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 Mama and Dada, with all my love.

LIST OF CHARACTERS

(Those marked * are recorded in history)

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

Rhys, Rufus’s Welsh squire

Katharina, Austrian cook

Jean, orphan boy from Rouen

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

Henry, man-at-arms in Southampton (deceased)

Royal House of England:

Richard*, King of England, Duke of Aquitaine

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

John*, Count of Mortain, Richard’s brother, also known as ‘Lackland’

Alienor* (Eleanor) of Aquitaine, Richard’s mother and wife of Henry FitzEmpress*, King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou (deceased)

Joanna*, Queen of Sicily, Richard’s sister

Mathilda*, Richard’s sister (deceased), who was married to Heinrich der Löwe*, former Duke of Saxony

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

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

Constance* of Brittany, Geoffrey’s widow

Arthur*, Geoffrey’s young son

Alienor*, Geoffrey’s young daughter

English Royal Court and in England:

André de Chauvigny*, knight and cousin to Richard

Baldwin de Béthune*, knight

Anselm, the king’s chaplain*

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

Hugh de Puiset*, Bishop of Durham

Geoffrey*, bastard son to Henry, Richard’s half-brother and Archbishop of York

William Marshal*, one of Richard’s justiciars

William Bruyère* and John de Pratelles*, also Richard’s justiciars

Church officials: Archbishop Walter de Coutances* of Rouen, Bishop Hubert Walter* of Salisbury, John d’Alençon*, Archdeacon of Lisieux, Abbot John* of Boxley, Abbot Stephen* of Robertsbridge, Bishop Savaric de Bohun* of Bath, Ralph Besace* and Brother Peter, medical clerics

Nobles: Robert*, Earl of Leicester, William des Roches*, Robert de Turnham*, William, John and Peter de Préaux*, Henry Teuton*, William de l’Etang*, knights

Mercadier*, mercenary captain

Robert de Nunat*, brother of the Bishop of Coventry

Richard de Drune, man-at-arms (deceased)

Henry, squire to King Richard

Other characters:

William*, King of Scotland

Philippe II*, King of France

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

Bishop of Beauvais*, cousin to the French king

Drogo de Merlo*, nobleman

Raymond*, Count of Toulouse

Hugh*, Duke of Burgundy, cousin to the French king (deceased)

Baldwin*, Count of Flanders

Austria, Italy, Germany and other locations:

Leopold*, Duke of Austria

Heinrich von Hohenstaufen*, King of Germany and the Holy Roman Emperor

Philip von Hohenstaufen*, his brother, who claimed the throne in 1197 after the death of Heinrich

Konrad von Hohenstaufen*, Count Palatine of the Rhine, and Heinrich’s uncle

Agnes von Hohenstaufen*, Konrad’s daughter, and his heiress

Engelbert III*, Count of Gorizia, who co-ruled with his brother, Meinhard II*, Count of Gorizia and Advocate of Aquileia

Roger of Argentan*, knight

Abbot Otto of Moggio

Bertolf, novice monk

Friedrich of Pettau*

Wladislaw*, ruler of Moravia

Hadmar of Kuenrig*, castellan of Dürnstein

Albert of Brabant*, bishopric candidate in Liège (deceased)

Pope Celestine III*, head of the Catholic Church from April 1191 to January 1198

Pope Innocent III*, head of the Catholic Church from January 1198 to July 1216

Otto* of Brunswick, son of Heinrich der Löwe and Mathilda, Richard’s sister, elected as one of two kings of Germany in 1198

Richenza*, Heinrich* and William*, Otto’s siblings

Alienor, lady in Otto’s court

Isaac Comnenus*, former emperor of Cyprus (deceased)

Damsel of Cyprus*, Isaac’s daughter, taken into Richard’s care

Pietro di Capua*, papal legate

Sancho*, Queen Berengaria’s brother and heir to the throne of Navarre

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

Gilbert de Vascœuil*, castellan of Gisors

Count Adémar Taillefer* of Angoulême

Geoffrey de Rançon*

Aimar*, Viscount of Limoges

Hugues de Corni*

Bernard de Brosse*

Pierre Basile*, man-at-arms

Bertrand de Gurdon, the seneschal of Châlus

Abbot Milo* of Poitiers

Tancred* of Lecce, former ruler of Sicily (deceased)

