Hugh could not argue with that. “Will your lady mother be all right?” he asked shyly, acutely aware of Ellen’s perfume, the silky sweep of her lashes; he’d never been so close to a lady of rank before.
“Grief is an old adversary of my mother’s, too familiar to catch her off guard. It is Juliana I fear for, Hugh. She loved my brother very much.”
Hugh nodded, not sure what she wanted from him. She was regarding him steadily, and he found himself thinking that she had beautiful eyes, not green as he’d once thought, but an uncommon, gold-flecked hazel. “Hugh… Juliana has been weeping all afternoon, is like to make herself sick. She needs comfort. I hoped you might be able to give it to her.”
“Me? How?”
“Can you not think back, try to remember something Bran might have said? A word, an act, anything to reassure Juliana that she was in his thoughts. If you but prodded your memory…”
“My lady, I… I do not know. Lord Bran was so ill in those last days…”
Those hazel eyes were fastened unwaveringly, hypnotically upon his face. “Not even words spoken in fever?” she suggested, but Hugh reluctantly shook his head.
“No, nothing like that.” He frowned in thought, then grinned. “Wait, I do remember! On our second day in Siena, he bought a moonstone brooch in the Campo, asked me if I thought Juliana would fancy it. Of course it got left behind when we had to flee Viterbo, but it was very pretty, shaped like a heart. Do you think it would console Lady Juliana to know that?”
“Oh, yes, Hugh, I do!” Ellen cried, and then embarrassed, astounded, and delighted him by kissing him on the cheek. “Come,” she said, “I’ll take you to Juliana now.” Catching his hand, she pulled him to his feet. “A heart-shaped brooch—that is perfect, Hugh! Is it true?”
“Lady Ellen, of course it is!” Astonishment was giving way to indignation. “I would not lie!”
Ellen knew there was less than four years between them, but at that moment she felt old enough to be his mother, older in ways she hoped he’d never learn. “I did not mean to offend you, Hugh,” she said soothingly. “If not for you, my brother might have died alone—” And then, to her dismay, tears were clinging to her lashes, and she could not blink them back in time. “I’m going to be selfish, after all,” she said and spun away from him.
Hugh’s instinct was to follow, to try to comfort. But she was too proud to cry upon his shoulder as Juliana might have done. He thought of her mother’s solitary church vigil, thought of Bran’s conscience-stricken silences. Ellen had said grief was a familiar foe to the de Montforts. It was also one to be fought in private, and, understanding that, Hugh stood where he was, watching as Ellen fled the garden.
Hugh hesitated, men moved into the chapel. “Madame? You sent for me?”
Nell nodded. As she stepped into the light cast by his lantern, he felt a surge of pity, for she looked ravaged, her eyes puffy and shadowed, her skin ashen. “I wanted to see you alone,” she said, “for there is something I must know, and only you can tell me. Hugh, did my son truly die in God’s grace? Did he agree to be shriven, to—” She saw the shock on his face and her breath stopped. “Jesú, no!”
“Ah, no, Madame, you need not fear! He was shriven, I swear it! You just took me by surprise, for he did indeed refuse at first. But he did not persist in such madness. Madame, I would not lie to you.”
Nell had caught the altar for support, and Hugh waited until she regained her composure. “My lady…however did you guess?”
“It was not second-sight, Hugh. That is the one crime my enemies have not accused me of—witchcraft.” Her smile was so wry, so like Bran’s, that Hugh winced. “I knew my son, as simple as that. Bran was ever one for doing the wrong thing, always for the right reasons.”
Sifting through his own memories, both the good times and the bad, especially those last doomed weeks, Hugh had to agree with Nell’s assessment of her son. “He tried to send me away when he was first stricken with the ague,” he confided, and Nell drew back into the shadows.
“You have told me how my son died, and I thank you for that, Hugh. Now I would have you tell me why. I would hear about Viterbo.” She saw him flinch and said swiftly, “No, lad, I do not mean the killing. I only wish I knew less of that, not more. I want you to tell me what happened that morn, ere they found Hal in that church.”
