Royal marriages were matters of state, of course, and compatibility was not a concern when diplomatic alliances were at stake. But if they were lucky, a highborn husband and wife could find contentment together. Morgan thought Richard seemed content enough with his queen, who’d traveled from her small Spanish kingdom with Richard’s formidable mother, the celebrated—some would say notorious—Eleanor of Aquitaine, joining Richard in Sicily and wedding him in Cyprus on their way to the Holy Land. Morgan suspected, though, that Berengaria would never lay claim to the king’s heart in the way that Mariam had laid claim to his. Richard revered his mother, who was as astute as any ruler in Christendom, but Morgan did not think women mattered all that much to the Lionheart, who seemed more at home in an army camp than in any of his palaces.
Both men turned as Warin’s squire, Arne, approached, carefully balancing two cups of wine. He lingered afterward, until Morgan, who liked the boy, gave him an encouraging look. “May I ask you a question, my lords?” Taking their consent for granted, for he was optimistic by nature, he squatted down beside them. “I am puzzled,” he confessed. “This Tancred is the King of Sicily. He took the throne after Queen Joanna’s husband died? And then he seized her dower lands and imprisoned her in Palermo? So why is King Richard friendly with this man?”
Warin rolled his eyes, for Arne’s habit of making many of his sentences sound like questions both amused and annoyed him. Morgan was more indulgent, for the boy had spoken no French at all upon his arrival in the Holy Land. He’d come to the siege of Acre with Duke Leopold von Babenberg, squire to a knight of the Austrian ministerialis, Hadmar von Kuenring. The duke was a devout crusader, having taken the cross twice. But he was a very proud man and after a quarrel with Richard that left his pride in shreds, he’d abandoned the crusade and returned to Austria in high dudgeon. Arne’s knight could not accompany the other Austrians, though, for he’d been stricken with Arnaldia, the malady that had almost killed Richard.
The camp doctors had held out no hope for him, and Arne was encouraged to sail with his countrymen and his irate duke. But he would not desert his lord, tending the man faithfully until his death. The crusaders were touched by the boy’s loyalty and the Flemish baron Jacques de Avesnes had accepted Arne into his household. After Jacques’s death during the battle of Arsuf, Warin had taken the boy on as his squire. He’d turned out to be conscientious and cheerful, and once they were safely back in Richard’s domains, Warin and Morgan meant to ask Richard for funds to pay for Arne’s return to Austria, if that was his desire. Richard was very openhanded, as befitted a great lord, and since he liked the boy, too, they thought he’d consent.
Now it was Morgan who took it upon himself to explain the intricacies of Sicilian politics to Arne. “What you say is true, lad. King Tancred did indeed hold Queen Joanna in confinement and took her dower lands, for they controlled the roads from the alpine passes, the route the Holy Roman Emperor would have taken when he led his army into Italy.” He started to tell Arne that the Emperor Heinrich had claimed the Sicilian throne after the death of Joanna’s husband, for their only son had died and the heir was therefore the king’s aunt, Constance de Hauteville, Heinrich’s wife. He remembered in time that Arne likely knew that, for the Austrian duke was one of Heinrich’s vassals.
Taking another swallow of wine, he offered the cup to Arne, who accepted it happily. “Tancred bore Lady Joanna no ill will, and made sure that she was treated well in captivity, holding her at one of her own palaces. He’d feared to release her because of her close bond with the Empress Constance, but he was given no choice when King Richard swept into Sicily like one of their hot scirocco winds, demanding that his sister be freed at once and her dower restored to her. Tancred wisely sent her to Richard in Messina and offered gold for her dower rights.”
Arne was listening with interest, his head cocked to the side. “Thank you, Sir Morgan. But how did Tancred and our king become so friendly?”
Morgan noted the boy’s use of “our king” and wondered if Arne would even want to return to his Austrian homeland. Those who’d fought alongside the Lionheart in the Holy Land had been bedazzled by his bravura exploits, for in their world, nothing was more admired than prowess on the battlefield, and so it made sense that this Austrian youth would have been bedazzled, too. “Tancred and King Richard found they had much in common, lad. They are both soldiers, both men who are accustomed to speaking their minds, and both hold the French king in great contempt.”
