The Ransomed Crown

by Wayne Grant

  “Well done, sir. With only one machine, it will take them a year to dent these walls!”

  Roland nodded, but did not smile. They had forestalled a direct assault on the city, but the mercenary force was still there, hemming them in on all sides. He looked up into a cloudless blue sky. There was a crisp wind blowing from the west, reminding him that it was now autumn. The results of this night’s work might keep them safe until the King returned in a few months, but if Richard did not return, burnt trebuchets would not save them. The city had food for three months. After that, they would starve.

  And then, they would surrender.

  Mare Tempestas

  The ancients knew. The great sea that lapped so gently at their shores in the heat of summer could turn deadly in the autumn and winter. During the season of storms, they kept their ships at anchor in protected harbours and coves and the men who sailed them stayed close to their hearths.

  The King of England had been warned. He knew the danger of an autumn sea, but could not seem to extract himself from King Guy’s hospitality. As was his nature, he felt compelled to inspect every fortress on the island, provide extensive counsel on administration and taxation and view countless musters of the Cypriot forces. It was nearing Michaelmas when Baldwin finally threatened to leave without him.

  And so, the King’s galleys left Cyprus in early October. For nine days they sailed west—passing north of Crete and south of the Peloponnese on favourable winds. They kept a careful watch for trouble brewing in the skies as the ships swung north into the Ionian Sea, bound for the Adriatic.

  With supplies running low, they put in at Corfu, a notorious nest of pirates. Tensions were high as the galleys took on water and provisions for men and horses. Sir Roger and the Templars had strapped on their mail and were armed to the teeth in a show of force meant to forestall any trouble.

  “Nasty lot,” observed Sir Baldwin as he stood beside Sir Roger at the galley’s rail and looked out at knots of evil-looking men who lounged around the docks.

  Sir Roger nodded.

  “Nasty to be sure, but no fools,” Sir Roger replied. “They’ll be looking for easy pickings and a fight with a score of Templars is far from that.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Roger,” he said and gestured toward the Templars who were standing with hands on sword hilts, glowering at the watchers. “But keep these boys up here where they can be seen until we get the supplies aboard. I wouldn’t want any of these rogues to get ideas.”

  Sir Roger nodded and Baldwin returned to the small nook next to the King’s cabin that served as his quarters. Two hours later, the galleys pulled away from the docks unmolested, though a sharp watch was kept for any sign they had been followed out of the harbour. Turning back north, they took advantage of strong prevailing winds as they entered the Adriatic Sea. It was now the end of October and every man aboard said silent prayers for continued fair weather. As they skirted the Dalmatian coast under clear skies, it seemed that those prayers had been answered.

  But the ancients knew.

  They were but two days sail from their planned landfall on the northernmost shore of the Adriatic when suspicious clouds began to build behind them. As the first squall approached, the crew of the galleys took in sail and lashed down anything that needed to be secured. The rain hit as the oarsmen, who had been idle for days, returned to their benches to maintain headway in the growing seas. The shipmasters had been steering along the eastern shore of the Adriatic to avoid possible encounters with enemy ships near Venice and now that choice seemed a bad one. The lee shore was a nightmare of rocky islands and headlands with no likely place of refuge to ride out the storm.

  So they ran north with it, throwing heavy lines from the stern to keep from turning abeam to the following seas. With no sails set, the wind whipping through the rigging made a strange moaning sound that added to the fear of the crew. Through the rest of the day and into the night, the men below stayed at the oars. The knights bailed the seawater coming over the rails using buckets and helmets and all aboard redoubled their prayers.

  As dawn neared, there came a sight that no seaman wished to see. Ahead of them, a faint grey line of breakers stretched out of sight along a rain-swept shore. They had run out of sea. The shipmaster motioned frantically for the King to come near so he could shout over the roar of the storm.

  “Lash yourself to the rail,” he screamed, “and pray that is sand ahead!”

