by Jack Whyte
Henry was mildly flummoxed, trying to visualize the scene that, if de Sablé was correct, had to be unfolding beyond the horizon. “Where is the nearest land?”
“From where we are right now?” Sir Robert shrugged. “At this point, your guess would be as valid as mine. But I will be able to answer you easily as soon as we have discovered where we are right now. We have been blown off course. That much is certain. But how far, and in what direction, is what we must now attempt to discover.”
He held up an open palm to forestall Henry’s next question. “We are in the Ionian Sea, and we were sailing east by south from Sicily towards Crete when the storm struck. That was two days ago. We know that the coast of Africa lies on our starboard side at this moment, because we are headed eastward, directly towards the rising sun, but we do not know how far away it is. But by the same reckoning, we know that the coast of Greece and its islands lies ahead of us, so we will continue south and east on our present course until we sight land. With good fortune, that will be Crete, but then again, it might be any of a chain of islands, all of which will serve us equally well, since from any one of them we can be in Crete within days.” He hesitated, and then gave a tentative half smile. “Of course, we might have been blown backward altogether and the next land we sight could be Sicily again. Only time will tell. In the meantime, we have our sharpest-eyed crewman up on the cross spar, squinting in all directions. He’ll sight land soon, and the moment that he does, our fortunes will improve.”
Sir Henry nodded. “Thank you for that. I often think there can be nothing worse than lacking information on which to base a decision. And speaking of information, may I ask if you know which ship my son was on? I have been thinking he must be dead, and to hear you say otherwise is an enormous relief.”
“I can tell you it was one of the four Templar vessels, and all four of them were placed in the second line, directly behind the King’s three dromons. Where they may be now is anyone’s guess. And now I must return to my post. Are you comfortable? Is there anything I can provide for you?”
Sir Henry shook his head and thanked the Fleet Master graciously, then eased himself gently back against the ropes and closed his eyes, feeling the coolness of a gentle breeze ruffling his hair and lulling him to sleep, while around him the sounds of shipboard activity regained their normal levels. The last clear thought that crossed his mind before he dozed off was the notion that the King would not be pleased if anything untoward had happened to any of his three great dromons, for among them they carried his greatest treasures: his war chest, his sister, and his future Queen.
THE MASTHEAD LOOKOUT spotted the first stray within hours of their setting out, hull down on the horizon to the south of them, and de Sablé issued orders immediately to intercept it. It was a heavy-bellied cargo carrier and it wallowed about like an old sow, but ungainly as it might have been, it had survived the storm in good order and it changed its own heading as soon as it became aware of the galley bearing down on it. Within an hour of that, they found another ship, and then another, until they had gathered more than a score of followers by the end of the day. Some of the vessels had fared much better than others, and there were a few that were in dangerous condition, but de Sablé kept them together throughout the night and there were no further alarums.
The following day, because their presence and bulk had become substantial, they attracted many more survivors, and their numbers swelled to three score and more. Three days after that, they sighted land directly ahead on their easterly course, and they arrived in Crete that afternoon. They numbered more than a hundred vessels by that time, including seven of the eight remaining galleys, and as they approached their anchorage at the foot of Mount Ida, the masthead lookouts were reporting more ships approaching from all around with every minute that passed. But no one, anywhere, could provide any information on the whereabouts of the three dromons.
Richard expressed grave concern, and Sir Henry had no doubt that it was genuine, but he found himself wondering cynically whether the monarch might be more concerned about the loss of his treasure chests than he was about his wife and sister, and he was still wondering about that when Richard dispatched all eight of his recovered galleys that same evening, four to search the Greek coastal islands to the northwest and the north, while the other four swept on east, towards Cyprus.
