PRAISE FOR BEN KANE

‘Richard the Lionheart’s name echoes down the centuries as one of history’s greatest warriors, and this book will immortalise him even more. A rip-roaring epic, filled with arrows and spattered with blood. Gird yourself with mail when you start’

Paul Finch, author of Strangers

‘Ben’s deeply authoritative depiction of the time is delivered in a deft manner. I was immersed in the detail of Rufus’s life, with its heat and cold, its odours, foods, clothing, beats, politics and all the other minutiae of the age’

Simon Scarrow, author of the Eagles of the Empire series

‘Kane’s virtues as a writer of historical adventures – lively prose, thorough research, colourful action – are again apparent’

Nick Rennison, The Sunday Times

‘Lionheart has plenty of betrayal, bloodshed and rich historical detail’

Martin Chilton, Independent

‘Plenty of action, blood, scheming, hatred, stealth and politics here, if that’s what you want in your read – and you know it is!’

Sunday Sport

‘To read one of Ben Kane’s astonishingly well-researched, bestselling novels is to know that you are, historically speaking, in safe hands’

Elizabeth Buchan, Daily Mail

‘This is a stunningly visual and powerful read: Kane’s power of description is second to none … Perfect for anyone who is suffering from Game of Thrones withdrawal symptoms’

Helena Gumley-Mason, The Lady

‘Fans of battle-heavy historical fiction will, justly, adore Clash of Empires. With its rounded historical characters and fascinating historical setting, it deserves a wider audience’

Antonia Senior, The Times

‘Grabs you from the start and never lets go. Thrilling action combines with historical authenticity to summon up a whole world in a sweeping tale of politics and war. A triumph!’

Harry Sidebottom, author of the The Last Hour

‘The word epic is overused to describe books, but with Clash of Empires it fits like a gladius in its scabbard. What Kane does, with such mastery, is place the big story – Rome vs Greece – in the background, while making this a story about ordinary men caught up in world-defining events. In short, I haven’t enjoyed a book this much for ages. There aren’t many writers today who could take on this story and do it well. There might be none who could do it better than Ben Kane’

Giles Kristian, author of Lancelot

‘Exceptional. Kane’s excelled once again in capturing the terror and the glory … of the ancient battlefield, and this story is one that’s been begging for an expert hand for a long time’

Anthony Riches, author of the Empire series

‘Carried off with panache and Kane’s expansive, engaging, action-packed style. A complex, fraught, moving and passionate slice of history from one of our generation’s most ambitious and engaging writers’

Manda Scott, author of the Boudica series

‘It’s a broad canvas Kane is painting on, but he does it with vivid colours and, like the Romans themselves, he can show great admiration for a Greek enemy and still kick them in the balls’

Robert Low, author of the Oathsworn series

‘Ben Kane manages to marry broad narrative invention with detailed historical research … in taut, authoritative prose … his passion for the past, and for the craft of story-telling, shines from every page’

Toby Clements, author of the Kingmaker series

‘This thrilling series opener delivers every cough, spit, curse and gush of blood to set up the mighty clash of the title. Can’t really fault this one’

Jon Wise, Weekend Sport

‘Ben Kane’s new series explores the bloody final clash between ancient Greece and upstart Rome, focusing on soldiers and leaders from both worlds and telling the story of a bloody war with style’

Charlotte Heathcote, Sunday Express S Magazine

‘A thumping good read. You can feel the earth tremble from the great battle scenes and feel the desperation of those caught up in the conflict. Kane’s brilliant research weaves its way lightly throughout’

David Gilman, author of the Master of War series

For Ferdia and Pippa.
You are my everything.

LIST OF CHARACTERS

(Those marked * are recorded in history)

Ferdia Ó Catháin/Rufus O’Kane, an Irish noble from north Leinster in Ireland

Rhys, orphaned Welsh youth

Robert FitzAldelm, knight, and brother to Guy FitzAldelm (deceased)

Royal House of England:

Henry Fitz Empress*, King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, (deceased)

Alienor (Eleanor) of Aquitaine*, Henry’s widow

Henry (Hal), eldest son of Henry (deceased)

Richard, King of England, Duke of Aquitaine* and second son of Henry

Geoffrey*, third son of Henry, Duke of Brittany (deceased)

Arthur*, Geoffrey’s young son

John*, Count of Mortain, youngest son of Henry, also known as ‘Lackland’

Joanna*, Queen of Sicily, daughter of Henry

English Royal Court:

Beatrice, maidservant to Queen Alienor

André de Chauvigny*, knight and cousin to Richard

Baldwin de Béthune*, knight

William Longchamp*, Bishop of Ely, Richard’s chancellor

Hugh de Puiset*, Bishop of Durham

Geoffrey*, bastard son to Henry, Archbishop of York

William Marshal*, one of Richard’s justiciars

Bardolph*, FitzPeter* and Bruyère*, also Richard’s justiciars

Philip, squire and friend to Rufus

Religious: Archbishop Walter of Rouen*, Archbishop Gerard of Auxienne*, Bishop Hubert of Salisbury*, Bishop John of Evreux*, Bishop Nicholas of Le Mans*

