younger siblings, two brothers and two sisters born to my mother and Balian. They’ve lived in Tyre since Balian’s lands were captured by Saladin—” She stopped so abruptly that she drew all eyes. Letting out an audible breath, she summoned up a smile when she saw that she was the center of attention. “My baby is active today. If I did not know better, I’d think there was a game of camp-ball going on in my womb.”

Those who’d borne children shared knowing smiles, remembering their own pregnancies. Berengaria had avoided this subject whenever possible and she felt a twinge of remorse; it was rude, after all, to ignore Isabella’s coming motherhood. “When is the baby due?” she asked, as warmly as she could.

“My midwife says early November, most likely around All Saints’ Day, but definitely ere Martinmas.”

Anna had thrown a cushion on the ground and settled herself comfortably at Isabella’s feet. “Have you selected any names for the baby?”

“No, I’ve not had a chance to discuss it with Henri yet. We’ll probably name a daughter Maria, for that would honor both our mothers. If it is a son, I think I’d like to call him Henri.” Isabella raised her chin, meeting the eyes of the other women with a trace of defiance. If any of them thought that unseemly, they were wise enough to hide it. Seeing no disapproval on their faces, she leaned back against the pillows and addressed the issue head-on. “Balian told me the Saracens are scandalized that I would wed Henri whilst carrying Conrad’s baby. One of them asked him, ‘But whose child will it be?’ And my stepfather, bless him, said, ‘It will be the Queen’s child.’ They found that impossible to understand.”

Joanna had come to admire Isabella’s courage and she proved that now by saying emphatically, “Well, we understand and that is all that matters. You did what a queen must always do—put the needs of your kingdom first.” She paused to make sure the other women got the message—that gossip would not be tolerated—for she’d heard several of Berengaria’s handmaidens and even her own Lady Hélène doing just that.

“I agree,” Berengaria said, just as staunchly, her gaze singling out the worst offender, who blushed and averted her eyes.

Isabella was pleased that both queens had spoken out so forcefully, for she’d noticed some tension lately between her own attendants and a few of their ladies-in-waiting, and she suspected careless or malicious chatter was at the heart of it. Her sense of mischief soon asserted itself, though, and she could not resist pointing out the obvious with an impish smile. “I did indeed do what I believed to be my duty. Of course few women would see it as a great hardship to wed the Count of Champagne.”

Midst the laughter that followed, Anna took advantage of the mellow mood. “May I ask a question, Lady Isabella?”

The fact that she’d felt the need to ask warned Isabella that it was likely to be intrusive. “You may ask, Anna. I cannot promise that I will answer.”

“I was wondering . . . Did you ever think of reuniting with your first husband after Conrad was slain?”

She was at once rebuked by Sophia for asking something so personal, but Isabella decided it was best to have it out in the open. “The past is like an impregnable castle perched on a sheer cliff, visible to all for miles around, but impossible to enter. There is no going back, Anna. Nigh on two years ago, the barons and bishops of Outremer made it quite clear that they would never accept Humphrey as king, and nothing has changed since then.”

Anna nodded, satisfied. “Humphrey is good-looking,” she acknowledged, damning him with faint praise. “But Henri is handsome, too, and he is very dashing, as well, almost as brave as Malik Ric. I hope I can find a husband like him.” This last comment was delivered with artless abandon, as if the thought just happened to pop into her head. It was actually calculated to nudge the conversation in the direction she wanted it to go. “I have another question,” she confided, meeting their eyes innocently, “this one for those who’ve been married. Can you tell me what it is like to lie with a man?” Before she could be reprimanded again, she said quickly, “I have the right to know, for I will be wed myself one day, and surely you’d not have me learn from the prattle of servants. I’ve heard the first time is supposed to hurt, but after that? Is it pleasant?”

Joanna was wryly amused when all eyes naturally turned toward her. She did indeed think Anna had a right to know; ignorance posed its own dangers. “Yes, it is pleasant,” she said, adding prudently that it must be enjoyed within the sacrament of marriage.

