The King's Witch by Cecelia Holland Page A

to her, his hands out.
    “My dear lady Johanna, God keep him. God keep us all, these days. I am so sorry.”
    “He will be well soon,” Johanna said. She took his long, ringed hands. “God willing.”
    “God heed our cause and his.” He glanced back toward Richard, then faced her again, his smile fading. “The King’s sickness is unfortunately the news everywhere, including the Saracen camp. The truce is thrown down; there will be no council with Saladin, at least until he is well.” He squeezed her hands. “He’s strong. God is with him.”
    “He has a good doctor,” she said. “We are all praying for him. I was told Conrad is coming.”
    “Yes, likely tomorrow.” His eyes were half-closed, no longer guileless. He let her hands go. “Guy told you? Yes, of course. He needs Richard.”
    She nodded. “Do many of those here favor Conrad over Guy?”
    “Well, they wouldn’t be here, if . . .” He tilted his face slightly, watching her sideways. “Guy has his enemies. He has a . . . way of making enemies. In the end, you know, it all depends on Richard. And the shape of the moon.”
    Once again, her brother’s oath to take Acre in a single month made everything harder. She said, her hands cold, “He will be better soon.”
    He smiled at her, abruptly looking young and guileless. “I am Your Highness’s servant.” He bowed. His gaze turned toward Richard and she saw the smooth mask slip a little and some fear wrinkle his face, some other longing, and then he was leaving.
    So Philip Augustus was sick also. Johanna flexed her fingers together, feeling better. It could not then be her fault, if both of the Kings were sick. She did not bother to plumb the depths of this reasoning, and she did not think much about what else Humphrey had said. She went to sit by her brother and let Lilia go for a while.

    Richard’s fever raged all day, and then fell; in the late afternoon they managed to feed him a little bread. He was never fully conscious. Sometimes he spoke gibberish or reached for things no one saw but him. Johanna prayed and got Lilia to pray, and Edythe kept him covered and gave him wine when she could. Please , she thought. Please. She was afraid to think he was getting better. People came and went with news. King Philip was very sick, plucked bald and spitting teeth, but unlikely to die. There was some general evil in the camp, which had carried off many people in the first day, among them Baldwin of Alsace, the Count of Flanders. Even some of the Germans, who avoided all of the others, were burning with fever.
    Still, after its first killing assault, it was losing its power. Everybody had some notion about this: the influence of Saturn, corrupt air, a Saracen curse. Fevers had swept regularly through the camp for two years and nobody had ever had any answer, except that they all passed by.
    During the long, grim day Johanna heard everyone and did what she could, which was not much. Edythe admired her calm. Everywhere things looked bad. There was no bread left. The wine was almost gone. The meat was spoiled. At noon on the third day they heard that Rouquin was fighting by the wall, trying to raise the belfry against it; at midafternoon, that he and his men had swarmed over, but no one could get to their support before the defenders closed. Rouquin barely escaped, last of the Crusaders to reach safe ground.
    They ate the meager supper of beans and onions, and Johanna and Lilia went to sleep again on the far side of the tent. Edythe sat by the King’s pallet; she dozed as she had before, her head on the foot of it.
    The trembling of the pallet woke her. He was shaking all over, his knees drawn up, his teeth clattering together. His eyes were open. She put her hand on his head and his eyes turned toward her, lucid and full of pain. She wrapped him with the blankets, tucking them in tight around him, looped a corner over his head, and rubbed him through the blankets to warm him. Her arms began to ache,