of St Albans, close by, but his nerves had become so ragged that he found himself wondering if the man was truly trustworthy, for he was an Englishman, after all. If Richard had poisoning in mind, who better to do it than the king’s own physician?
Philippe would normally have welcomed the death of Philip d’Alsace, seeing it as divine retribution for his treacherous alliance with Richard at Messina. But in his current doom-ridden frame of mind, he could focus only upon the political hornet’s nest stirred up by Philip’s demise. He’d had no son, bequeathing Flanders to his sister Margaret and her husband, Baudouin, Count of Hainaut, the parents of Philippe’s late queen, Isabelle. Philippe feared that Baudouin would contest his claim to the rich province of Artois, which had been Isabelle’s marriage portion, and Baudouin was in an ideal position to stake his own claims, for he’d been one of the few lords not to have taken the cross. Philippe had no intention of losing Artois, and he even had hopes of annexing all of Flanders to the French Crown. But he was at a great disadvantage as long as he was anchored here in Acre, nigh on two thousand miles from Paris.
He’d spent huge sums so far on siege engines and sapping equipment; he had teams working diligently to undermine the walls of Acre. But as he lay awake at night, for he’d been sleeping poorly since his arrival in the camp, he found himself doubting that they could succeed. Acre had held out for nigh on two years, after all. What if the siege dragged on for months? And even if they managed to take Acre, what then? Was he the only one to harbor such misgivings? Many of the men had convinced themselves that victory would be assured once the English king reached Acre. But to Philippe, that meant only that if Acre was captured, Richard would hog all the credit for its fall. He well knew that the Angevin was not one for sharing glory, and he could foresee a future in which he would be utterly overshadowed by the other man, the King of France diminished by one of his own vassals, a prospect he found intolerable.
He’d been troubled all afternoon by a throbbing headache, and even though darkness was still hours away, he decided to lie down. It had not been a good day. One of their siege engines had been bombarded with Greek fire and destroyed; fortunately, it had not been his. His miners had encountered another setback, a cave-in that slowed their progress toward the walls. And he was still brooding over his failure to recover his favorite falcon. While he did not enjoy hunting, he did find hawking relaxing and had been exercising a large white gyrfalcon when it had suddenly taken flight toward the city. Determined to recover it, he had offered a huge reward of one thousand dinars. But the gyrfalcon had been captured and smuggled out of the city, judged to be a worthy gift for Saladin himself. Philippe’s household knights were surprised by the depths of his disappointment. They did not realize that he saw the falcon’s loss as one more evil omen, yet another portent of ill fortune in this unhappy, accursed land.
It was too hot to draw the bed hangings, and Philippe could hear his squires moving around the tent. Knights came and went, trying to keep their voices low when they were warned the king was resting. He tossed and turned and finally fell into a fretful sleep. He awoke to find one of his squires leaning over the bed, looking apologetic. “I am sorry to disturb you, sire, but the Marquis of Montferrat is here and he says it cannot wait.”
Philippe scowled, although his annoyance was directed at Conrad, not the youth. He’d supported the marquis because they were cousins, because he believed Conrad would make a more competent king than Guy, a proven failure, and because he’d known Richard would back Guy’s claim. But the more time he spent with the marquis, the less he liked him, concluding that Conrad and Richard were two sides of the same coin, both of them arrogant and hot-tempered and hungry for public acclaim.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he was not surprised to find Conrad standing there, for the man had no sense of boundaries. “Are you ailing, Cousin?” Conrad’s query could have indicated concern; Philippe took it to convey surprise