CHAPTER 8

JULY 1190

Lyon, France

Richard met Philippe at Vézelay in early July, where, forty-five years earlier, Richard’s mother and Philippe’s father had taken the cross. The two kings made a solemn pact to “share equally whatever they conquered together,” and the third crusade got under way. Most of Philippe’s lords had already departed for the Holy Land, so he had a much smaller force than Richard, who had almost seven thousand men under his command. With such a large infantry, they could manage less than fifteen miles a day, and did not reach the city of Lyon until the thirteenth.

AFTER RICHARD AND PHILIPPE and their households had crossed the wooden bridge spanning the Rhone, they set up their tents on high ground overlooking the river. Dismounting, Philippe handed the reins to his squire and then accepted a wineskin, for his mouth was so dry he could barely swallow. He felt as if he’d been bathing in dust, for smothering clouds had been churned up by horses, carts, and thousands of marching feet. The sun was a fiery white sphere in a sky bleached of all blue, beating down upon them with brutal intensity. It was hard to imagine that Outremer could be as hot, and yet he’d heard it claimed that summers there were a foretaste of Hell. Wherever Eden had been, surely it could not have been located in the Holy Land, where dust storms turned day into night and rivers trickled away into cracked, parched earth and mysterious, lethal maladies struck men down without warning, more dying from plagues and fevers than from Saracen swords.

Philippe could not admit even to his confessor how loath he was to make this perilous journey, leaving his realm and his sickly little son behind. It ought to be enough that he was a good Christian, a good king, and yet he knew it was not, at least not in the eyes of other men. The only one who’d shared his reluctance to take the cross had been the man he’d done so much to destroy, and he supposed that Henry was laughing now from the depths of Hell. Henry had appreciated irony—all those accursed Angevins did—so most likely he’d also found it ironic that the youth he’d aided again and again had become the instrument of his doom. But Philippe had no regrets. He’d done what he must, for it was his destiny to restore France to greatness, as it had been in the days of Charlemagne.

“Why so doleful, Philippe?” The question—sudden, intrusive—caught the young French king by surprise, and he frowned as Richard reined in beside him, stepping back as the stallion’s pawing hooves kicked up yet more dust. The older man was grinning down at him, odiously cheerful, as he’d been every blessed day since their departure from Vézelay. “Damn me if you do not look like a poor wretch on his way to the gallows. It could be worse, much worse. You could be the only one leaving for the Holy Land whilst I remained behind to look after your lands for you.”

Richard laughed then, while Philippe forced a sour smile. He would never understand why the English king took pleasure in telling awkward truths in the guise of jests. But Richard’s perverse sense of humor was just one more burden he had to bear. Why could Richard not have been the one to die of the bloody flux instead of Hal? Life would have been so much easier had Henry’s amiable eldest son succeeded him. He’d have made a fine king—for France—easily bored, frivolous, and fickle. But Hal was seven years dead, and his grieving widow—Philippe’s older sister Marguerite—long since wed to the King of Hungary. And Hal’s brother Geoffrey, the only man Philippe had ever respected, was dead, too.

Even now, thinking of Geoffrey stirred faint echoes of loss, for he had been the ideal ally, mayhap even a friend, whereas Richard embodied all that Philippe most despised in other men—swaggering, arrogant, reckless. Their day of reckoning would eventually come and he did not doubt that when it did, his brains would prevail over Richard’s brawn. It was vexing, though, to have to watch as a man inferior to him in all the ways that truly mattered was lavished with praise, acclaim, and renown. And the Holy Land would be the perfect stage for Richard, a never-ending circus of bloodshed and posturing and battlefield heroics.

Below them, soldiers were moving out onto the bridge. It would take forever and a day to get them all across, Philippe thought gloomily. At least then he’d be spared Richard’s irksome company for a while, as they’d agreed to separate once they’d crossed the Rhone, Philippe and his men heading overland for Genoa, where he’d hired ships to transport the French to Sicily, and Richard riding south to Marseille, where his fleet would be awaiting his arrival. Cheered up somewhat by the thought of their impending separation, Philippe was turning toward his tent when the screams began.

