CHAPTER 13

MARCH 1191

Catania, Sicily

Facing Tancred across a wooden trestle table was not the same as facing him across a battlefield, but the hostility in the chamber was unmistakable. Richard’s gaze flicked from the Sicilian king to his teenage son, Roger, and then to his counselors, the aged Matthew of Ajello and his two grown sons, Tancred’s brother-in-law, the Count of Acerra, the Archbishop of Monreale, the pirateadmiral Margaritis, and Jordan Lapin. While he’d arrived with a large escort, Richard had been accompanied into the council chamber only by his cousins, the Count of Flanders and André de Chauvigny, and by Gautier de Coutances, the Archbishop of Rouen. They’d so far remained silent, content to let Richard speak for himself. With Tancred, it was just the opposite; his advisers were doing all the talking, while he said very little, studying Richard through opaque, heavy-lidded eyes. While they were obviously on the defensive—it was difficult to mount a convincing argument for the claim that Messina could not have accommodated Eleanor’s entourage—they were not giving any ground, insisting that their king must act in the best interests of his own subjects. And Richard’s patience, always as ephemeral as morning mist, soon evaporated in a surge of exasperation.

“I have a suggestion,” he said abruptly. “At this rate, Easter will have come and gone ere we’ve made any progress whatsoever. Counselors always seem to have time to waste; kings do not. So it would be in our mutual interest, my lord Tancred, if you and I threshed out the wheat from the chaff by ourselves. Unless, of course, you feel more comfortable here in the council chamber. . . .”

It was a challenge few kings could have refused and Tancred was quick to accept it. Shoving back his chair, he got to his feet and said tersely, “Follow me.”

AS THE MONARCHS APPROACHED the gardens, they were watched with curiosity and some amusement by the palace guards, for the two men could not have presented a more dramatic contrast. Even Richard’s enemies acknowledged that he looked like a king out of legend, tall and athletic and golden, whereas even Tancred’s most devoted supporters would admit that there was nothing regal about his appearance, for he was of small stature and very ill favored. But there was affection, not derision, in the smiles of the guards, for in the fourteen months since he’d claimed the crown, Tancred had displayed qualities that men-at-arms valued more than a handsome face and a royal bearing: courage and energy and tenacity.

Tancred would have been greatly surprised had he known the English king agreed with his soldiers. Richard had devoted most of his life to perfecting the martial skills that had won him such fame, but he did realize that he’d been blessed by the Almighty with physical advantages not given to all—uncommon height and strength and cat-quick reflexes. It was obvious to him that Tancred’s military prowess had been earned by sheer force of will, by his refusal to accept his body’s limitations and his willingness to risk all on the field of battle. To Richard, that made him a man deserving of respect, and he stopped as soon as they came to a marble fountain so Tancred would not have to struggle to keep pace, for his shorter legs required him to take two steps for every one of Richard’s.

Perching on the edge of the fountain, Richard regarded the other man thoughtfully. “We are both kings. But we are both soldiers, too, and I cannot believe that you fancy these diplomatic dances any more than I do. So let’s speak candidly. Unless I know your real reason for refusing to permit my mother to sail from Naples, we do not have a prayer in Hell of reaching any sort of understanding.”

Tancred continued to pace back and forth, keeping his eyes upon Richard all the while. “Do you truly want to reach an understanding?”

Richard blinked. “Why would I not? We are allies, after all.”

“Allies of expediency,” Tancred said bluntly, “dictated by circumstances. But who is to say what will happen if those circumstances change? And the death of Frederick Barbarossa is a great change indeed.”

“So you feel the need to take greater precautions now that Heinrich is stepping into his father’s shoes. You want to protect your borders. I understand that. But surely you do not see my aging lady mother as a threat, Tancred?”

Tancred was quick to respond with sarcasm of his own. “Come now, Richard. Your ‘aging lady mother’ is no matronly widow in her sunset years, content to embroider by the hearth and dote upon her grandchildren. In the game of statecraft, Eleanor of Aquitaine has been a high-stakes player for more than fifty years. You could not have chosen a better agent to confer with Heinrich. Did they reach an accord at Lodi? Or did she merely open the door so you could then pass through?”

Richard was more astonished than angry. “Is that what this is about? You think my mother was scheming with Heinrich? Their meeting at Lodi was happenstance, no more than that, and to hear my mother tell it, it was awkward for both of them.”

“Happenstance is like charity in that it covers a multitude of sins. Suppose I accept what you say—that their meeting at Lodi was by chance—however unlikely that seems. But that still does not explain your mother’s presence in Italy. She is well past the age to be crossing the Alps in winter unless she had an urgent reason for doing so. Why is she here, Richard, if not to strike a deal with Heinrich?”

