that he’d be abed at such an hour, an implied rebuke.
“What is it, Conrad?” he said, gesturing to his squire to pull on his boots, watching to make sure the boy shook them first to dislodge any spiders, scorpions, or other desert vermin.
“Sorry to awaken you, but I thought you’d want to know that Hannibal is at the gates.”
Philippe assumed that was some sort of classical allusion since he vaguely recalled Hannibal had been an enemy of Rome. While Conrad had earned fame for his military exploits, he’d won admiration for his eloquence, too. He was fluent in several languages, often flavored his speech with Latin epigrams, and liked to quote from ancient Roman and Greek poets. In that, he reminded Philippe of Richard, another one who prided himself on being well read and knowledgeable about bygone civilizations. Philippe suspected that both men deliberately flaunted their superior education as a subtle means of demeaning him. Yes, his book-learning had been cut short, but a king of fifteen had little time for tutors or the study of Latin, not when statecraft and survival occupied all of his waking hours. He never doubted that he was as capable and quick-witted as Conrad or Richard, and was convinced that he was more formidable than either, for he had a quality they both lacked—patience.
Standing up, he regarded the marquis with cold eyes. He was sure that the Almighty intended great things for him, sure that he was destined to restore France to its former glory. So why had God not bestowed upon him the sort of grace that Conrad and Richard had in abundance? The marquis was no longer young, in his mid-forties, but he was still a handsome man; his fair hair camouflaged any traces of grey and he moved with the lithe step of a man half his age. Philippe was honest enough with himself to admit he’d have attracted no attention had he not been born the son of Louis Capet. But Conrad, like Richard, would never have gone unnoticed. Philippe had wondered occasionally if Conrad’s cockiness had come from his physical blessings, but that seemed unlikely. Guy de Lusignan had been equally blessed, after all, yet his center was hollow and that had doomed his kingship. Power was in its own way as mysterious as alchemy, a conclusion Philippe had reached years ago, comparing his good-hearted, weak-willed father with the whirlwind that was Henry Fitz Empress and vowing never to follow in Louis’s faltering footsteps. Henry had not seen him as a serious threat, not until it was too late. God willing, that would also hold true for his boastful, reckless son.
“Cousin?”
Conrad was looking at him quizzically, and Philippe brought his thoughts back to the here and now. He knew he was expected to respond to Conrad’s cryptic comment about Hannibal, but he was unwilling to admit its meaning had escaped him. Taking his scabbard from his squire, he buckled it and was settling his sword on his hip when Guillaume des Barres spoke up, confessing that he hadn’t understood the “Hannibal at the gates” remark. Conrad was happy to enlighten him, explaining that it had been a popular Roman proverb, warning of danger by referring to the man who’d once been Rome’s greatest enemy, and Guillaume thanked him politely.
Philippe felt a flicker of affection for the knight, appreciating his adroit intercession. But the sight of Guillaume reminded him of all the just grievances he had against that accursed Angevin, one of which was the shameful way Richard had treated the knight in Messina. Guillaume had not been allowed to rejoin Philippe’s household until they’d been ready to sail for Acre, and although he appeared to have forgiven Richard for that petty fit of temper, Philippe had not. “You mean Richard has finally deigned to put in an appearance?”
“His fleet has been sighted approaching the harbor.” Conrad grinned then, looking rather pleased with himself. “And I’d wager he is not in the best of humors, for I gave orders to turn him away from Tyre.”
By now the tent was crowded with French lords and knights, including the young Mathieu de Montmorency, Philippe’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais, and his marshal, Aubrey Clement. Beauvais laughed loudly, but the other men looked shocked at Conrad’s lèse-majesté.
Philippe did not approve of Conrad’s action, either. Unlike Guy, Richard was not a counterfeit king, and kings were entitled to the respect due them as God’s Anointed. Moreover, it seemed needlessly provocative, guaranteeing Richard’s enmity ere