by Jack Whyte
According to what Tournedos had been told, the so-called Emperor of this place, Isaac Comnenus, had misplayed a minor opportunity for advantage into a looming disaster for himself and his countrymen. With an option plainly open to him to win favor and acclaim when the survivors of the great storm were blown into his harbor seeking assistance, Comnenus had chosen instead to abuse, affront, and insult the future Queen of England and her companion, the former Queen of Sicily, thereby giving intolerable offense to the implacable man who was husband-to-be to the first and brother to the second. Richard of England, the man becoming increasingly known as the Lionheart, had been much closer to hand than the hapless and badly informed Isaac had ever imagined, and now Isaac must pay for his folly and greed. Richard’s fleet, bearing his entire army, would arrive in Limassol the following day, and when it did, and the army disembarked, life would become extremely interesting for everyone in the region, and most particularly for the self-styled Emperor of Cyprus.
ANDRÉ ST. CLAIR STOOD nervously, poised on his toes and ready to leap as soon as the man in the prow of his boat gave the word. Close by him, though the space between it and him varied constantly in distance, height, and angle, a sloping platform dangled dangerously, supported by hanging chains and strapped underfoot with wooden cleats to make it easier to climb up its steep incline. André swallowed hard and flexed his fingers, his eyes flickering briefly again towards the helmsman handling the tiller expertly and easily in the stern.
“Wait for it,” the big man growled, maintaining his pressure on the tiller while keeping his eye on the end of the hanging platform. “It’s not going anywhere without you. Wait you … Wait … There … Now!”
André jumped, his feet landing solidly on the ramp while his left hand clamped in a firm grip on the chain that served as a hand rail. He released his breath explosively but without changing the expression on his face, then looked back at the boat master, nodding his thanks. As he looked away again, raising his eyes, the ship above him, the largest André had ever seen, leaned sideways on a swell, looming over him, and he felt his gorge threaten to rise. He swallowed it down determinedly and threw himself into the task of pulling himself up the steep surface, making sure that his boots were firmly anchored against the wooden cross-straps before he took each step, for the wooden ramp was wet and slippery and he had no wish to slide down into the sea wearing a full suit of mail. Halfway up the great, swelling side of the dromon, where the ramp folded back upon itself for the second, almost level segment of the climb, he found a flat, hinged platform between the flights and stopped to make sure that he would be presentable when he emerged onto the vessel’s deck. Richard had not quite warned him about that, not in so many words, but he had mentioned the mid-climb platform and observed that it seemed to be a natural place to pause and make sure one’s appearance was … appropriate … before proceeding to the deck. Ladies were temperamental creatures and much influenced by appearances, had seemed to be his message, and André had been attuned to it.
While he worked at straightening his clothing, a niggling voice somewhere far at the back of his mind murmured about the sin of personal vanity and the scandalous impropriety of any Temple brother having any dealings with women of any description. He knew that when the time came to take his final vows, he would be required to abjure all contact with women. For the time being, however, he was content to bear in mind that he was not yet a Temple Knight; that he was still answerable to, and bound to obey, the wishes of his liege, Duke Richard; and that there would be time enough in future for penitence and self-denial. He therefore twisted his shoulders and adjusted his mantle until it hung comfortably, and as he did so, he, too, eyed the three new vessels that had entered the anchorage. He knew none of them, but did not expect to. His knowledge of ships and shipping extended to whatever deck lay beneath his feet at any time, and there it ended. André St. Clair was not and would never be a seaman. He knew that every seasoned eye on every ship in the anchorage would be trained on the newcomers, and they would be either welcomed in or driven off. Either way, it was of no immediate concern to him.
His mantle finally settled comfortably about his shoulders, he set about the climb again, rising swiftly to the gate at the top of the ramp, where he was awaited by a brightly dressed group of five dignitaries, three of whom were more richly attired than the others, and all of whom regarded him as though they had found a rat crawling around the edges of their deck. One of the three best dressed would, André knew, be Sir Richard de Bruce, the Norman-English officer in command of the three dromons as a group. The other two, he suspected, would be the individual captains of the two remaining vessels, and the two less brightly caparisoned officers would be senior lieutenants. A swift scan of the deck showed him that there were no women in sight. He stepped forward immediately, through the gate that one of the common seamen was holding open for him. He made a choice instinctually, choosing the tallest and haughtiest-looking of the group, and drew himself to attention, saluting as he did so.
“Sir Richard de Bruce? I bring you greetings from King Richard and written personal greetings for his betrothed, the Princess Berengaria, and for his beloved sister Joanna, Queen of Sicily. My name is André St. Clair, and I am a knight of Poitou, liege to Richard as both Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou.”