John d’Alençon*, Archdeacon of Lisieux and a former Vice Chancellor of England

Hugh de la Mare*, clerk

Ambroise*, cleric and author of the extant Estoire de la Guerre Sainte, The History of the Holy War

Prior Robert of Hereford*

Ralph Besace*, medical cleric

Nobles: Robert, Earl of Leicester*, Count de Pol*, Count Robert de Dreux*

Knights, Robert de Turnham*, Geoffrey du Bois*, Peter and William de Préaux*, John FitzLucas*, Bartholomew de Mortimer*, Ralph de Mauléon*, Henry Teuton*, Henry de Sacey*, William de l’Etang*, Gerard de Furnival*, James d’Avesnes*, Matthew de Sauley*, Peter Tireproie*, de Roverei*, Richard Thorne

Guillaume de Caieux*, Flemish knight

Richard de Drune, Hugh de Neville*, men-at-arms

Other characters:

William*, King of Scotland

Philippe II*, King of France

Alys Capet*, Philippe’s sister, betrothed to Richard in childhood

Henri of Blois*, Count of Champagne and cousin to both Richard and Philippe Capet

Philippe, Count of Flanders*

Guillaume des Barres*, a famous French knight

Raymond, Count of Toulouse*

Hugh, Duke of Burgundy*, cousin to the French king

Joffroi, Count of Perche*

Peter, Count of Nevers*

Bishop of Beauvais*, cousin to the French king

Drogo de Merlo*, nobleman

Aubery Clément*, knight

Sicily:

William II de Hauteville*, King of Sicily (deceased)

Constance de Hauteville*, William’s aunt and heir, wed to Heinrich von Hohenstaufen*, King of Germany and heir of the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick Barbarossa*

Tancred of Lecce*, illegitimate cousin of William

Reginald de Muhec*, a local nobleman

Hugh de Lusignan*, nephew of Guy, Geoffrey and Amaury

Del Pin*, the governor of Messina

Margaritone*, the admiral of Tancred’s fleet

Berengaria*, daughter of King Sancho VI* of Navarre, Richard’s betrothed

Outremer:

Guy de Lusignan*, King of Jerusalem

Sibylla, Queen of Jerusalem*, Guy’s wife (deceased)

Isabella of Jerusalem*, Sibylla’s half-sister

Humphrey de Toron*, her husband

Conrad of Montferrat*, Italian-born ruler of Tyre, cousin to the French king Philippe

Geoffrey* and Amaury* de Lusignan, Guy’s brothers

Robert de Sablé*, grand master of the Knights Templar

Garnier de Nablus*, grand master of the Knights Hospitallers

Balian d’Ibelin*, Lord of Nablus

Reynald of Sidon*

Leopold, Duke of Austria*

Joscius, Archbishop of Tyre*

Saladin*, Al-Malik al-Nasir Salah al-Dīn, Abu’ al-Muzaffar Yusuf ibn Ayyūb, Sultan of Egypt

Saphadin*, Al Malik al-’Ādil, Saif al-Dīn Abū Bakr Ahmad ibn Ayyūb, brother to Saladin

Mestoc*, Saif al-Dīn ‘Alī ibn Ahmad al-Mashtūb, Muslim commander in Acre

Karakush*, Bahā’ al-Dīn al Asadī Qara-Qūsh, Muslim commander in Acre

Reynald de Châtillon*, nobleman (deceased)

Abu, Muslim youth in Acre

William Borrel* and Baldwin Carew*, Hospitallers

Ibn an-Nahlal*, secretary to Saladin

Rashīd ed-Din Sīnān*, the Old Man of the Mountains

PROLOGUE

Southampton, November 1189

Deep gloom blanketed the one-roomed house in which Rhys and I waited, our nerves wire taut. We stood in silence against the wall by the hinges of the rickety front door; that way our quarry, entering, would see us when it was too late. Dagger clutched tight, one eye against a hole in the wattle and daub, I peered into the alleyway outside, trying to keep my breathing slow, measured. Trying to convince myself that this was the right course of action.

Night had fallen some time since over the stews, the poorest part of the town, and there was little activity outside. A pig had been slaughtered in the butcher’s yard soon after our arrival, its high-pitched squeals setting my teeth on edge. A pair of gossiping women, neighbours, had walked by after that, but no one else. Unease pricked me. I could not be sure if my quarry, a spade-bearded man-at-arms by the name of Henry, would return here before his wife. I had no wish to involve an innocent in my dark business. I steeled my resolve. If the woman came back, we would gag and blindfold her, and wait on for her husband. I tried not to think about the babe I had been told of.

I shifted position, rolling my shoulders against a threatening cramp in my muscles. My gaze wandered the room. The dim orange glow of a low-smouldering fire in the central hearth outlined two stools, a trestle table, a wooden clothes chest and a blanket-covered straw pallet in one corner. The dog tethered to the back wall was quiet – it had wolfed down the bread I had brought with me for just such an eventuality and now seemed content with our silent company.

