to the Lady Isabella.”
A faint, sardonic smile tugged at the corner of the archbishop’s mouth. “Now,” he said dryly, “you may express your admiration at the Solomon-like wisdom of our decision.”
Conrad’s first reaction was relief that he’d not been cut out entirely as he’d feared, followed by frustration, for how likely was it that he’d outlive his younger rival? Guy looked pleased and then puzzled. “But what if I remarry and have children? Surely they’d take precedence over the marquis’s questionable claim.”
“No,” the archbishop said, allowing himself a hint of satisfaction, “they would not.”
Guy gasped. “Are you saying I’ll have only a life interest in the crown?”
“That’s more than you deserve,” Renaud of Sidon said with a sneer, and that was all it took. Both sides began to rail at the unfairness of the terms, exchanging insults and threats with a bitterness that did not bode well for acceptance of the decision. Only Joffroi de Lusignan seemed content with the outcome, watching his brother rave and rant with the detached amusement of a future Count of Jaffa.
Richard finally had to intervene and shout the protests down, with some help from Archbishop Joscius. Philippe paid no heed to the turmoil. Instead he beckoned to Conrad, who obeyed, but took his time in doing so. They conferred for a few moments, and then Philippe rose, getting ready to depart.
Balian at once made his way over to Conrad’s side. At his low-voiced query, Conrad leaned closer, saying in the Piedmontese dialect, “Philippe is giving me his half of Acre and his share of the ransom for the Saracen hostages.”
Balian was surprised, not having expected such a generous gesture from the French king. “You think Philippe is feeling a pang or two of guilt?”
Conrad gave a snort of disbelief. “Since when are you such an innocent? He did it for one reason and one reason only—in hopes that I will make life as difficult as possible for the English king after he’s left Outremer.” He looked past Balian then, watching Richard with the single-minded intensity of an archer tracking his target. “And by God, I will do my best to oblige him.”
Philippe’s knights had reached him by now. But as they turned to go, Richard called out in a loud, commanding tone, “My lord king!” When Philippe halted, he said, “We are not yet done. I assume you remain set upon leaving Acre.” He got an almost imperceptible nod in grudging response, and then signaled to André, who came forward with an ivory reliquary. “I must ask then that you swear upon these holy relics that you will honor the protection the Church gives men who’ve taken the cross, and wage no war against my lands whilst I am doing God’s Work in Outremer.”
Philippe’s eyes, always pale, took on the colorless glaze of winter ice. “Indeed I will not! You insult me by even asking for such an oath.”
“I am sorry you take it that way. But I must insist.” Richard’s face was impassive, but his body language conveyed another message altogether, his legs spread apart, his arms folded across his chest, his very posture a challenge in itself. “If you refuse, you raise some very ugly suspicions. Why would you balk if you do not have evil intent?”
“I ‘balk’ because I find it offensive that you think there is a need for such an oath!” Glancing around the hall, Philippe saw that once again Richard had managed to get public opinion on his side. Well, so be it! He swung around, intending to stalk out, only to find his path blocked by his own lords.
“You’ll shame us all if you refuse,” Hugh of Burgundy hissed. “For the love of Christ, take the damned oath!”
“The duke is right, my liege,” Jaufre said, with an impressive display of quiet courage. “I am sure you’d never invade the English king’s domains whilst he is fighting for the Holy City. But it will look bad if you refuse.”
“Take the oath, Uncle,” Henri urged, as softly as Jaufre but with less deference. “Not for Richard’s sake, for your own. Why plant needless seeds of doubt in other men’s minds?”
Philippe looked from one man to another, saw the same grim resolve and defiant disapproval on all their faces. “Very well,” he snapped. “I’ll take his bloody oath. And you, my lord duke, and you, my lord count, may stand surety for my good faith.” Neither Hugh nor Henri appeared happy about that, and he took a small measure of