Arne swallowed, tasting blood on his lips from his broken nose. He could not wipe it away for another of the men had seized his arms and was binding them behind his back. “I . . . I am not lying, I swear it. . . .”
Jorg used his fist now, burying it in Arne’s stomach. Gasping for breath, he had to fight back nausea, and could only shake his head as Jorg snarled, “You serve the English king, churl, admit it!” His mute denial earned him another blow, this one to his face again. His head was spinning, and he’d never been so frightened. But when they demanded he tell them where the king was, he swore he did not know of any king, and sobbed, knowing he’d pay in pain for his loyalty. He could not betray Richard, though. Richard trusted him, and as the blows rained down, he clung to that, as his only lifeline in a world gone mad, that he must prove worthy of the king’s trust.
“Let me have a try.” This was not Jorg’s voice. “Look at me, boy,” he said, not unkindly. “We do not want to hurt you. But we know you’re lying. How do we know? You’re carrying a king’s gloves. You have a pouch filled with coins, including bezants from the Holy Land. And word came from Friesach that the men arrested there had been seen with a German-speaking lad.” He paused, and when Arne kept silent, he said, “You are being very foolish,” sounding almost friendly. “What is your name?”
Arne could barely see this new interrogator, for one eye was already swollen shut and his other eye was blurred with tears. “Arne . . .”
“Well, that is a start. Arne, listen to me. You will tell us what we want to know. By being stubborn like this, you are only prolonging your suffering. Answer our questions and you’ll not be hit anymore. We’ll even fetch a doctor to tend to your hurts. Now . . . where is the English king?”
“I . . . I do not know,” Arne croaked. “I do not know!”
Someone laughed harshly; he thought it was Jorg. The second man shook his head and shrugged. “So be it. He’s all yours, Jorg.”
Arne squeezed his eye shut, as if not seeing the horror might make it go away. But then Jorg grabbed his hair and wrenched his head up. “You see this, boy? Look at this blade. Damn you, look at it! If you do not start giving us honest answers, I swear I will take it and cut your lying tongue out!”
Arne was crying softly, hopelessly, and when Jorge put the dagger to his throat, he shuddered and sobbed again. When the blade sliced his cheek, he cried out. But he did not answer any of the questions Jorg was shouting in his ear, and a third man intervened, drawing Jorg away. Arne sagged against the ropes binding him to the chair, grateful for this brief reprieve from the pain. They were soon back, though. “One last chance, whelp.” When Arne only whimpered, Jorg turned away to take something from the other man. Arne was suddenly aware of heat and he squinted to see a fire iron only inches from his face. His hair was being held again, his head pulled back, and then there was nothing but the sickening stench of burning flesh and agony and screaming.
RICHARD WAS REGARDING THE DISH in front of him without enthusiasm and Morgan hid a smile, sure this was the first time he’d ever eaten boiled cabbage, which was unlikely to have made an appearance on the royal table. “Els is getting very motherly,” he said cheerfully, “for she insisted upon sharing some of the leftovers from her boys’ dinner. She told Arne we were much too thin and needed to eat more hearty fare. I daresay she’s right.” He knew from the way his clothes fit that he’d lost weight in these past few weeks and he thought his cousin looked downright gaunt. When Richard put the dish aside, Morgan hoped it was because he found the cabbage’s odor unappealing and not because of his fever. He had been taking the aqua vitae and herbs dutifully, even drinking the barley water, but Morgan knew what he really needed was a few more days of bed rest.
“Arne ought to be back from the town soon,” he assured Richard, “with food more to your liking.”
“That lad has been a blessing, for I do not know how we’d have fared without him. I will have to find a way to reward his loyalty. That goes for you, too, Cousin,” Richard said, with a quick smile. “I’d offer you an earldom if I did not fear you’d take it as an insult.”
Morgan grinned. “You’re joking, but King Henry did offer my father an earldom and he turned it down. It became a family jest, for he’d say that a Welshman with an English earldom was as unnatural as a bull with teats.” They both laughed at that and Morgan added lightly, “I had no choice but to accompany you, sire. I’d promised your sister that I’d not let you out of my sight and I feared her wrath far more than I fear Heinrich’s!”