Arne grinned. “Who does not?” he asked cheekily, and all within earshot laughed, for Philippe Capet had done irreparable harm to his reputation by deserting the crusade; even his own French lords had refused to accompany him back to France, putting their crusaders’ vows above their fealty to their king. In light of what transpired, Morgan thought it would have been better had they followed Philippe, for the men he left in command, the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais, would prove to be as much of a danger to Richard as Saladin’s Saracens. Burgundy had paid the ultimate price for his treachery, dying at Acre just before the peace terms were agreed upon, but Beauvais had sailed for home in September, spreading lies about Richard in his wake, accusing the English king of every sin but the murder of the sainted martyr Thomas Becket in his own Canterbury Cathedral. And if Richard had not been just thirteen when his father had uttered those heedless words that would result in the archbishop’s death, Morgan did not doubt that Beauvais would have blamed him for that, too.
Guillain de l’Etang wandered over, suggesting a dice game while they awaited the king’s return, and they cleared a spot on the deck as he dug in his scrip for the dice. Not all of the knights had liked Guillain at first, for he was so taciturn that strangers sometimes thought he was mute. His size was intimidating, too, for he was even taller than Richard, with shoulders so broad that men joked he had to enter doors sideways and powerfully muscled arms that a blacksmith might have envied. He’d kept to himself, seeming aloof and even arrogant. But then he’d attracted Richard’s attention by lifting a Cypriot soldier over his head and throwing him into a horse trough during the fighting in the streets of Amathus. When they saw that he had the king’s favor, the others began to show him greater friendliness, and discovered that he was not haughty, merely shy, with a placid, easygoing nature and a very dry sense of humor. He still was not much of a talker, and he was observing Warin’s antics with quiet amusement as the Norman knight loudly bemoaned his bad luck and offended Richard’s chaplain by asking him to bless the dice.
They were beginning another game when a sailor signaled that the king was coming back. Getting to his feet, Morgan was brushing off his mantle when he glanced toward the men in the approaching longboat and felt a sudden unease, for both Richard and the bishop were as impassive as statues carved from stone, their faces utterly blank. If the king was employing his court mask, that meant the news he’d gotten was not good.
RICHARD HAD BEEN GIVEN a wine cup, but he set it down, untasted, as his men crowded into the tent. “We dare not land at Marseille,” he said abruptly, for he knew no other way than to say it straight out.
His words stirred a startled ripple, one of alarm and confusion, for Marseille was under the control of an ally. They exchanged baffled glances and Warin Fitz Gerald exclaimed, “Why not, my liege? I thought you and the King of Aragon were friends!”
“So did I,” Richard said, with a tight smile that held no humor. “Whilst we were in the Holy Land, some of you may have heard a Saracen proverb: ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ Well, that cuts both ways, for ‘The enemy of my friend is my enemy, too,’ and it seems that Alfonso has become friends with the Count of Toulouse.”
The mere mention of the count’s name was enough, for they all knew that Raimon de St Gilles was an inveterate foe of the English Royal House. The dukes of Aquitaine had long advanced their own claim to Toulouse, and Richard was more than England’s king; he was also Duke of Aquitaine and Normandy, Count of Poitou and Anjou. They stil
l did not understand why King Alfonso would have chosen to deal with the Devil, but they waited for Richard to answer that unspoken question.
“St Gilles is a cankered, malevolent weasel,” Richard growled, with a vitriol he usually reserved for the French king and the Bishop of Beauvais. “When that treacherous whoreson balked at taking the cross, I knew he meant to take advantage of my absence to ravage my lands in Aquitaine, and that is indeed what he did. He got those malcontents the Count of Périgord and the Viscount of Brosse to rebel after my seneschal took ill. Fortunately my queen’s father came to my aid, sending his son Sancho to put down the rebellion. Sancho had such success that St Gilles realized he had to take Navarre off the chessboard, and so he approached the King of Aragon, whose rivalry with the Navarrese king proved stronger than his friendship with me. Alfonso accepted St Gilles’s offer to ally with him against Navarre, which means that the entire southern coast of France is barred to me, as are Barcelona and the other ports in Aragon.”