Sir Henry was relieved to be able to leave the ship and go ashore in Crete, for the simple reason that he could then lie down and stretch himself out in a wellstrung cot, to the great benefit of his aching chest muscles. He lay abed for three days after that, giving his body time to recuperate, once again at the insistence of Richard’s physician, until word came to him from Richard that they would be leaving the next morning for the island of Rhodes, where a large number of their missing vessels had made landfall. Knowing his time abed had done him good, he felt sufficiently recovered to rise and move about, and he walked as far as the harbor, a distance of close to half a mile, before he felt the first twinge of pain.
They sailed to Rhodes without incident the following day, and found the remainder of their former fleet already there, waiting for them. The reunion was occasion for modest celebration, once they had ascertained that no more than seven vessels of the original two hundred and nineteen—disregarding of course the missing dromons— had been irretrievably lost. Henry St. Clair stood once again at the prow of the King’s galley as they approached the ancient harbor on the northernmost tip of the island, famed throughout the world for its great lighthouse, and as the ship entered the shelter of the bay, his eyes moved restlessly among the hundred or so vessels awaiting them there, seeking the four recently built warships that belonged to the Order of the Temple, but in the absence of distinguishing insignia, he was unable to tell them apart from the remainder of the tatterdemalion collection. André would be somewhere among the forest of masts, he knew, but he had no idea how he might arrange to meet with him. He felt confident that they would remain in Rhodes for at least a week and perhaps two, for the entire fleet had to be provisioned yet again and many of the vessels had suffered serious damage that would have to be repaired before they could go anywhere. And so he concentrated upon his own responsibilities for the time being, focusing upon establishing a daily regimen of drill programs that would address the chronic problem of keeping very large numbers of men from idleness and temptation by keeping them gainfully engaged.
The sole remaining difficulty, and it was always a large one, involved finding and securing a training ground, or perhaps multiple training grounds, large enough to accommodate their numbers and close enough to both the army’s central campgrounds and the harbor to make regular movement to and from both locations relatively simple. He sent out word for his training officers to assemble and then, after reviewing the priorities facing all of them, sent them off in pairs to scour the surrounding countryside for suitable sites.
When at last three expanses had been identified for drilling grounds, the sounds of marching feet were audible everywhere as the thousands of foot soldiers from the fleet made their way there in ordered units. The horsemen were allocated different sites and times to report, as many of the horses were still being unloaded from the newly arrived ships. And thus, transition was achieved, continuity was asserted, and novelty quickly became routine.
Ten days later, while Richard and some of his English barons were inspecting cavalry at one of the three horse camps Henry had set up, a messenger came galloping with word for the King that two of the galleys he had sent to find the Princess Berengaria had been sighted returning from the east, under sail and oars, and were expected to enter the harbor within the hour. Richard abandoned the inspection immediately, and he insisted that Henry accompany him, to be present should an instantaneous decision be required.
It was closer to two hours than one by the time the two galleys approached the harbor piers, but the commander leapt down from the bows as soon as his ship came close enough, and made his way directly to where the Ki
ng and his entourage stood waiting. The Princess Berengaria and Queen Joanna were safe, he reported, but their ships, perhaps because they were the largest in the fleet, had taken the brunt of the storm winds and been blown far and away to the south of everyone else, ending up, by the time the storm finally blew itself out, off the island of Cyprus. All three of the dromons had remained together until the end, but as they neared the port of Limassol on the south coast of Cyprus, one of them had run aground on the reefs known as the rocks of Aphrodite and had foundered, with much loss of life.
Two of the great ships remained intact, their precious cargo safe, but the galley commander’s urgency was all reserved for the fate of the third. The ruler of Cyprus, he reported, was a man called Isaac Comnenus, a Byzantine who titled himself Emperor but had behaved more like a bandit chief in this instance. Richard cut him off with a wave of his arm.
“Hold, there. What mean you by that—a bandit chief? Speak plainly to me now, for this is important. Forget all the fine words and flourishes and tell me as a man what happened and what this Comnenus fellow did.”
