‘Richard tells me that you were chosen to be his guardian by his grandmother.’
‘Not exactly his guardian, ma’am, more his adviser.’
‘He says that you are a great knight.’
‘Ma’am, I am not the kind of knight that you may know – a nobleman who fights in tournaments – I am a professional soldier, who fights for a living. I was granted my pennon for my services to King Richard’s father.’
‘What do you think of what the old man said?’
‘I don’t know; I try not to become too involved with the Church and its teachings. But there are lots of seers and mystics who think they know the future. Some say we’ll be damned, some say we’ll be saved. They can’t all be right. I tend to agree with Abbot Alun; the battle with Saladin will be decided by mortal men, not by God.’
She then paid me a compliment – flattery that came with a burden which only added to the one I already carried.
‘You must be very brave to have been chosen to be at the right hand of the Lionheart. For the sake of us all, please protect him in the Holy Land.’
We sailed through the Straits of Messina and headed east on 10 April 1191. In addition to the 50 or so ships which had already sailed with King Philip, I counted 219 ships in total. The Lionheart had taken command of all the other crusaders who had arrived in Sicily in the summer, and now led a force which I calculated at over 20,000, including almost 3,000 knights.
Commanded by Mercadier, Robert Thornham, Blondel and Baldwin of Bethune, he put Bérengère, his treasury and half his personal conroi in four heavily armed dromons in the vanguard. Bérengère was accompanied by Joan, Dowager Queen of Sicily, who was not only the Lionheart’s younger sister, but also the widow of William II, Tancred’s predecessor as King of Sicily. The rest of the fleet was arranged in a massive pyramid-shaped flotilla behind the leading dromons. We took the port point, while William Marshal led the starboard flank. As we sailed past Cape Spartivento and into the open sea, the Lionheart stood at the prow of our ship. Wearing his gleaming helmet and flowing red cape, he could easily have been the Doge of Venice aboard his Bucentaur progressing along the Canalosso of Venice.
From our position, our flotilla looked like an enormous flight of geese heading south for the winter, its maroon lateen sails billowing in the wind like the puffed-up breasts of preening seabirds. It was a stirring sight.
Our vanguard’s captain used his lodestone every hour to check our course; we kept a formation that was so tight, it was possible to shout from one ship to another. At night, each vessel’s captain lit a wax candle to identify its position. Our fleet resembled a sea of stars as the candlelight flickered against the black depths of the Mediterranean. I found the sounds of the sea enthralling as it tossed us backwards and forwards, straining our sails and stretching our ropes. Our timbers creaked as if they were crying out in pain; huge beams of oak twisted and were squeezed like young saplings.
We made good progress, but on the eve of Easter Day we were caught by a fierce storm that had us clamouring for anything to which we could lash ourselves. When the maelstrom abated, our formation was no more; the fleet had been flung far and wide. Several days passed before the majority of the scattered flock found one another. But the four ‘mother hens’ were missing, along with their precious passengers and cargo.
We anchored off Crete for minor repairs then set sail again, making landfall at Rhodes, but there was still no sign of the four dromons of our vanguard. The Lionheart was beside himself with anxiety about Bérengère. He decided to send out scouts in fast coastal trading galleys to try to locate the missing dromons.
Eventually, the scouts returned with good news and bad. Blondel’s dromon, which carried the Lionheart’s treasury, had been shipwrecked on Cyprus, where he had fought valiantly against the Cypriot garrison before being overwhelmed. Many had been killed, the gold and silver in the treasury plundered, Blondel imprisoned and a large ransom placed on his head. Fortunately, the three remaining ships had managed to stand off the coast, but they were stranded in uncomfortable conditions.
The scouts then proceeded to brief the Lionheart about Cyprus and its lord. The island, a vital Mediterranean staging post between Europe, the Levant and North Africa, had always been rich in food and wine and was one of the most desirable realms in the Mediterranean. Several years earlier, Isaac, a junior member of the family of the Comneni Emperors of Byzantium and a nephew of Manuel Comnenus, had arrived on the island with fake credentials from Constantinople purporting to be the new governor. Slowly but surely, he had managed, step by devious step, to assume control of the island. As soon as he felt himself to be unassailable, he took the title of ‘Emperor’, donned the purple garb of his imperious ancestors and added all the names and paraphernalia of the glories of Byzantium.