Before Richard could reply, Tancred flung up his hand, for there was a relief in being able to confront the English king with the suspicions that had been so damaging to his peace of mind. “If you are about to remind me of the hostility between the Angevins and the von Hohenstaufens, spare your breath. Mutual interests can bridge the greatest of gaps, as we both know. At one time, you were considering a marriage with one of Frederick’s daughters, were you not? So is it so far-fetched that you and Heinrich could reach an accord at my expense? I have been told that he has offered you enough gold to buy an entire fleet and has promised to send German troops to the Holy Land, whilst your own mother has suddenly turned up in Lodi with that treacherous two-legged snake. Why should I not believe that I am about to be stabbed in the back?”

Richard was quiet for several moments, considering his options. “So you think Heinrich has bribed me to abandon our alliance? You are a brave man to say that to my face. But I will not take offense, for I think someone is playing a very dangerous game with us both. I am no man’s pawn, though, and neither are you. Let’s prove it by making a bargain here and now. I will tell you the true reason for my mother’s arrival in Italy if you then tell me who has been pouring this poison into your ear.”

Tancred’s mistrust was still obvious, yet he did not hesitate. “Fair enough.”

“My mother is bringing me a bride, the Lady Berengaria, daughter of King Sancho of Navarre.”

“I thought you were plight-trothed to Philippe’s sister.”

“For more than twenty years, surely the world’s longest march to the altar. I have valid grounds for refusing the marriage, grounds the Church will recognize. But that is between Philippe and me.”

“It is none of my concern, and I’ll be the first to admit that. Yet would it not have been easier to disavow the plight-troth and wed the Spanish princess whilst you were still in your own lands?”

“I dared not do that, for Philippe had not wanted to take the cross. In fairness, neither did my father, but they were both shamed into it by the Archbishop of Tyre. I knew that Philippe would seize upon any excuse to forswear his oath, and I would have given him a silver-gilt one had I revealed my intention to marry Sancho’s daughter. He would have refused to sail for Outremer, using my action as his pretext, for he cares naught for the future of the Holy Land. And then I’d have been faced with an impossible choice—to break my blood oath to liberate Jerusalem in order to defend my own lands, or to honor it, knowing that my domains would be overrun by French forces as soon as we sailed from Marseille. I chose the lesser of evils, and whilst I do not deny it was underhanded, I have no regrets.”

“You have even less reasons for regret than you think, Richard. Philippe is the one who has been ‘pouring poison’ into my ear. He insisted that you and Heinrich were conspiring against me, claiming that Heinrich has bought your support, and using the Lodi meeting to lend credibility to his accusations.” Tancred paused then, mustering up a small, abashed smile. “I suppose I was a fool to heed him. But he was very convincing.”

“I daresay he was,” Richard said grimly. “He has proven himself to be diabolically adept at taking advantage of other men’s vulnerabilities, using my brothers against my father with a puppeteer’s sure touch. In my case, I was using him as much as he was using me, and he had a rude awakening once he realized that. In truth, I think that is one reason why he harbors such animosity toward me.”

Tancred thought it was probably simpler than that; the two men seemed like fire and ice to him, so utterly unlike in every way that conflict was inevitable. The tragedy was that their bitter rivalry would continue to rage in Outremer, and that did not bode well for the rescue of Jerusalem.

TO THE SURPRISE OF ALL, including the two kings, Richard and Tancred discovered they found pleasure in each other’s company, and the brief confrontational visit stretched into a five-day sojourn, with excursions to Mount Etna and the holy shrine of St Agatha, with feasting as lavish as Lenten rules allowed, and an exchange of royal largesse. Richard presented the Sicilian king with Excalibur, the sword of the fabled King Arthur, discovered at Glastonbury Abbey. Tancred offered a more practical gift: fifteen galleys and four horse transports for the crusade.

THE NIGHT BEFORE Richard’s departure, a messenger had arrived from Philippe announcing his intention to meet him at Taormina, halfway between Catania and Messina. This came as no surprise, for Richard and Tancred did not doubt that his prolonged stay must be a source of growing unease for the French king, wondering what secrets were being revealed, what confidences exchanged. Tancred then decided to accompany Richard as far as Taormina, knowing such a gesture of royal goodwill would cause Philippe even greater disquiet. Before they rode out the next morning, though, he took Richard into his private solar, saying he had another gift for the English king.