Anna leaned forward, blue eyes shifting from Joanna to Berengaria to Isabella, then back to Joanna again. “But what does it feel like?”

Joanna found that was not easy to explain. “It is . . . pleasurable,” she said, giving the other women a “help me” look.

Sophia remained conspicuously silent, confirming their suspicions about her years as Isaac’s wife, but Berengaria did her best. “It is an act of great intimacy, Anna. Most women find it very comforting to share such closeness with their husbands.”

Isabella had listened in growing surprise, not expecting them to use such bland, benign phrases for an experience so awesome. She opened her mouth to offer a far more vivid and compelling description of love-making, but caught herself in the nick of time, suddenly comprehending the reason for their caution.

Anna was disappointed, hoping for more specific answers, but she saw this was all she was going to get and, after a few moments, she wandered off with Alicia, who was obviously impressed by her friend’s boldness, for they were soon giggling together. Once the girls were out of hearing, Isabella leaned closer and lowered her voice. “At first I could not understand why you both were being so reticent, so reluctant to tell her the truth, but then I—”

“Reticent?” Joanna echoed, genuinely puzzled. “I was truthful with her, Isabella. It is important that young girls know it is not a sin to find pleasure in the marriage bed. If they are not told that by other women, they may pay heed to the wrong voices, to those who would have them believe that the loss of their virginity is to be mourned even within the sacrament of marriage. From childhood, they hear our priests preach that not even God can raise up a virgin once she has ‘fallen.’ Little wonder so many girls go to their marriage beds in such dread. Far better that Anna or Alicia should listen to us than to—”

“A Padre Domingo,” Berengaria interjected, and she and Joanna exchanged smiles, as if sharing a private joke.

Isabella was embarrassed now that she understood the magnitude of her mistake, and she was not sure what she was going to say if they questioned her about her “reticent” comment. Fortunately at that moment, Joanna cried out, “Anna! You and Alicia are too close to the roof’s edge.”

“There are men coming up the Jaffa Road, lots of them!” Anna shaded her eyes, balancing on tiptoe as she strained to see the distant banners, and then she turned back toward the women with a radiant smile. “It is Malik Ric!” Adding for Isabella’s benefit, “And your husband, too!”



ISABELLA WAS SOMEWHAT self-conscious about disrobing before Henri, for in the six weeks they had been apart, her body had changed dramatically, at least in her eyes. Her face seemed fuller, her slender ankles no longer so slender, her breasts larger than they’d ever been, blue veins vivid against the fairness of her skin. She supposed that many women felt like this as their pregnancies advanced, wondering if their husbands would continue to find them desirable. But few of them went to their marital bed carrying another man’s child. Would Henri still be able to see the woman behind that distended belly?

Her ladies had undressed her and she was already in bed when Henri entered. He was obviously eager to be alone with her, but he still took the time to greet her women courteously before he ushered them out; she’d been struck by his good manners from the time of their first meeting, when she was still Humphrey’s wife. Watching as he stripped with flattering speed, she felt desire stirring at the sight of his naked body. She’d been more fortunate than most women, for she’d been wed to three uncommonly handsome men, but she’d never wanted Humphrey or Conrad the way that she wanted Henri, and had since their first kiss upon the roof of the archbishop’s palace. She’d gloried in their love-making during their brief time together, experiencing sensations that were new and overwhelming, and she caught her breath when he turned, for he was offering indisputable physical proof of his need for her.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice husky. “No troubadour or trouvère would ever praise flaxen locks again after seeing you with your hair loose, flowing down your back like a midnight river.”

As he slid into bed beside her, she put her hand upon his chest, over his heart. “Thank you for that, Henri, for making me still feel desirable. I’m as swollen as a ripe melon, and I was not sure you would—”

She got no further, for he stopped her words with a kiss. “Melons,” he said, “are my favorite fruit.” He was nuzzling her throat, his breath warm on her skin. “But is it safe for the baby . . . ?”

“I asked the midwife,” she assured him, “and she said it was quite safe until the last month.”