“As well you should,” Richard agreed, with a grin of his own. “Joanna is a force to be reckoned with. She all but scorched my ears off when I told her I’d suggested to Saladin that we make peace by wedding her to his brother, al-Adil.”
Morgan had been about to take a swallow of ale, and nearly choked. “You did what?”
“Ah, I forgot you did not know about that. I still think it was one of my better ideas. It would have made al-Adil a king and so he had to be interested, for he was being offered both a crown and a beautiful bride. I was sure Saladin would refuse, and thought that might cause some rancor between the brothers. Joanna did not appreciate my diplomatic deviousness, though, and told me in no uncertain terms that she was not about to join a harim.” Richard was laughing now. “She reminded me that she grew to womanhood in Sicily, so she knew Muslims could have four wives. I then reminded her that she’d be a queen, so she’d have greater rank than al-Adil’s other wives, and she threw a cushion at me!”
Morgan was as amazed as he was amused. “I cannot believe you were able to keep this scheme so secret. Good God, think how the French would have reacted if word of it had gotten out!”
“That would have been awkward,” Richard conceded. “It was awkward, too, when Saladin accepted the proposal.”
Morgan’s jaw dropped. “He accepted it?”
“Yes, check and mate. I had to rewrite canon law, explaining that Joanna needed the Pope’s approval for such a marriage, being a widowed queen, and offered my niece in her stead if they were not willing to wait for the papal consent. Over dinner with al-Adil, I suggested that we could resolve the problem if he agreed to convert to Christianity, and he parried by proposing that Joanna become a Muslim.”
By now, Morgan was laughing so hard that he was on the verge of tears. “Passing strange,” he said, once he’d gotten his breath back, “that you got along so much better with your Saracen foes than with your French allies!”
“That is easy enough to explain. Saladin and al-Adil were men of honor, whereas the French . . . Well, if they are not in league with the Devil, it is only because he does not want them.” No longer laughing, Richard said pensively, “The terms I offered Saladin then were virtually the same as the ones he finally accepted after I’d retaken Jaffa—aside from Joanna’s participation, of course. We’d have saved so many lives if we’d only been able to make peace that November instead of the following September. Not to mention that we’d have been able to go home months ago. As interesting as this adventure has been, Morgan, I could have gone to my grave quite happily without ever laying eyes upon Ertpurch.”
Morgan agreed heartily and they shared a quiet moment, regretting what might have been. Soon afterward, Richard went back to sleep, and Morgan napped for a time, too; he doubted that any of them would ever take sleep for granted again. He was awakened when Guillain entered the chamber. There was no sign yet of Arne, he reported, but the horses had benefited from several days’ rest and the farrier had discovered that Morgan’s gelding was in danger of losing a shoe, which he’d replaced. They were keeping their voices low so Richard would not be disturbed, and frowned as sudden barking erupted outside. Richard did not stir, though, and Morgan began looking for the dice.
But the barking did not stop, was so loud now that it sounded as if all the dogs in the village were in full tongue. The two men exchanged uneasy looks and Guillain crossed to the window, unbarred the shutters, and peered out. “Holy Christ!” H
e slammed the shutters and whirled around, the blood draining from his face. “There are soldiers outside!”
Morgan reacted instinctively, crying out Richard’s name and dashing across the room to bar the door even as he realized the futility of it. The urgency in his voice awoke Richard at once. “Soldiers, sire,” Guillain said hoarsely and Richard was at the window in two strides. Opening the shutters just enough to give him a view of the alewife’s yard, he saw crossbowmen and men-at-arms taking up position. Els and her sons were standing out in the street, looking bewildered, as her neighbors emerged to see what was happening. Several knights had dismounted and, as Richard watched, they drew their swords and began to approach the house, shouting his name and one of the few German words he knew, “König”—king.
