Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,297

of the steps.

Richard and André were alone in the solar. “I was about to send word to you,” Richard said. “It will not be to your liking, though.”

“I know. I just met Humphrey de Toron downstairs. He said Saladin would not budge about Ascalon.”

“Neither will I,” Richard said, his voice flat and hard, “so the talks are done. On the morrow I want to send three hundred knights to Ascalon to strengthen its defenses and to destroy Dārūm. Is that acceptable to you, Henri?”

“Of course.” Henri looked around for a wine flagon, didn’t see one. “What is your plan?”

“Are you so sure I have one?”

“You always do.”

That earned him a fleeting smile from his uncle. “As it happens, I do. There is only one coastal port still under Saladin’s control. So let’s take it away from him.”

“Beirut?” Henri considered for a heartbeat or two and then smiled. “Beirut it is.”

“I thought you’d like that idea,” Richard said dryly. Glancing over at André, he explained, “I daresay my nephew would agree to lay siege to Constantinople as long as it meant we’d be heading to Acre first.”

Understanding then, André grinned. “Of course, his bride is waiting for him at Acre!” Shaking his head in mock regret, he said, “Ah, youth . . . when a man is utterly in thrall to his cock.”

They both laughed, but Henri did not mind their teasing. He knew there was no malice in it. And because he was a secret romantic at heart, he even felt a twinge of sympathy for his uncle, sorry that Richard would never be as eager to be reunited with Berengaria as he was to see Isabella again.

CHAPTER 34

JULY 1192

Acre, Outremer

The last Sunday in July was unusually hot even for an Outremer summer, but in late afternoon a westerly wind began to stir the fronds of palms and to rustle the silvery-green leaves of the ubiquitous olive trees. To take full advantage of it, Isabella, Berengaria, Joanna, and their ladies retreated to the palace roof, sheltering from the sun under a canvas canopy as they enjoyed the feel of a cooling sea breeze on flushed, sweltering skin.

Isabella had made herself as comfortable as her pregnancy would allow, resting her feet upon a footstool, easing her aching back with several small pillows. She’d been stitching a chrysom robe for her baby while Mariam read aloud to them from Chrétien de Troyes’s Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart. She put her sewing aside when Mariam excused herself to go belowstairs, and Anna at once hastened over. She was always eager to engage Isabella in conversation, and Joanna and Berengaria suspected it was because a faint scent of scandal trailed in Isabella’s wake. So far Isabella had good-naturedly indulged the girl’s curiosity, but the older women kept a watch on her, knowing Anna’s exuberance could be misread as impudence.

“I only had one brother,” Anna said sadly, “and he died. I still miss him. Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“Yes . . . I had an older half-brother and sister from my father’s first marriage, who are both dead.”

Anna mulled this over, for she found the genealogy of the kingdom’s Royal House to be rather confusing. “Oh, of course! Your brother was the Leper King!”

Joanna winced, and Berengaria and Sophia frowned. But Isabella did not lose her composure. “Yes, Baldwin was sometimes called that. There are people who believe leprosy is divine punishment for sin. The Pope even declared that Baldwin’s leprosy was the judgment of God. In Outremer, we know better. My brother was well loved by his subjects and greatly admired for his courage and gallantry.”

Seeing then that Anna was distressed by her faux pas, Isabella deftly changed the subject, saying, “And I have four younger siblings, two brothers and two sisters born to my mother and Balian. They’ve lived in Tyre since Balian’s lands were captured by Saladin—” She stopped so abruptly that she drew all eyes. Letting out an audible breath, she summoned up a smile when she saw that she was the center of attention. “My baby is active today. If I did not know better, I’d think there was a game of camp-ball going on in my womb.”

Those who’d borne children shared knowing smiles, remembering their own pregnancies. Berengaria had avoided this subject whenever possible and she felt a twinge of remorse; it was rude, after all, to ignore Isabella’s coming motherhood. “When is the baby due?” she asked, as warmly as she could.

“My midwife says early November,