Our wait continued for I do not know how long. I grew cold; more than once, I had to pace about, cat soft, to get the blood flowing again. Rhys did not stir. Only the movement of his eyes, watching me, betrayed that he was not a statue. Faithful heart he was, I thought, my heart warming to have him on this difficult mission.

At last footsteps came, approaching the house. I slipped back to my spyhole, a tiny part of me hoping they would pass by.

They came to a halt outside.

I nudged Rhys, hard.

He nodded. Closer to the door, he was poised; ready to spring.

The hook rattled, and I tensed. I had been unable to fasten it to the staple on the jamb from the inside.

A curse. ‘She left it open, as usual.’

With a creak, the door swung inward. The dog whined and strained at its tether, tail wagging.

A figure hove into sight. He had a beard, although I could not see its shape in the poor light. Rhys leaped forward, wrapping one arm around the man’s right shoulder, and with his other hand, grabbing for the man’s flailing left arm. Blade at the ready, I darted around to the front. Rhys’s grasp slipped, and I took the man’s bunched fist on my cheekbone. Stars burst across my vision, and I staggered.

Thank Christ our victim fought back rather than shouted. While I tried to unscramble my wits, he and Rhys tumbled to the floor, wrestling and trading blows. A flying kick struck the pot hanging from a chain over the fire. Its lid flew off, hitting a wall with a dull clang, and hot pottage sprayed the room. The dog barked.

Head clearing, I drove a punch into the man’s belly. Mouth gaping like a fish in a net, he sagged back into Rhys’s embrace. Quickly, Rhys hooked his arms under the man’s from behind, bringing his hands up and around the back of the other’s neck, where he clenched them together. This vice-like hold was almost impossible to break, but I laid my dagger tip under the man’s left eyeball, nonetheless. Chest heaving, he stared at it, at me, at it again.

‘Shout, and it will be the last thing you do,’ I hissed.

His spade-shaped beard went up and down as he nodded, terrified.

‘You are Henry, a man-at-arms?’

Again he indicated yes.

‘Do you know me?’ I demanded, shoving my face into his.

He shook his head, but I had seen the flicker of recognition. He was lying.

‘You had words with Robert FitzAldelm, a knight, a few months ago.’ The royal party had passed through Southampton before the king’s coronation; my enemy had used his time here well. If there had been any doubt in my mind, the naked fear I saw in Henry was my answer. He was the man I sought, I decided, continuing, ‘FitzAldelm was asking about the death of his brother, seven years ago, outside a nearby inn.’

That night, I had slain one FitzAldelm brother, and earned the lifelong enmity of the other – Robert. I was here to ensure that his witness, Henry, could not threaten my position at the royal court.

I pricked Henry with the dagger tip. ‘Well?’

‘I spoke with FitzAldelm, yes, sir.’

‘You claimed to have seen me – me – near the same inn.’

‘Y-you, sir?’ He could not meet my gaze.

I seized his chin and forced his head up. ‘So FitzAldelm says.’

His eyes flashed to mine, and away. ‘I was m-mistaken, sir. It was a long time ago. My memory is not what it was.’

‘You have never met me in your life, and so you will swear if anyone asks.’

‘Gladly, sir,’ he babbled. ‘Gladly.’

‘This shall be payment for your silence.’ I tugged free the purse that had been on my belt since London and dangled it before him. ‘Three years’ pay for a man-at-arms it holds.’

For the first time, the trace of a smile. ‘Not a word shall pass my lips, sir, I swear it on my soul. Satan take me if I lie.’

The moment was here, the one I had dreaded since deciding to hunt down the only witness – apart from FitzAldelm – who knew or suspected my deep-buried secret. Yet reluctant, I glanced at Rhys. Face dark with suspicion, he gave me an ‘I do not believe him’ look. I moved my attention back to Henry, who gave me an ingratiating smile.

I thought of FitzAldelm, and his burning malice. He would not meekly accept Henry’s changed position. ‘You have a wife and child,’ I said, thanking God that they were not here.

Utter terror blossomed on his face. ‘Yes, sir. The babe is but three months old. Our firstborn, a boy. They have gone to visit her mother.’

‘How close?’

‘The other side of the town, sir.’

‘When will they be back?’

‘Not until the morning, sir.’

Relieved beyond measure, I asked, ‘Do you care for them?’

‘Yes, sir.’ His voice shook. ‘They are everything to me. Do not hurt them, I beg you!’

Revulsion filled me, that he thought I was capable of threatening two innocents’ lives. I reached a sudden decision. ‘They shall come to no harm,’ I said. ‘I swear it, by Christ on the cross.’

As Henry sobbed with relief, I exchanged an odd look with Rhys.

Then my dagger swept across Henry’s throat, left to right.

His eyes – bright with shock and pain – met mine. He could not speak. Nor could I. Warm blood showered me. Henry bucked and strained, but Rhys held him fast. The life in him faded, and he sagged towards the floor. There was a soft thump as Rhys let go.

As if it knew its master’s fate, the dog whined.

