Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,179

a formal obeisance, for he was punctilious about matters of rank and protocol. There had been a three-hour eclipse of the sun on the Vigil of the Nativity of St John the Baptist, and Leopold asked Philippe now if he believed it was an omen of good or ill fortune. Philippe neither knew nor cared, but he was pleased that the duke did not want to discuss Richard’s illness, which was the talk of the camp, and so he politely parried the question, asking Leopold what he thought. The latter at once launched into an enthusiastic discussion about astronomy and divine portents. Only half listening, Philippe kept his gaze upon the battlements in case a Saracen soldier should offer himself as a target.

“My liege!” This stentorian bellow came from Philippe’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais. He was striding toward them, so quickly that they knew he bore news of importance. But he was smiling broadly, so Philippe felt confident the news would not be unwelcome. Ducking under the cercleia, Beauvais sank down on his haunches next to the French king. “Have you heard? Richard’s doctors are now saying that his malady is Arnaldia!”

There were muffled exclamations of dismay from most of his audience. Jacques d’Avesnes, the Count of St Pol, the Duke of Austria, Aubrey Clement, and Mathieu jumped to their feet and hurried off to find out more, leaving the French king alone with Beauvais and his brother, the Count of Dreux, Hugh of Burgundy, and Guillaume des Barres. Reaching for a wineskin hooked at his belt, Beauvais took a swig and grimaced, for the liquid tasted as if it had been heated over a fire. “I suppose it is too much to hope,” he drawled, “that Richard’s bout with Arnaldia proves fatal.”

His brother and Hugh laughed and Philippe permitted himself a small smile—until he saw the shocked expression on Guillaume des Barres’s face. Philippe was torn between bafflement and irritation; why would Guillaume of all men care about Richard’s plight? Later, on his way back to his tent, he summoned Guillaume to walk at his side and sought an answer to that minor mystery. “You did not approve of the Bishop of Beauvais’s jest. I would think you’d be the last one to defend Richard after the shabby way he treated you back in Messina.”

Guillaume seemed surprised by the question. “I would be greatly grieved if the English king were to die, my liege, for I see him as our best hope of defeating Saladin. The recovery of the Holy Land is far more important than any rancor between Richard and me.”

“Well, you are more magnanimous than Richard would be if your positions were reversed,” Philippe said, after some moments of silence. He genuinely liked Guillaume des Barres, but he did not understand the knight’s willingness to forgive after such an unfair and public humiliation. Shading his eyes against the dazzling blaze of the noonday sun, he stared up at a sky that was a bleached bone-white, a sky in which there was not even a wisp of cloud, for this was the dry season and there would be no rain for months. Standing there in the midst of the chaotic siege encampment, he finally admitted to himself that his own realm mattered far more to him than the Holy Land ever could, and why not? Outremer had the Almighty to protect it but France only had Philippe Capet, a king far from home with a frail, small son as his heir. There was a certain relief in facing that fact at last. But it was a lonely moment, too, for he knew that none would understand, not even his brash cousin Beauvais. The one man who might have agreed was moldering in a tomb at Fontevrault Abbey.

AS HENRI MADE HIS WAY toward Richard’s pavilion, he was stopped repeatedly by men anxious to hear how the king was faring. To each query, Henri had the same response, one that made it seem as if Richard’s illness was of minor concern. Approaching the tent, he was not surprised to find soldiers and knights keeping watch. Before entering, he paused to greet two of the Préaux brothers, Guilhem and Pierre, and when he was asked the inevitable question, he gave them his most reassuring smile.

“Well, it will not surprise you to learn that he is surely the world’s worst patient. He has been fuming and fretting at being bedridden, and he’s learning to swear in Arabic, so his curses are