Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,191

a commotion at the end of the table; a nervous servant had dropped a tureen of soup. Philippe’s mouth thinned, but he kept his temper under a tight rein, for a boy’s clumsiness was a small sin when he was facing such monumental challenges. Absently crumbling a piece of bread into small pellets, he studied his dinner guests. Aside from Conrad of Montferrat, Balian d’Ibelin, and Leopold von Babenberg, they were French lords and bishops, men who’d done homage to him, men he ought to be able to trust. But could he?

His cousin Robert de Dreux had been monopolizing the conversation, but Philippe permitted it because Robert was being highly critical of the English king, implying that there was something very suspicious about Richard’s ongoing communications with their Saracen foes. “Look at the way they’ve been exchanging gifts! Since when does a Christian king court the favor of a Saracen infidel?”

Richard had no friends at that table, but this was too much for Balian to resist, for he had a highly developed sense of mischief. “I heard that Richard sent Saladin a captured Turkish slave,” he said in conspiratorial tones. “But is it true that Saladin sent Richard snow and fruit when he was ailing? Snow and fruit—no wonder you are so mistrustful, my lord count.”

Robert de Dreux regarded him warily, not sure if he was being mocked or not. Balian seemed to be supporting him, his expression open and earnest. But he was a poulain, the vaguely disparaging term used for those Franks born in Outremer, and that was enough to raise doubts in Robert’s mind about Balian’s sincerity.

Philippe set down his wine cup with a thud, sorely tempted to tell his dolt of a cousin that he was being ridiculed. He did not, though, for he would need Robert’s support once word broke of his intent to leave Outremer. But would he get it? Robert’s brother Beauvais had reacted much more negatively than he’d expected, for the bishop was the most cynical soul he’d ever met. So had Hugh of Burgundy. He was studying the other men at the table, trying to determine which ones were likely to balk, like Beauvais and Hugh, when there was a stir by the door. A moment later, Philippe was bitterly regretting having agreed to cede security to the Templars, for their white-clad knights were making no attempt whatsoever to stop the English king from barging into the hall, as arrogantly as if he thought all of Acre was his.

Conrad and Balian stiffened at the sight of the de Lusignans, and Leopold shoved back his chair, regarding the English king with frozen fury. The other guests were bewildered by this intrusion, looking to their king for guidance. Philippe half rose, then sank back in his seat, struggling to get his emotions under control, for he knew he must be icy-calm to deal with this crisis. It would not be easy, though; his hands involuntarily clenched into fists as Richard strode toward the high table. He was expecting an immediate verbal onslaught, but Richard had another strategy in mind.

“My lord king.” Richard’s greeting was gravely courteous, even deferential, as befitting a vassal to his liege lord, a tone he’d rarely if ever adopted in the past with Philippe. After politely acknowledging Conrad, Balian, and the French barons, but not Leopold, he offered an apology for interrupting their dinner. “Alas, this could not wait. We needed to speak with you as soon as possible,” he said, gesturing toward the men who’d followed him into the hall. “We’ve come to ask you to reconsider your decision to return to France, for if you leave, our chances of recovering Jerusalem will be grievously damaged.”

The last part of his sentence went unheard, drowned out in the ensuing uproar. All eyes fastened upon Philippe, midst exclamations of shock and anger. Conrad rose so quickly that his chair overturned. “What nonsense is this?” he snarled at Richard. “The French king would never abandon us!” Not all of the French barons were as sure of that as he was, though, unnerved by Philippe’s white-lipped silence and the fact that so many highborn lords and prelates had accompanied the English king, backing up his contention by their very presence.

“I would that were true,” Richard assured Conrad, managing to sound both sincere and sorrowful. “But the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais say otherwise. Nothing would give me greater joy than to be told they are mistaken. Are they, my