To be servants in his palace, he took young boys and made them eunuchs. He adopted the fabled Manticore as his emblem, gave members of his family Byzantine titles like ‘Nobilissimus of the Empire’, and appointed a ‘Grand Domestic’ to be commander of his army. Not only had Isaac tricked his way into power, but he ruled his Cypriot subjects with great cruelty. Summary executions were routine, as was torture of all kinds; he collected his taxes ruthlessly, and showed no compassion to anyone too poor or too ill to pay.
The Lionheart was not only distressed about the plight of Bérengère, but he was livid that a preposterous little despot, who pretended he wore the Purple of Constantinople, should have the audacity to ransom his loyal Blondel. He ordered William Marshal to take command of the fleet and to follow on, then gave me his usual clear and precise orders.
‘Two conrois – the best men – bring your sergeants, and commission two of the fastest galleys. We sail for Cyprus in the morning.’
Rhodes was almost 300 miles from Cyprus, but we were downwind of a strong westerly and we made excellent progress. We soon found our three stricken galleys at anchor off the Cypriot coast. Bérengère, Joan and their ladies-in-waiting were distressed at being marooned amidst a ship’s company of men. Mercadier, Baldwin and Robert were embarrassed and angry at being rendered helpless, but they had made the right decision in waiting for help.
The Lionheart immediately took control and ordered an assault on the island. Mercadier and Robert were more than happy to get on to dry land, but Baldwin advised caution.
‘The Emperor is just beyond the beach with a large force. They have built a crude palisade of timber, but it gives them cover; it would be a suicide attack.’
Predictably, the Lionheart’s temper rose.
‘First of all, he’s not an emperor – he’s not even a prince. Get your armour on, man!’
Within minutes, with my Little Quintet in close support, King Richard, in full armour, was lowering himself down the yardarm and wading across the shallow water to the beach. The waves were strong and several times washed right over our heads. More than once, one of us fell over and, weighed down by our weapons and maille hauberks, had to be helped to our feet.
Mercadier led the King’s elite conrois behind us, while Baldwin and Robert formed small squadrons of archers and arbalests to our flanks. As soon as the Lionheart made dry ground, he charged up the beach like a Viking Berserker. Despite the 50lbs of armour and weapons he carried, such was his athleticism and energy, it was difficult to keep pace with him. By the time we reached the top of the beach and the Cypriot defences were in sight, the missiles from our archers began to plummet into their positions with devastating effect. The crossbow was the Lionheart’s favourite weapon, and our men could use it with great accuracy; its quarrels could go straight through a man and his maille hauberk at fifty yards.
Without even turning to ensure that we were in close support, our King hurled himself at the makeshift Cypriot defences, fashioned from hurdles, wooden boards and upturned carts. Godric and I managed to position ourselves to his left and right, while the quartet of Modig, Rodor, Penda and Leax tucked in behind us. We had fought at close quarters with the Lionhea
rt before and had as much confidence in him as he had in us. The Cypriots, men from Isaac’s personal garrison, were well trained, some having been recruited from Constantinople, but they were no match for the ferocity of our tried and tested techniques. There was soon an arc of space around us, as the Lionheart’s blows sent men to the floor beneath his feet. He strode over body after body, most of them mortally wounded from the cuts and thrusts of his blade. We protected his flanks and had soon opened a wedge in the Cypriot wall through which the rest of our men poured.
To fight in the presence of the Lionheart was a remarkable experience. Only the most accomplished of warriors could keep pace with him – and I flatter myself that I was one of them. He wielded his sword as if it had no weight to it, elegantly wafting it through the air with lethal speed. His actions had an instinctive choreography about them; they looked like well-rehearsed techniques from the training ground, but they were not. All were improvised in the heat of battle. Such were his height and strength that he had a physical advantage over most men, but it was his speed and dexterity that set him apart.
