Keeping his voice low, Robert said, ‘You cannot take their damned bird without payment. You’re not on your own lands now.’
‘Isn’t it magnificent? See how its keeper has cared for it? Eh, what are all these people—’
‘You had better return it, or show them some money.’ He decided to act rather than argue, and started for his horse. He was still some way from it when a flint struck him on the leg. He spun round, saw the line of villagers with rocks in their hands, and shouted at Richard, ‘Leave the devilish thing where you found it!’
The king held his ground for a moment, unwilling to relinquish the falcon. What was the matter with them, creating such a fuss? It was a royal bird anyway, at least at home, so by right it belonged to him. He faced the angry line, held the bird above his head and roared, ‘Put down those stones! How dare you threaten me! Back off before you regret it!’
Having gained the saddle, Robert stared at his king. Richard towered over the villagers, his blue eyes wide with anger. All who knew him feared him most like this, when he had managed to convince himself he was in the right. But it helped to know who he was.
The villagers did not know, nor did they understand his language. They saw only that a tall, arrogant foreigner was attempting to steal the village falcon – the one Jesi pitched against the rest of Calabria – and that the odds were in their favour, thirty men to two. They swung back their arms and loosed a hail of flints. One caught the king on the chest, another on the right foot. As he hopped in agony, the gerfalcon lunged at him, then soared up above the village.
Robert yelled, ‘Get on your horse!’ turned to see how close the villagers had come and took a rock squarely on the forehead. He decided to let Richard Cœur-de-Lion look to his own salvation.
But four of the peasants, perhaps those who owned a major share in the falcon, charged the dazed Duke of Breteuil. He drew his sword and slashed out at them, taking full advantage of his mounted height. They swung at him with staves and ugly farm implements, but they were no match for the long blade and flashing hooves. He drove them back, while Richard hobbled to his horse.
Now that they were both up, Robert turned his palfrey and spurred to the end of the short street. He had had enough of the farce, and was eager to avoid further injury, either to themselves, or the villagers.
But the king was not yet ready to leave. Instead, he drew his own longsword and launched a counter-attack, howling with delight as the peasants scattered. Cheated out of the falcon – his falcon – he had begun to enjoy this new game: two mounted Crusaders against thirty witless peasants.
The villagers refused to treat it as a game. Knives were drawn, scythes lifted from pegs on the wall, pitchforks snatched from hay stores. The mood changed abruptly and Richard became freshly indignant. Jambes de De, if that was the way they chose to annoy him—
He cut down two men where they stood. Then, swinging his sword clear of the palfrey’s flanks, he shattered another man’s skull with the flat of his blade. The sword snapped near the hilt. He hurled the useless weapon at the villagers and shouted, ‘There! A memento for you! One day you’ll discover who gave you the thrashing!’ He saw Robert of Breteuil come between him and the vengeful mob, and flinched beneath a barrage of invective. Then, displaying sense at last, the king wheeled his horse and galloped from the village. Robert followed, bleeding from the flint cut on his head. Behind them, three men lay dead in the street, while others nursed wrenched limbs and hoof cuts. There was no sign of the gerfalcon.
The road curved west and they stayed on it, heading for the beach above Reggio. For a while Robert kept silent, while the king fumed, ‘Damned pigswill! They should have remained inside and tended their business. And showing knives to a king!’ Then the duke wiped away the blood that had run down into his eyes and grabbed Richard by the shoulder.
‘Listen!’ he snarled. ‘You’ve done enough today. Now shut your mouth, lest I do it for you!’
* * *
Next morning, Richard Cœur-de-Lion and Robert of Breteuil went aboard the king’s round-hulled Esnecca Regis, named Trenchemer, The Sea Slicer. The flagship had sailed from England at the head of a fleet of one hundred and thirteen vessels; transport for the English Crusade. Each vessel carried a portion of the royal treasure, together with the host of men and horses, and the weighty equipment of war. The fleet had rounded Spain and anchored off Marseilles, where Richard had gone aboard with the men from his continental possessions of Anjou, Aquitaine and Normandy. Seasickness had put him ashore again in Italy, and he had continued the journey overland, accompanied by Robert.
