Lionheart (75 page)

Morgan started to shake his head, discovered that was a bad idea. His memories were hazy, as elusive as drifting smoke. “I remember the battle . . . at least, most of it. . . .”

“The doctors said you might be forgetful, that it ofttimes happens with head injuries. I assume you remember André de Chauvigny’s rescue? You looked like you were about to pass out, so I grabbed you and got us both clear of the fighting. Some of our men were eager to join in and indeed did so as soon as weapons began to litter the field. But I figured you and I would be more of a hindrance than a help. It was a fierce struggle. Say what you will of the infidels, they do not lack for courage.”

Morgan slowly propped himself up on his elbows, his gaze searching the tent until he found the man he sought. “André was hurt, then? I thought I may have dreamed it. . . .”

“He blames himself, has been fuming about it for hours.” Warin glanced admiringly toward André, who was seated on a narrow bed, scowling at his splinted forearm. “He killed the emir leading the Saracens, but the man was still able to stab him with his spear.” He anticipated Morgan’s next query. “Leicester is battered and bruised, but he has no serious hurts.” He gestured across the tent, where the earl was having his numerous cuts and contusions tended to. “God was indeed smiling upon him this day, for he charged back into the fray and had a second horse killed under him.”

A memory floated toward the surface and Morgan frowned, troubled that he could not remember the name of a man he knew well. “The knight who gave the earl his mount . . . he survived?”

“He is in better shape than either of us,” Warin said with a smile. “As for you, they think you’ll soon be on the mend since you showed none of the signs of a fatal injury; no seizures or fever and you can obviously talk, though you insisted upon doing it in Welsh and none of us could understand a word you said!”

“Were there prisoners taken?” When Warin nodded, Morgan resolved to see if the Saracen Good Samaritan was amongst them once he was able to do so, for he owed the man a few comforts. He still had questions, but sleep was beckoning again. Before he could answer the call, a sudden din erupted outside, and Warin grinned. “Either we’re under attack or the king has just ridden in and been told of the ambush!”

It was not easy to make a dramatic entrance into a tent, but Richard did it. He headed straight for André, stood gazing down at his cousin and shaking his head. “How in the world did you manage to get injured by a man you’d unhorsed and mortally wounded?”

André’s smile was sour. “How in the world did you manage to miss a battle? But I suppose you can ask Saladin to refight it for your benefit.”

Richard gave a shout of laughter. “What an excellent idea!” Sitting down on the corner of the bed, he lowered his voice for André’s ears alone. After exchanging a few words, he clasped the injured man on the shoulder and then made the rounds of the tent, pausing before each wounded knight to ask a question or offer a joke. He congratulated Morgan upon having such a hard head, teased Leicester for losing two horses in a single day, and spent so much time with Robert de Newburgh that it was obvious he’d been told of the knight’s heroic sacrifice.

Henri had entered almost unnoticed in Richard’s wake, and after brief visits with André and Leicester, he paused by Morgan’s cot. From him, Morgan and Warin learned that they’d abandoned their mission because Richard had an odd premonition of danger. “It is like another sense, one given to soldiers, at least the good ones. As it turned out, it is fortunate that my uncle heeded it, for on our way back to camp, we encountered two of our Saracen spies and they said Saladin had sent three hundred of his elite troops to Blanchegarde. We’d have run right into them.”

Henri stayed for a while, asking Morgan and Warin questions about the battle and rescue, for he knew men often needed to talk afterward, and then telling some comic stories to cheer them up, for he thought life would not be much fun for them as they healed. Their brief weather respite had already ended and they could hear the renewed drumming of rain on the roof of the tent.

Henri did succeed in cheering Morgan up, for he’d confided that Richard planned to return to Jaffa on the morrow and bring the women back with him. The young count was usually a reliable source and that proved to be the case again. Morgan awoke from a nap on Sunday evening to find himself the envy of the hospital tent, for two queens and the Damsel of Cyprus were at his bedside. Berengaria expressed flattering concern for his injury, Anna gave him a Cypriot good luck charm, and Joanna contributed an amusing account of their ride over the very muddy Jaffa road, making it sound as if their fifteen-mile trip had been an epic trek for the ages. But her real gift to Morgan was the screen that now enclosed his bed. Rising to leave, she explained that she thought he’d sleep better if he had a bit of privacy, and winked.

With a rustle of skirts and a fragrance that evoked memories of moonlit, summer gardens, Mariam slipped around the screen, leaned over the bed, and gave Morgan a kiss that was very different from those they’d shared in the past.

“That,” he said, “was worth—”

“Do not dare tell me it was worth getting your head bashed in!”

“Of course it was not worth that much,” he said with a grin. “But it was worth waiting for,
cariad
.”

His blanket had slid down to his waist, and her eyes were drawn to the ripple of muscles, a triangle of golden chest hair, and the skin that she knew would be warm and firm to the touch, unlike the soft, flabby body of her late husband, a good man but one well past his prime by the time they’d wed. “I think,” she murmured, “that we have been waiting too long, Morgan ap Ranulf, far too long.”

He reached for her hand, entwining his fingers in hers. “My sentiments exactly, my heart. Alas, our timing could not be worse, could it?”

“I know,” she agreed and sighed. “I know. . . .”