Richard insisted that no further gifts were necessary, pointing out that nothing could be more welcome than those fifteen galleys. But Tancred merely smiled and produced a key, which he used to unlock an ivory coffer. Removing a rolled parchment, he held it out, still with that enigmatic half-smile. “You need to read this, Richard.”

Taking the letter, Richard moved into the morning light streaming through the window. He’d read only a few lines before he spun around to stare at the Sicilian king. “Jesu! Where did you get this, Tancred?”

“From the Duke of Burgundy. He brought it to me last October, just after you’d taken Messina. The seal is broken, of course, but it is written in Philippe’s own hand. Keep reading, for it soon gets very interesting indeed. Your fellow Christian king and sworn ally offers to fight with me if I decide to make war upon you.”

By the time Richard had finished reading, his hand had clenched into an involuntary fist. He eased his grip, then, not wanting to damage the parchment, for he understood what a lethal weapon he’d just been given. “I did not think that faithless weasel could surprise me, but even I did not expect a betrayal of such magnitude. If any proof was needed of his indifference to Jerusalem’s fate, here it is for all the world to see.” After rereading the letter, he glanced back at the Sicilian king, his gaze searching. “Why did you show me this, Tancred?”

“Because I do care about the fate of Jerusalem, and I thought you ought to know you’ll have more enemies than Saladin in Outremer.”

Their eyes met and held, and Richard found himself admiring the Sicilian king’s subtle vengeance. He did not doubt that Tancred was sincere in his desire to aid in the delivery of the Holy City. But Tancred was not a man to leave a debt unpaid, and with this damning letter he would be paying Philippe back in the coin of his choosing.

THE FRENCH KING returned to Messina in a cold fury, for he’d ridden all the way to Taormina only to discover that Richard had already departed via another road. Tancred was no help at all, blandly shrugging off Philippe’s questions and insisting he did not know why Richard had not waited for his arrival. Philippe usually set a moderate pace due to his dislike of horses, but spurred on by anger, he reached Messina not long after Compline had begun to ring. The next morning, he rose early and after hearing Mass, he headed out of the city for a confrontation with the English king.

RICHARD HAD CONTINUED to reside in a house on the outskirts of Messina, using Mate-Griffon only for entertaining. As Philippe dismounted in the courtyard, his eyes fell upon the Count of Flanders and his mouth thinned. Philip was his godfather and his uncle by wedlock, for he’d arranged Philippe’s marriage to his niece Isabelle. That was back in the early days of Philippe’s reign, when the Flemish count had believed the young French king was malleable, easily led. When Philip discovered the steel in the boy’s soul, their clash of wills had soon led to armed conflict. Twice the old English king had intervened on Philippe’s behalf, patching up an uneasy peace between Flanders and France, but the French king had a long memory. After exchanging acerbic greetings with Philip, he followed the Flemish count into the great hall.

There he received an equally icy welcome by Richard. When he demanded to know why Richard had not waited at Taormina, the other man stared at him for so long that he began to bristle, thinking he was not going to get an answer. But then Richard said curtly, “We need to talk about this in more private surroundings.” And without waiting for Philippe to agree, he led the way toward the family chapel that adjoined the hall. Philip of Flanders, the Archbishop of Rouen, and André de Chauvigny trailed after him without a word being said, as if they’d been expecting just such a move.

Philippe was followed by his own retinue—the bishops of Chartres and Langres, his cousins, the Count of Nevers and Hugh of Burgundy, Jaufre of Perche, and Druon de Mello. The chapel was a small one and the men had to jockey for space, finding it a challenge not to tread on toes or jab elbows into ribs. Breathing in the pungent scents of incense, sweat, and tallow-dipped rushlights sputtering in wall sconces, Philippe looked around in distaste. The church seemed dingy to him; the whitewashed walls were streaked with smoke, the floor rushes matted and rank, and the magnificent reliquary of rock crystal and gold on the altar seemed utterly out of place in such shabby surroundings. Moreover, this chapel had been the scene of Richard’s spectacular Christmas penance. Philippe was convinced that Richard got as drunk on fame as some men did on wine, and he saw that dramatic act of expiation as just one more example of the English king’s constant craving for attention, although he never doubted that Richard had as many sins to atone for as Judas Iscariot.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “There are not even any prayer cushions to sit upon. You may not want us to dine with you, my lord king, but surely you can spare some wine in your solar.”

His men chuckled at that; Richard did not. “I chose to have this talk here because I would never shed blood in God’s House.”

Philippe was staring at him in shock. Before he could recover, Richard moved to the altar and picked up the parchment he’d placed next to the reliquary. “I’d planned to demand an explanation from you. But what would be the point? Your own words speak for themselves.”