Now, as Trenchemer took them across the straits that separated the Italian toe from the shapeless football of Sicily, the young king explained that he and the courageous Duke of Breteuil had been set upon by brigands – hence Robert’s head wound. The crew of the flagship were impressed by his account. Two against sixty, eh? Fifteen brigands sent to Hell, eh? Well, it was to be expected, when Richard Lionheart was on the scene.
Meanwhile, a parallel situation had developed with the French. Philip Augustus had accompanied Richard to Marseilles where the French Crusaders had embarked aboard their own fleet. Philip, however, was also prone to seasickness, so he, too, had taken the land route, along the south coast of France, then southward through Italy. The two kings had met briefly in Genoa, and agreed to meet again at Messina in Sicily.
Richard hoped he would reach the island before Philip. He did not trust the Frenchman, in his sight, or out of it. Philip, he knew, felt the same way about him. If they had been asked to compose a character picture of each other, they would have used many of the same words: arrogant, vain, selfish, greedy. But where Philip found the Englishman too boorish, too clumsy, too close to boiling point to be reliable, Richard thought the French monarch a chilly, bloodless schemer. They had little in common, save that they were the two most powerful men in the West. This was not nearly enough to bring them together.
Richard’s mood was not brightened when he learned that Philip Augustus had reached Messina nine days ahead of him.
* * *
‘Let me understand,’ he said. ‘I’m getting a phrase from here and a phrase from there. One of you must be able to tell it as a whole. Robert, have you pieced it together?’
‘I can give you the gist, Lord King.’
‘Then do so. And let’s be seated. These Sicilian houses were built for dwarfs. I can’t hold my head erect in any part of the place.’ He gestured to the chairs and couches, and his barons squeezed themselves between the olive-wood arms.
‘Now, go on with it, Breteuil.’
Robert leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands free to illustrate his words. ‘We’ve arrived at the right time,’ he said. ‘You can put Philip out of your mind for a while; a new target’s been set up.’ He saw Richard frown with irritation, and went on, ‘Your sister, Joanna, was married to William of Sicily—’
‘For God’s sake! A lesson in family history?’
‘This is not just for you, King. If we are all to help you, we must all know the situation.’ He turned to a trio of barons, wedged together on a frail, cushionless couch. ‘Alan? Walter? Hugh? Do you need some light shed on this?’
They glanced at Richard, aware that they were about to contradict him. ‘With the king’s permission, yes, we do.’
Robert nodded. ‘As I was saying, Joanna was married to William, the king of this island. Since last November she has been a widow, and, because God did not bless the union with children, she has no direct claim to the throne. From all I understand, it should have gone to some relative of the drowned Frederick of Germany. But that’s no longer important.’
Richard yawned, and earned a rebuke from Robert. ‘It is your sister, King. It should hold your attention.’ He continued, ‘With the Emperor Frederick embroiled in his Crusade, he was in no position to support the German claim. The islanders here must have realized it, for they gave the crown to one of their own, a bastard ca
lled Tancred of Lecce. He, as you probably know, is today King of Sicily.’
‘You’ve left out my sister,’ Richard commented.
‘I have not. Queen Joanna – and she is still thought of by many as queen – was always popular with the country people. Tancred knew this, and has taken measures to deal with it.’ He stopped, knowing that he had finally gained Richard’s attention.
‘What measures?’
‘Well, we’ve only been here a few hours, so I have not had the chance to verify—’
Richard took over from him. He had not seen Joanna since she had left England to marry William. She had been eleven then, so he supposed she was now twenty-four or -five. He remembered her as a gawky young colt of a girl, with the same distinctive ginger-red hair. He felt suddenly protective towards his sister. By God, if that bastard Tancred had misused her – ‘I thought it odd that she did not greet us on the quayside. Do you know what kept her away?’
