Richard in his present dark mood, but he hastened to mount and follow the king as they rode out of the abbey precincts. Once they were on the road, some of Richard’s anger seemed to dissipate in the open air, and by the time they stopped to water their horses, he was telling Morgan about the plans for his entry into Messina.
“Philippe arrived last week, in a single ship if you can believe that, with all the fanfare of a merchant returning home from a day at the market.” Richard shook his head in mock sorrow at the French king’s lack of majesty. “There is more to power, Morgan, than the exercise of it. There is also the demonstration of it, as I shall show Philippe and the citizens of Messina on the morrow.”
Morgan was not fully in agreement with Richard, for Henry had been utterly indifferent to the trappings of power, needing no props to display his mastery over other men. He was not about to argue with the king, though. Instead, he offered his sympathy for the Lady Joanna’s plight, which Richard acknowledged with a nod, saying ominously, “God help Tancred if he has laid so much as a finger on her.”
They’d dismounted beside a small stream so their horses could drink, and they soon began to attract the attention of the inhabitants of nearby houses, who shared the curiosity of villagers worldwide about strangers in their midst. Eventually, a matronly woman approached, speaking a tongue that was alien to them both, though Richard guessed it was an odd dialect of Greek. She made it clear by gestures that she had food and drink for sale, and after Morgan fumbled in his scrip for a few Sicilian coins—kings rarely bothered to carry money—she returned with slices of freshly baked bread smeared with olive oil, and two clay cups of a strong red wine. She’d been followed by her daughter, and Morgan could not resist flirting a bit, exchanging complicit smiles with the girl until her mother noticed and shooed her back toward their house.
“I’d take care if I were you, Morgan,” Richard said, amused by the byplay. “I hear they are right protective of their womenfolk in Sicily, and a wink or a lingering gaze can cost a man dearly. So unless you have peculiar yearnings to become a gelding, I suggest we ride on.” He stopped, though, in the act of mounting his stallion, his head cocked. “Did you hear that?”
Morgan nodded. “It sounded like a hawk.” When it came again, he was taken aback by Richard’s next action. Tossing his reins to Morgan, he strode off toward a nearby house. The woman’s pretty daughter had ventured out again and was removing laundry from a line of rope tied between two trees, watching Morgan all the while. He was tempted to go over and help but, mindful of Richard’s warning, he stayed with the horses, giving her a regretful smile and a shrug.
It was a tranquil scene, people going about their daily chores, dogs sleeping in the sun, children interrupting a game with wooden weapons to stare at Morgan’s real sword. He was about to toss them a few coins when the village peace was suddenly shattered by angry voices and the piercing cry of a hawk. Morgan tensed as several men hurried toward the house, for by now he recognized one of the raised voices as Richard’s. He couldn’t make out the words, but there was no mistaking the belligerent tone. He hastily swung up into the saddle just as the door burst open and Richard backed out, using a knife to keep the furious villagers at bay.
“Morgan!” he yelled, not daring to take his gaze from the threatening crowd, for by now other villagers had been drawn into the fray, several carrying pitchforks and hammers. They scattered as Morgan rode into their midst, giving Richard the time he needed to mount his own stallion. Spurring their horses, they soon outdistanced the curses, barking dogs, and a few poorly thrown rocks.
When they at last drew rein on the crest of a hill, Morgan turned in the saddle to stare at the other man. “What in Christ’s Name was that all about?”
“The hawk,” Richard said, as if that were self-explanatory, busying himself in brushing a powdery substance from his tunic. It looked like flour to Morgan and that only deepened the mystery.
“What about the hawk?”
“It was a fine goshawk, obviously stolen.” Richard paused, having discovered a cut