Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,58

on his wrist. “But when I seized it, they protested vigorously and tried to stop me from leaving with it.” Seeing the incredulous expression on his cousin’s face, he said impatiently, “Rustics are not allowed to own hawks. You know that, Morgan.”

Morgan opened his mouth, about to point out the obvious. That may be true enough in England or France, but this is Sicily! He caught himself in time, and then said in measured tones, “Under the circumstances, would it not have been easier just to give them back their blasted hawk?”

“Why? They were in the wrong, not me. At first they were just cursing me; at least that is what I assume all that shouting meant. But then one hothead lunged at me with a knife. I was not about to spill a peasant’s guts in front of the fool’s family, so I hit him with the flat of my sword. But damned if the blade did not snap in two!” Richard sounded astonished and indignant. “When I think how much I paid for it.... Then they were all flailing at me, even the women. I snatched up whatever I could, pelting them with apples and eggs until I could wrest the knife away and reach the door.”

Looking over his shoulder at the village below them, Richard frowned. “And they still have the goshawk.”

“I do hope you are not thinking of going back.” Morgan was trying very hard to act as if Richard’s insanity was normal behavior for a king, but it was not easy. He could not imagine Geoffrey or Henry ever getting themselves into such a ludicrous predicament. “You do know you are bleeding?”

“My head?” Richard explored the gash, looked at his bloodied fingers, and shrugged. “That must have happened when the man’s wife hit me with her broom. She was buzzing about like a maddened hornet. I am probably lucky she was not the one wielding the knife!”

The image of the King of England under assault by an outraged Sicilian housewife was too much for Morgan, and he nearly strangled as he tried to choke back his mirth. Fortunately for him, Richard was also beginning to see the humor in his mishap. His mouth twitched and soon both men were laughing so hard that they had to dismount, leaning against their horses as they sought to get their hilarity under control. When Richard admitted that one greybeard had swung at him with a crutch, Morgan lost it altogether and sank to his knees, gasping for breath.

Richard reached down, pulling Morgan to his feet, and then unhooked a wineskin from his saddle. They took turns drinking from it, not caring that the wine was warm and overly spiced. Realizing that they’d best be on their way if they hoped to reach Bagnara in time to cross the straits, they remounted and Richard tossed the empty wineskin into the grass. After a moment, he glanced over at Morgan with a grin. “I ought to send you back to retrieve the goshawk,” he joked and learned a new swear word from his Welsh cousin.

WHEN THEY GOT to Bagnara, they found Richard’s private galley waiting for them. So was the royal fleet, having at last caught up with the king, and Morgan thought it was an astounding and magnificent sight: over a hundred ships riding at anchor, so many masts reaching skyward that it was like gazing upon a floating forest. They crossed the straits without difficulty and set up tents upon the beach a few miles from Messina. At supper that night, Richard had his companions in hysterics as he related the day’s misadventure, comically describing the goshawk, the enraged rustics, and the woman armed with a deadly broom. It was an amusing story and Morgan conceded that Richard told it well; too well, for the men were laughing so much that they did not seem to realize what a narrow escape their king had in that little village near Mileto. He could have been killed or severely wounded by one of those understandably irate peasants, and what would have befallen their holy quest then? It was a question that would trouble Morgan’s peace in the days and weeks to come.

THE CITIZENS OF MESSINA had been disappointed by the French king’s inconspicuous entry into their city, for they’d become accustomed to splendor and pageantry from their royalty. But Philippe had no interest in impressing Sicilian merchants and burghers. He’d been suffering from seasickness brought on by a storm so