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