Whirling around, he gasped at the sight meeting his eyes. Several arches of the wooden bridge had collapsed under the weight of so many men, flinging them into the river. Some were clinging desperately to the bridge pilings and wreckage, while others were struggling in the water, all of them calling upon the Almighty and their fellows for aid.

Richard had already galloped his stallion down the hill, shouting commands. Men were throwing ropes out into the river, extending lances for the drowning to catch on to, and several knights were bravely urging their mounts into the turbulent current. Philippe was not surprised when one horse balked at the water’s edge, sending his rider splashing into the river, for it had been his experience that horses were as flighty and unpredictable as women. He was surprised, though, by the speed and success of the rescue effort. Soon most of the floundering men had been pulled to safety; they lost only two to the Rhone’s flood tide. But their armies were now cut off from their commanders, trapped on opposite sides of the surging river.

PHILIPPE’S TENT OFFERED welcome shelter from the noonday heat, but it was rather crowded, for he’d been joined by his cousins, the Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Nevers, and the Archbishop of Chartres, the Count of Perche’s son, Jaufre, and several other lords and knights. Guillaume des Barres alone took up enough space for any two men; he was as sturdy as an oak and almost as tall. He was one of the most popular members of Philippe’s entourage, for he’d never let his battle renown go to his head, and was adroit at using humor to prevent minor squabbles from flaring into more serious confrontations. Keeping their men from turning their tempers upon one another before they could fight the Saracens was a serious concern. Richard had issued a strict code of conduct for the sailors, with severe penalties for murder, brawling, theft, gambling, and blasphemy. But these prohibitions were not aimed at maintaining the peace between highborn lords accustomed to getting their own way, and Guillaume des Barres had taken it upon himself to make their journey as free of strife as he could.

Guillaume wished that he could ease his king’s mind, too, for Philippe was obviously troubled. He’d dispatched couriers back to Paris, bearing letters to his mother and uncle with further instructions for governing in his absence, but after that he’d lapsed into a brooding silence, paying no heed to the conversations swirling about him. When Guillaume challenged him to a game of chess now, he seemed tempted, for that was a pastime that played to his strengths, requiring a strategic sense and patience. But that brief flicker of interest did not catch fire.

Instead, he signaled for a small coffer to be brought to him, and read again the last report of his son’s health. Louis was just three, and often ailing. Philippe’s greatest dread was that he would die in the Holy Land and Louis would not live to reach manhood. Why had the Almighty taken the twin boys born in March? Had they lived, he could have left France with far fewer fears for the future of his dynasty. Instead, Isabelle had bled to death, never seeing or holding the pitiful little bodies expelled from her womb, and Philippe’s destiny rested upon the thinnest of threads, the fragile life of his only surviving son.

Philippe did not understand why Richard seemed so unconcerned about his own lack of an heir of his body. He was fortunate enough to have a brother full grown, it was true, and a young nephew who had been blessed with the robust good health denied to Philippe’s own son. Was he content to have the crown pass to John or Arthur? Or was he utterly and blasphemously confident that he’d not die in the Holy Land? Knowing Richard, it was most likely the latter, Philippe thought morosely. The Angevins were notorious for confusing the Almighty’s Will with their own.

“Sire!” The flap was ripped aside and Mathieu de Montmorency plunged into the tent. Mathieu was highborn, blood-kin to Philippe’s queen, but his presence was proving to be another irritant to the French king’s raw nerves, for Mathieu was just sixteen and so enthusiastic about their crusade that he seemed drunk on excitement alone. Now his face was flushed and his smile so euphoric that Philippe knew he was not going to enjoy whatever the boy had come to tell him.

