Lionheart by Sharon Kay Penman

Author:Sharon Kay Penman
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: PENGUIN group
Published: 2011-08-18T21:00:00+00:00

AS HENRI MADE HIS WAY toward Richard’s pavilion, he gazed up gratefully at the starlit sky, as the day had been one of searing summer heat. Although darkness had fallen, the siege engines were still being manned by torchlight, for Richard had his men working shifts of eight hours, enabling the trebuchets to be operated around the clock and giving the beleaguered enemy garrison no respite. His uncle had been at Acre only five days, yet Henri could feel a new energy in the camp, a rejuvenated sense of confidence. He’d watched with amusement as Richard easily assumed command of the siege; even Conrad of Montferrat had felt compelled to offer a perfunctory apology for turning the English king away from Tyre, blaming it on a miscommunication, an excuse that no one believed, least of all Richard. Henri regretted the hostility between the two men, for he thought that Conrad would make a much more effective king than Guy de Lusignan, even if he had acquired his claim by that highly dubious marriage. He wondered now if he might be able to bring his uncle around to his way of thinking, then smiled at the very notion, knowing how unlikely that was.

When he was ushered into Richard’s tent, he saw that they were just finishing their evening meal. Richard had quickly adopted the local custom of dining at low tables while seated upon cushions. His wife did not look as comfortable as he did, sitting upright, her skirts carefully tucked around her ankles. She smiled at the sight of Henri, for he was a favorite with all of the women. Joanna smiled, too, and Richard beckoned him over, signaling for Henri to be served wine and a dish of syrup mixed with snow. Henri was happy to lounge on the cushions and display his greater familiarity with the Holy Land, explaining that this was a delicacy of Saracen origin; the snow was brought down from the mountains in carts covered with straw.

The final course was a platter heaped with figs, carobs, and clusters of a local fruit that few of them had ever seen before—its soft flesh encased in a greenishyellow skin. They were known as “apples of paradise,” Henri said, gallantly peeling one for Joanna and then for Berengaria. Because of its suggestive shape and size, it had another name among the soldiers, “Saracen’s cock,” but he refrained from sharing that bit of bawdy army humor, sensing that Richard’s queen would not find it amusing. Instead, he leaned over and asked, low-voiced, if the rumors were true.

“You mean about my squabble with Philippe this afternoon? So word is already out?”

“Well, apparently you were shouting at each other loudly enough to be heard back in Cyprus.”

“I suppose we were,” Richard conceded, with a tight smile. “Philippe wants us to launch a full attack on the morrow. I reminded him that some of my ships are still at Tyre, waiting for favorable winds, and they are carrying most of my siege engines.

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