Читать книгу The Sword and the Rose - V. J. Banis - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

...most like the roar

of some pain’d desert lion....

—Arnold

Not many people willingly approached the tent of King Richard these days. Confined to his bed, he fretted over the reports of inactivity in the camp, like a caged lion viewing his prey from behind his bars. He was by nature a man of violent passions, rash and impetuous, and now his temper had too little outlet. His attendants moved in terror of fresh outbursts, and even his doctors were loath to assume that authority that a good medical man must assume over his patient. Richard chafed, and when the frustration became too great for him he roared like his namesake, while those around him quaked.

Of all those in attendance upon the monarch, only one did not tremble at the sound of his voice and make every effort to avoid his vicinity; this was Sir Thomas de Multon, Lord of Gilsland in Cumberland. His nature was not unlike that of his monarch’s and throughout Richard’s illness he had quietly but firmly maintained a control over the invalid that no one else dared to assume. Sir Thomas was a blunt and careless soldier, taciturn to the point of sullenness and disdaining in speech and actions the courtly arts. But he was a well-battled soldier who had served Richard as well with his sword as he now did in sick attendance, and that the impatient monarch allowed de Multon’s authority over him was a sign of the deep respect the two comrades-in-arms shared for one another.

Now, while the ladies approached, Richard lay on his sickbed, despising it. Sir Thomas, having just administered a potion, stood beside the bed. He was a man of giant proportions, and the contrast between his strapping figure and the wasted one of the sovereign was shocking.

“Well, is there no good news from the camp?” Richard asked impatiently after a long silence, his eyes sweeping the interior of his tent. On the floor a trio of greyhounds, his former hunting companions, eyed him with a look of curiosity at this unaccustomed inactivity they were forced to share.

“Things are much as they have been,” Sir Thomas said, watching his king closely to see if the medicine had any more effect than the others had.

“All our knights behaving like women, in other words,” Richard said. “The cream of Europe’s knighthood, and not a spark of valor in evidence.”

Richard’s blue eyes, always gleaming brightly, had the sheen of fever now as they glanced from among the uncut and uncurled locks of yellow hair. His manly features were wasted by illness. His beard had not been trimmed for weeks, and now covered both lips and chin. He turned from side to side with impatient gestures that revealed the pent-up energy within him.

Again his eyes swept the tent; although it was the royal pavilion, it had more of an aspect of warfare than of elegance. Weapons were scattered about on the floor and the tent posts. The ground was strewn with rushes, covered with the skins of animals Richard had slain. Near the bed was a triangular shield of wrought steel with the emblem of three lions; close to that was the golden coronet and the purple velvet cloak that were the emblems of England’s sovereignty. Beyond these was the mighty curtal ax, that would have weighed too much for most men’s arms, but was Richard’s famed weapon.

“The truce, milord, makes us men of inaction,” Sir Thomas said. “Saladin has honored it on his side and it would hardly be right for us to dishonor it.”

“Ay, the truce,” Richard said. “I wish to God it were over and I could meet Saladin face to face. There is a worthy opponent.” With that he lifted his arm above his head as if swinging his battle ax.

In an instant Sir Thomas was forcibly restoring him to a reclining position. “You heard the doctors, milord,” he complained, “you must rest, and I must see that you do.”

“What a nurse,” Richard said, not without a smile. “You’d frighten most patients.”

“We’ve both frightened many men, and will do so again when your fever’s passed.”

“My fever,” Richard said scornfully, sitting up again. “Ay, and what is wrong with the others—King Philip, and that boorish Austrian, and the knights—the mightiest army of Christians in history, they all wilt and become false to their vows. They forget their promises to God.”

“Sire, for the love of heaven, you must rest,” de Multon protested. “Why do you aggravate yourself with such questions? Your own illness weakens the enterprise. Better an arrow without its bow than the Christian army without King Richard.”

“You’re a flatterer,” Richard said, but he was not adverse to that sort of comment and he reclined on the bed again with a more contented expression.

