Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,190

saw his own suspicions confirmed in Henri’s grim expression. No one else knew what was coming, though, and they began to mutter among themselves as the silence dragged out.

Hugh outlasted Beauvais, for the bishop had no more patience than Richard did. “Our king has sent us to tell you that he has fulfilled his vow by taking Acre, and so he intends to return to his own lands straightaway.”

There was a moment of eerie, utter silence. Then disbelief gave way to outrage and the hall exploded. Men were on their feet, shouting, cushions trampled underfoot and red stains spreading over the tablecloths from spilled wine cups, amid cries of dismay from some of the women as their peaceful dinner turned into chaos. Richard was on his feet, too, raising his hand for quiet. “Shall I send your king a map? He seems to have confused Acre with Jerusalem.”

“We’ve delivered the message,” Beauvais said tersely. “Make of it what you will.”

“There is but one way to take it, and it does your king no credit. He swore a holy oath to free Jerusalem, and now he just . . . goes home? What do his lords say to that? What do you say? Do you mean to disavow your own oaths, too?”

Both men glared at him. “Indeed not!” Hugh snapped, at the same time that Beauvais pledged to remain in Outremer until it was a Christian kingdom again. They were so clearly insulted by the very question that their indignation gave Richard an idea.

“I have to hear this from your king’s own lips,” he declared. “Is he at the Temple?”

“When we left, he was about to sit down to dinner.” Hugh paused. “He’ll take it amiss if you burst in upon his meal without warning.” But he did not sound much troubled by that prospect, and Richard was sure now that Philippe had alienated his own men by renouncing his vow.

“I am willing to risk that,” he said, very dryly. Glancing around, he saw that there was no need to ask if others wanted to accompany him; most of the guests had risen, too. Reaching down, he squeezed his wife’s hand. “I am sorry, Berenguela, but it cannot wait.”

“I understand,” she said. Settling back upon her cushion, she watched as the hall emptied within moments, even the prelates hastening to catch up with Richard and the de Lusignans. She hadn’t lied; she did understand. It was still disappointing to have their first dinner end so abruptly, and she could not help wondering if this would be the pattern for their marriage in years to come, brief moments of domesticity midst the unending demands of war.

Joanna came over and sat down beside her sister-in-law. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement. “Why must women miss all the fun? What I would not have given,” she confessed, “to witness their confrontation!”

CONRAD LEANED TOWARD his friend Balian d’Ibelin, Lord of Nablus, speaking in the Piedmontese dialect that was the native tongue of the marquis and Balian’s Italian father to deter eavesdroppers. “The last time I enjoyed myself so much,” he murmured, “a funeral Mass was being said.”

Balian shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing that the French king had adopted the Frankish fashion of dining on cushions. “So you noticed it, too—that cloud of gloom and doom hovering over the Temple. Any idea what is going on?”

Conrad shrugged. “God knows Philippe is never the most cheerful of men. But I’ve not seen his nerves as raw as this. When Leopold dropped his wine cup, I swear Philippe jumped like a scalded cat.” Glancing down the table at the Austrian duke, he said softly, “There’s another one not exactly bubbling over with joy. I heard he’d had a row of some sort with Richard, but when I asked, he well nigh bit my head off.” Poking at the meat on his trencher with his knife, he sighed. “And the food is as dismal as the company. Well, if I am already doing penance for my sins, I might as well add some new ones. You want to check out that bordel in the Venetian quarter tonight? I’m told they have a Greek whore as limber as an eel.”

Balian regarded the other man in bemusement. “You do remember that your wife is my stepdaughter?”

Conrad was utterly unperturbed by the implied rebuke. “And I cherish Isabella,” he said urbanely. “No man could ask for a better wife. But I’m talking of whores, not wives.”

Before Balian could respond, there was