by Jack Whyte
Aquila stood staring at St. Clair, eyes narrowed, teeth nibbling gently at his upper lip, and then he inhaled deeply and turned away towards the other man. “Forgive me, Signor Loranzo, but I must attend to … this. If you would wait for me in my quarters, I shall return as soon as I may.”
The other man bowed deeply and moved away, and Aquila crooked his index finger at André. “Come. Walk with me.”
As André fell into step beside him, the other man asked, “Why do you want to ride with Richard?”
“The Duke is my liege lor—”
“I know that, Master St. Clair, but why do you wish to ride with him?”
André blinked, mildly surprised that the other man should know his name, but he replied, “It is my duty, as his vassal.”
“No, your duty as his vassal is to obey his every command. He has issued no commands in this. His call was for volunteers. Now let me ask you again: why do you wish to ride with him?”
“To—” André checked himself, aware that he was looking for a lie to justify his wishes, then smiled in spite of himself and conceded defeat.
“To feel a horse between my legs again.”
“After so long at sea, you mean.” Aquila had not been looking at him and had not seen him smile.
“Aye.”
“Do you think you are alone in that?”
“No, not—”
“Quite.” They had turned and crossed in front of the disarmed tiller and were now pacing slowly along the right edge of the stern deck, aware of the watching eyes and the listening ears of the guard at the helm behind them, but now, at the farthest point from where the guard stood watching them, Aquila stopped, turning inward so that he and St. Clair were almost nose to nose, and as he did so he grasped André by the wrist and frowned, as though snarling angrily at him, and lowered his voice dramatically. “Do not move. Do not look away from my face. Listen to what I am saying to you. Listen, as we are being listened to! Let us suppose I granted you permission to ride off with your lord. You would ride for perhaps five miles, on a beast that might prove fit to handle such a distance after a month at sea. And you might encounter this Cypriot Emperor and his crew of fools, after which you might fight them. But you might equally end up on a less than fit horse, on questionable terrain, fighting against men whose skills, though ludicrous, have the potential to be lethal on occasion. Suppose that one of those inept warriors were fortunate enough to strike you down and kill you by accident.” He paused, allowing his words to hang between them, while his eyes never flinched from André’s.
“So there you are,” he continued, his voice little more than an intense whisper. “Sir André St. Clair, dead on an unknown scrap of land in the middle of nowhere, having achieved nothing, and all that you have gone through in this past year is set at naught, a waste of time and effort. And not merely your own time and effort but the efforts of all those people who have worked with you throughout that time in order to prepare you for the task that has been set for you in Outremer.” He stopped, watching confusion and then understanding bloom in André’s eyes, then cocked one eyebrow and nodded, confirming what he saw there.
“We had already decided,” he said, in a louder voice, “those of us in command here, long before this call King Richard has made for volunteers, that the affairs of the Temple must, as always, take precedence over those of a mere king. Our task, our dedicated duty, is to reach the Holy Land alive and to replenish the strength and the fighting blood that our sacred Order has lost in the battles of the past few years. Our reserves there have been severely depleted, our continuing existence endangered, so we cannot afford to lose, or even to risk, the life or welfare of one single man before we come face to face with Saladin and his swarming hordes. The fate of Christianity itself, in Christ’s own land, might depend upon each single man of us, or even upon a single one of us … And who can say who that one man might be?
“So, we remain aboard our ships, or within our own community should we land. We hold ourselves intact, and we avoid becoming caught up in such petty, prideful, unimportant squabbles as may kill good men to no useful purpose. Do you understand me?”
The only thing that André had truly understood until that point was that once again, and unexpectedly, he had encountered a fellow member of the Order of Sion who was aware of his secret purpose in visiting Outremer. He had also understood Aquila’s message beyond a doubt, and now he had not the slightest trouble in seeing the strength of the reasoning underlying the man’s refusal of his request, and the acknowledgment of that made him feel both foolish and selfish. The prattle about the fate of Christianity itself depending upon the Temple was no more than that—prattle designed for the ears of anyone who might be overhearing them. The true message André had received was that he was constantly being watched and guarded, even against himself, by his concerned brethren in Sion. He inhaled deeply, then raised his head and nodded.
