Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,234

blind?” Richard asked after a long silence. His mood had swung from fury to frustration to bafflement; now he just sounded tired. “They are not fools, not even those whoresons Burgundy and Beauvais. So why would they not heed me?”

André had no answer for him, but Henri did. Reining in his horse beside Richard’s Spanish stallion, he said, “Because Hugh was right. A holy war is different. They are listening to their hearts, Uncle, and the heart is not always rational.”

“Are you saying that Jerusalem matters more to them than it does to me? God’s Bones, Henri, I was one of the first to take the cross!”

“No one doubts your devotion to our quest, Uncle. But you are a soldier, first and foremost, and most of them are now pilgrims, albeit armed ones. You want to win the war and secure a peace that Saladin will honor. They just want to recapture Jerusalem, whatever the cost. Try not to blame them for that.”

“I do not,” Richard insisted, not altogether truthfully. “But as I told them tonight, this was a mistake, a great mistake.”

They agreed, so emphatically that Richard took a small measure of comfort in their loyalty. But he remained convinced that they’d let a rare opportunity slip away, one that might not come again.

THEY CONTINUED WITH the refortification of Jaffa, Richard occasionally taking a hand himself in the repair work, which astonished his barons and endeared him to his soldiers. By Michaelmas, they’d made so much progress that Richard felt he could spare a few hours to go hawking in the low hills south of Jaffa. He’d brought his own gyrfalcons on the crusade; they were used mainly against cranes, though, and required greyhounds for the kill once the falcon had brought down its much larger prey. But Saladin had sent him a saker during his illness at Acre, and he was curious to try it out, having been told it was the main hunting bird of the Saracen falconers. They had a successful hunt, catching partridges and even a red hare. Richard was still restless, and after sending the falcons and their game back to Jaffa, he headed out to do reconnaissance.

This hunt was not as successful; they encountered no Saracen scouts or patrols. By now the enervating heat of midday was upon them, and when they found a small stream by a wild olive grove, they dismounted to water their horses and rest awhile. Bracing his back against a tree, Morgan was grateful to escape the Syrian sun, for he did not think he’d ever adjust to Outremer’s torrid climate. Off to his left, he could hear Richard talking with Renier de Maron, telling the poulain lord that they’d heard Conrad had been making overtures to Saladin and asking Renier if he thought Conrad was capable of such treachery. Under another tree, Warin Fitz Gerald had produced some dice and was playing a game of raffle with Alan and Lucas L’Etable. Morgan was half tempted to join in, but that would require moving. He was dozing when Guilhem de Préaux plopped down beside him, saying he’d like to learn some more Welsh curses.

Morgan was happy to oblige, for he shared Guilhem’s interest in foreign languages; they’d both picked up a few useful Greek phrases in Sicily and Cyprus and were now doing their best to master a bit of the equally challenging Arabic. He taught the other knight a handful of Welsh obscenities, translating twll din as arsehole, and coc oen as lamb’s cock, assuring Guilhem that the latter was highly offensive in Wales. Guilhem repeated the words dutifully, committing them to memory, and then asked for the worst insult a Welshman could utter.

“Well, it is a grievous affront to say that a man is incapable of protecting his wife, for that is a serious slur upon his manhood. But I think the greatest insult by far would be to call a Welshman a Sais,” Morgan said, straight-faced. He began to laugh, though, when Guilhem wanted a translation, admitting that Sais meant “Englishman.”

“That does not offend me,” Guilhem said with a grin, “for I’m Norman. I have some new Arabic curses for you, if you’re interested?” Morgan was, and so was Renier de Maron’s nephew, Walter, who moved closer to hear better; it puzzled both Morgan and Guilhem that so few of the poulains bothered to learn any Arabic. Unhooking a wineskin from his belt, Guilhem shared it along with his newfound store of profanities. “Ya ibn