The respite was only momentary though, for in a moment he was excited again. “Well, yes, this is smooth talk for a sick man. But why should they all droop with my sickness, the sickness of one man. Think of the monarchs here, the noble princes, the honorable knights. Why should my illness—my death even—halt an army of thirty thousand? Why don’t they assemble and choose a new leader?”

“Milord, I have heard that there have been discussions on that very subject,” Sir Thomas said.

His jealousy piqued, Richard exclaimed loudly, “Ha! I am forgotten already, before the spirit has even left my body. And whom have they chosen as my successor, pray tell me?”

De Multon shrugged and said, “They would hardly see fit to consult me, my liege, but rank and dignity would seem to indicate the king of France.”

“Oh, ay, Philip of France and Navarre,” Richard said. “There is only one risk in being led by Denis Montjoie, His Most Christian Majesty—that he might mistake the word charge for retreat and lead the host back to Paris instead of to Jerusalem. By this time he has learned there is more gold to be gained by robbing his serfs.”

“There’s always the archduke of Austria,” Sir Thomas said.

“What, Leopold? They’d choose him because he looks big and burly. Well, his head is the thickest part of him, and in all that mass of flesh there’s no more courage to be found than in a wren. If they want to see him at his best, give him a flagon of wine to drink with his besotted landsknechts.”

De Multon by this time had seen the wisdom of keeping his master’s thoughts thus occupied for a while, and continued with the inventory of possible successors.

“Perhaps the Grand Master of the Templars,” he suggested. “He has no kingdom of his own to distract him, and no one can question that he’s brave in battle and sage in council.”

“Yes, Brother Giles Amaury is both of those. But I ask you, good comrade, what is the wisdom in taking this Holy Land from Saladin, a man of many virtues, and giving it to Brother Giles, a worse pagan than any Turk, a devil worshiper, a necromancer—and we will not even discuss those other unnatural acts to which he is part. No, the Grand Master of the Templars is not the man to lead a Christian host.”

“If not the Templars, then perhaps the Grand Master of the Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem. No one has accused him of magic nor unnatural acts.”

“He’s been accused of other things, though,” Richard said quickly. “I have no proof of it, but I’m still sure he’s sold favors to the infidels and in the doing cost us some victories. No, he’s not a man to be trusted where there’s any means to turn a profit.”

Sir Thomas sighed and said, “I have only one other suggestion then. What do you think of Conrad, the Marquis of Montserrat? It’s said he’s cunning and elegant.”

Richard gave a derisive snort that said plainly what he thought of that suggestion. “Oh, yes, I’ll grant you the marquis is elegant, in a lady’s chamber, and as for his cunning, it is said you cannot guess his inward thoughts by his outward expressions. There’s a man who can change his sails for any fresh wind. No, Conrad is no friend to the crusade, except as it can advance his own wealth or importance.”

“Then I’m afraid we’ll not pray at the Holy Sepulcher until King Richard has recovered and can lead us,” said Sir Thomas.

This remark was made so gravely that Richard, seeing how he had been led through this conversation by his friend, burst out laughing.

“They say you’re no courtier, Sir Thomas,” he said, “but I think you handle your king well. You’ve brought me to the point where I must now confess my chief sin. I don’t care a hang for the foibles of these men unless they intend to take my place as leader. But this is my ambition—I know the Christian camp has better knights in it than Richard of England, and it would be worthy to name one of them to lead the army.”

Here Richard paused and raised himself from the bed, his eyes gleaming as they did when he was going into battle. “But,” he went on, “so long as I’m unable to bear my fair share of that holy task, if one such man should plant the banner of the cross in Jerusalem, I tell you that as soon as I am able he would have to accept my challenge to mortal combat, for diminishing my fame and pressing in before me to my holy goal. But what is that disturbance in the outer chamber?”

There was a commotion outside and in a moment Queen Berengaria’s voice could be heard demanding entrance to the king’s chamber.

“His Majesty is resting, milady,” one of the attendants could be heard to say.

“Fie, fie,” she insisted. “His own wife can comfort him.”

