Jean reached over, clasping him on the shoulder. “I know, lad,” he said quietly, “I know. And so does the king.”
“Did he say that?” Guilhem challenged, his head coming up sharply at the unexpected confirmation.
“He did. When he charged us with looking after his squires, he said, ‘Guilhem has already been a guest of the Saracens.’ He made a grim jest, then, about Heinrich being a less gentle gaoler than Saladin.”
It had been intolerable for Guilhem, thinking that the king had judged him to be unworthy. But now that he knew better, he found it brought him little comfort, for the king’s need had never been greater and he would be hundreds of miles away, unable to help. When he slumped down on a coffer chest, Jean squeezed his shoulder again and then left so he might have some time alone.
Guilhem did not linger long in the tent. Draining the wineskin, he followed his brother back on deck, where he shoved his way toward the gunwale. There he stood, neither moving nor speaking, watching until the pirate galleys had disappeared from view.
CHAPTER TWO
NOVEMBER 1192
Aboard the Pirate Galley Sea-Wolf Adriatic Sea
Richard was accustomed to living on familiar terms with Death, but never had it been so close, so insistent. His body was as bruised as if he’d been absorbing blows from Saracen maces and he could still taste blood in his mouth after he’d been slammed to the deck as the galley heeled suddenly. Their tent was no protection against the stinging rain, for the canvas was being shredded by the wind. They huddled together for warmth and for protection, clinging tightly to one another to avoid being swept overboard. One of the pirates had lost his footing and would have gone over the gunwale if not for Guillain de l’Etang’s strength; he’d grabbed the man’s ankle and held on until other crew members could haul him back onto the deck. All of the men had become violently seasick once the storm struck, even the sailors, and the tent reeked of vomit, sweat, and fear.
As the Sea-Wolf rode the crest of another wave, the men tensed. Georgios, the pirate chieftain, had told them that they had a chance as long as Spyro, the helmsman, could keep the galley from being hit broadside. But it was terrifying to slide down into a trough, blinded by the flying spray, drenched by the cold water breaking over the galley. Each time it happened, there was a frozen moment in which they were sure they’d continue their downward plunge. When the ship continued to fight the sea, rising up again, they exhaled ragged breaths and thought of their God, their women, their homelands.
Richard found himself remembering a delirious night at Jaffa after he’d been stricken with quartan fever; he’d begun hallucinating, convinced his dead brother Geoffrey was there, laughing in the shadows beyond his bed. Closing his eyes now, he could hear echoes of Geoffrey’s lazily mocking voice. Face it, Richard, you’ll never make old bones. Other men lust after women. You lust after Death, always have. You’ve been chasing after her like a lovesick lad, and sooner or later she’ll take pity and let you catch her.
“No,” he said suddenly, “that’s not so!” He did not lust after Death, did not want to follow her into the black depths of this frigid, hungry sea. Those nearest to him turned at the sound of his voice, their eyes questioning, hopeful, for they hung on his every pronouncement, as if he alone could save them. Men had been depending upon him like that since his twenty-first year, when he’d taken the impregnable Taillebourg Castle, proudly proving to the world and his father that he understood war the way a bishop understood Scriptures. On the battlefield, he had answers, knew what to do. But on the pitching deck of the Sea-Wolf, he was as helpless as young Arne.
“Lord king!” Petros lurched into the tent, followed by the pirate chief, who squatted down as the sailor from Messina translated for him. Georgios hadn’t yet lost all of his bravado, but it was fraying around the edges and his dark eyes were somber even if his manner was blasé. “He wants me to tell you,” Petros said, “that his helmsman still cannot head for shore. As long as the night and storm obscure the coast, he does not know where we are.” As unwelcome as his words were, none thought to challenge him, for they’d seen the sheer cliffs to starboard earlier in the day; unless they were sure there was a harbor or cove hidden by the darkness, the galley would be dashed to pieces against those rocks if it ventured too close to land. Georgios spoke again, Petros cocking his head to listen. “He’s never seen a storm as fierce as this one, lord. He says that every sailor knows women and dead bodies are bad luck on shipboard. But he never knew kings could be bad luck, too.”