The bed curtains were open and she could see the candle’s golden light dancing in his eyes; they were the blue of a harvest sky, she thought, for she was still in that sweet, bewitched state where everything about her lover was a source of pleasure and fascination. “So you asked the midwife,” he murmured, tightening his arms around her. “Dare I hope that means you missed me as much as I missed you?”

“I missed you very much, my darling.” She wasn’t sure she’d have confided so readily in Humphrey or Conrad, for she’d played a more passive role with them, as an innocent and then a dutiful wife. With Henri, honesty came easily, for with him, she felt free to be herself, free to admit that she’d been eager to have him back in her bed. “I was so glad when Dame Helvis told me our love-making would not endanger the baby. But . . .” She paused and then sighed when he kissed her breast; they were so close now that she could feel his arousal, hot against her thigh.

“But what, my love?”

“Well . . . look at my belly, Henri. How are we to . . . ?”

“Is that what is worrying you, Bella?” He laughed softly. “That is easy enough to remedy.” And he proceeded to prove it.



ISABELLA HAD REACHED her climax first, and so she was able to watch as Henri enjoyed his. Now she lay in the circle of his arms, marveling that the simple act of love-making could be so different. Their first couplings had been urgent and impassioned; they’d usually left a trail of discarded clothing scattered about their bedchamber and remained abed so late each morning that they were greeted with sly smiles when they eventually appeared in the great hall. Tonight, though, it had been less intense, slower and more deliberate. She knew he’d held back, and was touched that he was so protective of the baby, so protective of her. Surely a man capable of being both lustful and tender would be a good father.

“So . . .” he said, giving her a drowsy smile, “did you like being the one in the saddle?”

She had; this new position had given her greater freedom to move, and knowing it was prohibited by the Church was somehow exciting in and of itself. “Will I have to do penance for it?”

“Only if you tell your confessor. Have you never wondered, Bella, at the oddity of it—that the men who decide what comprises sins of the flesh are the same ones who shun such sins themselves? My uncle once said it was like asking a holy anchorite to lead an army into battle.”

“Which uncle—Richard?”

“No, Geoffrey, the one who was killed in a tournament outside Paris. Although I’m sure Richard would agree—as most men would. Few would argue that adultery is not a serious sin. But why is it sinful for you to mount me or for us to lie together during your pregnancy or even when you will have your flux? Granted, that might be untidy, but why sinful? Above all, I do not understand why the Church cautions men against loving their own wives too well, insisting that they sin if their lust burns too hot. If that be true, I am doomed,” he said cheerfully, “truly doomed!”

“I am, too, then,” she confessed, propping herself up on her elbow so she could watch the amusement playing across his face. She loved the intimacy of conversations like this, loved the way they could shut their bedchamber door and shut out the rest of the world, at least for a while. “That reminds me,” she said. “I had a very interesting and surprising discussion about carnal matters with your two aunts this afternoon.”

He cocked a brow in feigned shock. “Women talk about carnal matters?”

“As if you men do not!”

“Well, yes, we do that,” he conceded, grinning. “But men tend to boast about the vast number of their bedmates, and I would hope that is not true for royal wives like Joanna and Berengaria!”

“Speaking of that, you’ve said very little about your past. I know nothing of the women you’ve bedded.”

“And I intend to keep it that way,” he said firmly, although the corner of his mouth was twitching with suppressed laughter. Sitting up, he swung his legs onto the floor and returned a moment later with a cup of spiced wine. Offering her the first sip, he took several swallows before setting the cup down on the carpet. “So what do women say, then, when they talk of the marriage bed?”

“Well, it began with Anna asking us what it felt like to lie with a man. She wanted to know if it was ‘pleasant.’”

“It is only natural that she’d wonder about it,” Henri said with a chuckle.

“What did you tell her?”

“Joanna assured her that it was indeed ‘pleasant,’ and Berengaria agreed, saying the intimacy was very comforting. I could scarcely believe my own ears, for they made it sound so . . . so tame, so downright dull! I started to speak up, but then it occurred to me that they were deliberately understating it, lest Anna be too intrigued.”

