Lionheart (89 page)

“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.