Guy de Lusignan*, former king of Jerusalem (deceased)

Isabella of Jerusalem*, half-sister to Sibylla, former Queen of Jerusalem*

Humphrey de Toron*, her husband

Conrad of Montferrat*, Italian-born ruler of Tyre, cousin to the French king (deceased)

Boniface of Montferrat*, Conrad’s brother

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

PROLOGUE

I was standing in the courtyard of the great castle at Chinon. Bright sunlight lanced down from a vast expanse of blue sky; birds sang happily in the trees beyond the walls. I could hear the excited cries of a child mixed with the barking of a dog. Rhys was nowhere in sight; I was alone, in fact, which struck me as odd. I could see no pages scurrying by on errands, no men-at-arms patrolling the walkway. There were no washerwomen gossiping with servants. Not even a single groom or a stable lad was visible outside the stables.

As my eyes moved to the keep doorway, the king came striding out. I smiled and my mouth opened in greeting, but, to my consternation, black-haired Robert FitzAldelm was right behind him. Another close companion of Richard’s, he was my greatest enemy, and had tried to murder me more than once. My greatest desire was to see FitzAldelm dead, but I had sworn not to kill him.

The king approached, his usually friendly expression absent.

Stay calm, I told myself. You have no reason to worry.

‘Good morrow, sire,’ I said, bending a knee.

There was no reply, and fear spiked me. I stood, but gave no greeting to FitzAldelm. He smirked. Although my mind swirled with the violence I would like to do to him, I kept my face blank.

‘Robert here is making grave accusation against you, Rufus.’ Richard’s tone was cold.

My heart lurched. There was only one thing it could be, but I was damned if I would admit it. FitzAldelm had no proof – Rhys and I had seen to that. I put on my best questioning expression. ‘Indeed, sire?’

‘He says that you foully slew his brother Guy in Southampton ten years ago.’ Richard’s gaze switched to FitzAldelm, who nodded, then came back to me. ‘Hours after you and I met.’

When you saved my life, and I yours, I thought, but could not say it.

‘Well?’ demanded the king.

‘It is not true, sire.’ I acted in self-defence, I wanted to shout.

‘He lies!’ said FitzAldelm. ‘He murdered Guy, sire, for certes.’

‘I did no such thing, sire, and Rhys will say the same. He was with me the whole night.’

There was a trace of what I thought was doubt on Richard’s face now, but an instant later, my hopes were dashed.

‘Robert says he has a witness,’ the king grated. ‘Someone who saw you in the stews, drinking in the very same inn as his brother.’

‘A witness, sire?’ I could not help but scoff. The man-at-arms Henry was long dead. I had slain him in cold blood, as I had not FitzAldelm’s brother – slit his throat, and with Rhys’s help, buried him deep in a midden. The chances of finding another person who remembered me, so many years afterwards, was remote, I told myself. Impossible.

Richard turned to FitzAldelm, as did I.

‘Henry!’ he called. Loud. Confident.

No, I thought in horror. Surely not.

A man appeared in the gateway. Even at a distance, his beard was evident. Closer he came, and the spade shape of it could not be denied. His face was also familiar.

I began to tremble. You are dead, I wanted to shout. I slew you with my own hands, and buried your corpse. With snaking dread, I watched Henry take a knee six paces from the king, and bend his head.

‘Sire.’

‘Rise,’ Richard ordered. To FitzAldelm, he said, ‘This is he?’

‘Yes, sire.’

A curt nod, and he glanced at the newcomer. ‘Name?’

‘Henry, sire. A man-at-arms I am, from Southampton.’

To me, the king said, ‘Do you know this man?’

‘No, sire,’ I lied, somehow keeping a quaver from my voice.

‘You did not see him in the inn the night Sir Robert’s brother was slain?’

Relieved, I said truthfully, ‘No, sire.’

‘He saw you, however. Is that not correct?’