“That makes sense. Anna is a handful, and if they’d dwelled too much upon the delights of the flesh, she might be tempted to try them for herself.”

“So I thought. But when I said as much once Anna was out of earshot, they looked at me in perplexity. Joanna said Anna deserved an honest answer and they’d given her one. It was only then that I understood, Henri. To them, love-making is indeed pleasant, enjoyable, intimate. But they know nothing of what else it can be, what you taught me it can be!”

“I am not sure I want to hear about my uncle’s bedsport, and for certes I do not want to envision my aunt Joanna in the throes of passion. They are my family, after all, and I still remember how discomfited I was as a lad when I realized that my own parents did the deed, too!”

They both laughed and she wished she’d known him then; she did not doubt he’d been a happy child and she thought that she must do all in her power to make sure that he would be no less happy in Outremer than he’d been in Champagne. Henri leaned over and gave her a soft, seeking kiss. “Well? Are you not going to tell me ‘what else it can be,’ Bella?”

“I do not know if that would be wise. I’d not want to puff up your male pride too much. . . .” She let him persuade her, though, with a few caresses. “It is not easy to find the words. When you make love to me, I stop thinking. I just . . . feel. It is as if my very bones are melting, as if every nerve in my body is afire. It is a little scary to be so out of control, but it is very exciting, too, the way it must feel to be drunk. Only I’m not drunk on wine, Henri, I’m drunk on you.”

Henri kissed the hollow of her throat, brushing back a strand of her long black hair. “How did I ever get so lucky?”

“By letting my stepfather lure you back to Tyre,” she said with a smile. “Your turn now. When you make love to me, how does it make you feel?”

“Blessed,” he said, with a smile of his own, “truly blessed.”

“Silver-tongued devil,” she said lightly, but the candlelight caught a suspicious sheen in those wide-set dark eyes. “All those troubadours and trouvères at your mother’s court taught you well—Oh!”

“What?” His immediate alarm revealed the intensity of his protective instincts.

“Are you hurting?”

“No, the baby just kicked, and quite a kick it was, too.” Remembering that her womb had not quickened until he’d gone to join Richard at Bait Nūbā, she said, suddenly shy, “Would you . . . like to feel it?” When he nodded, she placed his hand on her abdomen, with a stab of regret that her pregnancy must be so complicated, not the source of pure joy it ought to be.

Henri’s eyes widened. “I felt it move!” He laughed, fascinated, for the first time seeing the baby as an individual in its own right, not just part of Isabella’s body. “Do you think it swims around in your womb like a tadpole? I wonder what it thought was happening whilst we were making love?”

“I daresay the rocking motion put it to sleep. At least I hope so, for it is well past its bedtime.” She managed to keep her tone playful, no easy task, for her throat had closed up.

“Speaking of sleep . . . Richard is likely to roust me out of bed at dawn to plan our assault upon Beirut. Once he makes up his mind to do something, he wants it done yesterday.” Deciding to let the candles burn themselves out, he kissed her again, saying, “Good night, my love.” Lifting the sheet, then, he leaned over to drop a kiss on her swollen belly. “Good night, little one.”

The first time he’d done that, he’d acted on impulse, but she’d been so moved by the gesture that he’d incorporated it into their bedtime ritual. She gave him a dazzling smile now, then nestled against his body, her head cradled on his shoulder. To his amusement, she was soon snoring; she’d never done that before and he assumed it was yet another symptom of pregnancy. He shifted his position with care, not wanting to disturb her sleep, and let his hand rest lightly upon her rounded abdomen. Whenever he entreated the Almighty to keep Isabella safe and well, he always included the baby in his prayers. But he also prayed that the child she carried would be a girl.