Robert nodded. ‘I fear she’s being held by King Tancred. It seems he has also appropriated her dowry and a certain legacy her husband left to your father. I imagine Tancred thinks that since both William and Henry are dead—’
‘He’ll keep it for himself? In Hell he will. If there’s any money owing to my father, I’ll take care of it.’
Robert thought, the word money works on you like a magic spell. He said, ‘No doubt you will, though Queen Joanna is surely more important to us.’
‘What? Yes, of course. Her dowry and a legacy?’
‘We should demand her release.’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s right. And we must get a copy of William’s bequest. Oh, now I see how it is.’ He came out of his chair, remembered to stoop, and prowled the room, his emotions spinning between his young, defenceless sister – I forget she’s twenty-five – and the money with which to strengthen the Crusade.
Robert motioned to one of his fellow barons, who passed him a scroll, tied with ribbon. He tapped it against his hand. When Richard glanced at him, he said, ‘We have already obtained a copy of King William’s legacy. We have yet to discover the amount of Queen Joanna’s dowry.’
‘That,’ Richard assured him, ‘you may leave to me.’
I don’t doubt it, Robert mused. You’ll find it out to the last silver penny. Then sell the empty money bags at a profit.
* * *
The contents of King William’s legacy, neatly listed, comprised:
One gold table, twelve feet in length
A number of galleys, equipped and provisioned for two years.
(Here Richard appended ‘One hundred galleys’)
60, 000 seams of corn
60, 000 seams of barley
60,000 seams of good wine
Twenty-four gold dishes
Twenty-four gold cups
One seam was judged equal to a mule load. Richard had already decided to sell the foodstuff straight from the bins, and auction the wine while it was still in the cellars. Then he would demand a further sum in lieu of the pack animals. He intended to keep the gold tableware for the moment; it would fetch a higher price in Europe, where the Church might be encouraged to enter a bid.
* * *
Tancrcd of Sicily was a stunted, unpersonable man, called king to his face and ape behind his back. He had welcomed neither Philip Augustus nor Richard Cœur-de-Lion to his island. He assumed that they would remain at Messina long enough to take on food and water, then sail on to Palestine and the relief of the Christian army at Acre. He also assumed that, since Richard had not seen Joanna for fourteen years, he would give low priority to her plight. He could hear Richard say, ‘It is hard for her, but we must all make sacrifices for the Cause.’
But Tancred’s assumptions were incorrect, his hearing faulty.
Supremely unimpressed by the Englishman’s demands for the return of his sister, her dowry, and her husband’s legacy, Tancred responded by releasing Joanna, together with a muleload of skins and pillows from her bed…
Brother and sister were reunited in the English camp outside Messina. They were amused that, since they had last met, one had become king, the other queen. But they were not amused by the circumstances of Joanna’s release. It was a calculated insult, aimed at both of them.
Tall now, and more striking than ever with her long red hair, Joanna said, ‘I know you are eager to be on your way, and you are needed in the Holy Land. But, if you can, stay long enough to make some gesture on my behalf.’
He smiled at her. It was good to see her again. And it was good to let her see that he had become a giant, her elder brother, her protector. Yes, he told her, he would make a gesture.
By now, word of Richard’s former exploits in France and England was leaking back to King Tancred. He was not sure that his insult had been well timed, and to take the sting out of it he sent Richard one million terrani, small gold coins weighing twenty grains apiece. The token payment did nothing to assuage Richard’s anger, though it did prove that Tancred had money on hand. It was time to make the promised gesture.
On 3rd October, less than a week after they had landed in Sicily, the English Crusaders stormed through Messina. They set light to the Sicilian fleet, conveniently anchored in the harbour. They seized the sons of the local nobility, demanded huge ransoms for them, then unfurled the Leopards of England on the city walls.
King Tancred was stunned. In one morning he had lost his capital, his fleet, and half the members of his court. He immediately sued for peace. What else can one do, he moaned, threatened by a madman? Before nightfall he had dispatched a further 20,000 ounces of gold for Queen Joanna’s dowry, and a similar amount in place of the legacy.
