Free A King's Ransom by Sharon Kay Penman

they were out of earshot, Richard confided, “I do not really blame him for this,” waving his arm to take in their desolate surroundings. “How many pirates can part the seas like Moses, after all? He did the best he could, and I decided at Ragusa that he’d earned extra recompense.”
    Warin and Morgan shared a puzzled look. “Then why did you refuse him, sire?”
    “Because he demanded it of me, Morgan. Had I agreed, he’d have seen it as a sign of weakness. Now when he does get it, he’ll appreciate it all the more.”
    Morgan nodded, amused that Richard sounded somewhat impatient, as if he were belaboring the obvious. He’d learned that those who had this special gift—the mastery of other men—seldom realized how rare a gift it was. He’d seen it in Richard’s father and brother Geoffrey. For certes, not in his brothers Hal or John. A king who lacked it was a king doomed to failure, like England’s King Stephen, who’d been courageous on the battlefield and charming in the great hall, but whose reign had been known as “the anarchy,” a time “when Christ and his Saints slept.”
    A sudden shout from one of their sentries turned their attention toward the road that wound through the woods toward the west. When these riders were identified as their own, they felt a surge of hope, for they’d not expected their men to return so soon—or mounted.
    Richard had chosen Anselm and Arne for their skills in Latin and German, sending along Guillain de l’Etang and two of the Templars as protection. They were mobbed as soon as they dismounted, pelted with questions about what they’d found and jokes about their horses, none of which was a worthy mount for a knight, much less a king. Richard finally silenced them and signaled for Anselm to speak.
    The chaplain was a young man, well liked by the others, for he was cheerful, good-hearted, and more forgiving of the foibles of mortal men than many priests, too much in awe of Richard to lay heavy penances for royal sins. He looked understandably pleased with the success of their mission, but Richard knew him well enough to detect the unease behind his smile, and he was bracing for the bad even as Anselm delivered the good.
    “There is a village called Latisana not far from here, sire. At first we were at a loss, for their priest did not know enough Latin to converse with me, and all the townspeople we met spoke some sort of Italian dialect. But we eventually found a blacksmith who understood German, and he directed Arne to a man with horses to sell. We bought all he had, even that one,” he said, gesturing toward a wall-eyed, sway-backed gelding. “I thought we could use him for a packhorse. The horse trader told us that we could buy more horses in the town of Görz, east of Latisana.”
    Arne could keep silent no longer, for he’d greatly enjoyed his first stint as translator. “The people were friendly, my lord, once they learned we were pilgrims on our way home from the Holy Land. They have a hodgepodge of languages here, like in Ragusa—Italian and Slavic dialects. But many of them speak German, too, and I’ll be able to interpret for you in Görz, for their lord’s name is a German one—Engelbert.”
    Richard’s eyes flicked from the boy to Anselm. “Tell me about this Lord Engelbert,” he said, already sure he would not like what he was about to hear.
    “He is the Count of Görz, sire, sharing power with his brother, Meinhard. His lord father died last year, so he’s not been ruling all that long. But from what we could glean in Latisana, he seems well regarded by the people. He is a vassal of the Holy Roman Emperor, of course. . . .”
    “And?” Richard prompted, his voice sharp, and Anselm confirmed his suspicions by giving him an unhappy look.
    “He is also the nephew of Conrad of Montferrat, sire,” he said reluctantly, and in the dismayed silence that followed, his words seemed to echo ominously on the chill December air. Conrad, an