Now Rhys and I stared at each other over Henry’s corpse. My hands were shaking. ‘I killed him.’

‘You did.’ Rhys’s tone was matter-of-fact.

‘I—’ I looked at my red-stained hands, my blood-soaked tunic. I touched my cheek, and my finger came away sticky. Shame and grief lashed me. ‘What have I done?’

‘Sir.’

Rhys had never addressed me so. I looked at him, stunned by the ruthless determination in his face.

‘FitzAldelm would have put Henry’s feet in a fire if he had gone back on his word, you know that. He would have sung like a caged bird.’

Miserable, I nodded.

‘The purse of silver was a sop. A pretence.’

I listened, like a child having something simple explained to him.

‘Killing him was the only choice we had.’

Not true, I thought. I could have done nothing. FitzAldelm’s attempt to blacken my name with Henry’s testimony might have failed. Rhys would have made a plausible witness in my favour; he was also known to the king. Henry, on the other hand, was a nobody. A nobody with a wife and baby son, my conscience screamed.

Dragged back to gory reality by Rhys, I did as he ordered. The deed was done, he said, and it served no one if we took the blame. I made no argument as we cleaned up the worst of the blood, and wrapped Henry in the blanket that covered his straw pallet. Then followed the grimmest of times, a wait by his cooling corpse until we could stir abroad without being seen.

Mind numbed by the horror of it all, I continued to let Rhys lead. Never before had I entombed a man in the depths of a midden, and returned, dressed in his spare clothing, to bury my own. Never before had I fed the dog of a man I had murdered. I stood in the little house, watching it devour a hunk of cheese that had lain on the table.

‘We must go.’ Rhys, calm as ever, was at my elbow. ‘Dawn is not far off.’ He handed me my mantle.

This was some small blessing, I thought. We had both taken ours off earlier, accidentally ensuring that our outer clothing was free of tell-tale bloodstains. I swung mine around my shoulders.

Its bread finished, the dog gave me an expectant look.

I thought of Henry’s wife, who with her man dead, would soon go hungry. With a soft chink, I laid the purse on the table. It would last more than three years if she were careful. The coin would not bring her husband back, I told myself, but it was better than nothing.

The knowledge lessened my guilt not a whit.

PART ONE

NOVEMBER 1189–JULY 1190

CHAPTER I

London

Richard looked up from the mound of documents on the table before him. His mighty frame was ill-suited to perching on a stool, yet still he appeared kinglike, clad in a dark red tunic, fine hose and leather boots. Weak sunlight lanced in from the windows, burnishing his mane of red-gold hair. He frowned. ‘God’s legs, Rufus, you look terrible! Are you ill?’

I hesitated. In truth, I had been plagued with guilt since Henry’s death. Royal business completed in Southampton – the delivering of important messages from Richard to his ships’ captains there – Rhys and I had ridden back to court. Now all eyes were on me: the king’s, those of William Marshal, one of his trusted advisers, the justiciar William Longchamp, my enemy FitzAldelm, several clerks. Even the pages standing by with flagons of wine were staring.

‘I am well enough, sire, thank you. It is poor weather for travelling – I caught a chill.’ I coughed, realistically, I hoped.

Satisfied, Richard asked, ‘You delivered the letters?’

‘I did, sire, and brought the captains’ responses.’ I handed the rolled parchments to a page, who ran them over to the king.

‘Get you to bed then. I cannot have one of my best knights taken ill.’ Richard’s secretary had cracked the first seal and was already unrolling the letter, preparing to read it to the king.

Since his coronation in September, his only focus had been the raising of funds, and the organisation of his long-planned campaign in the Holy Land. The joke went that everything in his kingdom was for sale: powers, lordships, earldoms, sheriffdoms, castles, towns and manors. Not a day passed without his palace being thronged with lords and bishops seeking to retain what they already had, or trying to better themselves by securing new titles and lands.

Grateful that his attention had moved on, I muttered my thanks and withdrew.

FitzAldelm, fresh-returned from a mission to meet the new Scottish king William, threw me a look of pure spite. My hatred pricked, but not as it had before. Guilt savaged me next. Murderer, I thought. I am a murderer. I was doubly damned, because I had no wish to undo Henry’s killing. FitzAldelm now had no grounds to accuse me of killing his brother.

Richard called after me to rest as long as I needed.

I needed a priest, not my bed, I thought. So great was my burden, however, that I could not contemplate confessing. My guilt was my own, deserved punishment for what I had done. Something to be borne in silence.

For his part, Rhys was unaffected by our actions, but he knew my mind. He guided me to a tavern in the stews, where he bought jug after jug of wine. Southampton was not mentioned. We spoke instead of Outremer – the Holy Land – and the battles to be won there. We sang too, bawdy tunes plucked out by a minstrel on a gittern; these lifted my mood somewhat. Rhys’s steady arm supported me as I staggered back to the palace. I do not remember him putting me to bed, but he must have done, for that is where I found myself the next day with a pounding head. Grateful not to have to attend the king – his command had been to get well, and I was not – I stayed under the blankets and felt sorry for myself. Rhys’s patience ran thin in the end. Leaving a chamber pot and a jug of water by the bed, he left me to my misery. I had not the energy or the heart to call him back, still less issue a reprimand.