“I have wondrous news, my liege! Our problems are over, thanks to the English king. Richard has come up with a truly brilliant idea. He wants to build a bridge of small boats, lashing them together so our soldiers may cross the river. His men are already searching the shorelines and commandeering whatever boats they find . . .”

Mathieu belatedly became aware of the silence. He’d expected the men to share in his delight, but they showed no such joy, their expressions wary and guarded. Mathieu looked from them to Philippe in dismay, realizing he’d somehow incurred his king’s disfavor.

“I am surprised Richard is bothering with a bridge,” Philippe snapped. “Why does he not simply smite the waters, the way Moses parted the Red Sea?”

RICHARD REACHED the port of Marseille on the last day of July, but his fleet was not there. He would later learn the delay was due to a riotous stopover at Lisbon, where the sailors got roaring drunk, attacking Jews and Muslims and accosting women, whether they were prostitutes or respectable wives. The enraged King of Portugal ordered the city gates shut, trapping hundreds of sailors, who were then tossed into prison until they sobered up and their leaders made amends for their offenses. As a result, they were three weeks late in getting to Marseille, and by then Richard was already gone. After waiting a week, he hired two large vessels known as busses and twenty galleys, leaving word for his fleet to catch up with him in Italy.

Six days later, Richard’s ships dropped anchor at Genoa, where Philippe was lying ill. The French king requested the loan of five of Richard’s rented galleys. When Richard offered three, Philippe reacted with anger and refused any. It occurred to many of their men that this was probably not a good omen for a future harmonious partnership between the two kings.

MORGAN AP RANULF sometimes wondered if it was sinful to be enjoying a holy quest as much as he was enjoying their sojourn in Italy. He’d been nervous at first, for the Welsh were not a nation of seafarers. But the voyage had been easy on even the most delicate of stomachs so far. They cruised along the Italian coast, rarely out of sight of land, often putting ashore so the men could stretch their legs and visit local sites, for Richard shared Morgan’s interest in sightseeing.

Every day brought fresh delights for educated and inquisitive travelers. Morgan hoped he’d remember enough to regale his family once he was back in Wales—a pirate castle on the summit of Cape Circeo, the volcanic island of Ischia, the Roman baths at Baia. They tarried for ten days at Naples, so interesting did they find the sights there. Morgan accompanied Richard to visit the crypt at San Gennaro, where the four mummified sons of a legendary French hero were proudly displayed, and he then went to see Virgil’s tomb, the ruins of a pagan Greek temple, and the isle of the Sirens where Ulysses had nearly been lured to his doom.

Morgan was even more intrigued by the exotic sea life of the Mediterranean. He’d befriended a helmsman from Brittany, for Breton and Welsh were similar enough for mutual understanding, and Kavan was happy to share his knowledge, pointing out seals basking in the sun on the rocky shoreline, flying fish that arced through the air like silver arrows, the fin of a shark shadowing their fleet, and once a whale with oddly wrinkled skin that was almost as long as their galley; watching in awe, Morgan no longer doubted the scriptural story of Jonah. It was the dolphins, though, that won his heart. They would splash playfully in the wake of the galleys, and then swim boldly alongside the ships, making loud clicking sounds as if they were trying to talk to the men peering at them over the gunwales, and Morgan marveled that he was actually looking upon the legendary creatures seen by Caesar and Alexander.

He’d had only one disappointment so far. When they landed at the mouth of the Tiber River, the cardinal bishop of Ostia was waiting to invite Richard to visit His Holiness the Pope at Rome, just sixteen miles away. The king was having none of that, though, and subjected the cardinal to a caustic lecture on the sins of simony, accusing Pope Clement of extorting large sums from the English Crown in return for naming Longchamp as a papal legate and approving the consecration of the Bishop of Le Mans.

