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