Hugh did, as conscientiously as memory’s inevitable distortions would allow. “Bran made no attempt to defend himself,” he concluded quietly, “not even when Guy accused him of killing Earl Simon and Harry. That was so cruel; I’ll never forget the look on his face, never. Then Guy demanded to know if he would fail the Earl at Viterbo as he had at Evesham, and held out his sword. Lord Bran…he took it, Madame. He never said a word, just took it…”
In the silence that followed, Hugh began to have qualms about his candor. In his indignation, he’d almost forgotten that Guy was Nell’s son, too. But then she said, very low, “Guy has much to answer for.”
With that, Hugh was in heartfelt agreement. He thought of what Ellen had told him about Amaury, and thanked God that Bran had never known. He thought of Nell, whose sorrows had only begun with Evesham. She’d borne seven children, and now four were dead and one was outlawed. And he thought of Ellen, who was once more a dubious marital prize. Just a few months ago, her prospects had seemed almost as bright as in the days of her father’s glory. But it would take a brave man, indeed, to wed Ellen now, the sister of Edward’s mortal enemy.
It was not until Nell repeated his name that he came out of his reverie, hastily offered an apology. “You did ask me…what, Madame?”
“Bran told me that you’d been educated by the Evesham monks. I assume then that you can read and write?”
“Yes, my lady, I can,” Hugh said, with pardonable pride, for that was not so common an accomplishment. She was looking at him expectantly, and so he continued self-consciously, baffled by her inexplicable interest in his education. “I studied arithmetic, too, but in all honesty, I’m not good with numbers, cannot seem to keep them in my head. But I am better with languages. In addition to French, I speak English and some Latin, and I picked up a useful amount of Tuscan during our months in Italy.”
Nell nodded approvingly. “You obviously are familiar with horses.”
“Yes, my lady. I learned to ride whilst my lord father was still alive.”
“I do not suppose that Bran had a chance to begin teaching you how to handle a sword?”
“No, my lady. He gave me a few lessons on the road, said my schooling would begin in earnest after we’d met with the two Kings at Viterbo…” Hugh faltered, so great was his regret for what might have been.
Nell came toward him. “We shall remedy that forthwith. I have spoken to Sir Olivier de Croix, the captain of my guards, and he is willing to take you on as his squire, if that be your wish.”
Hugh’s eyes widened. “If I wish? Oh, my lady, I—”
“Wait, Hugh, hear me out. Ere you decide, I want you to know that you have a choice. If you would rather return to England, I will arrange for your passage and give you a letter to take to a Yorkshire knight, Sir John d’Eyvill. He was a friend of Bran’s, and if I ask it of him, I am sure he will accept you into his service. Or you may stay here at Montargis. Sir Olivier is an exacting taskmaster, but a fair one. Give him but one-half the loyalty you gave Bran, and he’ll be content. Let him teach you what you need to know, serve him well, and when you come of age, I will see that you are knighted. If then you wish to remain with my household—”
“My lady, nothing would give me greater joy!” Hugh was staring at Nell in awe. No one had ever been kinder to him than Bran. And now this! He yearned to pledge her his honor and his life, to swear to serve her and her family as long as he had breath in his body, but he feared to make himself ridiculous, feared that she might laugh at a raw boy making a knight’s vow.
Reaching out, Nell took his hand, her fingers cool and smooth in his. “You did not forsake my son,�
�� she said, and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. “How, then, could we forsake you?”
6
Acre, Kingdom Of Jerusalem
June 1272
All day the sky had shimmered in a haze of heat, a bleached-bone shade neither white nor blue. Now the sun was flaming out, a fiery-red sphere that looked as if it were haloed in blood. As Edward watched, it sank into the sea. For a moment, the waves churning shoreward were capped in sunset foam, and then the light was drowned, dusk settling over the land with breathtaking suddenness, a curtain rung down at play’s end. Where there had been smeared crimson streaks, Edward could see the first glimmerings of stars.
But twilight had not cooled the air. It was sweltering, almost too hot to breathe; Edward felt as if he were inhaling steam. Sweat was chafing his skin, stinging his eyes, and even the luxury of wine chilled with Lebanese snow could not assuage the desert-dryness of his throat. This Thursday in mid-June was Edward’s thirty-third birthday; so far it had brought him little joy.