In another moment she had parted the curtains and come into the room, followed by Lady Clorise and Lady Joan. Richard propped himself up on one elbow, and for once de Multon did not take him to task for it. The king, looking annoyed at this unexpected intrusion, attempted to pull his bedclothes about him in a more seemly fashion.

Berengaria, however, although married to her husband only a short while before this journey was begun, already knew how to please this rough-mannered monarch. With a little frightened look she ran to the side of her husband’s sickbed and, dropping upon her knees, seized the king’s arm. She dragged it to her while he resisted, but faintly, until she was in possession of the arm that was the strength of Christendom, the dread of the infidel. Imprisoning its strength in her little hands, she bent her head and kissed it.

Richard was at first angry at the appearance of these ladies in his bedchamber unannounced. But beauty was something he admired only slightly less than glory, and it was not in his nature to look angrily for long upon this beautiful creature bent before him, or to feel without sympathy the tears which moistened his hand or the kisses that fell upon it. He turned his manly countenance upon her. His large blue eyes, so often gleaming with a fearsome light, were now soft as he caressed her cheek and raised her face so that he could kiss her forehead.

“And now, what does the lady of my heart seek in her knight’s pavilion?” he asked gently.

“Milord, are you well?” Berengaria asked.

“Well enough to perform whatever task you seek of me,” he replied. “What is it? Has someone offended your honor? I swear I shall challenge him.”

She gave a little girl’s smile and shook her head. “No, my liege, it is nothing so strenuous as that. I ask only a favor of you.”

She hesitated and he said quickly, “Ask.”

“I have learned that there is a holy man who lives near here, in a place called Engaddi.”

“There is such a man, a hermit,” he said. “Quite holy, they say, and a little mad in the bargain. But what does this have to do with you?”

“We would have your permission, my ladies and I, to make a pilgrimage to this holy man to pray for your recovery, my lord.”

At this Richard withdrew his hand and put a stern expression on his face. “No, absolutely not. Think of the dangers that lie in that desert yonder, and it is many miles to the hermit’s dwelling place. You hear, Sir Thomas, they would have me risk the richest gem and the fairest rose in all England,” he said, indicating first his queen and second Lady Joan. “For the sake of my mere health. Why, it would take every knight in the camp to guard them properly. No, my lady, ask something else and it shall be granted.”

“Something else,” she sobbed, “something more precious than my husband’s life? No such thing exists. But I shall die for you anyway, my husband. I shall die of grief that my prayers were not permitted to end your illness.”

She paused and, suddenly rolling her eyes up at him, gave a little gasp. “Oh. Perhaps it’s because you think my prayers are worthless, that I am not worthy in God’s eyes.”

“Oh, my precious,” Richard murmured, stroking her brow fondly.

Berengaria began to cry noisily. Joan saw that these silly remarks had nonetheless softened the heart of her kinsman, and she had little doubt that Berengaria would have her way. She thought it best to mention now an idea that had occurred to her on the way here.

“My lord,” she said, causing both king and queen to look in her direction. “I have an idea. Perhaps it would be safer if your lady and I traveled with fewer rather than more escorts.”

“What, you’d have me entrust my queen and my cousin to a handful of knights?” he demanded.

“Not your queen and your kinswoman,” she replied, “but a few ladies, in ordinary dress, on a pilgrimage, might be safe with a few knights, if their journey were not too much announced.”

“Yes, yes, my liege,” Berengaria cried delightedly, clapping her hands, “that’s the very thing. We’ll disguise ourselves as common women. I can wear something of Clorise’s here,” which remark brought her a quick frown from her lady-in-waiting, “and we’ll slip out of the camp without anyone knowing about it.”

“The idea has merit,” Richard admitted reluctantly, “still....” But his answer was delayed, for just then he was struck by a pain that not even his iron will could ignore and with a sigh he sank back to his bed.

In an instant Sir Thomas was bending over him. “Summon the doctors,” he said over his shoulder.