  King Richard staggered to the rail on the raised stern of the galley and began securing himself, even as waves crashed over him. Seeing the approach of the storm-ravaged coast, others followed suit. One man lashed himself to the mast and others tethered themselves to whatever was close at hand.

  Sir Roger looked out across the frothing sea and caught sight of the second galley. It had been caught in a cross current near shore and was now riding abeam to the oncoming breakers. It wallowed sickeningly in the swells and the knight thought of his warhorse, Bucephalus, trapped below decks.

  It’s every man and horse for himself today, old friend.

  He staggered toward the spot where the King clung to the rail, but before he could lash himself near the man, a huge wave crashed over the side and he felt his feet fly from beneath him. As the torrent drained back toward the sea, it drew him with it, and before he could grab the port side rail he was plunged overboard. As he struck the water he gave thanks that he wore none of his armour, but he landed in a trough and plunged deep. He had started to pull hard back toward the surface when another wave lifted him high along with the galley, which was drifting away to his right.

  As a boy, he had learned to swim in the Dee, but this was not the gentle river of his youth. He flailed his arms and legs to stay afloat and managed to take in a breath before the wave crested and tumbled him under again. He reached upward and, kicking furiously, broke the surface once more, only to swallow a great gulp of seawater. But in that moment at the crest of a new wave, he had seen the shore and felt a glimmer of hope. It was a sand beach—not rocks. Then he was under again.

  His lungs were burning as he felt a strong current pulling him back toward the sea. He fought against it, then realized it was another great wave gathering. He pulled hard toward the shore and the wave swept him up the beach where he landed heavily on the packed sand.

  Immediately, he felt the surge pulling him back out with the receding wave and dug his hand and toes into the sand. He skidded backwards, but the wave lost its grip on him. In the few seconds he had before the next onslaught, he struggled to his knees and scrambled toward a line of gnarled trees and low scrub that lay above the pounding of the storm.

  The following wave struck him, but he was too far up the shore for it to drag him back. Reaching the trees, he turned to watch the galley carrying the King strike the beach at an angle. The rending sound of the keel snapping and hull collapsing could be heard over the thunder of the surf. He saw men tumble from the deck and from the shattered hull onto the sand and others, struggling against the current, being sucked back into the sea.

  He staggered to his feet and looked down the beach in time to see the second galley fly up on shore and seemingly land gently upright on the sand. The vessel leaned a little to the starboard side when the following wave struck it, but did not break apart. The big knight stumbled toward the King’s galley and had to stop as his gut heaved up great gouts of seawater.

  When he reached the wreck, he was relieved to see Richard standing on the sand just above the crash of the waves, directing the effort to rescue survivors. Sir Roger hurried to the King’s side and Richard embraced him like a brother.

  “Thank God you’re saved!” the King shouted above the storm and pointed toward the wrecked galley. “Help those you can!” Sir Roger nodded and edged down near the shattered wreck that was still wallowing dangerously as the waves pounded it. It was a scene of horror and chaos. Up and down the beach half drowned men were crawling forward trying to escape the waves. Others cried out as they were sw
ept away.

  Sir Roger dragged one man after another up the beach and out of harm’s way. As he returned to the wreckage, he heard a shouted plea from inside the galley. The shattered ship was a deathtrap that was quickly being reduced to kindling by the relentless pounding of the sea. Carefully the knight picked his way past the accumulating wreckage to peer into the hull that had been cracked open like an egg. Back near the stern he could barely make out a man who lifted his arm in supplication.

  “Help me!”

  It was Sir Baldwin. The man was tangled in a web of rope and broken timbers from which he could not extract himself. As Sir Roger crept forward over jumbled benches, empty now of oarsmen, the ship gave a sharp lurch and a new opening appeared in the hull opposite him. With this pounding, the galley would soon be nothing but floating scraps of wood and anyone inside would be beyond rescue.