The royal castle known as the Citadel was situated in the northern quarter of the city. Acre lay spread out below him like a chessboard, for all the roofs were flat, and many of the narrow streets were vaulted in sun-shielding stone. At this height, he had a spy’s view of the inner courtyards of Acre’s wealthy merchants, could see the silvery spray of private fountains, the silhouettes of palms and other tropical trees, and beyond, the darkening sapphire of the bay, the superb harbor that was the city’s lifeblood. It was a sight alien and exotic, vibrantly alive, seductively compelling to most men—but not to Edward.
Acre was a busy port, the capital of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It was also, by all accounts, one of the world’s most sinful cities. Prostitutes sauntered brazenly along its dusty streets, competing with beggars and vendors for the attention of passersby. Pickpockets and thieves were more discreet, but just as numerous, for Acre was a penal colony of sorts; foreign criminals were sometimes given the choice of prison or service in the Holy Land. But it was not the presence of felons and harlots that irked Edward. It was the sight of infidels mingling freely with Christians, for thousands of Arabs dwelled within the walls of this crusaders’ city.
The “Franks,” those native-born Christians of European descent, were disturbingly complacent about such fraternizing. It was Edward’s opinion that the torrid climate had sapped their crusading fervor, made them indolent and too receptive to Saracen guile. How else explain their willingness to let the enemy live in their very midst?
Edward’s sojourn in the Holy Land had been a disillusioning experience. Although he was neither a romantic nor an idealist, he had still believed in the chivalric myths of a holy quest, had envied men like his celebrated great-uncle, Richard Lionheart, and Simon de Montfort, men who’d worn the white crosses of crusaders, fought the infidel in the cradle of Christendom.
But upon his arrival in Acre, those epic sagas of gallantry and Christian martyrdom soon lost their lustre. Reality was far grittier, far less heroic. Edward found a land in chaos, a handful of seacoast cities clinging to precarious survival in the shadow of a deadly foe, the ruthless Sultan of Egypt, Rukn ad-Din Baibars Bundukdari. Political rivalries flourished and corruption was epidemic; Acre’s Venetian and Genoese merchants traded openly with the enemy, supplying Baibars with the weapons and slaves he needed to carry on his jihad, his holy war against the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem.
These months in Palestine had taught Edward some sobering lessons, that few men were willing to die for the greater glory of God, that few princes were willing to empty their coffers for yet another crusade. The French King and Charles of Anjou had long since sailed for home; even Edward’s brother had abandoned their quest. Edward found himself bereft of powerful allies, with less than a thousand soldiers, and his requests for additional money only brought pitiful letters from his ailing father, begging him to come back to England.
More than three weeks had passed since Hugh de Lusignan, the young King of Jerusalem, had signed a ten-year truce with Sultan Baibars. Edward knew it was a sensible act, one that might buy the beleaguered kingdom some precious time. But boyhood dreams die hard, and there was a corner of his soul that cried out in protest, that had yet to accept the inevitable. Disappointment and frustration and stifling summer heat were flammable elements, and when a sudden knock sounded at the door, he spun away from the window with a snarled “What?”
Erard de Valery showed no surprise; those in Edward’s service soon grew accustomed to such flashes of temper. “I thought you’d want to know,” he said impassively, “that a messenger has come from John de Montfort. He arrives in Acre on the morrow.”
Edward’s response was obscene, imaginative, and predictable, for John’s sins were twofold. He was a cousin to Simon and thus tainted by blood, and a stalwart friend to Guy de Montfort, which made him as welcome at Edward’s court as the Saracen Sultan himself. But John was also the Lord of Tyre, brother-in-law to the King of Jerusalem, a man too powerful to be snubbed, to be treated with anything but icily correct courtesy—and Edward well knew it.
So did Erard, who waited patiently as Edward stalked about the chamber, damning John de Montfort to smoke and sulphur and hellish flames. “He dares to defend Guy even now, as if Viterbo were merely a lapse in manners! Fifteen months, Erard, fifteen months since Hal lay dying in the mud of that wretched piazza, and Guy is still free, living quite comfortably, too, I hear. Well, not for long, by God! When I get back to Italy, I’ll see that murdering whoreson run to earth, even if I have to lead the hunt myself.”
