Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,218

boyish enthusiasm after four months in the killing fields of the Holy Land.

He must have dozed then, for the next thing he knew, Mathieu was jabbing him in the ribs, saying that the English king was leaving. It was that muted twilight hour between day and night and Guillaume was glad the light was fading, glad he’d not chosen to sit by one of the campfires. During their stay in Acre, he’d done his best to keep out of Richard’s way, and on the few occasions when their paths had crossed, the other man had stared right through him as if he did not exist. The last thing he wanted tonight was to be called to Richard’s attention. But Richard had stopped to speak to one of the crossbowmen and, to Guillaume’s dismay, the man nodded and then pointed toward the wagon. Seeing that the English king was heading now in his direction, he struggled to his feet, his heart thudding faster than it had at any time during the battle. He’d taken the cross and that mattered far more than any petty grudge. There was no way he’d disavow such a sacred oath. But what would he do if this accursed, arrogant king banished him from the march?

Mathieu had scrambled to his feet, too, and watched in alarm as the English king bore down upon them. Coming to a halt a sword’s length away, Richard regarded the other man, his face inscrutable. Just when the suspense had become intolerable, he said, “You fought very well today.”

Guillaume had not realized he’d been holding his breath. “So did you,” he said laconically, and thought he saw the corner of Richard’s mouth twitch.

“It is passing strange, but the climate of Outremer seems to be affecting my memory. For the life of me, I cannot recall anything that happened between us in bygone days.”

“It is indeed odd,” Guillaume agreed gravely, “for I am suffering from the same malady.”

“Well, then, we’ll just have to start anew from this day. Come on back to my tent and we’ll eat and refight the battle,” Richard said, and this time Guillaume was sure he caught the hint of a smile. He accepted the invitation as casually as it was offered, revealing his relief only in the smile he sent winging Mathieu’s way. The youth was beaming, thrilled to see his two heroes reconciling their differences. And when Richard then glanced over his shoulder and said, “You, too, Mathieu,” he looked positively beatific as he hurried to catch up with them.

By now they’d drawn a crowd, for Guillaume was well liked by his fellow Frenchmen, and they were smiling, too, gladdened that the English king had acted to make peace with the man he’d wronged. The only two men not caught up in this surge of goodwill were the two standing in the entrance of the duke’s command tent. The Bishop of Beauvais shook his head and then spat into the dirt at his feet. “Whatever that whoreson said to des Barres, you can be sure it was no apology. He’d sooner have his tongue cut out with a spoon than admit regret or remorse or, God forbid, a mistake.”

“Apologies are for lesser men,” Hugh said bitterly. “Not for the likes of Lionheart.”

THE ARMY REMAINED at Haifa the next day, where they left piles of belongings behind on the beach, the soldiers jettisoning those possessions that weren’t essential. When they resumed the march on Tuesday, the twenty-seventh, they maintained the tight formation that Richard demanded. He would not trust the French again with the rear guard, and from then on, the Templars and Hospitallers rotated that command. He sought, too, to keep morale up by alternating duties for the infantrymen. On one day they guarded the exposed left flank, theirs the daunting and dangerous task of protecting the knights’ vulnerable horses from Saracen arrows; on the next, they were allowed to travel with the baggage carts, protected by the sea. The men were finding that the scorching summer heat was as much their enemy as Salah al-Dīn. Richard did what he could to mitigate their misery. They marched only in the mornings, set up camp at noon, and rested every other day, but toiling under that burning sun was taking its toll. Men became ill, and some died from sunstroke. The sick were transported to the small ships, the dead buried where they fell.

It was slow going, for they were following an old Roman road, badly overgrown by