they are fighting for the Lord Christ in the Holy Land!”
He smiled at her vehemence. “You’ll get no argument from me, little dove. I hope the new Pope feels as strongly as you do about the Church’s duty to defend those who’ve taken the cross. All I can do from Acre, though, is send word to my mother and Bishop Longchamp, warning them there’ll soon be a French wolf on the prowl.”
She looked at him unhappily. It was so unfair that he must worry about Philippe’s treachery whilst all of Christendom expected him to be the savior of the Holy City. He seemed to sense her distress, for he reached over and took her hand. But that reassuring gesture brought tears to her eyes. He’d lost his fingernails during his illness, and while he’d acted as if it were a minor matter, the sight of his injured fingers reminded her how very close he’d come to death.
She did her best now to hide her concern, for even her brief experience as a wife had taught her that men did not want to be fussed over. There were several copper-colored hairs on the pillow and she tried to brush them away before he noticed, remembering what Joanna had said about his vanity. She only succeeded in calling his attention to them. “That’s odd,” he mused. “Henri said he did not begin to lose his hair for nigh on two months after his illness. I wonder if I’m starting early.”
She was surprised that he sounded so matter-of-fact. “It does not trouble you, Richard . . . losing your hair?”
“Well, it will if it does not grow back,” he said with a smile. “And in all honesty, I’d not have been happy if this happened ere an important event like my coronation or our wedding. I doubt that my crown would have looked quite as impressive if I’d been bald as an egg. But if I have to lose my hair, there is not a better time for it than now. I’m not likely to be looking into any mirrors whilst campaigning.”
He laughed then, as if at some private memory. “Soldiers have many vices, but vanity is not amongst them. How could it be? What man is going to worry about his hair when he might lose his head?” Too late, he caught her look of alarm, and to divert her thoughts from the dangers he’d be facing, he said quickly, “It is hard for a woman to understand what campaigning is like, Berenguela. It is a much simpler life we lead. We have to make do without luxuries like this. . . .” He patted their feather mattress. “Or this . . .” he added, cupping her breast. “We eat what can be cooked over campfires. We usually have to bathe in cold water, so it does not take long until we’re all stinking like polecats. We’ll bring along some laundresses, so at least our clothes will get washed occasionally, and they’ll do their best to keep us from getting too lice-ridden. But you can be sure I’ll not be looking like that splendid peacock who bedazzled Isaac Comnenus and the Cypriots!”
He laughed again, but Berengaria was dismayed by the image now taking root in her mind. Was it not enough that men must put their lives at risk? Must they endure so much discomfort, too? “Richard, that sounds dreadful!”
“No,” he said, “it is not. It is a soldier’s life, no more, no less. Do you want the truth, little dove? I love it. It is the world I’ve known since I was fifteen, the only world I’ve wanted to know.”
She sat up, forgetting to tuck the sheet around her, so intent was she upon what he’d just said. “Why do you love it, Richard?”
“The challenge. I love that, being able to test myself, to prove that I’m the best. Not because I am Henry Fitz Empress’s son or because I wear a crown. Because I can wield a sword with greater skill than other men. Because I have worked to perfect those skills for nigh on twenty years. Because when I’m astride Fauvel, I feel as if we’re one and he does, too. Because I can see things on the field that other men do not. Sometimes it seems as if I know what a man is going to do ere he does himself. And when the fighting is done, I know that I’m the best because I’ve earned it.”
“Are you