  The big Norman began to frantically hurl benches and broken timbers aside and bulled his way through the obstacles to reach the trapped knight. As he broke loose a bench that had wedged itself between the keel and the hull, Sir Baldwin managed to struggle free.

  “I’m obliged to you, sir!” he shouted, but Sir Roger didn’t notice. He slung the man’s right arm over his shoulder and fairly dragged him back the way he had come. But the boat lurched and rolled again and the gap where he had entered now had sealed itself on the sand.

  He swerved to his right where a new hole in the hull had been ripped and pulled himself up and out, turning back to help Sir Baldwin. The knight’s left arm hung limp by his side, clearly broken. Sir Roger grasped the man under his armpits and hoisted him clear. With the sea sucking at their legs, they staggered back up the beach to safety. With the rain still beating down on them in sheets, Sir Baldwin went down on his knees among the scrub and gnarled trees, and raised his one good hand to heaven, sending up a prayer of thanksgiving.

  Sir Roger turned and headed back toward the wreck, but he saw no one left near the stricken ship. As he watched, a massive wave engulfed the beached galley and splintered the wreckage completely. The remnants of the King’s ship were sucked out to sea leaving the beach oddly empty, as though no tragedy had happened here. Staying above the grasp of the heaving sea, the big Norman knight made his way back toward the King who was organizing the care of survivors.

  “Your grace,” he shouted. “I go to the galley yonder.” He pointed west down the beach where the second ship still rolled with each incoming wave. The weary king merely nodded his assent.

  The wreck of the second galley was but a mile away, but Sir Roger found that the storm had torn new inlets in the low lying shore. These could be waded, but only with care. It took him a full hour to reach the grounded vessel. He found the shipmaster sitting on the sand, his head in his hands, sobbing.

  “Are you injured?” he asked touching the man’s shoulder. The veteran seaman looked up at the knight.

  “My ship! How will I get it off this beach? I am ruined…ruined!”

  “Aye,” said Sir Roger as he studied how far up the beach the vessel had been tossed. “Doesn’t look like you’ll float her off, but gather yourself, man. What’s become of your crew? Did all survive?”

  The man shrugged and went back to sobbing.

  Disgusted, Sir Roger left him and walked closer to the vessel. He was relieved to find that most of the crew was gathered on the far side. They had rigged a ramp and were struggling to bring the horses up from below decks. A large man with a missing eye appeared to be directing the operation.

  Ah, the true master of the ship.

  Sir Roger approached the man and got his attention.

  “You the mate?” he shouted over the wind.

  The man just nodded.

  “Were any of your crew lost?”

  The mate raised one finger. They had lost only a single man.

  “My horse is below. Let me go aboard and lead him out!”

  The man at first seemed to ignore the request, but seeing the look in the knight’s eyes, waved him toward the wreck. Sir Roger slapped him on the shoulder and quickly made his way up the ramp and over the rail of the galley, which lay at a difficult angle. Below he could hear horses. Some stamped at the hull and some whinnied in fear or pain.

  The crew had removed most of the planks from the deck and he could see into the hull. Bucephalus saw his master before Sir Roger saw him and gave a loud snort that the knight would have recognized anywhere.

  “Ho, boy!” he shouted and picked his way to where the horses were pinned in the stern. The big warhorse pricked up his ears and strained against the rope that held him fast. Sir Roger had lost his sword, but still had a small blade. He reached past a wild-eyed mare to cut the rope that held Bucephalus.

  The big horse surged forward and Sir Roger just had time to pull down the pole that had served to pen the animals in before the warhorse broke it down. There was no bridle, so he grabbed the mane and led Bucephalus forward. The warhorse needed no urging when it saw the ramp. He coiled on his huge haunches and came up from the hold in a single bound, nimbly trotting down the ramp to the sand.

  As the storm ebbed, the crew salvaged what they could from the beached galley. The rest of the surviving horses, only seven in all, were brought out. Food, weapons and other equipment were stacked above the reach of the waves. The shipmaster, having recovered his composure, plotted how he might refloat his ship. Sir Roger managed to collect saddles and bridles for three horses, including Bucephalus, and rode back to the King leading two riderless horses behind.