The commander cleared his throat, and it required two false starts before he found his tongue and sufficient confidence to speak out plainly. “He has behaved shabbily, my lord King. His people looted and despoiled the dead men who were washed up on their shores after the shipwreck, and once the waves died down and it was discovered that the wreck could be reached from the shore, the survivors were taken ashore and penned up as prisoners, given little in the way of aid or care. And then they discovered that there were chests of gold aboard, and the people there went wild. Before they could bring much of it ashore, however, the Emperor Comnenus and his men arrived and confiscated everything …” His voice faded away and he stood frowning.
“What, man? There’s more, is there not? What of my ladies aboard the other ships?”
“They are well, my lord, but—”
“He has not harmed them?”
“No, my lord. But at first he would not let them go ashore. Threatened them with prison should they land on his shores. He changed his mind later, once he thought there might be gold aboard those ships, too, but by then the two ladies had decided they were safer aboard their ships than they would be elsewhere. Emperor though this fellow calls himself, he has no army worthy of the name, and no ships at all. But, sire, there is more …”
“More?” Richard’s face darkened by the moment. “What you have told me is enough already. I shall have things to say to this Comnenus when we meet, for he sounds like no Christian monarch to me, let alone an emperor. What more could there be?”
“Your vice-chancellor, my lord.”
“Nevington. What about him? Is he dead?”
“Aye, my lord. He drowned in the wreck of the ship and was one of the people washed ashore.”
Richard was frowning slightly, but then his brow smoothed out. “The seal! Is it safe?” Lord Nevington, as vice-chancellor of England, always wore the Great Seal on a ribbon about his neck, for it was his responsibility to keep it with him at all times, so that in the event the King needed to sign and seal an official document of any kind, the seal would be close by and ready for his use.
“Those who found it stripped it from him, not knowing what it was, but Comnenus seized it and now wears it around his neck.”
“God’s balls, man, tell me you jest with me!” Richard’s voice had risen to a roar of fury. “Are you saying this … this filth-crusted, hunchbacked imbecile now holds the Great Seal of England, in addition to the gold I brought to pay my men?”
The mariner merely nodded, wide eyed.
“Then by the living Christ I will have the whoreson’s scrotum cured and made into a bag to hold my seal from this time on!” He swung around to St. Clair. “Henry, set things in motion now, today. Send out orders to break camp at once and put one of your officers to find Robert de Sablé and send him to me in my quarters. I want the fleet loaded by tomorrow night, every man and horse and every item of stowage ready for the tide the following day. We are going to Cyprus to teach this crotch-sniffing, flea-infested Emperor that when he chose to thieve from us, he picked the wrong victim in Richard Plantagenet. And you—” The King pointed and the galley commander straightened his shoulders, bracing himself. “You have done well, to come back here so quickly and so well informed. Now I have further need of you. Do not permit your men to come ashore tonight, for I need you to leave again tomorrow, before the rest of us. Return to Cyprus immediately, you and your companion there, leading the four Temple ships that I will have assigned to your care. The Templars will protect my sister and my betrothed until such time as we arrive. And you may promise your crew, from me in person, that they will be given time ashore, and money to spend there, in recompense for the extra duties I am putting upon them.” He looked over to the small group of nobles who had accompanied him and beckoned to a splendid, goldenhaired young knight who might easily have been described as beautiful. “D’Yquiem, if you will, present my respects to the Marshal of the Temple and ask him if he would be kind enough to seek me in my quarters within the hour.”
The young knight saluted smartly and spun away to his task, and Richard nodded abruptly, dismissing everyone else with a backhanded wave before striding off in the direction of the building he had taken as his personal quarters.
