A King's Ransom by Sharon Kay Penman Page B

suspicion. Made bold by their numbers, several strode into the street to bar the way, hurling questions at them like weapons, and the belligerent tone made translation unnecessary. But submitting to an interrogation was not an option. They did not draw their swords, merely spurred their horses forward, and men scattered in all directions, screaming and yelling and cursing as they sought to avoid being trampled. Richard and his knights did not slow down, nor did they glance back at the chaos they left in their wake. Men were scrambling to their feet, groping for their fallen torches and lanterns as shutters up and down the street were flung open and heads popped out to see what was amiss. The guards had emerged from the gatehouse, and they, too, had to dive aside as the riders swept past them and galloped through the gate out into the night.
    They had little time to savor their escape, though. They’d not gone far before they heard a new uproar behind them. Alarmed, for they’d not expected pursuit to be organized so fast, they reined in to look back at the town, and it was only then that they realized what was happening. The rest of their group had ridden right into the maelstrom and found themselves surrounded by an angry crowd.
    Richard swore and started to swing Roger’s stallion around. His men stared at him, horrified, but Morgan was the one to act. “No!” he cried, spurring his own horse into Richard’s path. The roan swerved and it took Richard a few moments to get him under control.
    “Have you lost your mind?” he snarled. Morgan had never borne the brunt of his cousin’s royal rage before, and his mouth went dry. Before he could respond, Baldwin moved his own mount to block Richard’s way.
    “Morgan remembered Ibn Ibrak,” he said, meeting Richard’s eyes unflinchingly.
    There was no need to say more, for they all knew what had happened at Ibn Ibrak. Squires foraging for firewood and their Templar guards had been ambushed by Saracens. Richard had been just two miles away, and when he’d learned of the attack, he’d sent the Earl of Leicester to the rescue while he hurried to arm himself. Upon his arrival at the battle, he’d found that it had been a trap and the crusaders were surrounded by a much larger force. His men had pleaded with him to retreat, arguing that he could not save the doomed knights. He’d retorted angrily that he’d sent those men out there, promising to follow with aid, and if they died without him, he did not deserve to be called a king. He’d then spurred his stallion into the fray, rallied his men, and managed a safe withdrawal from the field. His bravura actions at Ibn Ibrak had contributed to the growing legend of the Lionheart, but the memory only instilled fear in his knights outside the walls of Udine.
    Richard’s jaw muscles clenched. “I saved the men at Ibn Ibrak.”
    “Yes, you did,” Baldwin agreed. “But that is not possible now. If you go back there, you will be killed or captured. Think, sire! The Templars could have slipped away when they saw what was happening. They could even have gone back to the inn, for they’d be safe enough with you gone. Instead, they acted to draw the mob’s attention onto themselves and you know why—to give you the time you need to escape. You must honor their choice, my lord. You owe them that.”
    Richard wanted to argue. But when Baldwin urged them on, he gave in and turned Roger’s roan stallion away from Udine and followed the Fleming. Once they were sure that they were not being pursued, they slackened their pace, sparing their weary horses as best they could. The day’s clouds had begun to disperse and their way was dimly lit by the emergence of the moon and a scattering of distant stars. They felt the cold more after so many months in the Holy Land and their hands and faces were soon reddened and windburned. The jagged silhouettes of the alpine peaks that rose up on either side of the road only contributed to their