Berengaria and Clorise wrung their hands helplessly and stared aghast at the sickbed. This was the first either of them had actually witnessed of Richard’s attacks. It was Joan who went through the curtains to the antechamber.

“His Majesty has need of his physician,” she said to the attendants. In a twinkling they had vanished from the tent in search of the doctor.

Joan would have returned to the sickroom to help Sir Thomas, but at that moment someone entered the tent and she turned toward him, thinking it might be the doctor.

Her smile vanished when she saw that it was Conrad, the Marquis of Montserrat. She did not know quite what it was but there was something about this man that caused a quiver of fear inside her whenever she saw him; nor were her feelings assuaged by the evident admiration in which he held her. Often she would discover his eyes upon her, a hungry look upon his face, and she would barely be able to suppress a shudder at the thought of what he would like to do with her.

But he was an important member of the Council of Princes, and as Richard’s cousin she could hardly afford to snub him. She stood motionless as he approached and, with a sly smile, made a little bow before her.

“My lady,” he said, “how refreshing is the sight of your loveliness. You recall the scenes of our own lands; you are like a beautiful English flower set down to bloom in this desolate place.”

“You flatter me, my lord,” she said, her eyes downcast.

He moved closer and seized her hand in his firm grip, saying in a lower tone, “I would do more than flatter you, my lady.”

She realized with a shock that he meant to kiss her, and the thought of his lips upon hers filled her with revulsion. “My lord,” she protested, struggling against his efforts to take her into his arms.

The curtains to the inner chamber parted and Sir Thomas appeared. At once the marquis released Joan and stepped back. Sir Thomas fixed an angry look upon him, but he did not put his disapproval into words.

“Tell the attendants when they return that the spell was a brief one and that His Majesty is feeling better already,” he said.

“Perhaps he is well enough to see me,” Conrad said. Although he looked calm and unperturbed, he was seething inwardly at Joan’s rejection of his advances and at de Multon’s interruption.

“I think not now,” Sir Thomas said. “He is in need of rest.”

“Ah, I see the nature of his exhaustion,” Conrad said as Berengaria and Clorise left the king’s chamber.

“Joan, he has agreed to our little journey,” the queen said gaily, coming to take Joan’s hand. “We can leave in three days’ time.”

Conrad looked surprised and said, “What, are we to be deprived of the only solace this spot affords, the loveliest ladies of England?”

“We’re going on a pilgrimage,” Berengaria told him, “to a holy man at Engaddi, to pray for the king’s recovery.”

Joan frowned and added quickly, “The trip is to be unannounced, to minimize the danger. I trust you will keep this news to yourself, my lord.”

“Indeed,” he said smoothly. “I would be flattered to attend you on your pilgrimage if affairs of the council did not keep me here.”

“His Majesty has promised us an escort of the bravest knights,” Berengaria said.

Joan would have liked to suggest that the escort include the Scottish knight known throughout the camp as the Falcon, for the emblem he wore on his shield. But the queen had already remarked on her admiration of the knight, and she did not want to call any further attention to him.

Instead she said, “Perhaps, my lady, we should return to our tent and plan what we shall wear.”

“An excellent idea. Aren’t you glad I thought of this?” Joan did not reply and Clorise looked terrified at the prospect of the trip that awaited them, but the queen never noticed. She was chatting gaily of their journey as they left the tent, bidding good day to the marquis.

De Multon had returned to the king, leaving Conrad alone in the anteroom for a moment. He stared after the departing ladies, wondering how best he could use this news. That it would be of interest to the Saracens was of little doubt; those two ladies would be a prize to catch, worthy of a great ransom.

Informing the Saracens of the news would present no difficulty, as he was already secretly in communication with the enemy for purposes of his own. In fact he had written Saladin without the knowledge of the council, offering to help him retake the city of Acre, in return for certain favors. He had no interest in recapturing the holy city for Christianity; he was concerned with what he could capture for his own profit.

“And, my little rose,” he murmured, thinking again of Lady Joan, “you shall be glad one day to have me pluck your blossom.”