Watching intently as the French king took the letter, Richard gave the younger man credit for his self-control. Not a muscle flickered and he showed no emotion even after he’d recognized what he was reading; he could not keep heat from rising in his face and throat, though, a sudden surge of color noticeable even in the subdued lighting of the chapel. Philippe’s men were watching in obvious confusion, and Richard turned toward them. “Since I doubt that your king is going to read his letter aloud, let me enlighten you. It is a message that he sent to King Tancred, offering to fight alongside him should Tancred declare war upon his English allies.”

There was a stifled sound, like a collective catch of breath. As Richard had expected, the only one who did not seem stunned was Hugh of Burgundy. Philippe’s head jerked up and he flung the letter down into the floor rushes. “This is a clumsy forgery.”

“And why would Tancred bother to forge a letter? How would he benefit from setting us at odds?”

“How would I know?” Philippe snapped. “I can only tell you that it is not mine.”

“Tancred says the letter was delivered by the Duke of Burgundy. Are you also going to disclaim any knowledge of it, Hugh?”

“Indeed I am,” the other man said coolly. “I know nothing about it.”

“Then you ought to be willing to prove it.” Before Hugh guessed what Richard had in mind, he’d snatched up the reliquary. “This contains a splinter of the True Cross. Swear upon it, Hugh, swear that your king is right and this is a damnable forgery.”

Hugh was not easily disconcerted, but Richard had managed it now. His eyes cut toward Philippe, back to the holy relic. He made no move to take it, though, and Richard’s mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile. “Well, at least you’ll not lie to God. What about you, Philippe? Dare you to swear upon the True Cross?”

Philippe ignored the challenge. “I am beginning to understand now. This is not that bastard Tancred’s doing. The two of you are in collusion. You’ve hatched this ludicrous plot to provoke a breach between us, to put me in the wrong.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“So you’d have an excuse not to marry my sister!” Philippe almost spat the words, and this time Richard’s smile was like an unsheathed dagger.

“You are half right. I have no intention of marrying your sister. But I need no excuse or pretext, for our union is prohibited by the Holy Church.”

“What are you claiming, Richard? That you’ve suddenly discovered you and Alys are related within the forbidden degree? Do you truly expect the Pope to believe such drivel? After a betrothal of more than twenty years?”

Philippe had regained his balance by now and his voice throbbed with such scornful indignation that his men found themselves nodding in agreement.

“I am not talking of consanguinity. That can be remedied if a dispensation is granted. This is a far more serious impediment.” Richard’s eyes swept the chapel before coming to rest upon the Archbishop of Rouen. “Is it not true, my lord archbishop, that Holy Scriptures say it is a mortal sin for a man to have carnal knowledge of his father’s wife?” Getting a solemn affirmation of that from the prelate, Richard swung around to confront Philippe. “Would it be any less of a sin for a man to bed his father’s concubine?”

All the color had drained from Philippe’s face. “Damn you, what are you saying?”

“I am saying that I was told my father took your sister as his leman, that she may have borne him a child, and their liaison was notorious enough for it to become known at the French court—”

“Enough!” Philippe took a quick step forward, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his sword. “You’ll rot in Hell for this!”

“Me?” Richard feigned surprise. “Most people would say that I’m the one wronged. If my father seduced my betrothed, then surely he is the one burning in Hell. And if the story is false, if it was contrived for political advantage, then the one responsible will be judged even more harshly—by the Almighty and by all of Christendom once his perfidy is exposed.”

“My lord Richard.” The Bishop of Chartres had stepped forward, saying gravely, “Can you provide proof of this most serious accusation?”

“I can provide witnesses who heard that he’d bedded her. And I can give you the name of the man who told me—Philip d’Alsace, the lord Count of Flanders.”

All heads turned toward Philip, who seemed untroubled to find himself the center of attention. For a moment, he studied the French king, who returned his gaze with a hawk’s unblinking intensity, saying in a dangerously soft voice, “You’d best think ere you speak, my lord count, for your heedless words could have consequences you cannot even begin to imagine.”

“Surely you’re not threatening him, Philippe?” Richard jeered, earning himself a look from the French king that was truly murderous.

“Not at all.” Philip dismissed Richard’s accusation with a casual wave of his hand, as nonchalantly as if they’d been exchanging social pleasantries. “I am sure my nephew by marriage merely meant to remind me how much was at stake. You need not worry, Philippe; I understand quite well. What Richard has said . . . it is true. I did seek him out at Mantes not long after Martinmas in God’s Year 1188 and told him of the troubling gossip I’d heard about his father and the Lady Alys. Can I swear upon yonder holy relic that the rumors were true? Of course not. But I felt that he had a right to know of these rumors since he was betrothed to the lady. In his place, I would have wanted to know. Any man would,” he said, with a sudden, sardonic smile that both acknowledged his own sordid marital history and dared anyone to mention it.