‘It is, sire,’ said Henry, meeting my gaze.

Nausea swept up my throat. Henry was dead, buried, rotted to bone and sinew, yet here he stood, his testimony about to seal my fate with the surety of an enemy’s blade.

‘Look well,’ Richard urged. ‘It was many years ago. Men change.’

‘I am certain, sire,’ Henry answered. ‘His mop of red hair is unmistakable, and his raw-boned face. This is the same man, and I will swear so on a reliquary.’ There was no more sacred oath he could offer to take.

FitzAldelm’s eyes glittered with triumphant malice.

‘Tell us what you saw,’ said the king.

‘He took great interest in a pair of men who had been swiving a whore, sire. When they left, he slipped out after them. One of them, sire, was Sir Robert’s brother.’

‘How do you know?’ said the king sharply.

Henry glanced at FitzAldelm. ‘They are – were – as like as two peas in a pod, sire.’

‘They were ever so, it is true.’ Richard’s gaze bore down on me. ‘Well? What have you to say?’

Uncertain, panicking, I began, ‘Sire, I –’

‘Were you in the tavern?’

I looked at Henry, at FitzAldelm, at the king. I felt like a rat in a trap. Stupidly, I said, ‘I … I was, sire.’

‘I knew it!’ crowed FitzAldelm.

Richard’s mien was thunderous now. ‘And you followed Guy and his squire?’

I considered lying, but my face – already flushing bright red – was betraying me. I did not wish to condemn myself further. ‘I did, sire, but that does not make me a murderer! How could I do such a thing, one man against two?’ I hated my tone, which was as shrill as a fishwife’s.

‘Because your lowlife squire was waiting outside to help you!’ cried FitzAldelm. ‘Sire, I have another witness who saw Rhys leave the royal lodgings not long after Rufus.’

A black, bottomless chasm opened at my feet. In its depths, I glimpsed a reddish-orange glare. Hellfire, I thought, waiting to swallow me. Consume me, because of what I had done.

I stood, numb with shock, as a bristle-headed groom was summoned, a man I did not remember but who was known to the king. His account was damning. He had seen Rhys steal after me and, the following morning, heard us talking about my injured arm.

‘Well?’ Richard roared. ‘What say you now?’

I had nothing to lose. ‘I did kill Guy FitzAldelm, sire, but it was in self-defence.’

‘You stole after him into the alley, and then he attacked you?’ Scorn warred with the disbelief in the king’s face.

‘Yes, sire,’ I protested.

Richard paid no heed. He was calling for his guards. Burly men-at-arms in royal livery, they appeared with the speed of those who had been waiting to be summoned.

I was dragged away, still proclaiming my innocence. Deep in the bowels of the keep, I was hurled into a windowless, fetid, stone-flagged cell. The door slammed shut with an air of finality. I hammered my fists on the timbers. ‘Let me out!’

An uncaring laugh was my reply. It was Robert FitzAldelm – he had followed the men-at-arms.

I pounded on the door again. ‘I am no murderer!’

‘Tell that to the executioner.’

‘The king will never issue such an order!’

An amused snort. ‘You know him less well than you think, then. The date has already been set.’

More than once in my life I had seen men punched in the midriff just below the ribcage, the sweet spot that when struck expelled all the air from their lungs, and sent them floorward, slack-jawed and half unconscious. FitzAldelm’s words hit me with the same force. My legs gave way, and I slumped to the stone flags. I leaned my head against the thick-timbered door, dimly hearing through it FitzAldelm’s footsteps as he walked away.

It was more than my strength could bear to hold me upright. Placing a hand behind me so I did not fall and strike my head, I lay down. Wanting the blackness to take me. Wanting never to wake up and face the cruellest of fates, ordered by my liege lord, whom I loved like a brother.

I closed my eyes.

A hand gripped my shoulder, sending stabs of terror through me.

I woke, sweating, frantic. Instead of cold stone beneath me, I felt planking. Heard the creak of timbers and the gentle slap of water off the hull. My senses returned. The blackness around me that of night-time, not a windowless cell. I was at sea, returning from Outremer, and Rhys had woken me.

