Lionheart

  Some of Morgan’s companions were already starting to loot bodies, but there were still several pockets of fighting, as savage as any drunken alehouse brawl. Morgan caught sight of his king then, just in time to see Richard perform a classic maneuver known as a “Cut of Wrath,” making a powerful, downward diagonal strike that severed his attacker’s arm at the elbow. Without even pausing for breath, he whirled to take on a new opponent, this one wielding a spear. Morgan started toward them in alarm, for he’d never seen a spear so long. It looked almost like a lance, and he thought it could be difficult for a swordsman to counter its greater reach. But as the man charged him, Richard leaped aside and then brought his sword down upon the weapon, chopping off the spearhead before the man could react. He gaped at his demolished spear, then spun around and fled. Morgan was no less astonished, for the shaft had been reinforced with strips of metal and yet Richard had sliced through it as if it were butter.

  As he reached Richard, a cheer went up, for their men had taken control of the gate. As they flung it open, their troops streamed into the city, and they raised another cheer, knowing that Messina was theirs.

  RICHARD HAD PICKED UP the broken spear. “Look at this, Morgan. Have you ever seen such a weapon?”

  Morgan hadn’t. Instead of a spearhead, a hooked blade had been attached to the haft. It was undeniably interesting, but it seemed neither the time nor the place to have a casual conversation about Sicilian innovations in weaponry. Richard had not waited for him to respond, though, and was already beckoning to André de Chauvigny. “Send some of our knights to guard the royal palace. If our lads go looking for booty there, Philippe will have a stark raving fit. There’s likely to be more fighting, too, so make sure that our men do not start celebrating until it’s safe to do so.”

  “I’ll see to it,” André promised. “But afterward . . . they can have their sport?” Richard nodded. “Yes, but do not let it get out of hand, André. Remind them that we’re going to have to spend the winter here. Our men can have their fun, but keep it within reason. No slaughtering the citizens if they’re not offering resistance.”

  Morgan was impressed by Richard’s composure in the midst of madness. His own emotions were still in turmoil. He’d killed at least one man and had nearly been killed himself, good reasons to get drunk, he decided. But then he had a better idea and hurried after Richard, who was heading toward the harbor, where smoke had begun to spiral up into the sky.

  “My liege, someone ought to bring word to your sister that the city has been captured. She’ll be able to see the smoke from Bagnara and will be fearing the worst.”

  “That is true,” Richard conceded. “Good thinking, Cousin. Are you volunteering for the mission?” When Morgan nodded eagerly, Richard slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “You’d best wash up first, then. Women tend to be squeamish about blood and gore.”

  By the time they reached the harbor, the smoke had become so thick that an early dusk seemed to have settled over the city, the sun utterly obscured by those billowing black clouds. Richard was relieved to discover that the town was not on fire; it was the Sicilian fleet that was burning. Several of his admirals were already on the scene and they began complaining to him about the actions of the French, declaring they’d assisted the townspeople in keeping their ships from entering the inner harbor.

  Seeing that Richard would be occupied for some time to come, Morgan sank down on a nearby mounting block. All around him was bedlam. Soldiers were looting shops and houses, gleefully carrying off the riches of Messina—candlesticks, furs, jewelry, bolts of expensive cloth, spices. They were also helping themselves to sides of bacon, sacks of flour, and baskets of eggs, claiming livestock, chickens, and horses. Some were helping themselves to local women, too, for screams were echoing from houses and alleyways. From where he sat, Morgan could see bodies sprawled in the street. He hoped he’d not lost any friends in the fighting. He was more shaken than he was willing to admit, and he decided to find a tavern, a public bathhouse, and a boat to ferry him across the Faro, in that order.

  JOANNA HAD WATCHED in dismay as smoke darkened the sky above Messina. She was not surprised when the English lion was soon flying over the city, for Richard was the most celebrated soldier in Christendom. His sister rejoiced in his victory. But the queen could take no pleasure in the sight of a foreign flag on Sicilian soil. She did not doubt that the townspeople of Messina had been vexing, belligerent, and eager for profit, for they were known to be like that with their fellow citizens. They were still William’s subjects, her subjects, however, and she grieved that it had come to this.

