Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,325

goes on. But I think it is much more likely that we’ll all die in the ruins of Jaffa, unable to fend off another Saracen assault.”

RICHARD’S CHILLS had given way to the expected fever, and his doctors were doing all they could to bring his temperature down, coaxing him to sip wine laced with betony, bathing his burning skin with water cooled by the snow from Mount Hermon. Henri, André, and Hubert Walter had gathered in a far corner of the chamber, watching the doctors’ efforts as they continued a low-voiced debate about what to do. André thought it best to wait until Richard’s fever broke, for he’d become delirious as it peaked earlier in the week. But Henri and the bishop feared that time was running out even as they argued, and they eventually prevailed.

Approaching the bed once the doctors were done, they were relieved that Richard still seemed lucid, and they took turns trying to persuade him that Ascalon must be sacrificed. It was far more important to Saladin than it was to them; he’d never make peace as long as Franks controlled the route to Egypt. Without Richard, it could not be defended. If peace were not made soon, they risked another attack on Jaffa, risked being stranded in Outremer till the following spring, risked the survival of both kingdoms—Jerusalem and England. Richard listened in silence and at last turned his head aside on the pillow, whispering, “Do as you think best. . . .” Overjoyed, they thanked him profusely and hastened off to send word to the Saracens that Ascalon’s fate was now open to negotiation.

Richard was not left in peace for long; the doctors returned, insisting he must be bled, and he did not have the strength to object, wanting only for them all to go away and let him be. He dozed for a time, awoke with another throbbing headache. Feeling as if his body were on fire, he sought to throw off the sheet and discovered he had more visitors. The French king and his brother Johnny were standing by the bed, regarding him with smug smiles.

We thought you’d want to know what has been happening back home, Big Brother, although you’ll not like it much. I am going to wed Alys, keeping her in the family, Johnny said with a grin. And I am thinking of taking Joanna as my queen now that you’ll not be around to object, Philippe confided. But the weddings will have to wait until after we lay claim to Normandy, of course. And England will soon be mine, too, Johnny boasted, for none will dare to defy me once they hear you died in the Holy Land. Richard told them to go away; they just laughed at him. And then Johnny did go, but Philippe still leaned over the bed, whispering in his ear. Your little brother will be a lamb to the slaughter, Lionheart. How long do you think it will take me to strip Johnny of every last acre? I’ll have Normandy, Anjou, Brittany, even your beloved Aquitaine in the time it takes for your body to rot in an Outremer grave. Your Angevin empire will soon be a French one and there is naught you can do to prevent it.

Richard cried out and his doctors were there at once, stopping him as he attempted to get up, telling him he must stay in bed. Did they not see Philippe and Johnny? Did they not hear the laughter? He tried to tell them, but talking was too much of an effort, and he let them lay him back against the pillows. His head was pounding; so was his heart, sounding as loud in his ears as the Saracen war drums. Had they launched another attack? When he closed his eyes, he could see that dead Templar, propped up in bed, sword in hand. Where was his sword? He struggled to sit up, looking around wildly for it. But the chamber was filling with shadows and he could see nothing beyond the bed.

Is this what you want, Richard? A familiar figure emerged from the darkness, holding out Joyeuse, the sword Maman had given him on his fifteenth birthday, when he’d been invested as Duke of Aquitaine; he’d named it after Charlemagne’s fabled weapon, said to have flashed lightning in the heat of battle. He reached for it, but his brother pulled it away before his fingers could touch the enameled pommel. What good will a sword