He was crouched by my side, his face twisted with worry. ‘Shhhh,’ he hissed. ‘Someone will hear.’

But to my great relief, nobody had. The confrontation with Richard and FitzAldelm had been a vivid nightmare. My dark secret was safe.

For the moment.

PART ONE

CHAPTER I

The Istrian shore of the Adriatic Sea, December 1192

Cold seawater squelched in my boots. My tunic and hose, also soaking wet, clung to me. Shivering, I tugged my sodden cloak tight around myself, and turned my back on the south, wishing in vain that that would stop the icy wind from licking every part of my goosebump-covered flesh. Of the king’s score of companions, I was the only unfortunate who had fallen into the sea as we disembarked from our beached ship. Richard stood a dozen paces away, haranguing the pirate captain who had delivered us to this benighted spot, a featureless stretch of coastline with no villages or settlements in sight. Marsh grass and salt pools extended as far as the eye could see, suggesting a long walk inland.

‘Change your clothes now, while you have the opportunity.’

My sour-faced attention returned to Rhys, who had laughed at my immersion as hard as the rest. In truth I could not blame him, nor anyone else. The water had not been deep; I had come to no harm, other than a soaking. And after the travails of the previous few weeks, God knows we needed a moment of levity. Nonetheless, my pride was stinging. I gave him a non-committal grunt.

‘You will catch cold ere we find a place to spend the night.’ Now Rhys’s tone was reproachful. He had already contrived to go through my wooden chest, and was proffering a bundle of dry clothing. ‘Take it – go on.’

Teeth chattering, I studied the group. Few men were paying any attention, busy as they were with selecting whatever gear they could carry. We were all soldiers, I thought. We had suffered and sweated and bled in Outremer together, had seen countless comrades fall to Saracen arrows, or die of thirst and sunstroke. We had cradled our friends’ heads in our laps as they left this life, choking on blood and asking for their mothers.

In the face of that, baring my arse did not matter.

Stripping off my boots and clothes, I gratefully tugged on the new garments, ignoring the comments of Baldwin de Béthune, who noticed what I was at. He was a close friend and, like me, one of the king’s most trusted men. I thought with a pang of de Drune, another friend who would not have missed this chance to jibe. But the tough man-at-arms would poke fun no more. He had been swept overboard during the first of the storms that had battered us since our departure from the Holy Land almost two months before. I hoped his end had been swift.

‘Two hundred marks, and this is where they brought us to land?’ Richard’s volcanic temper showed no sign of abating. He threw a murderous look at the pirate captain, who had wisely retreated to his vessel. When the tide came in, as it would that evening, he and his crew would do their best to push the long, low shape into deeper water. We were not waiting to help.

The pirate was a rogue, I thought, and the price he had charged for our passage was extortionate, but he was not to blame for the beach where we stood. ‘He could do little about the storm, sire.’

Richard glared at me, but I had spoken the truth.

Ferocious autumn gales had battered our large buss all the way from Outremer; we had been fortunate not to drown. At Sicily, the king had decided the open seas were too dangerous, so we aimed our prow for Corfu. Our plan had been to voyage up the more sheltered Adriatic, but further bad weather and an encounter with the pirates had seen Richard drive a bargain with the corsair captain. His two galleys were more seaworthy than the fat-bellied buss which had carried us away from the Holy Land. Or so we thought.

High winds – the bora – had struck soon after our departure from Corfu, and driven us, helpless, up the Adriatic. Three days, or had it been four? My memory could not be relied upon, so exhausted and sleep-deprived was I. Ceaselessly thrown up and down for hour upon hour, from side to side, forward and back, I had vomited until it seemed my stomach itself would come up my red-raw throat. There had been snatched, uncomfortable periods of rest, but never enough. I had forgotten the last time food had passed my lips. When the ship had run aground in the shallows, I had felt nothing but relief. Eager for dry land beneath my feet, paying not enough attention as I prepared to disembark, I had fallen into the sea.

‘Aye, well, there’s nothing to be done about where we are now,’ said the king. ‘And standing around will not get us to Saxony any sooner. Let us go.’