So they never got to Rome. Instead, Morgan got his first glimpse of the English king’s fabled, fiery temper. He had entered Richard’s service with some reluctance, for he’d been devoted to the king’s brother Geoffrey, and had then served his father, an anguished eyewitness to the wretched death of the old king at Chinon. But Morgan was a realist and Richard was now king, so he’d attempted to put the past behind him. He was still getting to know Richard, and he’d been unnerved by the intensity of his royal cousin’s rage at Ostia. Henry had been notorious for his own bursts of temper, said to be hot enough to blister paint off walls. Morgan had soon concluded, however, that there was a calculated element in Henry’s rages, just one more weapon in a king’s arsenal. But as Richard verbally flayed the discomfited cardinal, Morgan felt as if he were watching a fire at full blaze, one that could easily have gotten out of control, and that had never been true of Richard’s father.

Aside from missing Rome, though, Morgan had no complaints, and he had to admit Richard had gone out of his way to treat him as a kinsman, which did much to elevate his status in the royal household. So he put aside any lingering misgivings, determined to make the most of these carefree, pleasant days in Italy, knowing life would be neither carefree nor pleasant once they reached Outremer.

Their leisurely progress down the Italian peninsula would soon come to an end. Upon leaving Naples, they’d ridden to Salerno so Richard could consult with the city’s famed doctors about his recurrent bouts of quartan fever. While there, he finally got word that his missing ships had been spotted near Messina, and he at once picked up their pace, no longer having time to spare for sightseeing. Richard had heard troubling rumors in Naples that Joanna had not been seen in nigh on a year. Now that they’d soon be rendezvousing with the royal fleet, he was hopeful that he’d finally get reliable news about his sister’s circumstances.

BY SEPTEMBER 21 , Richard had reached Mileto in Calabria, where he was offered the hospitality of the Benedictine abbey of Holy Trinity. Like many of the other knights, Morgan had found lodgings in the town, and the next morning, he strolled back to the abbey in hopes of breaking his night’s fast in the guest hall. There he found the king in a volcanic rage, stalking about the hall like a great cat on the prowl, spitting out curses under the awed eyes of Mileto’s bishop, abbot, and monks.

Morgan sidled up to a friend, the Fleming Baldwin de Bethune, who’d been with him in the old king’s service. “What has happened? Why is the king so wrathful?”

“He learned that his sister has been grievously maltreated by the usurper. Not only did Tancred seize the dower lands that were rightfully hers, he has been holding her prisoner in Palermo, keeping her isolated from the rest of the world so she could not appeal to Richard or to the rightful Queen of Sicily, the Lady Constance. Richard,” Baldwin said dryly, “took the news rather badly.”

“This Tancred must be a fool!”

“According to the bishop, Tancred had more immediate worries than the anger of a distant English king, for he was facing a rebellion of the island Saracens and fearing a German invasion. I suppose he hoped that political turmoil would keep Richard in his own domains or that he’d be as indifferent a brother as the French king. Those were two serious miscalculations.”

“Indeed,” Morgan agreed, wondering if they’d be shedding blood in Sicily ere they even reached the Holy Land. Not that he blamed Richard for reacting with such fury, for he had a sister, too, back in Wales. He thought it likely that the news of Joanna’s imprisonment had also lacerated an old wound, for all knew how bitterly Richard had resented his mother’s long confinement. He suspected that Tancred might be about to pay a debt twice over, both for Joanna and Queen Eleanor.

Richard had gotten his temper under control long enough to bid his Benedictine hosts and the bishop a courteous farewell, making a generous donation to the abbey coffers before giving the command to move out. They’d planned to return to their ships for the final leg of their journey, but Richard changed his mind once he was in the saddle. “The rest of you go ahead,” he ordered. “I need some time to myself. Have my galley meet me at Bagnara.”

His knights and lords raised an immediate protest. Richard’s habit of going off on his own without a thought to his personal safety had given them more than one sleepless night. He usually paid no heed to their fears, annoyed that they thought he, of all men, had need of a nursemaid, but this morning he made a grudging concession and agreed to take a knight with him. His gaze falling upon his cousin, he decided Morgan would do as well as any, and told the Welshman he could come along.