But even that was not the whole of it. The Lionheart’s essence was his indomitable spirit. He knew no fear, and his opponents could see that in his eyes; they were beaten before they had a chance to strike a blow.
Within minutes, the whole of the Cypriot line had started to flee. With almost reckless bravery against overwhelming odds, the Lionheart had established a bridgehead where none seemed possible. As we all took some air and gathered ourselves, we looked around and realized that about 150 men had scattered a force at least four times that number, simply because of the Lionheart’s remarkable daring. I looked at Mercadier, who was standing close by. We smiled at one another in acknowledgement of yet another example of the Lionheart’s remorseless spirit.
But he was not resting on his laurels. On a nearby hill, mounted on a striking, white-maned palomino stallion the colour of pale honey, an ostentatiously dressed figure surveyed the scene.
‘Ranulf, get some horses, it’s him, the Emperor of Minion. After him!’
We found some Cypriot horses that had been scattered down the beach during our assault and we were soon in pursuit of our quarry. Accompanied by half a dozen knights, the Emperor Isaac bolted as soon as he saw us ride towards him. When we reached the top of the hill, the Lionheart put his hand up to halt our gallop. Isaac’s knights had made good ground on their steeds, but his stallion had travelled over a hundred yards more. The King looked on in admiration.
‘Look at it go! That stallion is so graceful, so quick. When I bring that pup to heel, his horse will be mine, or I’ll kiss the Devil’s arse.’
Perhaps for the first time that day, the Lionheart looked around. Some of his main fleet could be seen in the distance.
‘Let’s bring Princess Bérengère and Queen Joan ashore and get them comfortable. We’ll need to land our destriers and get them used to the ground, so that we can conquer this little prick of an island.’
Cyprus was far more than a ‘little prick’. But to the King, Isaac and his island were an irritation he did not need – especially when news arrived later that Philip had arrived safely in the Holy Land. The report about Philip emboldened the Lionheart even further.
‘Ranulf, who’s the best scout?’
‘Leax, sire – he’s excellent.’
‘Good, send Penda with him. I need to know where this Isaac is, and where he has stored my geld.’
It took Penda and Leax only three days to find Isaac and his stronghold. Leax, by far the most talkative of any of us, gave his report lucidly and without hesitation.
‘My Lord King, Emperor Isaac has gone to ground in a stone keep called Kolossi, about ten miles to the west of the city of Limassol. The castle guards the approach to the city and also protects Episkopi Bay, about two miles to its south-west. The bailey is quite small and is protected by a deep ditch and wooden barricade. The barricade is well made and there is only one gate and bridge. I would estimate the defenders may number around four hundred, perhaps a few more. It looks like the civilians have left and gone to Limassol. We found several talkative locals, who have no affection for their Greek ruler. One of them had lived on Sicily and spoke Norman. He said that there were some catapults in Kolossi, but none of any scale, and that he was sure the prisoners and the treasure had been taken there after the shipwreck.’
‘An excellent report, Leax, well done. Ranulf, send a message to Isaac. Tell him that if he releases Blondel and the others and returns my bullion, I will spare his men and put him on a ship with safe passage to Constantinople. If he does not yield, no mercy will be shown to him or his men.’
A short and blunt reply came back immediately from Kolossi: ‘Tell your Lord that emperors do not yield to kings.’
It did little for the Lionheart’s humour; his response was also uncompromising.
‘I want incendiaries. We’ll burn down the walls and pour through them like a fast-running tide. There will be no quarter!’
It took the King’s sappers and siege engineers a day and a half to prepare the pitch, oil and sulphur to attack the walls of Kolossi. When they were ready, we drew up our knights and conrois of cavalry in formation, poised to charge through the breaches we were going to burn into the bailey’s walls.
The siege tactics were simple: the Lionheart ordered that the fire be directed at three points at the base of the wooden walls, where it would ignite the timbers, and at the heavy wooden gates at the end of the single bridge that gave ingress to the castle.