MORGAN WAS WATCHING from the shadows as Mariam and two men-at-arms approached the Cathedral of the Holy Cross. He could not hear what she said, but it was obviously welcome to the men, who beamed and bowed respectfully before leaving her alone on the steps. She waited until they were on their way before entering the church. When Morgan materialized silently beside her, she did not speak, either, following as he opened a side door that led out into the cloisters. None of the secular canons were about, for they were getting ready for the None Mass; Morgan and Mariam had chosen their time with care. Morgan had already scouted out the cathedral precincts and when he said, “This way,” she nodded and slipped her arm through his, pausing first to draw her veil across her face, leaving only her eyes visible. He knew it was a trick of the light, but they looked golden, as lustrous and gleaming as a cat’s eyes in the dark, and he was glad he’d found an inn so close to the cathedral.

“How much time do we have?” he asked once they’d safely merged into the usual street traffic of pedestrians, carts, vendors, beggars, and an occasional horseman.

“I told them to meet me back at the cathedral when the bells sounded for Vespers. They were delighted to have the rest of the afternoon to themselves, are likely headed for the nearest tavern or bawdy house.”

“Vespers . . . then we have three hours.”

She nodded and her eyes crinkled at the corners, as if she were smiling. “I am supposed to be meeting Bishop Theobald and Prior William of the Hospital of St Thomas the Martyr to discuss donations for the poor, and I told them to take me to the cathedral first so I could offer up prayers for those who died during the siege of Acre. It would have seemed strange if I’d made it later than Vespers, for they know I’ll be expected back for the evening meal. I could not leave the castle without an escort, though. A king’s daughter—even one born to a harim concubine—cannot go wandering about the streets by herself, after all. Sinning would be so much easier if only I were not so highborn!”

Morgan halted so he could look directly into those glorious golden eyes. “Do you think that we are sinning, cariad?”

“No, I do not,” she said, without hesitation. “Fornication is surely a venial sin at worst. So unless you have a wife hidden away in Wales that you’ve failed to mention, I do not think we are putting our souls in peril.” They resumed walking and she rested her hand again in the crook of his elbow. “If I’d said yes, that I did think we were about to commit a mortal sin, would you have taken me back to the castle?”

He considered the question. “No, I’d have tried to convince you it was not a sin,” he said honestly, and when she gave a low, throaty laugh, he wanted to stop and kiss her then and there. Fortunately, they did not have far to go, for the inn was already in sight. He’d planned it as thoroughly as a military campaign, arranging access to a back entrance so she’d not have to pass through the common chamber. Even though she was veiled, he did not want to subject her to the stares of other men. She teased him that a man did not get to be so adept at trysts without having had a lot of practice, but her footsteps were as quick as his as they mounted the stairs.

He’d deliberately rented a chamber on the top floor so they could leave the windows unshuttered, and the room was aglow with late-afternoon sun. Mariam had worried that there might be some initial awkwardness once they were alone, but as soon as he slid the door’s bar into place, Morgan unpinned her veil and kissed her the way he’d wanted to kiss her out in the street. “Let’s do this right,” he murmured and swept her up into his arms. But as he headed for the bed, his boot slipped on the floor rushes and her weight kept him from regaining his balance. With a startled oath, he pitched forward, tumbling them both onto the thin straw mattress, and only his agility in twisting aside at the last moment kept him from landing on top of her.

Before Mariam could say a word, he burst out laughing, “Good, Morgan, very good! What better way to impress a woman than to drop her onto the floor? What else can I do to bedazzle you, my lady? Step on your skirt, kick over a chamber pot?”

By now she was laughing, too, for if he’d truly been trying to impress her, his mirthful reaction to his mishap could not have been better calculated to do just that. From their very first meeting, she’d been charmed by his inability to take himself too seriously, a trait she found to be as appealing as it was rare. “It was not as bad as that,” she protested. “You did not really drop me onto the floor. And at least you did not blame me for the fall, claiming I was too heavy to lift.”

“Good God, woman, I am clumsy, not stupid!” he said with a grin, and she realized how much she’d missed in her marriage to a decent, dependable man who’d known nothing of the joys of laughing together in bed. She traced the shape of his mouth with her finger and he caught her hand, pressing a hot kiss into her palm. After that, they could not get their clothes off fast enough.