With all eyes now upon him, awaiting his response, Philippe drew several bracing breaths as he sought to get his rage under control. As he looked around the chapel, he could see that even his men had been won over by Richard’s argument ; how could he be expected to wed a woman who may have been his own father’s bedmate? “I do not believe these malicious reports,” he said fiercely. “They are vile lies meant to tarnish the honor of the French Crown, and I will not permit my sister’s reputation to be besmirched like this.”

“I see no reason to do that, either,” Richard said, for he could afford to be magnanimous now that victory was within reach. “I have never blamed the lass. We know women are weak and easily led into sin, and we know, too, that kings are ones for getting their own way. Release me from my promise to wed Alys and I am content. I will gladly return her to your custody and that will end it.”

Until that moment, Philippe would not have thought it possible to loathe another man as much as he now loathed Richard. “And are you going to return Gisors Castle and the Vexin, too?” he snarled. “A fine bargain you want me to make. You get to keep her dowry and I get back a woman whose value on the marriage market is—”

“My liege, this serves for naught.” The Bishop of Chartres was regarding Philippe somberly. “We are in agreement that the plight-troth is no longer binding upon the English king. I would suggest that we select trustworthy men to conduct the necessary negotiations, but this is neither the time nor the place.”

Philippe opened his mouth, closed it again. If Bishop Renaud, who was his cousin as well as one of his prelates, saw Richard as the wronged party, then this was a war he’d already lost. “So be it,” he said through gritted teeth and turned on his heel, shoving aside anyone in his path as he stalked from the chapel.

As the other men exited the church, Richard leaned over and retrieved Philippe’s letter from the floor rushes. He’d been confident he would prevail, having the bishops and Leviticus on his side. But the letter had undoubtedly made his task easier, for Philippe’s men were more receptive to his argument after seeing their king’s treachery laid bare like this. What Philippe failed to understand was that many of his vassals had been proud to take the cross and they did not think Christian kings should be fighting each other instead of the infidels. Richard rolled the parchment up, tucking it into his belt. He was free of Alys at long last and he still held Gisors and the Vexin. Not a bad day’s work.

He glanced up at the sound of footsteps. Not everyone had left, for the Count of Flanders was several feet away. Sauntering toward the altar, Philip ran his hand admiringly over the reliquary. “It was clever to confront Philippe here. Does this truly contain a sliver of the True Cross?”

“Of course it does. I borrowed it from the Archbishop of Messina.” Richard had been surprised when Philip had indicated his willingness to speak honestly about their meeting at Mantes. Now that the count had proven true to his word, he was grateful. But he was also puzzled by the other man’s motivation, for selfinterest had been the guiding force of Philip’s life, and he did not see how his cousin had benefited from his candor. To the contrary, he’d just made a mortal enemy of the French king.

“I’d be hard put to decide which one of us Philippe hates more at the moment,” he said, and Philip laughed softly.

“If it were a horse race, I’d wager that I win by a nose,” he said, “for he felt the prick of my blade at his throat. But then I unexpectedly showed mercy and he’ll never forgive me for that.”

Richard laughed, too, for he thought that was an astute assessment of the French king’s character. “By not revealing that Philippe was the one who’d told you about the seduction rumors? No, that is something Philippe would not have wanted known. I’ve often wondered about that. Think you that he invented the story out of whole cloth?”

“I’ve thought about that, too. It is true that he feared you’d reconcile again with your father, as you’d done so often in the past, and that would be far less likely if you believed your father had been swiving your betrothed. But I doubt that he was the source of the story, for Philippe is too protective of his own honor. I think he probably heard it from one of his spies, who’d picked it up from any of your father’s legion of enemies. To hear some of them tell it, Harry was like a stag in rut, always on the prowl. I remember a similar accusation made against him some years earlier, that he’d deflowered the daughter of a rebellious baron in Brittany, so it might be the Alys tale had its roots in that charge. Any truth to that Breton story, you think?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Richard said with a shrug. “From what I’ve heard, he preferred knowing bedmates, not skittish virgins.” He thought that showed his father’s common sense, for he’d never understood why so many men prided themselves upon luring coy or chaste women into their beds. Why bother with smiles and songs when it was so much easier and quicker to buy a bedmate with coins?