“Where can we land, then?” Richard’s admiral, Robert de Turnham, was not a man easily shaken, but he could not keep the dismay from his voice. He was more familiar with maps than most, and was quicker, therefore, to realize that their options had just narrowed dramatically and dangerously.
“A very good question, Rob,” Richard said, with another of those mirthless smiles. “The Count of Conversano says that I cannot land at any Italian port, for that hellspawn on the German throne has the Genoese fleet patrolling the coast in search of our ship. Moreover, Heinrich has made a new pact with my erstwhile allies at Pisa in preparation for his invasion of Sicily, so it is out, too. And needless to say, we cannot sail directly to England or Normandy or any ports in Aquitaine.”
There were nods of agreement, for even those with a weak grasp of geography understood that much. To attempt to pass through the Pillars of Hercules out into the Atlantic Ocean would be utter madness. The currents in the straits flowed toward the east, with a speed no ship could hope to match, and beyond lay winter storms of unbelievable savagery, with waves towering as high as sixty feet.
A stunned silence settled over the tent as they began to comprehend the full extent of their peril. The three de Préaux brothers conferred in whispers, and then Jean cleared his throat. “Sire . . . it might be best to pass the winter in Sicily, at King Tancred’s court. You’d be welcome there and that would give us time to find another route home.”
Several of the men winced, for there was a glaring flaw in Jean de Préaux’s plan and their king’s temper could be as combustible as sun-dried straw. Richard surprised them by saying without anger, “If I did that, Jean, there would be no kingdom waiting for me when I did reach home. My brother and the French king would thank God fasting if I gave them such an opportunity, claiming I was dead and John the legitimate heir to the English throne.”
Morgan understood why Richard had reacted with such unusual patience. If it was true that the Lionheart never forgot a wrong done him, it was also true that he never forgot a kindness, and Guilhem de Préaux had saved his life in the Holy Land. Richard had delayed his departure beyond the point when it was safe to sail as he sought to ransom Guilhem from Saladin, and Morgan was sure the de Préaux family would be basking in royal favor until the English king drew his last breath. He glanced at the Préaux brothers and then back toward his cousin. “What mean you to do, my liege?” he asked, sure that Richard already had a plan in mind, for he’d never known another man so quick-witted or coolheaded in a crisis, one of the reasons for his spectacular successes on the battlefield.
When Richard looked over at the Bishop of Salisbury, Morgan saw that they’d discussed this, either during their visit to the Count of Conversano’s galley or immediately upon their return to the Holy Rood. “We have few choices open to us,” Richard said bluntly, “since we cannot land in France or Spain or Italy. After studying the count’s map, it was obvious that we must turn back. We will have to sail up the Adriatic coast, land at a port where I am not likely to be recognized, and then try to reach my nephew and brother-in-law’s lands in Saxony.”
There were a few gasps and then an eerie quiet as the men tried to come to terms with their new reality. It was not easy, for they’d been just a three-day sail from Marseille, and now suddenly they found themselves facing a sea voyage that could last for weeks, at a season when even experienced sailors like the Genoese and Pisans did not venture far from port, and then a long and dangerous overland winter journey through territories hostile to their king.
One of the Templars, Sir Ralph St Leger, asked if they had a map and Richard’s clerk produced one, unrolling a parchment sheet that offered only the bare outlines of the lands bordering the Greek, Ionian, and Adriatic seas. “I agree that Saxony would offer us a safe haven,” the Templar knight said slowly. “Your brother by marriage and his son are in rebellion against the Emperor Heinrich again. But how do we get there?”
Richard drew his dagger and leaned over the map, using the blade as a pointer. “By way of Hungary, whose king is my kinsman by marriage, and then Bohemia, for its duke would never do Heinrich a good turn.” He paused, smoke-grey eyes moving intently from face to face. He saw what he expected to find; they looked troubled but resolute. He’d known they would be loyal, theirs a brotherhood forged on the battlefields of Arsuf and Ibn Ibrak and Jaffa; they’d fought with him and bled with him and would die with him if need be. His throat tightening, he summoned up a smile, saying, “But if any of you have a better idea, for God’s sake, speak up now.” None did, for what was there to say?