“I am about to blaspheme,” he admitted, “for as much as I yearn to see the Holy Sepulchre, I am even more eager now to visit Jerusalem’s fine inns.”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, “one with a spacious, soft featherbed, clean sheets, a flagon of spiced wine, and a sturdy latch to bar the door.”

But they were miles and months away from that enticing vision and they both knew it. Kissing the face upturned to his, he brushed his lips against the lashes that shadowed her skin like silky fans, tasted the sweetness of her mouth, and found he could pretend no longer, even to himself. “Mariam . . . I have to warn you,
cariad
. I am falling in love with you.”

She slanted a mischievous glance through those long, fringed lashes, her eyes shimmering with golden glints. “It certainly took you long enough,” she complained, but when she added, “
Ana behibak
,” he needed no translation for that alluring Arabic whisper.

“Rwy’n dy garu di,”
he said softly, and she needed no translation, either.

ON DECEMBER 23, Richard moved his command headquarters eight miles south to the ruins of the Templar castle called Toron des Chevaliers by the crusaders and Latrun by the Saracens, and there he celebrated Christmas in royal style, or as regal as festivities could be when conducted in tents during relentless rainstorms.

TWO DAYS LATER, Richard observed the holy day of St John the Apostle by holding a dinner for the
poulain
lords who’d not thrown in their lot with Conrad of Montferrat. He did not remember that it was also the twenty-fifth birthday of his youngest brother, John, not until reminded of it by Joanna, and he was sorry she had. Philippe was surely back in his own domains by now and the French king would inevitably reach out to John, try to coax or bribe him into a seditious alliance. Richard had been very generous with his brother and he ought to be able to rely upon the younger man’s loyalty. But John was something of an enigma to his family, and Richard would have felt much more confident of his fealty had he not been more than two thousand miles away. No ships had arrived from Europe for months and for all he knew, Philippe was ravaging Normandy with John’s heartfelt help. But he resolutely pushed these concerns aside, for “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” It would be foolish to borrow fresh troubles when he was already fighting a war on three fronts—with his French allies and Saracen foes and the vile winter weather.

The dinner was a success, even if it was a Friday fast day, with lively entertainment provided by troubadours and musicians, and even livelier conversation. The guest of honor was Raymond, eldest son of the Prince of Antioch. Although Raymond had been an enthusiastic supporter of the crusade, his father had so far remained aloof and Richard thought it politic to make sure the son knew he was a valued ally. But the guest who shone the brightest during dinner was Hugues, Lord of Tiberias and Prince of Galilee.

Hugues was in his early forties, his shrewd, hooded eyes a startling blue against skin weathered by years of exposure to the Outremer sun, a man as resilient and enduring as the land of his birth. He’d fought at Ḥaṭṭīn; in his youth, he’d survived four years in a Saracen prison; he knew Salah al-Dīn personally; he was one of the few barons of the kingdom who’d not defected to Conrad. These were all reasons why Richard considered him to be a man worth listening to; it was an added bonus that Hugues now revealed himself to be knowledgeable about one of the great mysteries of the Holy Land, the secret killing sect known as the
Assassins
.

Richard had heard of them before his arrival at Acre, for their notoriety had spread even as far as Europe. They were led by a chieftain known as “the Old Man of the Mountain,” and it was said he promised his young followers an afterlife of eternal pleasure in return for a martyr’s death. The Franks had told Richard their name was derived from the Arabic word for “hashish,” for they were believed to imbibe it before their missions. They’d been in existence only a hundred years or so, yet there were already so many legends and lurid tales circulating about these shadowy, sinister figures that it was almost impossible to separate truth from myth.

Richard was very pleased, therefore, to discover Hugues was such a treasure trove of information about the
Assassins
. He’d even met the Old Man of the Mountain himself, Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān. Upon learning that Richard already knew Islam was split into two warring camps,
Sunnis
and
Shi’ites
, Hugues then explained that the
Assassins
were a separate
Shia
sect that originally took root in Persia, and were viewed by other Muslims as heretics. They used murder as a political weapon—and to great effect. They were willing to wait months, even years, for an opportunity to get close to their quarry, and excelled at deception and subterfuge. The
Assassins
used daggers and always committed their killings in public so that as many people as possible would learn of the deaths. But their victims were almost always their fellow Muslims. Amongst them, Hugues enumerated, were two grand viziers in Persia and the caliphs of Cairo and Baghdad. The only Frank they’d slain, he said, was a Count of Tripoli about forty years ago.

His audience had hung on his every word, fascinated and horrified in equal measure. Richard was the first to inject a note of skepticism. “It does not seem likely to me that these
Assassins
could be regular users of hashish. How could they manage to deceive their prey, to blend in so well that none suspected them if their wits were addled with this potion?”

Hugues gave the king an approving smile. “Very true, my lord. Frankly, I never believed that myself. I think it is just one of the many rumors that swirl around them. They attract such stories the way Acre attracts sinners. I am not even sure their name is derived from the word ‘hashish.’ I was once told that it comes from
‘Hassassin,’
which means ‘a follower of Hassan,’ who was the founder of their sect. So who’s to say? The only certainty is that the mere mention of that name causes even brave men to glance uneasily over their shoulders.”

Joanna had leaned forward, so intent upon the conversation that she was unaware she’d propped her elbows on the table. “What I do not understand, my lord Hugues, is why they so rarely attack Christians. Do they not see us as the enemy?”