While Richard had little interest in discussing his father’s carnal conquests, he did want to know why Philip had taken such a risk. “You’re going to pay a price for your honesty, as you well know. Not many men would have dared to defy Philippe like that, for he’s one to nurse a grudge to the end of his earthly days. Yet that does not seem to trouble you.”

“And you want to know why.” Philip leaned back against the altar and was silent for a moment. “Ah, hellfire, Cousin, I’d think the answer would be obvious. I am nigh on fifty and there are mornings when I feel every one of those fifty years, thanks to aging and the joint-evil. I can no longer ride from dawn till dusk without aching bones, find the pleasures of the flesh are losing their allure, and I’ve had to face the fact that I’ll not be siring a son to follow after me. At this point in my life, I do not much care about disappointing Philippe Capet. What matters is not disappointing the Almighty. This is the second time I’ve taken the cross. The first time I had less worthy motives, for I had it in mind to meddle in Outremer’s politics, hoping to see the Leper King’s sisters wed to men of my choosing. As you know, that did not happen. Now I’ve been given another chance, and I mean to make the most of it. Most likely I’ll die in the Holy Land, but to die fighting for Jerusalem is not such a bad fate, is it?”

Richard had never expected to feel such a sense of solidarity with Philip, for they’d been rivals for as long as he could remember. Now he found himself looking at his cousin through new eyes. “No, it is not such a bad fate at all,” he agreed, although he did not share the older man’s fatalism. He was confident that he would return safely from Outremer, for surely it was not God’s Will that he die in a failed quest.

THE COUNT OF FLANDERS gave Philippe another reason to despise him by hammering out an agreement that handed Richard virtually all that he sought, for the French king’s bargaining position had been crippled by the exposure of his double-dealing, the disapproval of his own vassals, and the Church’s rigid code governing sexual relations. Richard was released from his promise to wed Alys in return for a face-saving payment of ten thousand silver marks to Philippe. He was to retain the great stronghold of Gisors and the Vexin; it would revert to the French king only if he died without a male heir. The other lands in dispute were disposed of according to which king held them at the present time. And Alys was to be returned to Philippe’s custody upon the conclusion of the crusade.

ELEANOR AND BERENGARIA reached the ancient seacoast city of Reggio on the twenty-ninth of March, where they were welcomed by its archbishop and installed in the royal castle. Berengaria was anxious now that she could see Messina from the window of her bedchamber, and she had a restless night. As a result, she slept past dawn, and when she was awakened later that morning, she was startled to see a blaze of sunlight filling the room. “Why did you not wake me, Uracca?” she said reproachfully, for she could not remember the last time she’d missed Morrow Mass.

“My lady, you must get up! The English king is here!”

Berengaria sat bolt upright in the bed. “Are you sure? We were not expecting him till late this afternoon!”

“He is with the queen, and they have requested that you join them in the solar.” The girl’s eyes were round. “I see why they call him Coeur de Lion, my lady, for he is as golden as a lion and just as large!”

She continued to burble on, but Berengaria was no longer listening. Fumbling for her bedrobe, she flung the coverlets back. “Fetch my clothes!” Her ladies obeyed, pulling her linen chemise over her head and then helping with her gown, lacing it up with fingers made clumsy by their haste, and then fastening a braided silk belt around her hips. She sat on the bed as they gartered her stockings at the knees, while Uracca undid her night plait and tried to brush out the tangles. When they brought over a polished metal mirror, Berengaria felt a pang of disappointment, for she’d planned to wear her best gown for her first meeting with Richard, not this rather plain one of blue wool. She was debating with herself whether she had time to change into the green silk with the violet sleeves when a knock sounded on the door.

As one of the women hurried over to open it, Berengaria reached for a wimple and veil. “Tell the servant that I will be ready soon, Loretta.” This was not how it was supposed to be, she thought, a flicker of resentment beginning to smolder. But at that moment, Loretta cried out that the queen herself was at the door. Berengaria gasped, forewarned by a sudden premonition. There was no time for the wimple, but she managed to cover her hair decently with a veil before Loretta opened the door and Eleanor entered, with Richard right behind her.

“You must forgive my son’s bad manners, child. If I did not know better, I’d think he had been raised by wolves.”

Eleanor’s reprimand was nullified by her indulgent tone. Later, Berengaria would remember and realize that Richard could do no wrong in his mother’s eyes. Now she had no thoughts for anyone but the man striding toward her. She quickly sank down in a deep curtsy, lowering her gaze modestly, for well-bred young women were expected to be demure and self-effacing in the company of men. But then that rebellious glimmer sparked again, and, as Richard raised her up, she lifted her chin and looked him full in the face.