Richard sought out his sister and Robert of Breteuil. He was in an expansive mood.
‘As I told you! You see, the gesture has been made. And that unique creature, that Barbary ape and Sicilian bastard, he’s paid handsomely.’ Shaking at his own humour, ‘From what I hear, the only handsome thing about him.’
He bathed in Joanna’s admiration, then told Robert, ‘In truth, this sum will only satisfy me for a while. As you know, I still burn with resentment for the way he treated my lady Joanna.’
Robert glanced at the red-haired queen, and wondered if she believed her brother. Her rapt expression said she would have believed him if he’d claimed the gift of flight.
The duke said, ‘Don’t consume yourself completely, King. Sacks of coin and gold-dust have always soothed you in the past.’
‘You think so? Well, my sarcastic friend, don’t be fooled. I have hidden feelings that you know nothing about.’
‘I thought you had just announced them. Your resentment, and so forth.’
‘You were admirable,’ Joanna said. ‘When will you make over my portion to me?’
Richard cleared his throat and complained about the chill night wind. The Duke of Breteuil stared at the ground and hummed tunelessly to himself.
* * *
In the same week that the King of England took Messina, Queen Sibylla of Jerusalem died at Acre. She had been brought there by Guy, who was finding it increasingly difficult to exert his authority as king. Marquis Conrad blocked him every step of the way, condemning this strategy, ignoring that request, thwarting every attempt to unify the army. The death of his German cousin, Frederick Barbarossa, had placed him in a vulnerable position. He had only come to Acre because Frederick had commanded him. Now, with the Emperor drowned, Conrad thought seriously of breaking through the Saracen lines and returning to Tyre. As before, he would hold it, and this time give it to his French cousin, Philip Augustus.
Then Queen Sibylla died, balancing the books.
Guy was distraught, not because he had loved his spoiled, rabbit-brained wife, but because she had been the rightful Queen of Jerusalem. Without her, his only claim to the throne was by possession, and his own determination – of which he had none. True, he was legally the King of Jerusalem. He had been crowned king, so king he was. But without lineage, or the respect of his barons, the title
was meaningless. Amalric and Joscelin hissed at him to stand firm, but whenever their sibilance faded, he believed he could hear Conrad whisper, ‘Your time is short, Guy of Lusignan, your time is short.’
Queen Sibylla was among hundreds who had died in the camp at Acre. The polluted water and flyblown food caused widespread malaria, while the crushing heat of summer had been enough to strike down the weak and bareheaded.
During the late autumn a further disease, called arnoldia, spread through the tented city. Men lost their fingernails and toenails, then the hair from their groins and armpits. Their glands swelled, crippling them, and the hair came away in bunches from their scalps. Inexorably, their skin dried and turned flaky, so that many were convinced they had contracted leprosy. Having held out grimly against every Saracen attack, they now huddled in their tents, ashamed to be seen.
They had heard that Philip and Richard were on their way, but they no longer spent hours staring seaward, in anticipation of the fleets. They would come when they came. Staring would not fill the sails with wind.
Chapter Six
Acre
November, December 1190
In his pavilion below Mount Turon, Marquis Conrad consulted a sheet of parchment. The sheet was covered with names and phrases: comments, suggestions, aides memoires. He had used several coloured inks, and the differing shapes of the letters showed that he had added to the parchment over a lengthy period. Now, as a result of Queen Sibylla’s death, the sheet required further correction.
One section read - Ri? When? Guienne. Gy for Ri. Decoy Am? Take Jos. with money? Then Gy on the field.
Conrad decoded as he read. Ri? When? Guienne. Gy for Ri. When would Richard of England arrive at Acre? Remember Guienne. As a Poitevin from Guienne, Guy of Lusignan was Richard’s vassal. As Lord of Poitou, Richard was therefore sworn to protect him.
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