Morgan genuinely liked women, in and out of bed, and because many of them found him very attractive, he’d had more than his share of liaisons in his twenty-seven years on God’s Earth. He knew that initial couplings were not always all they were hoped to be; sometimes a man and woman needed time to learn each other’s rhythms, to listen to what their bodies were telling them. He was aware, too, that disappointment was more likely because he’d been waiting so long for this, having had months to imagine what it would be like to make love to Mariam. He’d actually sought to lower his expectations for their first time, and he would soon recall that with amusement, for he’d had no reason to worry. Delay had honed their desire to a feverish pitch, generating so much heat that he’d later joke it was a miracle the bed had not caught fire. They trusted each other enough by now to abandon any inhibitions and what followed was a sexual experience so powerful that it left them both exhausted, astonished, and awed.

“Will it be like this every time, Morgan?” Mariam asked once she’d gotten her breath back. She started to sit up, decided her bones were not strong enough to support her yet, and sank back on the pillow, regarding him in wonderment.

He jerked the sheet off, for he was soaked in sweat. “I wish I could say yes, cariad, but this was . . . it was as close to perfect as we can hope to get.”

“You mean we peaked already and it is all downhill from now on?” That struck them both as wildly funny and they laughed until tears came to their eyes. “What is the name of your famous Welsh sorcerer . . . Merlin? I think I’ll start calling you that,” she said, giving him a cat-like smile of utter contentment, “for you cast a potent spell indeed.”

“Merlin? I cannot argue with that,” he said, so complacently that she poked him in the ribs. He defended himself with the pillow and they enjoyed an erotic wrestling match that ended abruptly when they rolled dangerously close to the edge of the bed.

They were still euphoric, still riding the crest of the wave, and neither was ready to return to the reality waiting beyond that barred door. But Mariam had a sudden unwelcome thought. “How will we know when Vespers is nigh? If I am late, the men may seek me out at the bishop’s palace.”

“I bought one of those candles marked with the hours,” he said, and forced himself to rise from the bed, crossing the chamber and fumbling with flint and tinder until the wick caught fire. She’d never been in an inn before, but as she looked around, she realized how much he’d done to make their tryst as comfortable as possible, for it was much cleaner than such a rented room ought to be, with fresh, fragrant rushes scattered about on the floor and no trace of the usual dust and cobwebs. In addition to the candle, there was a washbasin, towels and sheets too costly to be found in any inn, a pillow, wine cups, a flagon, and a bowl of fruit; he’d even thought to provide a brass chamber pot.

Holding out her hand, she beckoned him back to the bed, saying in a soft, purring voice, “It is lonely over here without you, beloved.” He brought the wine and fruit with him. He was practical enough to bring the towels, too, and took his time blotting the damp sheen from her body, marveling that her skin was as tawny as her eyes. As he began to rub himself down, she watched with pleasure, sipping her wine. “I wish it were not so complicated to arrange a tryst, Morgan. We cannot keep using Bishop Theobald as my excuse or people might start to suspect me of having a liaison with him!”

“He should be so lucky,” he said, feeding her a slice of mango and licking the juice as it trickled down her throat. She was wearing her hair in two long braids, a style no longer popular in the western kingdoms but still fashionable in Outremer, and he tickled her cheek with one of the plaits, wishing he could see her hair loose, as a husband would. But how could they manage an entire night together when it was so difficult to find even a few stolen hours?

“Joanna once told me that her mother’s enemies claimed Eleanor had been unfaithful to the French king,” she said, returning the favor by popping an orange section into his mouth. “As if a queen could ever vanish from sight long enough to commit adultery! Her disappearance would cause a panic in the palace. Servants are always underfoot, eyes are always watching, and not all of them friendly, for spies are everywhere. At least a widow has a bit more freedom, for her chastity is no longer as important as a wife’s fidelity or as valuable as a virgin’s maidenhead. Since I am a widow and not under such constant scrutiny, we ought to be able to find some way to take advantage of that.”

“Well, we’re likely to have time to think about it. From what I’ve heard, Richard plans to set out for Beirut in the next day or two.”

