Free A King's Ransom by Sharon Kay Penman Page B

They ask, my lord count, that you issue a safe conduct allowing them to pass through your domains, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, for whom they fought.”
    The count’s face could have been carved from the same stones as his castle for all the emotion he showed; they had no idea what he was thinking. “Did you get to see Jerusalem?” he asked after an uncomfortably long pause. When Arne said they had, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. “So you visited the Holy Sepulchre?” Getting another confirmation from Arne, he reached for the silver wine cup at his elbow and took a sip. “And did you stop in Ragusa?”
    Arne gaped at him. “No, lord! We put in for supplies in a town called Pula.” He added hastily that they’d been heading for Trieste, but had been blown off course by the contrary bora winds.
    This was met with another silence, and he glanced imploringly toward his companions. Although they’d been unable to follow the conversation, Anselm and Morgan sensed that it was not going well. Deciding it was time to reveal to the count just how much his cooperation would be worth, the chaplain reached for his scrip and passed its contents to Arne. The boy squeezed it tightly for luck and then set it on the table with a flourish, thrilled to be able to hold something so valuable, however briefly.
    As it reflected the torchlight, the ring seemed to catch fire, its massive ruby glowing in a setting of beaten gold. “This is a gift from my master, the merchant Hugh,” Arne declared proudly, “to show our appreciation for your goodwill and hospitality, my lord count.”
    The count’s eyes had widened at first sight of the ring. He did not pick it up, though, and instead turned and abruptly dismissed his scribe. Leaning back then in his chair, he regarded them pensively. “Your master’s name is not Hugh,” he said at last. “You serve the English king.”
    Arne gasped, too stunned to respond. But Morgan had a good ear for languages and he’d picked up a little German from the boy during their months together. Recognizing the words “englische” and “könig,” he found it all too easy to interpret the horrified expression on Arne’s face, and he began to laugh loudly. His companions were quick to comprehend and Arne and Anselm hastily forced laughter, too. “Tell the count,” Morgan directed the boy, “that our master will be greatly flattered that he could have been mistaken for a king. But we can assure Count Engelbert that he is a mercer and pilgrim, no more than that.”
    When Engelbert reached for the ring, they held their breaths. He inspected it without haste, running his thumb over the flaming jewel, the intricate gold leaf design done so lovingly by a Pisan goldsmith. And then he slid it back across the table toward them.
    “I cannot accept this. Tell the king of the English that I respect his vow and his struggle to free the Holy Land from the infidel Saracens. But tell him this, too—that he is in grave peril and must leave Görz at once, for I cannot guarantee his safety should word get out of his presence here. The Emperor Heinrich will richly reward any man who delivers your king into his hands.”

    A FTER FINDING AN INN, Richard and his men had eaten their first hot meal in over a week. He’d then sent Arne and Baldwin to buy horses, and they’d delighted Görz’s horse traders by buying the best animals the town had to offer. Arne was then dispatched with Anselm and Morgan to seek safe conducts from the count, and while he awaited their return, Richard went to the stable to inspect Baldwin’s purchases. They were not as bad as he’d feared, although he soon concluded that Baldwin had been overcharged. When the other man glumly admitted as much, Richard found a smile, assuring Baldwin that paying too much for horses in Görz was not likely to cost him any sleep.
    “Sleep.” The word had taken on the sweetness of honey, for none of them had gotten a full night’s rest since