THREE
Jean Pierre Tournedos had been born into a mercantile family that owned a modest fleet of trading ships, and at the age of twenty-six was invited to join the Order of the Temple as an associate brother and to dedicate his knowledge and his exceptional skills, at an appropriate price, to the design and construction of a prototype ship that would permit the rapidly expanding Order to move away from its reliance on land bases. Working with a small group of colleagues, Tournedos designed a large vessel with the capacity to ship both men and cargo, including livestock. But what made the ship unique was that it was designed to house a highly disciplined crew of fighting monks, accustomed to living in penitential austerity, in close quarters that normal mariners would not have tolerated. Manned by such a highly disciplined and religiously obedient crew, the vessel was also capable of serving as a ship of war should the need arise, with triple banks of oars, fighting platforms, and a metal-clad ramming prow. It also incorporated specific modifications that permitted it to function as a monastic vessel at times, although that concept, of a monastic ship, was as revolutionary in its time as the notion of military monks had been ninety years earlier.
Since adherence to the Rule was all-important in the daily life of the brethren, additional space had been created within the hull, directly below the rowing deck, for the brethren of the Order to assemble for common prayers and services. It was a cramped and crabbed space, entirely lacking in comfort, and only along the narrow central aisle could a man stand upright without stooping, but the men who would use this space had no regard for physical comfort and would gladly offer up their discomfort to God, in penitence. The central aisle offered the sole access to the space. The brethren would enter by the aisle, then crawl or climb to their assigned places in the spaces that flanked it, where they would sleep at nights, and at other times sit, and sometimes kneel, for the prayers and readings of the daily Rule. That commitment was extraordinary at a time when every inch of shipboard space was precious, but it had been deemed necessary for the spiritual and physical welfare of the monks who would be crewing the vessel.
In the years since then, three sister ships had been built, and five more were now in preparation, to the same design, forming what the Templars now called the Mediterranean squadron, based in the port of Brindisi, on the outermost heel of the Italian mainland. One of the earliest preceptories built by the Order in Italy, Brindisi had in recent years begun to assume significant importance to the emerging nautical interests within the Temple Order, situated as it was within easy sailing distance of a cluster of shipbuilding yards that had been there, some said, since Roman times. The vessels they produced were expensive and hig
hly prized.
Tournedos, now the squadron’s commodore, had sailed south and west from Brindisi to Messina, to join the great fleet assembled by Richard of England for the expedition to the Holy Land, and in Messina he welcomed aboard his own vessel the senior members of the Order’s latest reinforcing expedition to Outremer, including some of the highest-ranking Templars in all of Christendom, all of whom were eager to inspect the ships of which they had heard so much. And at the same time, they took aboard the newest crop of reinforcements, including the least of the Temple’s least—the latest contingent of low-level recruits and novices.
Now Tournedos stood on the stern deck of his ship, looking about him at the surrounding scene. They had anchored that morning, after entering Limassol on a rising tide, and the island of Cyprus towered above him, its rugged hills appearing to offer no hint of warmth or refuge. Gazing at the scene and at the port, Tournedos, who had somehow managed to visit the island only twice before in all his years of sailing, decided yet again that the island of Cyprus, beautiful as it might be, held no allure at all for him. He turned his eyes away and looked to his right, where, perhaps a quarter of a land mile distant but no closer to the shore, two massive ships, the dromons he had been sent to find and protect, dwarfed his own. Between him and the dromons, moving rapidly under oars towards the closer of the two ships, a remarkable young man, of whose existence Tournedos had been unaware until the previous day, stood in the stern of his ship’s boat, gazing straight ahead to where an access ramp was being lowered from one of the great ships to await his arrival. Tournedos scratched absently at his bearded cheek with the tip of one finger, then turned again to look at the outlying anchorage behind him, where three more newcomers were now arriving. He scanned them once again, for perhaps the sixth time since being warned of their approach, looking for symbols by which to identify them. They were Christian ships, easily distinguishable from the low, rakish galleys used by Muslim pirates, and they had approached from the east, perhaps from Outremer itself, which would explain his inability to identify them. He sniffed, knowing he would find out who they were within the hour or soon thereafter, and turned away again to squint at the high, densely packed buildings surrounding the harborfront of Limassol.