  He found Richard in animated conversation with Sir Baldwin, whose left arm now sported a crude splint. The King seemed buoyed by the arrival of three healthy mounts.

  “Well done, Sir Roger! I feared if Bucephalus had come to harm, you would be inconsolable. Are these three all that survived?”

  “No, your grace, there are four more, but the crew has not yet recovered saddles and bridles for those. The shipmaster is a dolt, but the mate knows his business. He will salvage all he can.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Enough, your grace.”

  “Will the galley float again?” the King asked.

  “Possibly. Her keel wasn’t cracked and the hull is intact, but she was thrown far up the beach and it will take logs to roll her back down to the water.”

  The King looked around at the stunted trees that bordered the sea.

  “Then it will be weeks, if the thing can be done at all. As I was telling Sir Baldwin, it looks as though the Almighty must agree with my overland route, as He has seen fit to deny us any other!”

  In the face of the King’s bravado, the knight thought it best to allow the man to make a virtue of necessity. As they spoke, the last of the rain blew inland and the sky began to lighten. Off to the northwest, a purple line of mountains caught a beam of sunlight. The King pointed at the sight.

  “There’s our path home, lads. God is pointing the way!”

  Sir Roger looked at the mountains and saw white on the topmost peaks. He kept his opinions to himself.

  A Rising in Sherwood

  Sir Robin of Loxley looked around him at the ragged men gathered at the edge of the cold woods as dusk fell. A few were trained fighters—men who had escaped with him from the doomed citadel of Nottingham—but most were simple peasants. He had watched them trickle into the vast forest of Sherwood for months, fleeing from the famine that was overtaking their villages.

  Since the fall of Nottingham Castle in June, matters had grown infinitely worse for the people of the Midlands. Prince John had appointed one of William de Ferrers’ confidants as the new Sheriff and Sir Alfred de Wendenal was intent on gaining favour with his new master. He was given a strong garrison of three hundred men and these he sent out like locusts to strip anything of value they could find in the land.

  It was the Sheriff who had driven these farmers and herdsmen to leave their fields and homes and come to Sherwood. They had come with rusty old swords, pruning hooks, wooden staffs and hope—hope that t
he stories they’d heard passed from village to village were true, that an outlaw band in Sherwood was stealing food and delivering it to hungry mouths.

  The first to come had found Robin with little more than a score of men, but they had kept coming. Through the summer and autumn he had brought the new men along slowly. They had raided small granaries and harassed the Sheriff’s tax collectors whenever they strayed near Sherwood. They’d even carried out a daring night raid into Nottingham proper and had got away with a small chest of gold that was held at the town hall. The Sheriff had personally led the pursuit into the forest, but turned back as his casualties mounted.

  It was now early November and winter was taking a firm grip on the land. Robin looked at the grim faces of the men nearest him and felt the weight of their hope. He had led men into battle many times, but those men had freely chosen the warrior’s path. These men had not. They had been content to live out their days tilling the land, but could not abide their wives and children starving—not when harvests had been plentiful.

  Like him, they were cold and tired, but at least their bellies were full. Poaching the King’s deer had seen to that problem. But there weren’t enough deer in this vast forest to feed the starving families left behind on the farms and in the villages. So they had come to the hamlet of Southwell.

  Across a quarter mile of frost-covered fields lay the looming bulk of the great Southwell Minster and next to the minster was the palace of the Archbishop of York. Around these imposing structures a small village had grown up. Robin was not interested in the church buildings or the village. His attention was riveted on a large structure at the edge of the cleared field. It was a huge tithe barn owned by the church. This was no small granary. Its contents could feed a dozen villages for months, but word had reached Sherwood that the Archbishop planned to sell most of the grain for silver. The prelate claimed the funds were needed to save York from foreign mercenaries—and more importantly to save the great York Minster.