I fell asleep again, to be tormented by Henry’s last words, endlessly repeated, ‘They are everything to me. Do not hurt them, I beg you!’ Again I saw him in Rhys’s tight grip, and my knife opening his throat. Jerking awake, my stomach heaving, I lunged for the pot and brought up the water I had drunk not long before. Face cold with sweat, drool hanging from my lips, I remained slumped over the side of the bed, too miserable to stir.

Not even the pad of footsteps entering the room made me lift my head. It would be Rhys, I thought blearily, or perhaps the man-at-arms Richard de Drune, another friend and comrade. He would poke fun, as would Philip, if it were he who had come. Squire to the king as I had been, he was the closest of my friends, someone I shared almost everything with. I wondered if I could tell him about Southampton, but imagining his shock and revulsion, I decided against it. Henry’s murder was my dark secret, and Rhys’s.

‘Drank too much again, did you?’ A soft laugh.

Surprised – Beatrice did not often risk coming to my quarters alone, for to be seen without a chaperone risked her reputation – I lifted my head. ‘My lady.’ I wiped my mouth, and tried to smile. ‘One cup too many perhaps.’

Chestnut-haired, possessed of a voluptuous figure and a wicked smile, Beatrice was servant to one of Queen Alienor’s ladies. I had begun courting her two years before. Despite the periods when we were apart, she with her mistress and I with the king, we had rekindled our passions each time fortune brought us together. Meeting in secret, in stables or rented rooms above inns, we did everything but lie together as man and woman. On this final barrier Beatrice would not budge. ‘When we are wedded, Rufus,’ she had been fond of saying. Her eyes would search mine, and I, God forgive me, would murmur in her ear that if we were to be husband and wife, then we could—

‘Rufus?’

I had not taken in a word of what she had been saying. ‘My lady?’

‘Rufus!’ She stamped her foot. Normally I found this attractive, but now it seemed petulant. ‘You are in no fit state to talk of important matters.’

Her tone reminded me that of recent months, we had argued frequently. She had become obsessed with marriage, and I, the stark realisation that she was not the woman for me loud in my mind, had come up with every conceivable excuse to avoid committing myself.

I sat up, assumed a serious face. ‘I am, my lady. Your pardon.’

Mollified, she said, ‘I said, you will be leaving soon. For the Holy Land.’

To my relief, the nausea was subsiding. ‘Spring at the latest, but probably sooner.’ The king was talking of meeting Philippe of France before the year’s end, to plan their journeys to Outremer and to deal with many other concerns. Once we had travelled to Normandy, it was unlikely we would come back to England. It was by no means certain that Queen Alienor would join us.

‘I will not see you again for at least a year. Or longer.’

Her voice caught, tugging at my heart. ‘That is true, my lady.’

‘There is time for a betrothal and a wedding.’ She continued coyly, ‘As man and wife, we could know each other at last.’

‘We could …’ Bleary-eyed, furry-tongued, I stared at her. Pretty though she was, there was a possessive slant to her expression that I did not like.

‘Do you think the king would attend?’ she asked.

My mind was still fuddled. ‘Attend …?’

‘Our wedding!’

Sweet Jesu, I thought. I had previously had the feeling that she valued my relationship with the king, my position at court, more than what we had together. This was proof. My impending departure for Outremer afforded me the opportunity to end our dalliance. The thought of that pricked my heart, not from grief but the memory of Alienor, my first love. Her I would have sworn my troth to, in a heartbeat, and wedded her upon my return from the Holy Land. Sadly, there was no chance of that. She had followed her mistress, Richard’s sister Matilda, to Germany years before, and the death earlier in the year of Matilda made the slim chance of ever tracking her down all but impossible.

‘Say something!’

‘Beatrice, I—’

‘You do not want to marry me?’

I hung my head, which was of course, exactly the wrong thing to do.

‘Well?’ Her voice was waspish.

Even at my best, I struggled to deal with Beatrice – or any woman – when they became emotional. My head pounding like a drum, I flailed for what to say. Tell the truth, and I would break her heart. Murderer though I was, I recoiled from that. Gently, I lied, ‘I could wish for nothing more, my love, but there is a good chance that I will fall in battle.’

‘Do not say that!’ She sat by me on the bed, and took my hand. There were tears in her eyes.

‘It is true, my lady.’ Speaking the truth hardened my resolve to end things between us, and this seemed a promising way. ‘I would not have you a widow mere months after our wedding.’

‘Other knights are marrying before you leave!’

She was right. I could name two without even thinking. Let her accept it, please, I thought. ‘Are they as close to the king? You know what a lion he is in battle, Beatrice. Wherever the fighting is thickest, Richard will be there, and so will I. Death and I will walk hand in hand in Outremer.’

Her face paled. ‘You are scaring me, Rufus. Do you seek to die?’