As they rose to go, Richard told the Bishop of Salisbury and his Welsh cousin to remain. Once they were alone, he studied Hubert Walter in silence for a moment, knowing the prelate would not like what he was about to say. “I want you to return to Tancred’s court with the Count of Conversano, Hubert. He’ll provide you with an escort to Rome.”
Caught by surprise, the other man shook his head vehemently. “I want to accompany you, my lord king!”
“I know you do. But I have greater need of you elsewhere. I want you to confer with the Pope, do what you can to stiffen the man’s backbone. Now that he’s finally offered papal recognition to Tancred, I do not want him to renege for fear of Heinrich. And then I want you to get to England as quickly as you can. My lady mother will be doing her best to rein my fool brother in, but that’s no easy task, not with Johnny bound and determined to entangle himself in Philippe’s web. You ought to be safe enough, traveling under the Pope’s auspices, and the protection Holy Church offers a man who’s taken the cross should serve as your shield.” White teeth flashed in what was not a smile. “It ought to protect me, too, but I’d as soon not put it to the test.”
Hubert looked unhappy, but he did not argue, knowing it would be futile. Richard was already turning toward his cousin. “I’d say you got more than you bargained for when Joanna beseeched you to keep me out of trouble on our journey home.”
Morgan had not realized Richard knew of Joanna’s entreaty that he sail on the Holy Rood. Ostensibly her concern was for her brother’s health, as he was still recovering from the quartan fever, but Morgan knew she was also worried that Richard would not be traveling with their cousin, André de Chauvigny, who seemed to be the only man able to curb Richard’s more reckless impulses.
“I fear, sire, that would be a task beyond my capabilities.” Richard assumed he was joking, but he was speaking nothing less than the truth, for the king’s family and friends did not understand how a man so careful with the lives of his soldiers could be so careless with his own.
“The count did have some good news midst all the bad,” Richard said, with a sudden smile. “My sister and my wife landed safely at Brindisi, and were given a lavish welcome by Tancred and his queen, doubtless trying to make amends to Joanna, as well he should. It happens that the Count of Conversano, Hugh Lapin, was Joanna’s gaoler in Palermo. He’d treated her well, though, and he said, in great relief, that she was very gracious when he ar
rived at Brindisi to escort her and Berengaria to Tancred’s court. . . .”
Richard paused, for Morgan was beaming, and it occurred to him that this might be the last real smile any of them would see for some time to come. After dismissing both men, he sank down on his bed, grateful for this rare moment alone. He’d put up a brave front for his men, but he was shaken, too, by this sudden downturn in their fortunes. How many more weeks would they be at sea now? His memories of their stormy voyage to the Holy Land were still so vivid that he’d declared sailors ought not to be allowed to testify in court, for they were clearly quite mad. The Holy Rood crew had laughed uproariously, taking his jest as a great compliment. But Richard’s knights saw too much truth in it for humor, for none of them understood how any man could choose to spend more time on shipboard than absolutely necessary.
Richard lay back on the bed, thinking grimly of the winter trek that they’d face, assuming they landed safely at some Adriatic port. He was not as confident as he’d sounded when he’d insisted that the Hungarian king would be friendly. It was true that Bela’s queen was the widow of Richard’s elder brother. But Marguerite was also the sister of the Lady Alys, the French princess who’d been betrothed to Richard in childhood and repudiated so he could wed Berengaria of Navarre, and he supposed she might feel that Alys had been treated rather shabbily. Would her feelings matter to her husband? He had no way of knowing. At least Bela was known to be very hostile to the Duke of Austria and no friend to the Holy Roman Emperor. His bleak musings were interrupted by the entrance of Fulk de Poitiers, his clerk of the chamber, and he sat up hastily.
Fulk frowned at the sight of the map, which had fallen to the deck. Retrieving it, he gave Richard a probing look, but said nothing, carefully putting the map away in a coffer and then beginning to straighten its contents. Richard watched with a smile, for he knew the other man well; Fulk had been in his service before he’d become England’s king. “You may as well say it, for I know you’re busy contemplating all the ways we can come to grief,” he gibed. “What are you envisioning? The Holy Rood going down in a gale? Taken by pirates? You see me buried by an avalanche in a German mountain pass? Or rotting in one of Heinrich’s dungeons?”
A King's Ransom Page 2