“So soon? You’ve only been here two days!” She sounded so disappointed that he leaned over and kissed her; she tasted of wine and mango and smelled of perspiration and an exotic sandalwood perfume. “I hope it will not be tomorrow,” she said, “for Isabella’s sake as well as mine. It is Henri’s twenty-sixth birthday and she is planning to celebrate it in grand style. Who would have imagined such an ill-omened marriage would bring them both so much joy? But it is obvious to anyone with eyes to see that they are utterly besotted with each other.”

“And I’m utterly besotted with you, cariad,” he assured her, and she laughed, Henri and Isabella forgotten, content to have her world shrink to an inn chamber, a bed, and the man in it. They shared secrets and memories as the afternoon passed. He told her more about his parents and their remarkable love story, a king’s bastard son and his blind Welsh cousin who’d defied the odds and carved out a life together in the mountains of Eryri. He told her, too, of his service with Geoffrey of Brittany and the old king, and the conflict between his love of Wales and his love of adventure. She spoke of her husband, whom she’d respected but never loved, and of the Saracen mother she barely remembered, talking of her life in Sicily, growing up with Joanna, her brother’s child-bride. She confided that she’d let go of her anger over the massacre of the Acre garrison, for she’d not wanted to poison her friendship with Joanna, and she admitted that she’d come to see it truly had been a military decision, albeit a brutally cold-blooded one.

“I’d assumed that Richard saw Saracens as so many of our Christian brethren do,” she explained, “as godless infidels better off dead. But I no longer believe that.” When he asked what changed her mind, she swore him to secrecy and then told him about Richard’s plan to marry Joanna to al-’Ādil. He was not as surprised as she’d expected, reminding her that Richard had knighted al-’Ādil’s son and several Mamluks and emirs he’d become friendly with during his negotiations with Saladin.

“That drove the French well nigh crazy,” he laughed. “But Richard never cares what others think of him, which is both his strength and his weakness. He respects the courage of his Saracen foes and so it seems natural to him to honor it, even if others see it as heresy or treason.”

They finished the wine and fruit and talked of their siblings. He told her of Bleddyn back in Wales, who’d repudiated his Norman-French blood, and his sister Mallt, named after the Empress Maude, happily wed to a Welsh lord. In turn, she talked of her half-sister Sophia, the ultimate survivor, and William, who’d been a better brother than a king. But they never spoke of the future, for no man in Richard’s army had any tomorrows promised to him, and so it was wiser to live just for today, especially for secret lovers unlikely to have more than what they had found on this hot July afternoon in an Acre inn.



MORGAN AND MARIAM had fallen asleep, were awakened by the bells chiming for Vespers, and dressed almost as hastily as they’d undressed earlier. They got to the cathedral just before Mariam’s escort arrived. Out of breath and very apologetic for being late, they were greatly relieved when she magnanimously forgave them. Morgan planned to return to the inn later to retrieve his sheets, towels, and pillow, for he hoped to be able to use them again. But now he trailed inconspicuously after Mariam and the men-at-arms, wanting to be sure they got safely back to the castle.

He’d always had an observant eye and he was not long in realizing that something was amiss. The outdoor markets were deserted, the vendors doing no business. The normal noise of the city was hushed and there was fear on the faces of the men and women he passed in the streets. As the palace came into view, he could see a crowd had gathered before the gatehouse, and it was then that Acre’s church bells began to peal—not to summon laggards to Vespers, but to sound the alarm.

Morgan grabbed the first man he saw, an elderly greybeard who must have seen decades of bloodshed in the course of his long life. “What is wrong? What has happened?”

“Jaffa—it has been taken by Saladin!”



THE CASTLE GATE WAS CLOSED, unusual during daylight hours, but Morgan was known by the guards and had no trouble gaining admittance. He found the great hall was packed with agitated men and shocked women. Isabella was seated upon the dais, flanked by Joanna and Berengaria, as if they were offering moral support in her kingdom’s moment of crisis. It was so crowded that Morgan did not even try to reach the women and searched instead for a familiar face. Finding one, he shoved his way toward Warin Fitz Gerald.