The summer heat of Cyprus was beginning to encroach, and the ground and everything above it was parched. Within three hours of the assault beginning, Kolossi’s walls were ablaze. We stood off, sweltering in our saddles, waiting for the signal to attack. It was fortunate that our war horses, the Norman destriers of legend, were battle-hardened by countless tournaments and military campaigns. The Lionheart’s decision to transport them by sea was an unprecedented move. Now, after weeks on the water, including several embarkations and disembarkations, these beasts, raised in cool northern climes, were about to be asked to charge through flame and smoke in the heat of a Mediterranean summer. We need not have been concerned; the horses were as keen to attack as we were. They stomped, neighed and pulled; they were like the Lionheart himself, eager to take flight and go to war.
The King scoured the flames and smoke, looking for holes in the walls that would allow us to assault the castle’s bailey. The main gates were much more substantial than the walls and withstood the flames far longer, but eventually one part of the walls, about three yards wide, was burned down to waist level.
The Lionheart looked at me.
I nodded, as confidently as I could. But I knew that, once again, the beast I had by the tail was about to drag me into another fight to the death.
Within seconds, I was next to the King as we plunged into the castle’s ditch and up the other side. With the arrows and quarrels from our archers trying to keep the defenders at bay, we jumped through the flames into a bailey which was bristling with men and weapons. The Lionheart’s horse was hit the moment we entered the open space. The defenders had created a cordon of lances, bows and swords, and we rode into a bombardment of missiles. Godric took an arrow through his arm and Rodor was hit in the thigh by a lance that glanced off his shield and embedded itself into his flesh.
I jumped from my horse and made sure Modig took care of Godric and Rodor. Leax and Penda gathered around me and we placed ourselves at the Lionheart’s shoulder as he waded into the defenders. I was anxious that we had stuck our heads into a cauldron, and I turned in the hope of finding our men flooding in behind us. To my immense relief, led by Mercadier on his huge black destrier, our conrois were flooding through the smoke and flames to support us. The King had not hesitated and, with his shield held high, was raining blows on to the wall of defenders.
But we faced troops who were determined not to yield. Four, in particular, attacked the Lionheart with venom and
managed to force him backwards. For once, in hand-to-hand fighting, his safety was under real threat. ‘Varangians!’ shouted Mercadier as he ran one through with his lance. Isaac must have recruited the legendary mercenaries from Constantinople, where they had served the Byzantine Emperor for generations. Distinctive in their dark-blue capes and with their long hair and beards, these Norse and English warriors had a fearsome reputation – especially for the use of their formidable battleaxes.
In a moment of terror, I watched as King Richard had his sword knocked from his hand. One of the Varangians had got between me and the Lionheart, and I was too far away to help, as were Mercadier and my men. Fortunately, the King always carried a small pugio on his belt for emergencies like this. With lightning speed, he was able to draw it, duck under the arc of his assailant’s axe and plunge it into his belly. Mercadier had brought the Lionheart a horse, and he was able to get into the saddle and continue his onslaught.
However, I remained isolated. The two Varangians I faced were at least half a head taller than I was, and the blows from their axes hit my shield like blacksmiths’ hammers. I had no choice but to retreat under the onslaught. I looked for Penda and Leax; both were on the ground. Penda was moving, but in great distress from a wound to his shoulder that was discharging blood profusely. Leax was motionless, but with no sign of a wound. I was forced back against the walls of the bailey, which put an end to any further retreat. My prospects were not good.
The Varangian to my right launched his axe towards my helmet but, inadvertently, he gave me a chance. His blow was too close to the wall and instead of splitting my skull asunder, it cleaved deep into the timber of the wall. In the moment it took for him to pull it free, I was able to lunge under his shield and thrust my sword deep into his midriff. His eyes opened wide in horror and pain as he fell on to me, his bulk protecting me from his comrade’s blows. Then, with all the strength I could muster, I used the Varangian’s body as a battering ram to force myself away from the wall. My sudden movement unsteadied the second Norseman, who tripped over a body behind him and landed on the floor with his comrade on top of him. He was at my mercy and I despatched him before he had a chance to free himself.
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