“I do, Brother Aquila. I understand … completely. And I regret having brought myself to your attention on such a trivial matter. Forgive me.”
“No need, for no harm was done. But you remain on board from now on unless King Richard summons you directly.”
André found a smile and inclined his head. “I can improve even upon that for you, Senor del’ Aquila, for I have had this conversation with myself, in other circumstances. I will attend upon King Richard only if he summons me as my liege lord, the Duke of Aquitaine. Otherwise I shall remain here and take no foolish risks. I owe no fealty to the realm of England.”
Even as the two of them spoke, Richard and his party were already setting out to ride west towards the town of Kolossi, and hearing them go, for it was yet too dark to see them, André felt no slightest pang of regret at remaining behind. Aquila’s admonition had reminded him of the priorities that governed his life now, and he spent the rest of the morning tending to his weapons, and most particularly to his crossbow, cleaning it of the salt and corrosion that had accumulated on it over the previous months at sea, then cleaning and polishing his supply of bolts and making sure that his supply of bowstrings was in prime condition, dry and well protected against dampness.
After the midday meal, lured by the sights and sounds of the butts where other crossbowmen had set up shooting posts and targets, he went ashore with two other knights and spent an hour at practice until Richard and his party arrived back from their sortie, laden with plunder. The story of their successful raid spread quickly and was greatly enjoyed. The men had found Isaac’s encampment undefended, all of its occupants asleep and not a one of them having considered that the enemy might follow them that night. Richard had attacked immediately, and the ensuing engagement had been a rout from the start, the enemy leaping out of their beds in panic and fleeing for the hills, making no effort to don their discarded clothing or weapons or to fight or defend themselves. Isaac had disappeared and was presumed to have fled among the mob, reportedly heading inland, through the Troodos mountain range to the north, towards Nicosia, seventy miles away, and Richard was in high good humor. The day was Sunday, the twelfth of May, the feast day of Saint Pancras in the year 1191, and it was to prove momentous in several ways other than the defeat of the hapless Isaac, the first of those being the sighting of the remainder of the fleet on the horizon, well ahead of schedule.
André had already listened to several versions of the morning’s events by the time he heard about the incoming fleet, and he was on his way back to his boat on the beach when he heard a familiar voice shouting his name and saw the King himself cantering up behind him. Richard’s color was high and he was very obviously pleased with himself. He swung down from his saddle and flung one arm around André’s shoulders, pulling him strongly and effortlessly down and inward across his chest in the semblance of a wrestling grip.
“I missed your face this morning,” he began, before removing his arm. “Thought you would be with me when I called for volunteers, but then I saw that yours was not the only Templar visage missing from the
throng. None of you came with me. Why was that? Does the Temple have a message that it wishes me to be aware of?”
André grinned ruefully, flexing his right shoulder, which, months after his injury, could yet be tender at times. “Yes and no, my lord. I tried to join you but was reminded, as was everyone else who sought permission, that my first duty to this expedition is the rebuilding of our Order’s presence in Outremer. It was pointed out to me that an inglorious and pointless death at the hands of a buffoon in a small Cyprus field would do little to benefit the Temple, whereas my presence in the Holy Land might achieve great things on God’s behalf.”
“Hah!” Richard’s bark of laughter confirmed that not even the Temple’s policies could overcome his goodwill this day. “Whereas my own inglorious and pointless death in the same venture would have no impact at all upon the Temple! God’s balls, these people are arrogant beyond credence.” He hesitated, the merest fraction of a pause. “But you remain my vassal, do you not? You did not swear any vows while I was away?” He saw André’s head shake in denial, and his grin grew wider. “Then that is marvelous, because this day, before the fleet makes harbor and before God can lay claim upon your loyalties, I require you to achieve great things on my behalf, my lad.” His grin still in place, he glanced about him almost furtively, like a small boy contemplating mischief, then plucked at André’s sleeve, pulling him sideways to where they could stand together in the sheltered angle of two wooden, opensided sheds. “There is something I require you to do for me, you alone and right this very minute, while the decision is yet ringing in my mind.”