Morgan was less than thrilled to be accompanying 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 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 violent they’d had to jettison some of their supplies to stay afloat, and he’d wanted only to set his feet on firm land again. Moreover, he was shrewd enough to realize that Tancred, an insecure king of dubious bloodlines, would not appreciate being outshone by foreign monarchs. And he was rewarded for his modest arrival, being welcomed warmly on Tancred’s behalf by Jordan Lapin, the new Governor of Messina, who turned the royal palace over to the French for their stay in Sicily.

PHILIPPE WAS ENTERTAINING a delegation of Sicilian lords and prelates, including Jordan Lapin; Margaritis of Brindisi, the highly respected admiral of Tancred’s fleet; and Richard Palmer, an Englishman who’d managed to become the Archbishop of Messina. Attendants padded in and out, bringing dishes of ripe fruit and refilling wine cups. They were, Philippe thought, the perfect servants, invisible and deferential. It was unsettling, though, to be waited upon by men of the same blood as those he’d be fighting in Outremer. Sicily was a strange land, and while he admired its riches, he could not help wondering if it was truly a Christian kingdom. In his brief stay, he’d seen indications of indolence and moral laxity, the same corrupt influences that had tainted society in Aquitaine and Toulouse. He would be glad when he could depart for the Holy Land and was disheartened to be told that the season for sailing was all but past, that winter storms would make it too dangerous to venture out onto the open sea.

“And so, my lord,” the archbishop was saying with a genial smile, “it is our hope that you’ll give consideration to our king’s offer of an alliance between the kingdoms of France and Sicily. Lord Tancred has several lovely daughters, any one of whom would make a fine queen for you or mayhap a bride for your young son.”

“I am honored by the offer,” Philippe said with a noncommittal smile of his own, wondering if Tancred really thought he’d jeopardize his friendship with the Holy Roman Emperor for an alliance with a bastard-born usurper as likely to be overthrown by his own subjects as by the Germans. “I have indeed heard of the beauty of your king’s daughters.”

“We want to make your stay in Sicily as pleasant as possible, my lord king. I hope you will not hesitate to ask if I may be of any service whatsoever,” Jordan Lapin was declaring when one of the admiral’s men entered and murmured a few words in his ear.

Margaritis rose at once. “I ask your pardon, my liege, but we must depart. Richard of England’s fleet is entering the harbor.”

Philippe did not believe in delaying unpleasant tasks, preferring to get them over with as soon as possible. “We will accompany you,” he said, rising, too. “I am eager to see the English king, who is my former brother by marriage and a valued ally.”

THE WHARVES, DOCKS, AND BEACHES were crowded with spectators by the time Philippe and the Sicilian officials arrived. Coming to a halt, they gaped at the drama being played out before them. As far as the eye could see were brightly painted warships, shields hanging over the gunwales of the galleys, banners and pennons flying from their mastheads, as the oarsmen rowed in time to the beat of drums. Trumpets were blaring and horns blasting. The sun glittered on metallic hauberks and helmets, the turquoise waters of the harbor churning with frothy waves. And with an unerring instinct for stagecraft, Richard was standing erect in the prow of the lead galley, bareheaded, the wind tousling his red-gold hair, regal and proud, the very essence of what a king ought to be, all that Philippe Capet was not.

For that was the thought, however unkind, that crossed the minds of those witnessing Richard’s spectacular entry into Messina. It crossed Philippe’s mind, too, as he made ready to welcome his “brother by marriage and valued ally.”

AFTER RICHARD’S ARRIVAL, Philippe made a rash decision quite out of character for him, announcing that he would leave at once for the Holy Land although the sailing season was rapidly coming to a close. But even nature seemed to be conspiring against him, for no sooner had he left the harbor than contrary winds sprang up, forcing him to abandon his impulsive plan. For better or worse, he would be wintering in Sicily with the English king.

