Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,304

when Vespers is nigh? If I am late, the men may seek me out at the bishop’s palace.”

“I bought one of those candles marked with the hours,” he said, and forced himself to rise from the bed, crossing the chamber and fumbling with flint and tinder until the wick caught fire. She’d never been in an inn before, but as she looked around, she realized how much he’d done to make their tryst as comfortable as possible, for it was much cleaner than such a rented room ought to be, with fresh, fragrant rushes scattered about on the floor and no trace of the usual dust and cobwebs. In addition to the candle, there was a washbasin, towels and sheets too costly to be found in any inn, a pillow, wine cups, a flagon, and a bowl of fruit; he’d even thought to provide a brass chamber pot.

Holding out her hand, she beckoned him back to the bed, saying in a soft, purring voice, “It is lonely over here without you, beloved.” He brought the wine and fruit with him. He was practical enough to bring the towels, too, and took his time blotting the damp sheen from her body, marveling that her skin was as tawny as her eyes. As he began to rub himself down, she watched with pleasure, sipping her wine. “I wish it were not so complicated to arrange a tryst, Morgan. We cannot keep using Bishop Theobald as my excuse or people might start to suspect me of having a liaison with him!”

“He should be so lucky,” he said, feeding her a slice of mango and licking the juice as it trickled down her throat. She was wearing her hair in two long braids, a style no longer popular in the western kingdoms but still fashionable in Outremer, and he tickled her cheek with one of the plaits, wishing he could see her hair loose, as a husband would. But how could they manage an entire night together when it was so difficult to find even a few stolen hours?

“Joanna once told me that her mother’s enemies claimed Eleanor had been unfaithful to the French king,” she said, returning the favor by popping an orange section into his mouth. “As if a queen could ever vanish from sight long enough to commit adultery! Her disappearance would cause a panic in the palace. Servants are always underfoot, eyes are always watching, and not all of them friendly, for spies are everywhere. At least a widow has a bit more freedom, for her chastity is no longer as important as a wife’s fidelity or as valuable as a virgin’s maidenhead. Since I am a widow and not under such constant scrutiny, we ought to be able to find some way to take advantage of that.”

“Well, we’re likely to have time to think about it. From what I’ve heard, Richard plans to set out for Beirut in the next day or two.”

“So soon? You’ve only been here two days!” She sounded so disappointed that he leaned over and kissed her; she tasted of wine and mango and smelled of perspiration and an exotic sandalwood perfume. “I hope it will not be tomorrow,” she said, “for Isabella’s sake as well as mine. It is Henri’s twenty-sixth birthday and she is planning to celebrate it in grand style. Who would have imagined such an ill-omened marriage would bring them both so much joy? But it is obvious to anyone with eyes to see that they are utterly besotted with each other.”

“And I’m utterly besotted with you, cariad,” he assured her, and she laughed, Henri and Isabella forgotten, content to have her world shrink to an inn chamber, a bed, and the man in it. They shared secrets and memories as the afternoon passed. He told her more about his parents and their remarkable love story, a king’s bastard son and his blind Welsh cousin who’d defied the odds and carved out a life together in the mountains of Eryri. He told her, too, of his service with Geoffrey of Brittany and the old king, and the conflict between his love of Wales and his love of adventure. She spoke of her husband, whom she’d respected but never loved, and of the Saracen mother she barely remembered, talking of her life in Sicily, growing up with Joanna, her brother’s child-bride. She confided that she’d let go of her anger over the massacre of the Acre garrison, for she’d not wanted to