“Of course, my lord. What is it?”
The King looked him in the eye, appeared to hesitate, and then plunged on, his words tumbling over each other in his haste to get them out. “I need you to commandeer a boat.”
“Already done, my lord. I have one here, close by.”
“Good. Then take it and get you out to the dromons in the bay. Present yourself there to my betrothed and inform her that she and I will be wed today, this evening, before the dinner hour. I will send an escort for her and my sister when the time is right. In the meantime, she is to dress and make herself ready. She will have several hours in which to prepare—two hours, at least, and perhaps three. I have already spoken with Father Nicolas, my chaplain, on the way back from Kolossi. He will conduct the marriage rites, as is his privilege, and he is even now making the necessary preparations for the remainder of the ceremonies. We will use the Chapel of Saint George the Dragon Slayer in the castle of Limassol, which is already ours, and the assembled bishops of our various domains—we have the Bishop of Evreux here, and another from Bayonne, as well as a few archbishops—will name and anoint her formally as Queen of England and place the crown upon her brows as soon as we are man and wife. Tell her all that. And warn Joanna to make sure that everything is as it ought to be. Bid her bring her own women and Berengaria’s, too, to insulate the Queen from such a hedging-about of grim, unsmiling churchmen … And be sure to inform de Sablé’s man, Coutreau, of how many women will be going ashore, for he will need to provide suitable transport for them—a barge, to keep them stable, and with a canopy to keep their hair and headwear free of risk from the wind and their clothing safely dry in the crossing. It would do me little good to have them row through wind and rain to appear there as a bedraggled brood, amidst all the ranks of peacockery that will assemble once the word of this is spread.” He stopped abruptly, then grasped André’s shoulder again, and the pinch of his digging fingers penetrated even the chain-mail shirt beneath André’s surcoat. “Do you understand all I have told you?”
“Aye, my lord.” André quickly rattled through the instructions he had been given, enumerating them succinctly for the King’s benefit, yet thinking all the time that this had come into being very quickly and without warning, and he wondered why that should be so. Lent was long over, and the natural post-Lenten nuptial period of Easter, with all its overtones of rebirth, renewal, and fecundity, had passed without comment, thanks to the Easter storm and the scattering of the fleet. The betrothal might now have been extended indefinitely, without incurring as much as a raised eyebrow, since the urgency of the impending campaign in Outremer now eclipsed everything else and was growing larger with every day that passed. So why, André wondered, was there such an urgency in Richard to perform this wedding now, within the space of a single day? There had been no mention of it the day before, after André’s visit to the Princess. Might it be such a sudden imperative, he wondered now, because the King, riding the high wave of victory over this island’s tyrant, needed to make the leap in full flight, before his courage failed him completely? He searched for signs of panic or desperation in Richard’s demeanor and discovered that he could see evidence of both, and in profusion, although both were muted and strongly held in check.
Richard, unaware of André’s scrutiny, was talking again. “Good. Tell my lady it will be splendid. There is a monastery here in Limassol, a Benedictine fraternity, and I am told they sing wondrously well, so we will have music and light—solid banks of the finest white candles—and copious, billowing clouds of fragrant incense. Tell her that, lest she believe she is being cheated of a Queen’s nuptials. Make sure she knows otherwise … Music and light and incense to set all the senses reeling … and a nuptial feast to follow, to be sure, oxen and sheep and swine already turning on the spit, and fish and fowl being prepared as we speak—” The King broke off, his face suddenly filled with doubt, and looked back over his shoulder. “At least, I trust they are … I spoke to—” He turned back quickly to André. “So be it. Go and do as I bid you. I have other things to see to and other folk to instruct. Quickly now. There’s little time to be lost and none at all for wasting.”