How strange it is when someone, unknowing, almost places a finger on the truth, harsh though it might be. ‘If Death should find me, my lady, I shall meet it face-to-face.’ It is what I deserve, I thought.

‘Rufus!’ Now her tears fell.

‘Going our separate ways would be best.’ I patted her shoulder as she began to sob. Uncomfortable with my dishonesty, I could not have been more grateful when de Drune walked in.

Beatrice pulled away. Composing herself, she threw me a venomous glance and muttered something about my wasting her time before stalking out the door.

De Drune began whistling, his face angelic. ‘Did I disturb you?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’ I felt drained, spent.

He handed over a costrel. ‘Hair of the dog.’

I swallowed a good quarter of it ere he stopped me. ‘That cost a pretty penny,’ he protested. ‘It is none of that English vinegar that a man has to drink with closed eyes and clenched teeth.’

‘You deserve to lose the lot for strolling in like that,’ I growled in mock anger.

‘How was I to know you were hoping to make the beast with two backs?’ Like Philip, de Drune knew of my romantic strivings with Beatrice, and my lack of success with the final hurdle.

I snorted.

‘That was not about to happen?’

I sighed. ‘No.’

He made an apologetic face. ‘A shame.’

‘I think not.’ Passions subsiding before my headache, common sense was seeping back.

‘How so?’

‘If I had ever lain with her, she would have sunk her claws into me for good.’

De Drune gave me a searching look.

‘Beatrice wanted us to wed. Before we leave for Outremer.’

‘And you are not of the same mind.’

I shook my head as vehemently as the pain would allow. ‘I had just told her so when you walked in.’

‘A wise move. God knows how long we shall be gone.’

‘If we come back at all,’ I said, thinking of Henry, and the release death would grant me.

He scowled. ‘Less of that kind of talk. I for one have every intention of returning from the Holy Land. I shall be a wealthy man, God willing.’

Glad to be taken from my dark thoughts, I asked, ‘What will you do?’

‘Time waits for no man, they say.’ He cast me a look. ‘I have a mind to settle down, open an inn, maybe.’

I grinned. ‘With free ale for old comrades?’

‘I did not say that.’

We laughed, and he made no protest when I reached for the costrel again.

If only relationships with women were as easy as those with sword comrades.

Richard’s preparations continued apace as Christmas drew closer. His attention to detail continued to astound me. He could remember the number of horseshoes ordered from such a town, ‘Fifty thousand from the ironworks at the Forest of Dean,’ and how many wagon wheels another lord had promised to supply. Possessed of a boundless energy, he would pace up and down, reeling off lists of figures, names of ships, their crew sizes and the provisions they needed, while his clerks and officers desperately rummaged through scrolls and parchments to corroborate the information.

Taken piecemeal, I could relate to the constituents of the king’s upcoming campaign. One hundred thousand nails here. Twenty score barrels of salted pork there. Two palfreys and two sumpter horses from every city in England, and half that number from every manor. A dozen knights and ten score archers, and the quantity of their weapons and arrows, from that baron; ten knights and a hundred and fifty men-at-arms from another. One figure stuck in my mind long after the rest. Fourteen thousand pounds, more than half the annual royal revenue from England, was the sum paid for Richard’s fleet of one hundred ships. The sum was beyond comprehension, but it brought home the sheer size of the enterprise I was part of, and increased my belief – already strong – that we would succeed.

Provisioning his army was not the last of Richard’s concerns. The kingdom had to be maintained during his absence. His lady mother Queen Alienor would oversee affairs: the king met with her often, and she sat in on many a meeting with his lords and advisers. She intervened directly when needed – on one recent occasion preventing an unwanted papal legate from leaving Dover without the king’s permission – and acted as a steadying presence in the background. The majority of the work would be done by Richard’s two new justiciars, however. Replacing his father Henry’s long-serving chief minister, Richard had stamped his own authority by appointing as justiciars Hugh de Puiset, bishop of Durham for many years, and William Longchamp, the bishop of Ely.

One blustery morning, several days before we were to depart for Normandy, I was attending the king, who had summoned the pair. They arrived almost at the same time, and their entrance boded ill. De Puiset, tall and lithe, made to pass the threshold first, but Longchamp, short and stout, did the same. For a moment, they both blocked the doorway, each casting hostile sidelong glances at the other, and then Longchamp pushed past, leaving de Puiset glaring at his back.

‘Mark them. Like two squabbling children,’ said Richard.

‘I am minded of my brothers, sire.’ My heart twinged for my long-dead kin. It was scant consolation that Guy FitzAldelm, the man responsible, and whom I had slain in Southampton, was also mouldering in a grave. This was no time to brood, I told myself. I studied the two justiciars, de Puiset hurrying to catch Longchamp so he should not reach the king first. ‘There is little love lost between them.’

Richard let out a sigh. ‘Yet these two are to share the rule of the realm while I am in the Holy Land.’

I made no reply. It was not for me to pass further judgement on men who stood higher in the king’s favour than I.

Richard acknowledged the pair’s bows, and gestured at the stools which had been placed opposite him. ‘To business, my lords,’ he said.