Edward’s anger soon burned itself out, though; it was too hot for such intense emotion. Gesturing for Erard to pour them wine, he flung himself down upon a couch. Erard followed with the cups and they drank in silence for a time.
“It’s nigh on two years since I left home,” Edward said at last, “and all for what? I had a daughter born dead at Acre last year. My firstborn son died in England, half a world away. So did my uncle Richard, and that death, too, can be laid to Guy de Montfort’s account; my uncle never got over Hal’s murder. My father is ailing, and there’s turmoil throughout the Marches, for that hothead Gloucester and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd are at swords’ points again. I cannot help thinking that I ought never to have left England. Two years of my life and what did I gain? A ten-year truce that was not even my doing!”
“My lord, that’s not so! Baibars would never have agreed to the truce if not for you. Have you forgotten your raid into the Plain of Sharon? Granted, your siege of Ququn Castle failed, but you then took Nazareth—”
Erard bit off the word in mid-sentence, but not in time; Edward’s mouth tightened noticeably. His capture of Nazareth had been an undeniable military triumph, but it had caused the first serious rift between Edward and his brother, Edmund. After taking the city, Edward had allowed his men to slay the Arab townspeople, a bloody act of reprisal for Sultan Baibars’s massacre of Christians in Antioch and Jaffa. But Edmund had not approved, had argued in vain that at least the women and children should be spared. Edward’s knights had been baffled by Edmund’s objections, concluding that England was fortunate Edward was the firstborn, as Edmund was plainly too soft-hearted to wield a king’s power.
Erard was sure Edward did not regret the killings; they were infidels, after all. He knew, though, that Edward did regret the falling-out with his brother. They’d eventually mended the breach, but it had left a sour aftertaste, and he was sorry he’d reminded Edward of it.
Conversation lagged; again Edward was the one to break the silence. His tone had changed; to Erard’s surprise, he sounded almost wistful. “I’ve been thinking about my great-uncle Richard. At the battle of Jaffa, he fought so bravely that when his stallion was slain, Saladin sent out a horse under a flag of truce. Jesú, what a gallant gesture! It would have been no disgrace to lose to such a foe. I came here seeking another Saladin, found instead Baibars, who adorns his castle at Safad with Christian skulls…”
Erard nearly blu
rted out that Edward had once faced a Saladin—Simon de Montfort. He gulped down the last of his wine, shaken, for he knew Edward would never have forgiven him for that.
“My lord…” A servant hovered in the doorway. “A messenger has arrived from the Emir of Jaffa. Should we bid him enter?”
Edward nodded, then glanced toward Erard. “I want you to fetch my wife,” he said, for his conscience was beginning to stir. He’d been very curt with Eleanora that forenoon, was now regretting it. It was only a month since she’d been brought to bed of their babe, Joanna, and it had been a difficult pregnancy; she’d conceived a scant two months after the death of their daughter.
The Emir’s messenger was familiar to Edward; this was his fifth visit. Beckoning him toward the couch, Edward reached for the letter. They’d been corresponding for weeks; the Emir had even hinted he might consider converting to Christianity. Edward was skeptical, but the Emir was worth courting, for he’d make a valuable ally. Sitting up, he broke the seal, began to read.
The man was quick. In one smooth motion, he drew a hidden dagger, plunged it toward the Englishman’s heart. It would have been a lethal blow had Edward not been blessed with a soldier’s reflexes. From the corner of his eye, he’d caught a blurred movement and instinctively flung up an arm, deflecting the knife. But the blade sliced deeply into his flesh, slashing from wrist to elbow; blood spurted wildly, splattering both men.
The assassin recovered swiftly, lunged again. Edward was just as fast, though. Rolling off the couch, he snatched up a footstool as he hit the floor, threw it at his assailant. The man stumbled, and by the time he’d regained his balance, Edward was upon him. He took a gash across the forehead before he was able to immobilize his attacker’s knife hand. Locked in a death embrace, they swayed back and forth, until they lurched into the table and Edward saw his chance. With his free hand, he grabbed for a candlestick, thrust the flame into the other man’s face. As he recoiled, Edward slammed his wrist onto the table, and then he had the dagger, burying it to the hilt in his enemy’s abdomen.
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