If he thought her boldness displeasing, as men in her country would have done, he hid it well, for he was smiling. “My mother is right,” he said lightly, “but for once I have an excuse for my bad manners. What man would not be eager to see his bride?” He kissed her fingers with a courtly flourish, and then pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand.

His breath was warm on her skin and Berengaria felt an odd frisson go up her back. He was as handsome as she remembered, but she did not remember being as intensely aware of his physical presence as she was now. How tall he was! She had to tilt her head to look up into his face, and as their eyes met, she found she could not tear her gaze away. His beard was closely trimmed, his teeth even, his lips thin but well shaped, his eyes the color of smoke. But a crescent-shaped scar slanted from one eyebrow into his hairline, and the hand still clasping hers bore another scar, this one zigzagging along his thumb and disappearing into the tight cuff of his sleeve. She wondered how many other battle scars were hidden underneath his tunic, and then blushed hotly, shocked by her own unseemly thoughts.

“I’d forgotten what a little bit of a lass you were,” Richard said, and she gave him a quick sidelong glance. He did not seem disappointed, though, for he was still smiling.

“And I’d forgotten how tall you were,” she said, returning his smile shyly. “Not as tall as my brother, of course, but then no men are . . .” Worrying that she was babbling like Uracca, she let the rest of her sentence trail off. Richard had turned toward his mother, saying that he’d never seen another man as tall as Sancho, and she took advantage of his distraction to take a backward step, for she was finding his close physical proximity to be rather unsettling. It seemed safer to concentrate upon his conversation with his mother instead of her own wayward thoughts, and she glanced toward Eleanor. What she heard was disappointing, for Richard wanted them to leave Reggio as quickly as possible, and she’d hoped to have time to change her gown. But it would never have occurred to her to object, and she murmured her assent when Richard asked if she’d soon be ready to depart.

Eleanor had reassured Richard that little unpacking had been done because of their late arrival in Reggio the night before, and a glance around the chamber confirmed that for him. “Good,” he said. “Why don’t you let the others know we’re leaving, Maman? I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve had a private word with my bride.” He was both amused and annoyed by the reaction of Berengaria’s duennas, for they looked as horrified as if he’d just announced that he planned to drag the girl off to a bawdy house. But he left the matter in his mother’s capable hands, watching with a grin as she ushered the women out. Like so many clucking hens, he thought, and turned back to Berengaria as soon as the door closed behind them.

To his surprise, she looked as flustered as her duennas. So it was true that Spanish women were kept almost as sequestered as Saracen wives. Well, the lass would just have to adapt to Angevin ways, for Navarre was part of her past now. “You need to explain to your women, little dove, that I do not always have ravishment in mind when I seek some privacy with you.”

Berengaria blushed again, her lashes fluttering downward as she explained softly that she’d never been alone with a man before, for that would cause a great scandal. “Other than family, of course,” she added and then her breath quickened, for Richard had reached for the long, dangling ends of her silk belt and was playfully pulling her toward him.

“So . . .” he said, and there was a low, intimate tone to his voice now that she found both mesmerizing and disquieting. “Sancho’s little sister is all grown up. . . .” There was no longer space between them, and she could feel the heat of his hands through the thin wool of her gown as he slid them down to her waist. “I am going to take a wild guess and venture that you’ve never been kissed?”

“Not yet,” she whispered, shivering when his fingers moved caressingly along her throat. But she did not protest when he tilted her chin up and then brought his head down, his mouth covering hers. The kisses were gentle at first, awakening sensations that were unfamiliar but not unpleasant. When his arms tightened around her, she followed his lead, dimly aware that this was surely sinful but paying more heed to the messages her body was sending to her brain—that she liked what he was doing to her. When he at last ended the embrace, she felt lightheaded and out of breath, relieved that he meant to take it no further, and understanding for the first time why men and women put their immortal souls at risk for the carnal pleasures of the flesh.

“Well,” he said, “now you’ve been kissed, Berenguela. But I promised irlanda that we’d get to Bagnara by noon, and if we do not, she’ll put some vile Sicilian curses on my head.”

Berengaria did not find it as easy as Richard to return to the real world. She could still taste his mouth, feel his hands on her waist, and she had no idea who Irlanda was or where Bagnara was, either. But when he took her hand and propelled her toward the door, she followed obediently for several steps. Stopping abruptly then, she looked up at him in delighted surprise. “You called me Berenguela!”

“Why not? It is your name, after all.”

“Yes, but for the past five months, I’ve heard only Berengaria, the French version, for I was told it was more fitting for your queen. Berenguela is my real name, what I am called in Navarre. And you remembered!”