He was not now the godlike figure he had so often been in Outremer. There was no bright sun to wink off his mail, no high-prancing stallion to set him high above us. Even in plain tunic and hose, Richard remained an imposing and charismatic figure. Several inches taller than six feet and broad-shouldered with it, his handsome face framed by windblown red-gold hair, he looked like a king. He acted like one too: fierce-tempered, regal and fearless.

When he led the way, we twenty willingly followed.

I was unsurprised that Rhys was the first with a question. In an undertone, he asked, ‘How far is it to Saxony?’

‘I do not know. Hundreds of miles. Many hundreds.’

I had told him this before, but Rhys’s expression darkened anyway.

‘It will not all be on foot. We will buy horses.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘I would we had left earlier. We might have sailed all the way.’

‘That was never a possibility.’ I explained again to him how the winds and currents that had helped us east across the Greek Sea were too powerful to permit westward travel through the narrow straits that separated Spain from Africa.

Rhys fell silent and, downcast myself by the long journey before us, I began to brood. Landing on the French or Spanish coast might have been an option, but it was precluded by Richard’s long-running enmity with the Count of Toulouse, who, with his Spanish allies, controlled the region. We could not travel up through Italy either, because most of its rulers were in league with the Holy Roman Emperor. Heinrich VI, one of the most powerful monarchs in Europe, historically held no love for Richard because of his support for another Heinrich, der Löwe, the former Duke of Saxony. Recently, the divide between Richard and the emperor had deepened. The French king Philippe Capet had met with Heinrich VI on his way back from the Holy Land, winning him over and forging a new alliance.

Thoughts of Heinrich der Löwe made me remember, wistfully, Alienor, the blonde beauty who had served Matilda, his late wife and Richard’s sister. It had been years since I had seen Alienor, but the mere thought of her quickened my blood. There was even a chance we might meet. Once our roundabout route had taken us through Hungary, we would travel to Saxony, ruled by Richard’s nephew, and further north-east to the lands of Heinrich der Löwe. I prayed that Alienor was alive, and in Heinrich’s service. Then, guilt-ridden for thinking of her while still in love with Joanna, the king’s sister, I put her from my mind.

It was as well that I had elected not to wear my second pair of boots. For an hour or more we trudged through a sandy marshland, its only inhabitants the seabirds that lifted, screeching, at our approach. We waded through saltwater pools; it was my turn to laugh at de Béthune and the rest as they sank to their knees, cursing their own soaking boots. Reaching the shore finally, we came upon a collection of run-down hovels that would struggle to be called a hamlet.

While Richard hung back – a man of his size and stature would stick in anyone’s memory – de Béthune and I went with the royal standard bearer, Henry Teuton, to find out where we were, and to buy any horseflesh that might be on offer. Thanks to the soldiers we had met in Outremer, de Béthune and I had some Italian, and Henry Teuton was fluent in his father’s language. Between us we managed; the silver coins I proffered also loosened tongues. The area we found ourselves in was the county of Gorizia. I thought nothing of the name, but I caught de Béthune’s expression as its ruler, Meinhard II, was mentioned.

Telling his apprentice to fetch out the horses he had, the smith explained that Meinhard co-ruled with his brother, Engelbert III, the lord of the nearest town, also called Gorizia. It lay some miles away, at the foot of the mountains.

As we haggled over the nags, de Béthune risked much by asking about Meinhard’s and Engelbert’s relationship with emperor Heinrich VI. The smith twined a forefinger and middle finger, indicating they were close allies, and my concerns rose.

But the king laughed when de Béthune told him what we had heard. ‘We are in enemy territory from the outset,’ he declared. ‘As it was in Outremer, when Saladin’s men threatened us at every turn.’

Our confidence bolstered by his, we grinned at one another.

William de l’Etang, another of the king’s close companions, frowned. ‘I remember the name Meinhard, sire.’

‘Speak on,’ urged the king.

‘I am sure he is related to Conrad of Montferrat, sire – his nephew, I think.’

De Béthune and I gave each other a look; Richard’s expression tightened.

