Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,275

Kingdom of Jerusalem had died when Conrad drew his last breath. Leaving Bishop Theobald and the other prelates to try to calm the crowd, the governors escorted Balian from the hall as soon as he’d given a terse account of Conrad’s murder. Followed by Henri and the knights who’d accompanied him to Tyre, they retreated to the greater privacy of the solar. Once wine had been fetched by frightened servants, they staggered toward the closest seats like men whose legs could no longer sustain the weight of their bodies. Otto de Trazegnies and William de Caieux slumped onto a nearby bench and Morgan withdrew into a window alcove, almost as if he hoped he could somehow distance himself from the looming disaster. Bertrand de Verdun was no longer a young man and he collapsed into a high-backed chair that he ought to have offered to Balian or Henri, but protocol was the last thing on his mind at that moment. Stephen Longchamp appropriated one of the wine flagons, apparently intending to drink himself into blessed oblivion. Balian sank down on a wooden coffer, staring into the depths of a gilt cup as if it held answers instead of spiced red wine. Henri hovered beside him, too restive to sit still, wanting to demand answers and yet dreading to hear them. He managed to wait until Balian had drained his cup, for it was obvious that the other man was utterly exhausted, physically and emotionally, and then he said, “Tell us the rest, Balian, what you did not tell the men in the hall. Give us as much detail as you can. Mayhap then we can begin to believe it.”

Balian set his cup down upon the carpet. “Isabella had gone to the baths,” he said dully, as if struggling to comprehend how such a mundane matter could have such monumental consequences, “and when she did not return by midday, Conrad decided he could wait no longer. He said to tell her he’d gone to dine with the Bishop of Beauvais. He had only two knights with him, none of them wearing their hauberks. He . . . he never worried about his physical safety, no more than your English king does. When he got to Beauvais’s house, he found that the bishop had already eaten. Beauvais offered to have a meal prepared, but Conrad refused, saying Isabella ought to be back by then and he’d go home to eat with her.”

While Balian was looking directly at Henri, his eyes seemed focused upon a scene far from the solar at Acre’s royal palace. “It happened after he’d passed the archbishop’s dwelling. As he turned into a narrow street near the Exchange, he saw two men waiting for him. They would have looked familiar, Christian monks who’d attached themselves to our households��mine and Renaud de Sidon’s—and when one of them approached with a letter, he likely assumed it was from me or Renaud.”

Balian paused to press his fingers against his throbbing temples. “When he reached down for the letter, the killer stabbed him. At the same time, the second Assassin leapt onto his horse and plunged a dagger into his back. I was told it happened so fast that no one could have saved him. He was carried back to the citadel, still breathing, but it was obvious his wounds were mortal. . . .”

“Was there time to give him the Sacrament of the Faithful?” When Balian nodded, Henri exhaled a ragged breath, grateful that at least Conrad had been shriven of his sins. “What happened to his attackers? And how can you be sure they were Assassins?”

“One of them was slain on the spot. The other fled into a nearby church, where he was seized and turned over to the Bishop of Beauvais. Under torture, he admitted he’d been sent by the Old Man of the Mountain. He was then dragged through the streets to his death.” Balian picked up his wine cup again, seemed surprised to find it empty.

Henri refilled it for him. “I do not understand. Why did the Assassins seek Conrad’s death? Had they a grievance against him?”

“Yes . . . last year he’d seized a merchant ship belonging to Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān and then refused to return the cargo and crew. Conrad could be stubborn, and threats made him balk all the more. I’d warned him that one day his pride would play him false, but of course he just laughed. . . .” Balian’s voice trailed off,