  She’d never expected that she’d have to choose between her two lives, her two worlds. But her precarious position was brought home to her by the Bishop of Bagnara, who’d demanded that she intercede on behalf of the Messinians and berated her as he’d not have dared to berate Richard. He was so incensed that he’d inflamed her own temper; she found herself fiercely defending her brother, burning yet another of her Sicilian bridges. After his angry departure, she’d remained at a window in her bedchamber, staring out across the straits at Messina for hours, her eyes blurring with tears.

  Morgan’s arrival was the only flicker of light in a very dark day. Heedless of convention, she had him brought to her private chamber, greeting him so warmly that he actually blushed, for he was somewhat in awe of this beautiful cousin whom he’d known for less than a week. Joanna’s common sense told her that Morgan could not tell her what she yearned to hear. He could not deny that Messina had fallen to Richard’s troops. But she hoped that he might be able to explain the bloodshed in a way that would enable her to accept it as inevitable and thus reconcile her divided loyalties.

  It had not occurred to Morgan that she might not see Messina’s fall in the same light that he did—as a triumph. The aftermath of battle could be intoxicating, and his senses were still reeling from the sweetness of his reprieve, as well as from several flagons of spiced Messinian wine. The sight of Joanna reminded him of the feats her brother had performed that day, and he launched into an enthusiastic account of the battle, lavishly praising the courage of their men and boasting of the ease with which they’d captured the city.

  “Your brother’s strategy was brilliant, my lady. He is by far the best battle commander I’ve ever seen, leading the assault himself, always in the very thick of the fighting.” He started to tell her that more than twenty of Richard’s own household troops had died in the attack but decided it was better she not know that. “The king is utterly without fear and I understand now why his men vow they’d follow him to Hell and back. So would I, for he is doing God’s Work, destined to regain Jerusalem from the infidels.”

  “You believe that, Morgan . . . truly?” And when he assured her earnestly that he did, Joanna discovered there was comfort in that thought, in the reminder that nothing mattered more than the recovery of the Holy Land. “If Richard is doing God’s Work, does that mean the Messinians were heeding the Devil’s whispers? Were many of them slain, Cousin?”

  “Not so many.” He almost added, “Not as many deaths as they deserved,” but thought better of it, remembering Richard’s warning that women were distressed by violence. “There was plundering, of course, for that is a soldier’s right. But the king took measures to make sure there’d be no widespread slaughter.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” She was silent for a few moments before saying softly, “Did . . . did my brother give any orders to protect the women of the city?”

  Morgan found himself at a rare loss for words, suddenly realizing that she had come to consider Sicily as her home. He supposed it was to be expected that she’d pity the wives and maidens of Messina, for rape was likely to be a fear ingrained in every woman’s soul, even one as highborn as Joanna. He wondered if he ought to lie to her, decided she’d not believe him if he did. “My lady . . . men see that as a soldier’s right, too.”

  She said nothing, but he’d begun to notice the signs of stress—her p
allor, the dark hollows under her eyes. “It was not as brutal as it could have been, Madame,” he said, and Joanna gave him a wan smile, thinking that was a meager comfort to Messina, yet recognizing the uncompromising truth of it, too.

  “It was good of you to bring me word yourself, Cousin Morgan. You’ll not be wanting to cross the Faro after dark, so I’ll see that a comfortable bed is made ready for you.”

  “Thank you, Madame.” Morgan glanced toward Joanna’s attendants, who’d withdrawn across the chamber to give them privacy. The woman he’d wanted to see was not among them. “I was hoping I might pay my respects to the Lady Mariam.”

  Joanna gave him a surprised look and, then, her first real smile of the day. “Mariam mentioned that she’d met one of Richard’s knights at the nunnery, a ‘cocky, silver-tongued rogue,’ she said, ‘with a great interest in learning Arabic.’ So that was you, Cousin?”