Conrad had been an ambitious Italian nobleman who rose high in Outremer society. Crowned King of Jerusalem the previous spring, he had been murdered within the week. Everyone in the Holy Land at the time knew that the Assassins – a mysterious Muslim sect – were behind Conrad’s slaying, but malicious gossip spread by Philippe Capet and his followers since had been remarkably effective. Conrad’s family were not alone in believing that Richard was responsible.

‘Better that we should not pretend to be Templars,’ Richard declared. This had been his initial plan. ‘We would draw unwanted attention; our heads must be further below the parapet. Pilgrims, we shall be, then, returning from the Holy Land. Hugo of Normandy will be my name. There is no need for you to have a false identity, Baldwin. You shall act as the military leader of the party.’

This seemed a better ploy, I thought. My relief was momentary, for with his next breath the king ordered Henry Teuton to take one of the four new horses and ride ahead to Gorizia. There he was to ask the authorities for safe passage, a guide and treatment according to the Truce of God, a Church ruling that protected those who had taken the cross from physical violence. Pulling off a magnificent ruby ring, Richard handed it to Henry with the declaration that this should be a mark of his good faith.

Their thoughts on roaring fires and hot meals, few of the group took notice.

I could not believe the risk-taking, however. ‘This is his idea of travelling in secret?’ I whispered to de Béthune.

‘I agree with you, Rufus, but he is our lord.’ He saw my face, and said, ‘Cross him at your peril. He is in a fey mood.’

I saw that de Béthune was right. The king’s bonhomie on the ship had been genuine enough, but the beaching of the vessel in the middle of nowhere, our long trudge to an armpit of a village, the swaybacked, spavined horses – all that had been on offer – and Meinhard being Conrad’s nephew had hit Richard hard. If he could not be a proud Templar, the next best thing was a rich and influential pilgrim. And by his haughty expression, his mind would not be changed. I decided on another course of action.

‘Sire, let me go also.’ Adding that I wanted to improve my German and that Henry was a good teacher was enough. Richard even gave me one of the three remaining nags, a ribby chestnut.

We set off at once. The interrogation began before we had ridden a hundred paces.

‘You vant to learn Tcherman?’ Henry had a thick, hard-to-understand accent.

‘Yes.’ I was not about to admit my main purpose. Henry was a no-nonsense, direct type I could see marching into the castle at Gorizia, loudly asking for all of Richard’s requests. I hoped for a more discreet approach and, if possible, that the ruby ring should stay hidden.

I could tell Henry none of this – dutiful and rigid, he would fulfil the king’s orders to the letter – and so my punishment was to endure a prolonged, finger-wagging lesson in basic German that lasted for the entire ride to Gorizia. I sound ungrateful; Henry was in fact a half-decent teacher, and I learned more in those miles than I had during the entire voyage from Outremer.

Gorizia stood at the foot of a hill upon which perched the castle, Engelbert’s stronghold. The town had its own wall; there were guards at the main gate, but to my relief we passed through unchallenged.

‘Do not look around so much,’ Henry said in an undertone.

I checked my enthusiasm. After the guts of two months at sea, with the only interlude being at Ragusa, even an inconsequential place like Gorizia had me gazing about like a wide-eyed child. Although Henry was right to bring me back to our mission, I thought, we were not in so much of a hurry that I could not visit a nearby bakery. Tired of mouldy bread and salted pork, the smells emanating from it were too much to resist. Hurling my reins at a protesting Henry, I strode inside, emerging soon after, triumphant, four honeyed pastries in my grasp.

‘Two for you and the same for me,’ I said, prepared for his outburst. ‘We can eat and walk towards the castle at the same time.’

Won over, Henry ceased grumbling, and set to with a will.

The guards at the castle entrance were a slovenly crew, their mail covered in brown rust spots; they paid us as little attention as their counterparts at the town gate. Their lack of interest was explained by the crowds in the courtyard beyond, where we discovered – happily – that Count Engelbert was holding court in the great hall.

We left our horses in the charge of a stick-thin, sharp-featured boy of perhaps twelve years. Eyes fixed on the two silver pennies Henry brandished as his reward afterwards, the lad swore that he would guard the horses with his life.