Richard latched the shutters again. His heart was thudding, his breath coming quick and shallow as his body reacted to the danger, while his stunned brain still struggled to accept what he’d seen. Morgan and Guillain looked just as shocked. None of them had truly believed that they’d be caught, for Richard’s self-confidence was contagious and they’d seen him defy the odds time and time again in the Holy Land. Now that his legendary luck had suddenly run out in this small Austrian village, it did not seem real to any of them, least of all to Richard.
He had his sword in hand now, but that was an unthinking response. For the first time in his life, he experienced what so many other men did in battle—pure physical panic. They were trapped, with no way out and only two choices—surrender or die. As he stared at the bedchamber door, hearing the thud of boots as the soldiers tried to kick it in, his emotions were in such turmoil that death seemed preferable to what awaited him outside this room.
Someone must have found an axe, for the wood suddenly splintered and the door’s hinges gave way. The chamber was poorly lit and the intruders halted in the doorway, blinking as their vision adjusted to the shadows. Their eyes swept past Morgan—not tall enough—lingered for a moment on Guillain, and then fastened upon Richard; as dirty and shaggy as his hair was, it was still the color of copper, as distinctive as his uncommon height.
They were yelling at him, waving their swords. But none of them moved into the room, and as he looked from face to face, Richard was astonished by what he saw—fear. He and Morgan and Guillain were hopelessly outnumbered, as helpless as fish caught in a weir, with only one outcome if they resisted, yet these men were afraid of him. That realization proved to be his salvation. His brain began to function again. He did have some leverage, after all—his reputation. It had happened more and more toward the end of his stay in the Holy Land—Saladin’s emirs and Mamluks, men of proven courage, veering away rather than cross swords with him. And these Austrian knights were no more eager to fight him than the Saracens. They respected his prowess, and that understanding gave him the courage to do what he had to do, to take that first, frightening step into the unknown.
“I will yield only to your duke,” he said, greatly relieved that his voice sounded as it always did, giving away no hint of his inner anguish. They looked at one another, then flung more German at him, and he tried again, this time in Latin. When it was obvious they did not comprehend, he said, “Morgan,” remembering that his cousin had picked up a smattering of German from Arne.
Morgan felt as if his brain had gone blank, but with a great effort, he managed to dredge up a few words. “Herzog! Herzog Leopold!” They reacted at once to their duke’s name, and he added, “Hier,” gesturing around the room to indicate Leopold was to come here. They seemed to think this was a very good idea, for several were nodding and saying, “Ja,” with obvious enthusiasm. “They understand,” Morgan said, with a sigh of relief. “They’ll fetch Leopold.”
The Austrians stayed by the door, swords drawn, but seemed content to wait. They were all staring at Richard, nudging one another, and he heard the word “Löwenherz” being repeated. He’d guessed its meaning even before Morgan translated it as “Lionheart.” Crossing to the bed, he retrieved his frayed, stained mantle and draped it around his shoulders as if it were royal robes of state.
The bravado of that gesture brought tears to Morgan’s eyes. He’d initially been wary of Richard, for his allegiance had been pledged to Richard’s brother Geoffrey and his father, the old king. But he’d come to know Richard well in the past two years, and now he felt the depth of the other man’s desperation and despair, the proudest of the proud shamed before enemies he’d scorned. He did not doubt that Richard would have found it easier to be taken prisoner by Saladin. Watching as Richard braced for whatever humiliation and danger lay ahead, preparing to brazen it out, he found himself remembering Guilhem de Préaux, who’d claimed that he was Malik Ric to save Richard from capture. He would have made that sacrifice, too, had it only been in his power—not just because Richard was his king or his cousin, but because theirs was a bond only those who fought together and faced death together could fully understand.
He saw his own misery reflected on Guillain’s face. There were tears in Guillain’s eyes, too, as he said softly, “I am sorry, sire.” Richard shook his head, letting his hand rest for a moment on the knight’s arm. Morgan found his own mantle and untied his money pouch from his belt. He knew the soldiers would take every pfennig for themselves and he was determined to get the money to the alewife if he could; better she should have it than Leopold’s lackeys. His eyes lingered for a moment on Arne’s bedding. He hated to think what might have befallen the boy in Vienna.