Warin wasted no time giving him the bad news. A ship had arrived a few hours ago from Jaffa, its passengers dispatched for help when they saw Saladin’s army descending upon them.

To Morgan, that was better news than he’d expected to hear, though. “Then the city has not yet fallen to them?”

Warin looked at him bleakly and then gave a half-shrug. “That was three days ago,” he said. “The king and Count Henri rode off to the French camp to tell Burgundy and Beauvais. King Richard will want to leave as soon as possible. Every hour that we delay . . .” He did not bother to finish the sentence, did not need to do so.

By now Mariam was beside Joanna on the dais. As her eyes met Morgan’s, the same silent thought passed between them, gratitude that they’d had a few private, precious hours before the storm broke. Whatever happened, at least they’d had that much.



ISABELLA HAD BEEN JOINED by Bishop Theobald of Acre and Joscius, the Archbishop of Tyre; both men were worried about the Bishop of Bethlehem, newly elected as the Patriarch of Jerusalem, for he’d recently ridden down to Jaffa, which came under his ecclesiastical control. But his fate was only one fear midst so many. If Jaffa was retaken by Saladin, any chance for a negotiated peace would be gone, and the fighting and dying of the past year would have been in vain.

Soon after dark, Henri returned with the Grand Masters of the Hospitallers and the Templars. Ignoring her aching back and fatigue, Isabella rose to her feet and waited as he strode toward her. By now she knew him well enough to see the signs—the taut line of his mouth, the clenched muscles along his jaw, the set of his shoulders—and she braced herself for more bad news, even though she could not imagine what could be worse than the loss of Jaffa.

“They refused,” Henri said in lieu of any greetings, his voice still throbbing with remembered rage. “Burgundy and Beauvais, they will not ride with us to rescue Jaffa. Their hatred of Richard matters more to them than the fate of their own countrymen. There are French soldiers at Jaffa, but they’ll let them die, they’ll let them all die ere they lift a finger to help us!”

Isabella was stunned, as were all within earshot. Beauvais’s fellow prelates were incensed that he’d turn his back upon his Christian brethren, and they at once declared their intention to go to the French camp and confront him. Henri knew there was no point in it and he took Isabella’s elbow, drawing her aside. “I think Richard wanted to kill them,” he said. “I know I did.”

“What now?” she asked quietly, for she was determined not to give in to any emotional outbursts which would benefit neither Henri nor her baby nor their kingdom.

“Richard has gone to the harbor. He plans to sail tonight for Jaffa. He wants me to lead a land force on the morrow, the Templars, Hospitallers, poulains, and as many others as we can get. I’d better tell Berengaria and Joanna,” he said, steering her back to her dais seat before he headed toward Richard’s wife and sister, who were standing a few feet away, not wanting to intrude upon his time with Isabella.

Isabella could not remember when she’d felt so bone-weary. She watched as Henri spoke with the other women, and although it did not seem right to worry about personal cares in the midst of such a calamity, she could not help being grateful that she’d have one more night with her husband. She felt a touch of pity for Berengaria, who could not even be sure if Richard would return to bid her farewell, but she felt admiration, too, for the other woman’s courage. How did she face each day, knowing she could go from wife to widow in the thrust of one well-aimed sword? Isabella, who’d gone from widow to wife in the span of a week, hoped that she’d be able to endure the waiting with Berengaria’s stoicism and grace. But with so much at stake, she could only pray that the Almighty would give her the strength she would need, as queen, wife, and mother-to-be.

When Henri came back to her, she reached out and entwined her fingers in his. “Without the French, you will be greatly outnumbered,” she said, as steadily as she could. “Can Jaffa be saved?”

He’d just been asked that very question by Berengaria and Joanna, had responded with a confident smile, reminding them that Richard thrived on such challenges. But as much as he wanted to reassure Isabella, too, he could not bring himself to lie to her. “I do not know, Bella,” he said at last. “God help us all, I do not know.”