‘See that you do,’ Henry warned him quietly, ‘or we will hunt you down and open you from balls to chin – as we did with many a Saracen.’

Pale-faced, the lad nodded.

We joined the queue of petitioners, locals come to plead their cause with Engelbert, who sat with his feet up on a table, playing idly with a dagger. He was the picture of boredom. The line advanced at a snail’s pace, but eager not to draw attention, we dared not jump it. If we talked, it was in low tones; the fewer people who heard either French or my bad German, the better. Time dragged by. I listened in to the conversations around me, trying to understand. To my frustration, I recognised only words here and there rather than the full meaning of what was being said. There would be plenty of time for further lessons from Henry on our long journey, I told myself.

Two cases had been dealt with when I heard church bells in the town tolling one. My hopes began to fall. There was no obligation on Engelbert to hear the case of everyone in the queue. He could call a halt whenever his patience ran thin. To our good fortune, however, he flew into a rage with a hand-wringing peasant. According to Henry’s amused translation, the wretch was lamenting the theft of his hens – by a neighbour, or so he claimed. Unconvinced by the claim, Engelbert ordered the unfortunate peasant from his sight. He refused to hear the petition of the next man as well – a merchant whose stammer annoyed him – and reached a decision about the next case the instant it had been explained to him. Moved up the queue three places, we drew near enough to watch Engelbert.

Perhaps thirty-five, he had thinning brown hair and a prominent forehead. Although he had lost his temper with the peasant, his face was amiable, and he was laughing now at whatever the latest plaintiff had said. This was no reason to let down our guard, however, I thought. Engelbert was an enemy.

Our turn came at last. Bored, cold from standing around – for like all great halls, the room was as draughty as a barn – I marshalled a humble but enthusiastic expression onto my face as, urged by a steward, we advanced towards Engelbert’s table. Both of us bowed deeply, as we had agreed. Flattery could only help.

His initial glance was disinterested. Then, taking in our muddy, travel-stained clothing and our daggers, which marked us out from the other supplicants, his expression sharpened. Not only were we strangers, but armed ones. An eyebrow rose, and he said something in German.

Henry replied, and I heard the words for ‘Holy Land’, taught to me on our ride to Gorizia. He was telling Engelbert we were returning pilgrims.

The count’s face came alive. He asked a question, and then another and another. I heard mention of Jerusalem, Saladin, Leopold and Richard.

Henry’s answers, calm and measured, took some time. I stood by his side, wishing I understood more of what he was saying. The less he gave away, I had told Henry as we waited, the better. Plead our case simply, I said, and do not mention de Béthune and the merchant Hugo unless you have to. Henry had not liked that, but conceded it might be awkward if Engelbert, interested, demanded to meet these pilgrims. The ring, I warned, would also attract too much attention. On this Henry had balked, stubbornly saying that the king had ordered it be offered to Engelbert. Anxious, I had managed to persuade him not to offer the priceless gift unless he felt it absolutely necessary.

The count asked another question, and Henry replied. This time, I heard ‘Acre’ and ‘Joppa’. My mind filled with memories of our brutal march from the first to the second, and the titanic battle against Saladin outside Arsuf. I cast a look at Henry, whose face had grown animated. He too had been there. I began to worry that he might inadvertently reveal something about Richard. Keep it simple, I thought.

A messenger approached Engelbert, affording me an opportunity to speak with Henry. ‘Have you asked for safe passage?’ I said. ‘Has he granted it?’

‘I did at the start, yes, but he began asking questions at once. He is fascinated by the campaign against Saladin. What can I do but tell him?’

I had no answer. Refuse to answer Engelbert, and we risked his denying us safe passage and a guide. Offer too much detail, and he might glean that our master was not de Béthune but someone far more important. We had put into enough ports on our voyage for word of the king to have spread this far.

His business with the messenger concluded, Engelbert returned his attention to Henry. Now there was mention, several times, of ‘Herr’, the German for master or lord. Henry replied; he said ‘de Béthune’ and ‘Hugo’. He asked for safe passage again, I could understand that, and after a heartfelt ‘bitte’, or ‘please’.