Much too soon, they heard the noise outside that signaled Leopold’s approach. Richard had never dreaded anything more than what was to come. This was likely to be their last moments alone, and he reached out to embrace Morgan, then Guillaume. “I’ll be damned if I’ll wait cowering, like a fox run to earth,” he declared, sheathing his sword, and then starting toward the door. The soldiers moved aside to let him pass, so hastily that it was almost comical. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, Morgan thought irreverently as he and Guillaume followed close behind.
There was a crowd waiting as Richard emerged from the alewife’s house into the pallid winter sunlight, soldiers, villagers, and a large contingent of knights who’d accompanied their duke. Leopold was mounted on a magnificent white stallion and was just as magnificently garbed, his hat and mantle trimmed with sable fur, his scabbard studded with gemstones, his hands adorned with several jeweled rings. His appearance did not fully match Richard’s memory of him, and then he realized why: this was the first time he’d ever seen Leopold smile.
Leopold did not dismount at once, for that enabled him to look down upon the man who was some inches the taller of the two. “When they told me about the boy they’d picked up in the marketplace, I confess I had my doubts,” he said, still smiling. “But by God, it is you.”
Richard regarded him stonily, before saying tersely, “My lord duke.” He stayed where he was until Leopold swung from the saddle, only then stepping forward and unsheathing his sword. Most of Leopold’s men already had their weapons drawn, and they brought them up quickly then. Ignoring them, Richard held out his sword, hilt first, to his captor, saying nothing.
Leopold accepted the sword, then subjected Richard to a deliberate, slow scrutiny, taking in the tangled hair, long beard, mud-caked boots, and begrimed mantle, which only partially covered the once-white Templar’s tunic, now streaked with dirt and sweat. “You do not look very kingly now, do you, my lord Lionheart? Indeed, you look like a man we’d expect to find in a hovel like this. How true that Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.”
Richard welcomed the fury that now surged through his veins, sweeping away all shame and fear. “Since you’re quoting from Scriptures, you’d do well to remember another verse. God is not mocked, for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. There will be no forgiveness for harming men who’ve taken the cross, neither from the Church nor Almighty God. You’d best think upon that whilst there is still time. Is this petty revenge worth eternal damnation?”
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Hot color flooded Leopold’s face and throat. “You’ve forfeited your right to Church protection by your crimes in the Holy Land!”
“I daresay I’d have heard had you been elected Pope. Celestine is the man on the papal throne and are you so delusional that you truly believe he’ll agree with you? When pigs fly!”
They’d been speaking in French, so only Morgan and Guillain could follow the accusations they were hurling at each other. Knowing that Richard had never learned to guard his tongue, Morgan took a quick step forward. While he did not think Leopold was a man utterly without honor like Heinrich, he’d still been willing to lay hands upon a crusader. What might he do behind his castle walls if Richard continued to bait him like this? Judging it a good time to intervene, he said, “My lord duke,” seeking to sound respectful and deferential. “What of Arne, the lad who was seized in the marketplace? Where is he?”
Leopold looked his way, seemingly debating whether the question deserved an answer. “I was told the boy was stubborn,” he said after a long pause, “and had to be persuaded to talk. But I doubt that his injuries are serious.”
Morgan forgot about placating the Austrian duke. “You tortured him?” Guillain was no less outraged and he glared at Leopold, calling him shameless and milk-livered, insults that, fortunately for him, were not heard by the duke, whose attention was focused upon the English king.
Richard was staring at Leopold with all of the considerable contempt at his command. “You are bound and determined to get to Hell, Leopold. The boy your men tortured took the cross, too, and is under the protection of Holy Church no less than we are.”
Leopold was as angry as Richard, but he was coming to realize that it was not advisable to continue exchanging insults with the English king. Even if his knights and men could not understand what was being said, there was no mistaking Richard’s defiant tone, and some might find it demeaning that he was allowing himself to be challenged by a man who was his prisoner, after all. “We are done here,” he said curtly and ordered horses brought up for the three men. “Are you going to mount on your own or shall we have to drag you back to Vienna like a common felon?”