“That’s passing strange,” Richard said, “for I was just thinking the same thing about pirates.” When his reply was conveyed to Georgios, the pirate smiled, but it was a pale imitation of his usual cocky grin. Before he could respond, they heard a shout out on the deck. The other men stiffened, for although none of them understood Greek, they’d learned what that alarm meant—another monster wave was looming.
The ship shuddered, like an animal in its death throes. Its prow was pointing skyward, so steep was the wave, and the men desperately braced themselves, knowing the worst was to come. The galley was engulfed, white water breaking over both sides, flooding the deck. And then it was going down, plunging into the trough, and there was nothing in their world but seething, surging water. Richard heard terrified cries of “Jesu!” and “Holy Mother!” Beside him, Arne was whimpering in German. The bow was completely submerged and Richard was sure that the Sea-Wolf was doomed, heading for the bottom of the Adriatic Sea.
“Lord God, I entreat Thee to save us, Thy servants!” Richard’s voice rose above the roar of the storm, for he was used to shouting commands on the battlefield. “Let us reach a safe harbor and I pledge one hundred thousand ducats to build for Thee a church wherever we come ashore! Do not let men who’ve taken the cross die at sea and be denied Christian burial!”
Waves continued to crash onto the deck, soaking the men and stealing their breaths. But then the galley’s prow was coming up again, battling back to the surface, and they realized that they would not drown just yet. They slumped against one another, chests heaving as they sought to draw sweet air into their lungs. Petros tugged at Georgio’s arm, pointing at Richard and murmuring in Greek. The pirate’s eyes widened and then he began to laugh. “He says,” Petros reported, “that you have saved us, lord, for how could the Almighty resist such a vast sum, veritably a king’s ransom.”
Richard knew better than to claim a victory while the battle still hung in the balance. He didn’t bother to point that out to Georgios, though, for his stomach was roiling again. He had nothing left to vomit up, but he could taste bile in his mouth and fumbled for the wineskin at his belt, taking a swig and then flipping the wineskin to Arne, who looked as if he was greatly in need of it.
His clerk was staring after Georgios, his mouth set in a hard line. “That man,” he said coldly, “is a blasphemer.”
His disapproval gave Richard some grim amusement. “He’s a pirate, Fulk. They are not noted for their piety.”
Fulk did not see the humor. “They are damned, the lot of them,” he insisted and no one had the inclination or the energy to argue with him. The rain had eased up, but the sea continued to rage, tossing the galley violently. Through the rips in the tent, they could see the sky was beginning to lighten, shading from ink black to a dark leaden grey. And then Petros was back, his olive skin no longer blanched, his cheekbones flushed with color.
“Spyro has recognized a landmark—Mount Srd!” he cried. “He says we’re not far from the harbor at Ragusa!”
COMING OUT ON DECK, Richard was relieved to see the second pirate galley in the distance, for they’d been separated when the storm broke and he’d feared that his ten men aboard the Sea-Serpent had been lost. As the night retreated, the coast was coming into focus. Ahead lay a heavily wooded island that Petros said was called La Croma, and beyond it was the city of Ragusa. The sea was still churning and waves were pounding against the white cliffs of La Croma, sending spume high into the
air. Richard’s knights had joined him at the gunwale, gazing yearningly toward the harbor that would be their salvation. But then one of Georgio’s crewmen pulled him aside, obviously agitated, and when the other pirates clustered around their chieftain, Richard felt a sudden disquiet.
“Petros! What is wrong?”
The young sailor hastened toward them, surefooted even though the deck was awash and bucking like an unbroken horse. “We’re taking on water in the bilge, lord. The helmsman says we cannot reach Ragusa, so he’s going to try to land on La Croma.”
Richard drew a sharp breath, for the island looked like a fortress, its limestone crags ready to repel any intruders, and the closer they got, the more foreboding it seemed. The pirates were not panicking, though, straining at the oars as the helmsman manned the tiller, and as they rounded the tip of the isle, Richard saw a beach below the cliffs. It was strewn with rocks, some of them the size of boulders, but it offered their best chance for survival.
