Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,180

even more colorful than usual.” They grinned and he added lightly, “But he was cheered up to hear that the French king has now been stricken with Arnaldia, too.”

As he expected, that evoked laughter, and he moved past them into the tent, thinking bleakly that if lies were sins, his confessor would be laying out penances from now till Michaelmas. Actually, he had indeed hoped Richard would be amused that Philippe was also ailing, surely God’s Chastisement for welcoming his rival’s ordeal. But Richard had merely grunted, then looked away. Henri had been troubled by that apathetic response, just as he was troubled by Richard’s growing lethargy. The temper tantrums that Henri had described for the Préaux brothers had occurred at the onset of his uncle’s illness. He’d not pitched a fit for more than a day now, and Henri was not the only one yearning for the return of the Richard they knew best—sardonic, playful, quick to anger, and utterly without self-doubts. It was as if a stranger had suddenly taken over Richard’s body, listless and silent and—a word Henri would never have thought to apply to his uncle—vulnerable.

As soon as he entered the pavilion, he was pulled aside by André de Chauvigny. “We had a message from Saladin’s brother. He said he’d heard the Franks were not happy about their proposed meeting, saying it endangered the Christian religion, and he asked if Richard had changed his mind because of the protests.”

Henri nodded; although Saladin had refused to meet Richard, he’d been willing to have his brother act on his behalf. “That could not have made Richard happy. As if he’d ever be swayed by what other men think!”

“He dictated a response to be sent on the morrow, saying the delay was due to his illness and no other reason. But he took it much too calmly, Henri. He ought to have been outraged by the mere suggestion that he could be overruled by the French king.”

“Arnaldia saps a man, André. I remember feeling as weak as a newborn babe. Yet once my fever broke, I was quick to regain my strength, and I am sure Richard will, too. Has he eaten anything since I saw him this morning?”

“Not much,” André admitted. “His queen tried to coax him into taking some chicken cooked in white wine, for it’s said to be good for the ailing. But he has no appetite. He’s about to be bled now. His fool doctors have been arguing all day about the best time to do it. Apparently it depends upon a man’s nature, and they could not decide if the king is sanguine or choleric. If he’s the former, he ought to be bled at sunrise, at noon if he’s the latter. Richard finally just told them to get it done straightaway, which probably proves he’s choleric,” André said with a faint, sad smile.

The pavilion was a very large one, said to be big enough to hold well over a hundred men, but there was little room, for it was crowded with Richard’s household knights, some of his queen and sister’s ladies, several bishops, and lords like Jacques d’Avesnes, the Earl of Leicester, and the newly bereaved Jaufre of Perche. Because André and Henri were known to be members of Richard’s inner circle, a path slowly opened, enabling them to reach the screen set up around the king’s bed.

Richard was propped up on pillows, his wife and sister watching intently as a physician opened a vein near his elbow. Nervous under their scrutiny, the doctor was talking too much, explaining that this was the basilica vein and lancing here would purge noxious humors from the king’s liver, telling them what all already knew, that good health depended upon the proper balance of the four humors—blood, phlegm, white and black bile—and too much blood in the body was one cause of disease. Richard’s eyes were closed, but his lashes fluttered when Berengaria leaned over and murmured that his nephew was here.

“Henri,” he said, his voice so low that the younger man had to bend down to catch his words. “Take Joanna and Berenguela to dine with you. They’ve not eaten all day. . . .”

Both women at once protested. Henri was not to be denied, though. “This may not be gallant of me, but the two of you look worse than the king and he’s the one who is sick. You need a good night’s sleep for certes, but a few hours in my charming