I listened with more than my usual interest. Their discussion involved not barrels of nails and horseshoes, but the king’s half-brother Geoffrey and his youngest brother, John, formerly known by the mocking name of ‘Lackland’, but since the coronation as the Count of Mortain in Normandy.

Geoffrey, some five years older than Richard, had remained loyal to their father Henry right to the end. An illegitimate son, he had no claim to the throne, yet, I thought, it would not be strange if Geoffrey had aspirations beyond his station. Had not William the Conqueror begun life as William the Bastard?

John was different. As Richard’s only living brother, he was closest to the throne. He was a spiteful and unpleasant individual, forever scheming or whispering in men’s ears. I had disliked him from the first moment we locked eyes; unfortunately, the feeling was mutual.

The matter was not quite as black-and-white as I saw it, however. Richard was unwed, and had no recognised children. It made sense to make his peace with oily-tongued John, but as with Geoffrey, his trust – and for certes, mine – did not go far.

My attention was drawn back to the conversation.

‘Geoffrey may not have wanted to become a priest, sire, but he did allow himself to be ordained,’ said Longchamp.

‘Protesting loudly,’ De Puiset added. ‘I seem to recall he once said that he preferred horses and dogs to books and priests.’

This amused me, for I felt the same way.

‘You speak true,’ said Richard, with a dangerous glint in his eye. ‘Once also he placed the lid of a golden bowl on his head and asked his friends if a crown would not suit him. It is well that Geoffrey is now a priest and archbishop both.’

‘Nonetheless, it is wise to consider banning him from England for the duration of your absence, sire,’ said Longchamp.

‘And John? Would it be right to do the same to him?’ demanded Richard.

The justiciars shared a look. I understood the wariness in it. Although Richard had spoken much of also banishing John, this suggested he might be having doubts. Few men liked to disagree with the king, however.

‘Well?’ Richard barked, his gaze roving from one to the other.

‘Has doubt crept into your mind, sire?’ asked Longchamp, subtly turning the question back at the king. ‘I wonder if you have talked of this with your lady mother.’

‘I have,’ admitted Richard.

De Puiset was quick-minded too. ‘It would not surprise me, sire, if she, with a mother’s love, thinks that John should be given a second chance.’

Richard snorted. ‘Were you eavesdropping?’

‘Nay, sire.’ De Puiset let out a polite laugh, but he looked pleased.

Longchamp would not let de Puiset keep the initiative. ‘Mayhap, sire, the queen worries what might happen if something were to befall you in Outremer – God forbid – and John were languishing in Normandy or Anjou instead of England. An empty throne would tempt many’s the man.’

Richard chuckled. ‘God’s legs, you were listening as well! I tell you, nothing will happen to me during this campaign.’

His conviction was infectious, but the tribulations and dangers that lay ahead were myriad: storms at sea, disease, injury, capture, even death. Silently, I asked God to keep his hand over my lord and king.

‘Nonetheless, sire, it is best to plan for all eventualities,’ said de Puiset, with Longchamp muttering his agreement. De Puiset continued, ‘And if anything untoward should occur, John would presumably be your heir, sire.’

‘Correct.’ Richard frowned. ‘Yet he has not earned my trust. I can understand, though, why some think it wise that he return to England when I leave.’

De Puiset nodded, but Longchamp looked less than happy.

He does not wish his power diminished, I thought.

‘I – we shall follow your every wish, sire,’ said Longchamp. ‘Whatever you decide, fear not. Your kingdom is in safe hands.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Sarcasm dripped from Richard’s voice.

Longchamp gave him a pasty smile. De Puiset’s face remained expressionless, but the rebuke had brought a flash of pleasure to his eyes.

A silence fell, which neither justiciar chose to break.

‘I shall continue to think on it,’ Richard declared at last. ‘Time is on our side still. You may go.’ A glance over his shoulder. ‘Rufus, let us ride out together. My head is filled with cobwebs. Only fresh air will suffice to clear it.’

‘Sire.’ I was delighted. A mountain of parchments now awaited the king’s attention, and the queue of nobles and officials outside the chamber numbered a score at the least. Hours of dreariness faced us.

Bidding farewell to the justiciars, the king and I made for the stables. We had no need of our destriers, being unarmoured, but they needed regular riding out. Being kept inside all winter was good for no horse, Richard declared, let alone the magnificent beasts that we rode to war. I took Pommers, and the king the destrier he had been using since the death of his favourite Diablo. A mighty, high-spirited bay with feathered fetlocks called Tempest, he was fond of nipping anyone, man or horse, who came near.

Hoods of our mantles raised, the plumes of our breath whipped away by the wind, we clattered out of the still-frosty courtyard and down towards the river. Rhys and Philip rode behind us on Oxhead – my second warhorse – and another of the king’s destriers. Those on foot scrambled to get out of our way; more than one curse was thrown after us. I hoped that Richard had not noticed; I had no wish to punish someone for their ignorance of who had passed by. He laughed, however, and I realised he enjoyed the all too rare anonymity.

