poison her friendship with Joanna, and she admitted that she’d come to see it truly had been a military decision, albeit a brutally cold-blooded one.
“I’d assumed that Richard saw Saracens as so many of our Christian brethren do,” she explained, “as godless infidels better off dead. But I no longer believe that.” When he asked what changed her mind, she swore him to secrecy and then told him about Richard’s plan to marry Joanna to al-’Ādil. He was not as surprised as she’d expected, reminding her that Richard had knighted al-’Ādil’s son and several Mamluks and emirs he’d become friendly with during his negotiations with Saladin.
“That drove the French well nigh crazy,” he laughed. “But Richard never cares what others think of him, which is both his strength and his weakness. He respects the courage of his Saracen foes and so it seems natural to him to honor it, even if others see it as heresy or treason.”
They finished the wine and fruit and talked of their siblings. He told her of Bleddyn back in Wales, who’d repudiated his Norman-French blood, and his sister Mallt, named after the Empress Maude, happily wed to a Welsh lord. In turn, she talked of her half-sister Sophia, the ultimate survivor, and William, who’d been a better brother than a king. But they never spoke of the future, for no man in Richard’s army had any tomorrows promised to him, and so it was wiser to live just for today, especially for secret lovers unlikely to have more than what they had found on this hot July afternoon in an Acre inn.
MORGAN AND MARIAM had fallen asleep, were awakened by the bells chiming for Vespers, and dressed almost as hastily as they’d undressed earlier. They got to the cathedral just before Mariam’s escort arrived. Out of breath and very apologetic for being late, they were greatly relieved when she magnanimously forgave them. Morgan planned to return to the inn later to retrieve his sheets, towels, and pillow, for he hoped to be able to use them again. But now he trailed inconspicuously after Mariam and the men-at-arms, wanting to be sure they got safely back to the castle.
He’d always had an observant eye and he was not long in realizing that something was amiss. The outdoor markets were deserted, the vendors doing no business. The normal noise of the city was hushed and there was fear on the faces of the men and women he passed in the streets. As the palace came into view, he could see a crowd had gathered before the gatehouse, and it was then that Acre’s church bells began to peal—not to summon laggards to Vespers, but to sound the alarm.
Morgan grabbed the first man he saw, an elderly greybeard who must have seen decades of bloodshed in the course of his long life. “What is wrong? What has happened?”
“Jaffa—it has been taken by Saladin!”
THE CASTLE GATE WAS CLOSED, unusual during daylight hours, but Morgan was known by the guards and had no trouble gaining admittance. He found the great hall was packed with agitated men and shocked women. Isabella was seated upon the dais, flanked by Joanna and Berengaria, as if they were offering moral support in her kingdom’s moment of crisis. It was so crowded that Morgan did not even try to reach the women and searched instead for a familiar face. Finding one, he shoved his way toward Warin Fitz Gerald.
Warin wasted no time giving him the bad news. A ship had arrived a few hours ago from Jaffa, its passengers dispatched for help when they saw Saladin’s army descending upon them.
To Morgan, that was better news than he’d expected to hear, though. “Then the city has not yet fallen to them?”
Warin looked at him bleakly and then gave a half-shrug. “That was three days ago,” he said. “The king and Count Henri rode off to the French camp to tell Burgundy and Beauvais. King Richard will want to leave as soon as possible. Every hour that we delay . . .” He did not bother to finish the sentence, did not need to do so.
By now Mariam was beside Joanna on the dais. As her eyes met Morgan’s, the same silent thought passed between them, gratitude that they’d had a few private, precious hours before the storm broke. Whatever happened, at least they’d had that much.
ISABELLA HAD BEEN JOINED by Bishop Theobald of Acre and Joscius, the Archbishop of Tyre; both men were worried about