Sharon Kay Penman
Dragon's Lair
Prologue
July 1193
Nottingham Castle, England
The English King was dying. despite the bone-biting chill of the dungeon, he was drenched in sweat and so gaunt and wasted that his brother barely recognized him. His skin was ashen, his eyes sunken, and his chest heaved with each rasping shallow breath. Even the vivid reddish-gold hair was dulled, so matted and dirty that vermin were burrowing into the scalp once graced by a crown. Would their lady mother still be so eager to cradle that lice-ridden head to her breast?
As if sensing he was no longer alone, Richard struggled to rise up on an elbow, rheumy, bloodshot eyes blinking into the shadows. The voice that once could shout down the wind, that was heard from one corner of Christendom to the other even when he whispered, emerged as a feeble croak. "John…?"
"Yes." Stepping into the meager light of the lone candle, John savored the moment to come. Had Fortune's Wheel ever spun so dizzily as this? The irony was exquisite, that the brother so scorned and belittled should be Richard's only chance of salvation. "What would you, brother? You wish for a doctor? A priest? A king's ransom?" The corner of John's mouth curved, ever so slightly. "You need only ask, Richard. But ask you must."
Richard stretched out a stranger's hand, one that trembled as if he had the palsy, palm upward in the universal gesture of supplication. John reached for it reluctantly, for it would be like clasping hands with a corpse. Their fingers touched, then entwined. As John instinctively recoiled, Richard tightened his hold. There was surprising strength in this deathbed grip; to his alarm, John found he could not break free. Richard's fingers were digging into his flesh, leaving talon-like imprints upon his skin. So close were they that John could smell on Richard's breath the fetid stench of the grave, and his brother's eyes were as grey as their sire's, burning with fever and an inexplicable gleam of triumph.
"Rot in Hell, Little Brother," Richard said, slowly and distinctly. "Rot in Hell!"
John jerked upright in the bed, so violently that his bedmate was jarred abruptly from sleep. Ursula felt a surge of drowsy annoyance, for this was not the first time that John had awakened her with one of his troubled dreams. She was not so naïve as to complain, though, indulging herself only with a soft, put-upon sigh and a pout safely hidden in the dark.
As the German dungeon receded before the reality of his bedchamber, John began to swear, angrily and profanely. Why had that accursed dream come back? It made no sense, for Richard was not being held in irons; last report had him being well treated now that negotiations had begun for his release. Nor would he ever be Richard's deliverance, not in this life or the next. Each time he remembered Richard's taunt, his blood grew hot and his nerves hummed with hate. Upon being warned that his brother was scheming to claim his crown, Richard had merely laughed. "My brother John," he'd said, "is not the man to conquer a country if there is anyone to offer even feeble resistance."
John cursed again, feeling such rage that he could almost choke upon it. Richard's mockery trailed him like a ravenous wolf. It was always there, hungry yellow eyes aglow in the dark, awaiting its chance.
When he finally fell asleep again, his dreams were still unsettled and he tossed and turned so restlessly that Ursula heaved another martyred sigh, putting as much space between them as the bed would allow. John stopped squirming once he rolled over onto his back, but then he began to snore and Ursula conceded defeat.
Sliding out of bed, she padded across the chamber and drained the last of the wine from John's night flagon. A young squire slept soundly nearby, and she was tempted to fling the flagon into the floor rushes by his pallet, begrudging him the sleep that was denied her. She reconsidered, though, unwilling to risk waking John. She stubbed her toe getting back into bed and added yet another grievance to her ever-expanding hoard of wrongs.
Most men looked peaceful in their sleep and younger, too, unfettered by earthly cares. But not John. Studying him dispassionately, she decided he looked haunted, and older than his twenty and six year. She supposed most women would consider him handsome, even if he was the dark one in a fair family, for he had his mother's finely chiseled cheekbones and expressive mouth. His eyes were deep-set under black brows, fringed with surprisingly long lashes, and his hair was thick, as glossy as a raven's wing. If she'd been inclined to entwine a strand around her fingers — which she wasn't — she knew it would be clean and soft to the touch, for one of his quirks was an enjoyment of bathing. She had been taken aback at first, thinking it wasn't quite manly, but she'd soon come to appreciate the benefits: He did not stink like the other men who'd shared her bed and her favors.
John had once told her that he liked to watch people unaware. Regarding him now as he slept, Ursula understood the appeal; there was a vulnerability about someone who did not know he was under observation. He'd stopped snoring, though, and she settled down beside him, closing her eyes and crossing her fingers. It was then that the pounding started, as loud as summer thunder, chasing away the mice scurrying about in the floor rushes and any hopes of sleep.
John sat up in alarm, "Holy Mother, what now?" Ursula just groaned and put her pillow over her head. The squire was sleepily stumbling toward the door. They could hear the murmur of voices, and then the door was shoved back and Durand de Curzon pushed the squire aside, striding into the chamber.
John's protest died in his throat, for Durand's presence validated the intrusion. The tall, swaggering knight was one of the few men whom he trusted with some of his secrets. Durand was carrying a lantern and his face was partially illuminated by its swaying pale light. He looked as he always did: self-possessed, capable, and faintly sardonic. But John knew his demeanor would have been no different if he'd come to deliver word of Armageddon.
"Are you going to tell me why you're in my chamber in the middle of the night, Durand, or must I guess?"
Durand shrugged off the sarcasm. "A messenger has ridden in, my lord, bearing a letter for you from the King of the French."
John often received communications from the French king. They were allies of expediency, united in their shared loathing for his brother the Lionheart. It was from Philippe that John had first learned of Richard's plight: captured by his enemies on his way home from Crusade and turned over to the dubious mercies of the Holy Roman Emperor. But he'd never gotten a message so urgent that it could not wait till daylight.
"I'll see him," he said tersely.
The man was already being ushered into the chamber. His travel-stained clothes told a tale of their own, as did his bleary eyes and the involuntary grunt he gave as he sank to his knees before the bed. He held out a parchment threaded through with cord and sealed with wax, but John's gaze went first to his ring. It was a silver band gilded in gold leaf, set with a large amethyst cut into octagonal facets, corroboration that the courier did indeed come from Philippe, for royal signets could be forged but only John knew to look for the ring that had once encircled the French king's own finger.
"Give me your lantern, Durand," John said, reaching for the letter. As impatient as he was to read Philippe's message, he still took the time to examine the seal, making sure that it had not been tampered with. Durand observed this with a flicker of grim humor, so sure had he been that John would do exactly that. He studied John as a Church scholar studied Holy Scriptures, for a misstep might well mean his doom.
As John frowned over the letter, Durand sauntered over to the table, found flint and tinder and struck sparks until he was able to ignite the wick of a large wax candle. When John raised his head to demand more light, Durand was already there, holding out the candlestick. He took the opportunity to appraise John's bedmate at close range, his gaze moving appreciatively over the voluptuous curves so inadequately draped in a thin, linen sheet.