Alarmed that he sounded too desperate, I casually turned my head towards Henry. He did not see me. I slid my boot sideways and, touching his, kicked him.

He glanced at me, and I mouthed, Do not give him the ring.

His brow wrinkled. His lips framed a ‘What?’

Christ, I thought.

A question from Engelbert; he was frowning.

Henry did not immediately reply.

I threw caution to the wind. ‘What is he saying?’

‘He says he can offer safe passage and the Truce of God, but guides with knowledge of the mountains are hard to find. He wants money, I think.’

A grim look passed between us. We had only the silver coins in our purses; enough to buy food, but nowhere near the sum required to win the favour of a man like Count Engelbert.

Henry was like me, ever a man of action. The muscles of his jaw bunched, and then he was reaching into his purse. Out came the ring.

Engelbert could not conceal his avarice. The ruby at the ring’s heart was deep red, the size of a large pea. It was worth a fortune by anyone’s standards. He held out a hand. There was silence as he examined it and, after a tense few moments, a broad smile.

Henry and I glanced at each other in relief.

The count thanked Henry, and then said something else. The only words I understood, and they were enough, were ‘König’ and ‘Löwenherz’. My blood ran cold. King. Lionheart.

‘He says that no nobleman, still less a merchant, would offer so rich a gift,’ muttered Henry.

‘He is right,’ I hissed, wishing that I had stood up to the king, and asked for a purse of gold bezants instead of his magnificent, far-too-obvious gift. ‘But you must persuade him otherwise! Tell him the ring was taken from a dead Turkish noble on the battlefield.’

Henry did his best, his tone eloquent and persuading.

He was still mid-flow when Engelbert placed the ring on the table with an empathic, metallic clunk. ‘Nein,’ he said. ‘Nein. Ihren Herr ist ein König. König Richard.’

Henry fell silent. My eyes shot to the guards lounging behind the count. I fully expected them to be ordered to arrest us. We had no chance of fighting free, unarmoured and with daggers as our only weapons. I cared nothing for us, but the king had to be warned.

Rather than issue a command, Engelbert smiled. It was an open smile, with no hint of malice. He spoke fast then, earnestly. I heard the words ‘Kaiser’ and Heinrich. Breathing fast, sick with tension, I waited until he had finished, and Henry could translate.

Henry grinned at me. ‘He insists that our master is Richard, and he holds the king in great admiration for what he did in Outremer and has no wish to do him any harm. The same cannot be said for his brother Meinhard, or the emperor Heinrich.’

‘Can Engelbert supply us with a guide?’

Henry shook his head. ‘There is no time to find one. We must leave Gorizia today.’

‘Are things that bad?’ I asked, my hopes of a comfortable bed in a warm inn dwindling.

‘So he says. Meinhard would pay a huge sum to anyone delivering the Lionheart into his hands. No one in the town can be trusted.’

We thanked Engelbert and took our leave. At the door, I looked back. The count had not called forward the next petitioner but was talking intently to his steward. Then, as if he discerned my stare, he turned his head. Our gaze locked for a heartbeat. Engelbert smiled, but his eyes were as cold and calculating as a falcon’s.

I told Henry what I had seen. It was likely, we decided, that Engelbert would send word to Meinhard about the king’s whereabouts.

‘Tadhg an dá thaobh, he would be called in Ireland,’ I said.

‘Tie-gh on daw …?’ Henry mangled the words. ‘I do not understand.’

Chuckling, I explained, ‘Timothy of the two sides. He has a foot in both camps.’

Henry looked downcast. ‘You were right. I should not have offered the ring to him.

‘Look on it as a blessing,’ I said. ‘If you had not, we would have sought accommodation here in Gorizia and, like as not, had our presence reported. But for Engelbert’s warning, we might have been taken while here.’

This realisation was scant solace as we set out southwards to find our companions. The wind was sharp as a knife. Yellow-grey clouds threatened snow; even as I lifted my gaze upwards, little skirls came falling from the sky.

Only God knew if we would find shelter that night.