  Morgan grinned, pleased beyond measure that Mariam had discussed him with Joanna; that was surely a good sign. “Do you think she might see me?” But when Joanna hesitated, some of his confidence waned.

  “It might be better to wait for another time, Morgan. This has been a difficult day for her.”

  Morgan was disappointed, but it made sense that Mariam would mourn the fall of Messina, for the blood of a Sicilian king ran in her veins. After taking his leave of Joanna, he was escorted to the priory guest hall. Richard had garrisoned Bagnara with a large number of knights sworn to see to Joanna’s safety, and the hall was crowded. Upon learning that Morgan had taken part in the assault upon the town, they were eager to hear his account, and he was quite willing to accommodate them. Eventually, men unrolled blankets and made ready to bed down. Morgan’s nerves were still vibrating like a taut bowstring and he knew sleep would not come for hours yet. Helping himself to a wineskin, he wound his way midst the bodies and bedrolls, and then slipped out a side door.

  The night was mild, the sky spangled with remote pinpoints of light. On this October evening, his Welsh homeland seemed as distant as those glittering stars. It was a pleasure to inhale air untainted by the coppery smell of blood or the stench of gutted entrails. He would, he decided, find the priory church and offer up prayers for the men who’d died that day. For Joanna’s sake, he would pray, too, for Messina’s dead.

  The church was scented with incense, shadowed and still. Morgan knelt at the high altar and felt a calm descending upon his soul, God’s Peace entering his heart. After praying for those who’d died on this October Thursday, he prayed for his dead liege lords, for Geoffrey and Henry, hoping they would not see it as a betrayal—that he’d pledged his loyalty to Richard. He rose with some difficulty, for his body had stiffened in the hours since the battle, his muscles cramping and his shoulder throbbing with the slightest movement. It was already turning the color of summer plums, the bruises seeming to reach into the very marrow of his bones. But the injury could have been worse, could have been fatal. God willing, he would live out his biblical three-score years and ten. If not, better to die before the walls of Jerusalem than in the dusty streets of Messina.

  He was about to depart when a gleam of light drew his attention. The windows were encased in glass, yet more proof of the affluence of Sicily, and he could see a faint glow coming from the cloisters. He peered through the cloudy glass, and then he smiled, for a woman was sitting on a bench in one of the carrels, a lantern beside her, a familiar red dog lounging at her feet.

  She glanced up at the sound of his footsteps on the walkway, a flicker of recognition crossing her face, followed by a frown. Before she could speak, he said quickly, “Lady Mariam, forgive me for disturbing you. I’d been in the church, praying for those who’d died today.” When she did not speak, he moved closer, oddly pleased when Ahmer wagged his tail in a lazy welcome. “I came to tell the queen about the strife in Messina. I can tell you, too, if that be your wish.”

  She was not wearing a face veil tonight, but her silver bracelets and bright silken gown still gave her an exotic appearance; he was near enough now to catch the faint fragrance of sandalwood, to see the graceful fingers clasped in her lap, decorated with henna in the Saracen fashion. But there was no light in those golden eyes, and he knew at once that this woman was in no mood for playful flirtation or teasing banter.

  “What makes you think I’d want to hear about it?”

  Her tone was challenging, but he took encouragement from it, nonetheless; at least she was not telling him to go away. “Messina is a Sicilian city,” he said, choosing his words with care, “and you are the daughter of a Sicilian king. If the bloodshed brought distress to the Lady Joanna, it must be even more distressing for you.”

  “Actually, it was not,” she said coolly, much to his surprise. “I have no reason to grieve for Messina. Shall I tell you why? Because it is not Palermo.”

  “I am not sure I understand.”

  “Why should you?” She’d been curled up on the bench like a sleek, elegant cat, her feet tucked under her skirts, but the tension in her body belied her casual pose. “The inhabitants of Messina are Greek. I believe you call them Griffons. Your men distrust them because they heed the Patriarch of Constantinople and not the Holy Father in Rome. But it is not their religious beliefs that I find objectionable. It is their loathing for those of Saracen blood. Aside from the ones who serve the king, few Saracens dare to dwell in Messina. So I do not mourn that the Messinians have reaped what they have too often sown.”