MATTHEW OF AJELLO, the new chancellor of Sicily, arrived at the royal palace in Catania several hours after Compline. He was not in a cheerful frame of mind, for it had been raining for most of the day and wet weather aggravated his gout. He knew why he’d been summoned at such an hour. Tancred had heard of the English king’s arrival in Messina.

He was escorted at once up to Tancred’s private chamber, where he found the king, his wife Sybilla, her brother Riccardo, the Count of Acerra, and their eldest son, Roger. So this was to be a family conference, was it? Matthew did not blame Tancred for taking his troubles to heart. God knows, he had enough of them. They’d finally put down the Saracen rebellion, and a German force led by the Bishop of Mainz had been repelled that past May. But the Saracens did not have the same loyalty to Tancred that they had to William. It was only a matter of time until Heinrich launched a full-scale invasion. And now they had the English king to deal with, a man with the Devil’s own temper, and a genuine grievance against Tancred. No, Matthew understood why Tancred had so many wakeful nights and uneasy days. What he did not understand was why Tancred was suddenly balking at taking his advice. Who’d have thought that it would be so much easier to make him king than to keep him one?

Matthew took a seat as close as he could get to the brazier of smoldering sea coals, for at his age, the cold and damp seemed to penetrate into his very bones. He smiled gratefully when Roger hurried over with a stool so he could prop up his throbbing foot. He was a good lad, Roger, would make a good king one day—if they made no foolish mistakes now, if he could get Tancred to listen to reason.

Sybilla, a conscientious hostess even in the midst of a crisis, had seen to it that a cup of his favorite wine was waiting for Matthew. Before he could touch it, Tancred leaned across the table and thrust a letter toward him. “A message from the English king,” he said. “Read it.”

Matthew had barely scanned the letter before Tancred erupted. “He demands that I send his sister to him in Messina with an escort to see to her safety, that I restore all of her dower lands to her, and for good measure, that I compensate her for the ‘suffering’ she endured at my hands. From the hostile tone of this letter, you’d think I’d been holding the woman in an underground dungeon instead of at the Zisa Palace!”

“For all we know, he may have been told that she was being maltreated,” Matthew said, reading the letter again, more deliberately this time.

“I do not care if he thinks I sold her to the Caliph of Baghdad! You’ve read the letter, Matthew. This is not the language that one king uses to another king.”

“No . . . it is the language of an angry brother, one with a formidable fleet at his command and the largest army ever to set foot on Sicilian soil.”

Tancred gave Matthew a sharp look. “I do not want to have that argument again, Matthew. You made it quite clear that you think we’d do better in seeking an alliance with England, not France. But I will not be treated as if I am of no consequence. I am an anointed king, and by God, he will acknowledge me as one!”

Glancing around the chamber, Matthew saw that Tancred had the full support of his brother-in-law. That did not surprise him, for Riccardo was a man of action, not given to contemplation. Sybilla looked worried, though, and he took hope from that, for he knew how much influence she wielded with Tancred. Roger had withdrawn into the shadows filling the corners of the room, but Matthew knew he’d do whatever his father wanted, even if he had doubts himself. Matthew decided it was time to call for reinforcements; on the morrow he’d summon the Archbishop of Monreale to Catania.

Taking the letter back, Tancred was reading it again, heat rising in his face and neck. “The English king does not seem to realize that he is not in a position to make threats. This is my kingdom, not his. And his sister is in my hands, not his. Suppose I hold her as a hostage for his good behavior?”

There was an involuntary movement from Roger, quickly stilled. Matthew suppressed a sigh, wondering why Tancred did not see that one man’s hostage was another man’s pretext for a war of conquest. “I would advise against that, my liege,” he said quietly. “I would advise very strongly against that.”

“What a surprise,” Riccardo said sarcastically. But Tancred did not reply. Instead, he crumpled the parchment in his hand, then crossed to the brazier and dropped it onto the coals. As the acrid odor of burning sheepskin filled the chamber, he stood without moving until the letter had been reduced to ashes.