The introductions and amenities dealt with as briefly as possible, de Bruce, the type of self-important martinet who set St. Clair’s teeth on edge, informed André in clipped, formal words that the ladies had retired to their quarters for their midday meal, and that he would inform them of Sir André’s arrival. In the meantime, he directed one of the senior lieutenants, pointing with the hand that held his letter from the King, to conduct Sir André to a sheltered spot on the rear deck outside the superstructure, where he could sit on a pawl and collect himself in privacy while he awaited his summons to attend upon the ladies. Mindful of Richard’s admonition, André said nothing more, merely nodding formally and turning his back on de Bruce and his group to follow the ship’s smirking lieutenant to the spot indicated, where he stood looking out towards the three newly arrived ships, purging his anger at the insult of his reception by reviewing the conversation he had had the previous day with Richard Plantagenet.
Richard had summoned André to the stem deck of his galley—a place where they apparently might not be overheard. There he had sat in his shirtsleeves, working busily. He needed someone, he explained, for a task that he could not trust to any man who might think to cross him.
“And then I remembered you,” he said, “praying in the solitude of your penurious cell aboard one of the Temple ships.” His face split in a grin and his voice rose. “I know your sword arm is well enough by now, but are your knees yet functioning, after being bent in prayer on a wooden floor for so long?”
He did not wait for—and clearly did not expect—an answer, but proceeded directly to say that he would be sending André with the Temple squadron to Limassol in Cyprus. Richard and the others would follow with the tide, a day or more later.
“Limassol is where my dromons ended up, with all their cargo: my wife-to-be, my sister, and my war chest—all the moneys I have raised to fight this war. All of them there, at the mercy of this demented Emperor.”
“Emperor, my liege?”
“Aye, some petty fool of a ruler in Cyprus, a Byzantine who stole the throne, is threatening the safety of my women and has laid his thieving hands upon the Great Seal of England, wearing it around his neck like a gewgaw. I am sailing to root him out and kick his smelly arse out of Cyprus and into the sea. I need speed, and the Marshal of the Temple, Etienne de Troyes, agreed to let me borrow his four fast ships— of course, only after I’d mentioned the danger to our war chest, and how the loss of it would severely curtail our campaign in the Holy Land. For their part, the Templars, bound by their duty, will guard the ladies— guard them to the death—and they will keep their holy distance, terrified of contamination.
“André, I must be wary
at all times of those with whom I deal. The potential for treachery and double dealings, for secretive and surreptitious alliances and plots among all this upheaval is enormous. Philip alone, I know, would be willing to pay anything to anyone, if they would undertake to destroy the possibility of this marriage my mother has contracted between England and Navarre. And he is but one of the enemies I have among our friends. Even the Marshal of the Temple must be suspect in my eyes in this affair, because his sworn loyalty is to the Pope, and the Pope would dearly love to lay his hands upon some means to keep England without an heir, and consequently at the mercy of France and Philip Capet and his staunch ally, Holy Mother Church. Rome has not yet forgiven me for my father’s sin in killing Thomas Becket. And Philip will never forgive me for rejecting him … him first, and then his sorry sister.”
He sighed. “I can take no other man’s word for what has happened or for what is going on, because the stakes involved are so enormous that I will always wonder if what I am being told is truth, or whether someone has been suborned in order to set me on an errant course. You will do no such thing. It does not lie within your nature.” He picked up two folded and sealed packages that lay on the far corner of his table and tossed them, one after the other, to André. “These are for Joanna and the Princess Berengaria. Joanna’s is the one marked with the pen stroke by the seal. I want you to take these to their dromon immediately and deliver each one personally to the lady for whom it is written. Trust no one with that task. Do it yourself. Request an audience with both ladies in my name, then remain with them and wait for their responses, for I have asked each of them different questions and made it clear that I will be relying heavily upon the accuracy of their answers.
“I do not know the Princess well, but my sister Joanna was never anyone’s fool, even as a bosomless chit of a girl. Indeed she is more her mother’s child than any other of our brood. If there is something rotting around her, Joanna will have nosed it out and dealt with it by now. She will have information and opinions that will be invaluable to me. You read and write, too. I remembered that with much pleasure. It triples and quintuples your value in this. Listen closely to all Joanna has to say, and then make notes of all you judge to be important.”
André would also bear a letter to Sir Richard de Bruce, whom Richard described as “a good seaman and an able commander, but distant, unfriendly, and disdainful.” De Bruce would be instructed to give André a complete report and assessment of the situation in Cyprus, and to provide him with money, which Richard believed André might need for the purpose of bribery in order to gather information.
“When I arrive in Limassol, I want you there, waiting for me. You and I will then withdraw together and you will inform me of everything you have learned. Everything, André. Is that clear? Do you understand exactly what I require?”
André nodded.
“And now, by God’s Holy guts, I have to meet with bishops, who will wish to pray, no doubt, for the safety of my future bride.” He paused, and then a grin of pure devilishness transformed his face. “I will confess to you, but never to them, that I thought, last night, about my betrothed’s safety. Were she to be ravished and returned to me fruitfully pregnant, it might save me a deal of unpleasantness, would you not agree?” He blinked then, owlishly, his smile fading but not disappearing. “No, apparently you would not. Very well, Sir André, get you gone, and keep your mouth shut, your ears open, and your wits about you.” André had saluted and left then, striving manfully to conceal the shock he had felt at Richard’s cynical remarks about his future bride’s safety, and telling himself that the King had meant not a word of it.