The surf was so wild that it looked like a boiling cauldron and the galley rocked from side to side as the crewmen rowed toward that rocky beach. But the helmsman kept it on course, and as soon as they reached the shallows, the sailors leapt out and began to drag the galley up onto the island. Richard and his knights splashed into the water to help. It was rough going and by the time they’d safely beached the galley, they were all exhausted. As they sprawled on the stony ground, the second galley drew closer, its men shouting and pointing toward Ragusa to indicate they were heading for the harbor a half mile away. Once they were sure the Sea-Serpent was going to make it, the men stranded on La Croma reluctantly struggled to their feet, for they were soaked to the skin and had to find shelter as soon as possible.
“We need to get a fire started,” Richard said, looking toward the tangled groves of pine and laurel that bordered the beach. “Does anyone live on this island, Petros?” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he had his answer. A light flared in the dark of the woods, moving so erratically that it could only be a lantern or torch. Richard and his knights dropped their hands to sword hilts, watching that swaying flame. Hooded figures were visible through the trees now, cloaked in black. At first glance, they seemed spectral and ghostly, even sinister. But then they emerged onto the beach and the shipwrecked men exchanged sheepish smiles, for these otherworldly wraiths were Benedictine monks.
Richard moved to meet them. He had no idea what language was spoken in Ragusa. Hoping that at least one of the monks had some knowledge of Latin, he said, “We are pilgrims returning from the Holy Land. Can you give us shelter?”
He was surprised to be answered in Latin as good as his own, as several monks assured him that he and his men would be welcome guests of their abbot. He thanked them courteously and then began to laugh. The monks had rescued other shipwreck survivors and since men often reacted emotionally after coming so close to dying, they saw nothing strange in Richard’s mirthful outburst. They had no way of knowing the real reason for his amusement—that this small, secluded community of monks would be the beneficiaries of his extravagant vow to God. With one hundred thousand ducats to spend, their isolated little island would have a church to rival the spectacular cathedrals of Rome, Palermo, and Constantinople.
RICHARD AWOKE WITH A START, torn from a dream that had not been a pleasant one. Arne was sitting cross-legged on the floor by his straw-filled mattress. Sitting up, he glanced around, but the abbey guest hall was empty. Where were his men? “What time is it, Arne?”
“You’re awake, sire!” Arne’s smile was bright enough to pierce the shadowed gloom of the hall. “I heard the bells ringing for None not long ago, so it is just past the ninth hour of the day.”
Richard frowned. Three o’clock? He’d meant to rest for a brief while. How could he have slept for more than six hours? “Why did you not awaken me?”
Arne was flustered by the sharp tone. “You . . . you did not say . . .” he stammered, “and . . . and you needed sleep?”
That was precisely the problem—that he had needed the sleep. To Richard, it was troubling proof that he’d not fully regained his strength, that his body was still weakened more than two months after his bout with quartan fever. Cutting off Arne’s apology, he said, “Never mind, lad. Do I have anything dry to wear?”
The boy nodded eagerly, saying they’d retrieved their coffers from the Sea-Wolf, and hurried to fetch braies, chausses, a shirt, and a tunic. All of their clothes were damp and wrinkled, smelling faintly of mildew after so long at sea, but they were still an improvement over the sodden garments Richard had peeled off before falling into bed. He rarely had the patience to allow his squires to assist him in dressing, for he could do it more quickly himself, and he waved Arne away as he pulled the braies on and then drew the shirt over his head. He was belting the tunic while Arne hovered nearby, eager to help, when the door slammed open and Baldwin and Morgan hurried into the hall.
“My liege, the Count of Ragusa and their archbishop are in the abbot’s great hall, asking to see you!”
Richard didn’t like the sound of that, thinking this was a rather exalted welcoming committee for ordinary pilgrims. Joanna had told him that her husband had often personally taken a hand when shipwreck survivors turned up in Sicily, and he wanted to believe this was a similar act of Christian charity. But good soldiers developed sharp survival instincts, and his were beginning to tingle. “They asked for me?” he said, trying to recall the name he’d given the abbot.