  Morgan decided that it would take a lifetime to understand the crosscurrents and rivalries in this strange land called Sicily. “I am not sorry to hear you say that, my lady. I’d feared that you might see me as one of those ‘long-tailed Englishmen’ who’d wreaked havoc upon the innocent citizens of Messina, that you’d not believe we were provoked into taking control of the city.”

  He knelt by the bench, ostensibly to pet Ahmer, and looked up intently into her face. “But it is obvious that you are greatly troubled this night. If it is not the bloodshed in Messina, what causes you such sadness? I know it is presumptuous of me to ask such a question. I have found, though, that sometimes it is easier to confide in a stranger, doubtless why so many drunken confessions are exchanged in taverns and alehouses.”

  She ducked her head, but not in time. Catching that fleeting smile, he felt a triumphant flush, as warming as wine. “Take up my offer, Lady Mariam. I can be a good listener, and surprisingly perceptive for one of those long-tailed English. Although I ought to say at the outset that being called ‘English’ is a mortal insult to a Welshman.”

  She gave him a speculative, sidelong glance. “I do not remember telling you my name. How did you learn it?”

  “I was not only smitten, I was resourceful, too,” he said with a grin. “I befriended some of the abbey servants, asking about the lovely lady with amber-colored eyes who was likely a member of the queen’s household. They knew at once whom I meant, told me that my heart had been stolen by King William’s sister.”

  She turned her head to look him full in the face. “They told you, then, that my mother was a Saracen?”

  He started to joke that they may have mentioned it, but caught himself in time, sensing that his answer mattered. Dropping his teasing tone, he said only, “Yes, they did.”

  He saw it was the right answer, saw, too, that she seemed to be wavering. “No,” she said, after a long silence. “You would not understand. You know nothing of dual loyalties, of the whispers of the blood.”

  “Did you not hear me say I am Welsh, cariad? Who would know better than a Welshman in the service of an English king?”

  Her gaze was searching. “What would you do, then, if your English king led an invasion into Wales?”

  “If it were Gwynedd, my loyalty to my family and my homeland would prevail over my loyalty to the king. If he attacked South Wales, it would depend upon the justness of his cause, upon whether I felt that he was in the right.”

  “You answered that very quickly,” she observed. “So quick
ly that I think you must have given it some thought.”

  “I have,” he admitted, “for there is no love lost between the Welsh and the English. Not that Richard thinks of himself as English. He enjoys ruling over them, but does not see himself as one of them, being a true son of Aquitaine. So you see, my lady, our loyalties are almost as murky as those of you Sicilians.” Starting to rise, he found that he had to steady himself with a hand on the bench. “Jesu, I think I aged ten years in the streets of Messina. So . . . now that you know how I would deal with a crisis of conscience, shall we discuss yours?”

  Mariam’s face was guarded, but her fingers had begun to clench and unclench in her lap. He was willing to wait, and at last she said, “Richard wants Joanna to accompany him to Outremer and she has asked me to come with her.”

  “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the bench. When she nodded, he sat down beside her, expelling an audible sigh that had more to do with his aching bones than the proximity of this desirable female body. “We are very enlightened in Wales, allow children born out of wedlock to inherit if they are recognized by their fathers. I would guess that Sicily is as backward as England and France in that regard, but since you’re the daughter of a king, I’m guessing, too, that you’ve been provided for. So you are not dependent upon the queen’s bounty and could remain in Palermo if you wish.”

  Taking her silence as assent, he shifted gingerly on the bench before continuing. “Those helpful abbey servants told me you’d been with Lady Joanna since her arrival in Sicily, so clearly there is a deep affection between you. Why would you balk, then? I can think of only two reasons. Many women would shrink from the hardships and dangers of such a voyage—but not you, Lady Mariam. That leaves those ‘whispers of the blood.’ You feel a kinship with the Saracens of Sicily, and fear that you may feel kinship, too, with the Saracens of Syria.”

  She stared at him in astonishment. “You do not know me. As you said, we are strangers. So however did you guess that?”