When André was summoned at last, he was taken to a doorway in the stern of the great ship, where a guard knocked and then stepped aside. André moved into his place as the door opened inwards and an armored guard peered out at him and then moved aside in turn, beckoning him to enter. The doorway was low, and André had to stoop to pass within it, squeezing past the guard, who sucked in his paunch and tried to make himself as small as he could while the visitor passed him. Once inside, André was astonished to realize that the chamber he had entered was tiny and that the low ceiling barely afforded him the space to stand upright. It was dark in there, too, the only natural illumination being a grid pattern of bright beams of sunlight that painted the floor in checkered squares from an overhead hatch, making the dark shadows even darker by comparison. The few smoky lamps he could see mounted on brackets fastened to the ship’s beams did little to dispel the gloom. He sensed rather than saw human shapes, female shapes, on both sides of him and counted three in a dark corner to his right and two on his left. Two ladies sat at a small table that held the remnants of a simple meal. He could see from their attitude that both of them were looking at him, so he bowed deeply and addressed himself to both of them.
“I pray you will forgive me, ladies, for I know not which of you is which and the light in here is very poor. My name is André St. Clair, knight of Poitou, and I bring you greetings and written words from my liege lord King Richard, who sent me here in haste to promise you that he is coming, with the remainder of his fleet, and will be here tomorrow to speak with you in person.”
“Ooh, la! Richard has found himself a clever one.” The speaker was the woman on his right, and something in the tone of her voice, a measure of maturity that he would not have expected in the young Princess, led him to wager with himself that this was Joanna Plantagenet. He stared hard into the gloomy corner where she sat and decided to take a risk of appearing stupid, rather than to stand there mumchance like an awkward boy. He smiled, showing his teeth, and raised an eyebrow. “Clever, my lady? May I ask what prompts you to think that?”
“Why, the cunning way you evaded the trap of having to guess at which of us was which, for that was a guessing game you could not have won without offending one or both of us. St. Clair, you say? Are you related to Sir Henry, who was Master-at-Arms to my mother?”
“I am, my lady. He is my father.”
“Then I know you, knew you, when you were a child. Step closer.”
André did so, relieved to know that he had guessed correctly, and as he did so, Joanna raised the flimsy, dark-colored veil that had obscured her features, and her face came into sight, almost shining in the gloom surrounding it. He remembered her, too, from his childhood, for she had been several years older than he was, and from the time he was a toddler until he was old enough to run away from them and hide, she and her friends had used him mercilessly in their games whenever they could. He had never thought of her in those days as being comely, but now he realized that she must have been, and he had simply been too young to notice. Her face, he saw now, was striking, and he recalled vaguely that men had once called her beautiful, before she wed, but the word that had sprung into his mind upon first seeing her face unveiled was strength.
She wore a white wimple that concealed her hair and outlined her face, and the veil over that, now thrown back behind her head, was secured by an ornate comb. Framed by the edges of the wimple, her forehead was broad and high and unlined—she was barely thirty, he knew, several years younger than her brother Richard— and her brows and lashes were pale golden, framing eyes that were deep blue above high, tight-sculpted cheekbones, a straight, strong nose, and a wide and mobile mouth. But there were tiny crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes and at the sides of her mouth, and he remembered hearing that she had been a well-wed Queen, although her elderly husband had been unable to breed a son upon her. She was now a widow of several years’ standing.
All of this passed through his mind as she beckoned him to lean closer, and he realized that she was scanning his face as closely as he had hers. But then she nodded very slightly and the skin across her cheeks and below her eyes seemed to go smooth, as though she had somehow tightened it deliberately. “I remember you. You were a very pretty little boy and you have grown into a very pretty man.”
There was something in her voice, an inflection of som
e kind, that struck André as odd, but he disregarded it as she continued speaking. “You have not yet met my sister-to-be, have you? Berengaria, this is Sir André St. Clair, one of Richard’s … friends.” Again he caught that strange tone, a note approaching disdain, but this time, as he turned with a smile to face Berengaria, the implications of it washed over him, so that he felt himself flushing with mortification all the way from the back of his neck. He froze, the smile dying on his lips, and then straightened angrily, stung beyond prudence.
“Madam, you wrong me,” he snapped, outraged that anyone would think to classify him as one of the effete group of dandies that clustered around the King. “Your brother is my liege lord and I, his loyal vassal. He honors me with his trust, upon occasion, and I find no dishonor in the fact that he regards me as a friend. But I am not one of his … friends.” The emphasis he placed on that last word left no possibility for error in interpreting what he meant, and he saw Joanna Plantagenet draw back sharply as though in reaction to a sudden threat. Only then, too late, did he recognize the rashness as well as the harshness of his reaction to her comment and realize that he might have misinterpreted her meaning, but the damage had been done. He braced himself for her rebuke, but for several moments she said nothing at all, merely looking at him closely, a tiny frown between her brows.