We rode in silence, I content not to speak if the king did not, and he in a contemplative mood. Close to the river we passed, aiming for the city walls, and soon reached open countryside. Clouds raced overhead, glimpses of blue a reminder that the sun was up there somewhere. Smoke trickling from the roof of a farmhouse was snatched away. Although the trees were leafless and brown, the hedges a muted green, and the road a sea of mud, there was a freshness in the wintry, yellow-tinged air. A dog barked in the distance. Jackdaws chattered and scolded one another from a nearby copse, and a bright-eyed robin watched us from a holly bush laden with berries. A hare picked a path through the stubble in a field. Two red-cheeked boys collecting fallen wood waved at us.

‘’Tis good to be away from it all, Rufus,’ said Richard. ‘A day like this is food for the soul.’

I stared at him in surprise, for he did not often wax lyrical.

‘It is easy to love the land in spring and summer, when everything is green and flowering, but wintertime also has its beauty.’

‘It does, sire. A crisp day like this makes the rainy days more bearable.’

‘Remember it well, for we shall not see a proper winter again for God knows how long.’ Richard’s mood had become business-like again. ‘Our jaunt needs must be brief, sadly. Let us to the wood before we turn around.’

We rode on. My gaze went back to the hare, which had not yet reached the field’s edge. ‘If the wind calmed but a little, it would be a fine day for loosing a hawk at yon creature.’

A smile. ‘You are becoming one of us, Rufus.’

He had not meant to discomfit me, but I shifted in my saddle. More than a decade had passed since my forced departure from Ireland. Dreams of returning came less often. I wanted to become Lord of Cairlinn, my family’s former lands, but that desire no longer coursed through my veins as it once had. A different type of guilt battered me. This was no way to honour my father and mother, who had been so foully murdered.

‘I spoke not to chide you, Ferdia, but in affection.’

‘Yes, sire.’ There was more, I thought. He tended to call me by my given name only when he was in a serious mood.

‘You are my sworn man, Ferdia; you have also taken the cross. Unless you are without honour – and I know you are not – there is no way back to Ireland at this time.’

Startled by his insight, I met his gaze. ‘You knew I was thinking of Cairlinn, sire?’

‘Most of the time, your face is like an open book.’ He laughed, that infectious belly laugh which erupted from him when he was much amused.

I felt my cheeks flame as they had when I was a stripling youth. I had always tried to copy Richard, a master at concealing his emotions, but it was plain I had much yet to learn.

‘God made you that way, Ferdia. It is no bad thing.’

This was how Beatrice saw through me with such ease, I thought ruefully.

‘My brother John, now, he is cut from different cloth.’ Richard’s voice had taken on a weary note. ‘He has sworn fealty to me, like you. You, I would trust with my life, for example, but he …’ His words tailed away.

I could not have agreed more: to me, John was a snake.

The king gave me a questioning look.

I hesitated, torn, but forced to make a decision on the instant, I swallowed my opinion. My dislike of John was personal, I told myself. He had never actually done anything to me. ‘If your lady mother trusts him, sire, maybe you should too.’

‘Ha! I know not if even she trusts John, but she believes he ought to be given a second chance. Mother’s love, Ferdia. There is nothing stronger, and at times, nothing more blind.’

If the king had any children, I thought, John would be less of a concern. It was a delicate subject, for Richard had been pledged to Philippe Capet’s sister Alys for many years, but never seemed inclined to complete the arrangement. ‘If you were to marry, sire, and have a child of your own …’

‘God’s legs, art as bad as my mother,’ cried Richard, but he was smiling. ‘But it is true that a king needs a wife and more important, an heir. Happily, I have high hopes in that regard. An arrangement with one of the northern Spanish kingdoms would kill two birds with one stone, bringing me a wife, and giving me an ally in the south against the Count of Toulouse. I am told that Sancho of Navarre has a daughter of suitable age. We shall soon travel south to meet with him. God willing, I will be betrothed to his daughter ere we part company.’

‘And Philippe, sire?’ I had no need to mention the name Alys.

He shot me a keen glance. ‘I will deal with him when the campaign is well underway, and he has no means of reneging on his promise and returning home.’

‘He will not be pleased, sire.’

‘Nor will he, but every man has a price. I shall have to find what Philippe’s is.’

I decided that my concerns with Beatrice were trifling in comparison with the king’s.

‘Here is the wood,’ Richard announced. ‘We must get back.’

‘To books and accounts,’ I said wearily, wishing I was already in Outremer.

He chuckled. ‘They are a curse, it is true. I would have liked nothing better than to set them aside and leave for the Holy Land the day after my coronation. But careful planning is vital in war, as in everything else.’

‘I would prefer to charge a line of Saracens alone than deal with the mounds of parchment on your desk, sire.’

‘So would I.’

I grinned.

‘When the day comes to face the Turks, as it will, we shall ride at the enemy together.’

Basking in the king’s favour, mind full of glorious images of battle, I forgot about Beatrice. FitzAldelm. Henry.

All that mattered was the war against the Saracens.