Morgan had an expressive face, not meant for secrets, and his concern was obvious. Baldwin was more phlegmatic, rarely revealing his inner thoughts. Now, though, he looked as troubled as the Welshman. “They asked for the king of the English,” he said grimly.
Richard caught his breath and then swore, cursing the pirates in language that added substantially to Arne’s growing list of French obscenities. When he turned to demand his sword, he saw the boy was already holding out the scabbard.
“What will you do, sire?” Arne was not surprised when Richard did not reply, for what could they do? They were trapped on the island. They could not flee and he did not see how the king could resist, either, with just ten men at his back. No, nine and a half, he amended unhappily, knowing how little help he could offer in a fight. Scurrying after Richard as he left the guest hall, Arne caught up with them in time to hear Morgan ask if Ragusa was an ally of the Holy Roman Empire. He could not repress a shiver, for he knew their fate might well turn upon the answer to that question.
Richard hesitated, trying to recall all he knew of Ragusa, which was not that much. “It is a city-state like Venice or Genoa. I was told that it recognizes the suzerainty of Constantinople, but the Greeks do not meddle in its governance. I do not think it has ties to the Hohenstaufens, at least not formal ones. For all I know, though, their count could be Heinrich’s cousin,” he said bitterly, remembering his surprise upon learning that the Duke of Austria claimed kinship to Isaac Comnenus and bore him a grudge for deposing the Cypriot despot.
By now they’d reached the abbot’s great hall. For one of the few times in his life, Richard did not have a plan of action. He could deny he was the English king or try to shame them into honoring the Church’s protection for men who’d taken the cross, but neither of those options seemed likely to carry the day. He’d rarely felt so uneasy and he sought reassurance by dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword. As his fingers closed around the haft, the familiar feel of it was comforting, and he found himself remembering something he’d once read, that pagan Norsemen believed they could not enter Valhalla unless they died with sword in hand. And then he straightened his shoulders, raised his head, and shoved the door open, crossing the threshold with a deliberate swagger.
The hall was crowded. All of the monks were there, murmuring among themselves. The abbot was standing with two men who could only be the count and the archbishop. They made an odd couple, the former tall and so thin he appeared gaunt, the latter short and rotund, both of them elegantly
garbed, though, with jewels flashing on their fingers. There was a hush as Richard entered and then an excited buzz swept the hall. Abbot Stephanus hastened toward Richard, moving with surprising agility for one no longer young.
“My lord king,” he said in impeccable Latin, and bowed. “I had no idea so illustrious a guest was being sheltered under our roof. May I introduce Count Raphael de Goce and Archbishop Bernard.”
Both men made respectful obeisances. The count opened his mouth to speak, but the archbishop was quicker. “We are honored to welcome the renowned and redoubtable king of the English to our city. Your war against the infidel Saracens has made you a hero wherever people embrace the True Faith. I never thought I’d have the opportunity to hear of these battles from the victor of Jaffa himself!”
When he paused for breath, Count Raphael seized his chance. Casting a glance toward the archbishop that revealed the rivalry between the two men, he said reprovingly, “Jaffa was indeed a great victory. But surely we’d be remiss, my lord archbishop, if we did not speak of the king’s greatest achievement in the Holy Land. Because of his efforts, Christian pilgrims can once again pray in the sacred city of Jerusalem.” Beaming, he turned and beckoned to a woman nearby. “May I present to you my lady wife, the Countess Marussa. We want to invite you to be our honored guest during your stay in Ragusa.”
“My lady,” Richard said, and she blushed and giggled when he kissed her hand, for he could play the gallant when he chose; he had grown up at his mother’s court in Aquitaine, after all. Any doubts he may have harbored had disappeared as soon as he saw the countess; the count would hardly have brought his wife along if this were a trap of some sort. Once again his luck had prevailed, shipwrecking them in probably the only place along the Adriatic coast where the Lionheart legend counted for more than the enmity of the German emperor and the French king.
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