Before André could complete his salute, Richard was gone, swinging himself up into the saddle and pulling his mount sharply around, setting spurs to it and surging towards and through the crowds on the beach, scattering them with no regard for their safety as he bore down on them. André went in search of his boat.
This time his arrival at the dromon’s side was unexpected, and after his boat captain had hailed the deck, André had to bide his time in silence until someone eventually threw him down a rope ladder, his advent evidently having been deemed insufficiently important to warrant the effort of lowering the heavy access ramp. He had had to stand uneasily in the bobbing boat as his two oarsmen manipulated the small vessel with great skill until one of them managed to hook an oar between two of the hanging ladder’s rungs and angle it in to where André could catch it. He grasped the rope sides of the ladder in both hands, then leaned back against the sagging pull of it, looking up the swelling side of the enormous vessel and wondering how he would manage to climb up there in a full suit of mail.
“My thanks,” he called back to the senior oarsman. “If I don’t drown, I should not be long.”
He was dry, at least, when he reached the level of the deck, and consoled himself that only his own men, beneath him, could have seen his undignified scramble to pull himself up the ship’s side, but he was angry at having been put in a position where he needed to run the risk of falling into the sea, unobserved by anyone above. A seaman on the deck opened the gate in the ship’s side to admit him, and two deck officers turned casually, and insolently, André thought, to inspect him as he strode forward. One of them, the senior of the two, judging by the braid on his tunic, opened his mouth to say something, but André shot up an arm in front of him so that the heel of his hand almost smacked against the fellow’s nose.
“Stand at attention when you speak to a King’s messenger, you ill-mannered lout,” he snarled. “I represent Richard of England here, in person, and bear tidings from him to his betrothed and to his sister Joanna, Queen of Sicily. Would Richard himself be required to suffer your insolence and lack of regard on his arrival? Would he be forced to drag himself aboard your ship by hand?” He ignored the increasing pallor of the hapless officer’s skin and pressed himse
lf relentlessly forward into the fellow’s face. “Rest assured that I shall inform him of the possibility when I return to him this afternoon. And don’t you ever again lose sight of the fact that this is not, and will never be, your ship. It is a King’s ship. King Richard’s ship.” He snapped his head sideways and jabbed a finger towards the second, younger officer. “You! Nitwit! Shut your drooling mouth and turn Sir Richard de Bruce out here this instant. Now!” He roared the last word, cutting short the man’s attempt to respond, and the fellow spun on his heel and scampered through a door in the stern wall. André stood staring after him, making no effort to relax his rigid features.
“Sir … Master Sai—”
“Be silent! You had your opportunity to speak as I approached the ship, and you chose to remain aloof and deliver silent insults instead of assistance or courtesy. Now you will learn how it feels to wear wet rags and heave upon an oar as a common seaman, so do what you can to prepare yourself.”
As the officer stood gaping in dismay the door behind him opened and Commodore de Bruce emerged, his glance moving curiously from one of them to the other so that André knew the junior officer had already told him what was happening.
“Master St. Clair,” he said, the beginnings of a frown puckering his brow, “I had not expected to see you again.”
“Clearly. And neither had your pet ape here. I want this man stripped of his rank and duties now, for laziness and disrespect, crass insolence to a King’s messenger, and lèse majesté, insult to the King himself.” He raised a hand quickly, palm outward, to forestall de Bruce’s protest. “Do as I say, Master de Bruce. Do not attempt to sway me or to excuse the man’s conduct, I warn you. He is unfit to be an officer of any kind, even a ship’s officer, and were he mine to command I would have him flogged and forced to serve in the ranks. So see to it that my wishes in this are carried out. I shall expect to see it done by the time I leave here, which should be within the hour, and I intend to make full report of what has happened to King Richard in person.”