“I like the musical sound of it,” he said, reminding her that he was a poet, too. “I find it more pleasing to the ear than Berengaria. But it does make sense for you to have a French name when the majority of my subjects speak French. So we’ll compromise. You can be Berengaria at court, Berenguela in bed.”

Not waiting for her response, he opened the door and started swiftly down the stairs, towing Berengaria behind him. Feeling as if she had been caught up in a whirlwind, she let herself be swept along, for what else could she do?

JOANNA HAD MANAGED to lay out an impressive dinner, given that it was Lent and she’d had only one day’s notice. The priory guest hall was filled with linen-draped trestle tables for all the people accompanying Eleanor, Berengaria, and Richard. But she’d reserved the high table for her family, not willing to share her mother with any others, however briefly.

Berengaria found herself forgotten in the jubilation of the Angevin family reunion, but she didn’t mind. She’d been deeply touched by Joanna’s joy, and slightly envious, too, for she’d have given almost anything to see her own mother again. They’d been talking nonstop during the meal and she was content to listen and to learn, although she did not catch all of their words. She’d spoken the lenga romana with Eleanor and Richard, but apparently Joanna’s grasp of that language had waned during her years in Sicily, and they were conversing in French, at times too rapidly for Berengaria, whose own French was adequate but not yet fully fluent. There was no mistaking their pleasure, though, and after all the stories she’d heard of the Devil’s Brood, it was reassuring to see such obvious family affection. She did not understand how Richard could have hated his own father and brothers, but there could be no doubt that he loved his mother and sister, and she took heart from that.

Richard remembered her from time to time; occasionally he smiled and once he winked. But for most of the meal, he was focused upon his mother, for he and Joanna were competing for Eleanor’s attention. Joanna wanted to talk of family, the one she’d left behind and the one she’d found in Sicily. But Richard was intent upon political matters, and as soon as the last course was done, he shoved his chair back and rose to his feet.

“I need to borrow Maman for a while, irlanda, but I promise to have her back at Bagnara tonight.”

“Richard, no!” Joanna flung her napkin down and jumped to her feet, too. “It has only been nine months since you’ve last seen Maman, but we’ve been separated for nigh on fifteen years!”

Berengaria was astonished that Joanna should dare to challenge Richard like that. She enjoyed a free and easy relationship with her own brother, but Richard seemed much more formidable than Sancho; moreover, she’d not have disputed Sancho in public. Richard showed no signs of anger, though. Leaning down, he kissed his sister on the cheek, saying with a coaxing smile, “I know how much you’ve missed Maman. However, it cannot be helped. We’ve got to talk about the news from Rome.”

Joanna was not won over and continued to argue until Eleanor intervened, saying she’d make sure that Richard brought her back from Messina by Vespers. Watching wide-eyed, Berengaria found herself hoping that Richard would not forget to bid her farewell, for it was obvious to her that his mind was very much on that “news from Rome.” Her worry was needless, for he took the time to kiss her hand and to tell Joanna to look after her before he escorted his mother from the hall.

Berengaria had assumed that she and Richard would spend their first day together. Glancing toward Joanna, she saw that the other woman was frowning and she wondered if Richard’s sister found this as awkward as she did. While Joanna had welcomed her warmly, they were still strangers, after all. Richard had mentioned casually that Joanna would be accompanying them to the Holy Land, and Berengaria wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She found Joanna somewhat intimidating, for she was extremely beautiful and worldly and self-confident, all the things that Berengaria knew she herself was not.

“Did you ever want to throttle your brother, Berengaria?” Joanna made a wry face. “I ought to have known he’d pull a sneaky trick like this, for he has not enough patience to fill a thimble.”

“Is he always so . . . so sudden?” Berengaria asked, and Joanna grinned.

“All the males in my family are like that. My father was the worst of the lot, unable to be still even during Mass. At least Richard can get through Prime or Vespers without squirming. But once he gets an idea into his head, he wants to act upon it straightaway.”

Berengaria was disarmed by Joanna’s easy bantering and ventured to confide, “Things seem to happen so fast with him. That will take getting used to, I think.”

“You’ll have to,” Joanna said, “for he’s not likely to slow down. I’d say the secret of marriage to Richard is just to hold on tight and enjoy the ride!”

Berengaria flushed, for as innocent as she was, she still could recognize a double entendre when she heard one. As she met Joanna’s eyes, she saw in them amusement and a glint of mischief. But she saw, too, genuine friendliness and, in that moment, she decided she was glad that Joanna would be coming with them. As she entered this new and alien Angevin world, what better guide could she have than Richard’s favorite sister?