A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  RICHARD’S MEN LIKED RAGUSA so much that they joked it was a pity he’d not agree to stay and become its king. The weather was much milder than November back in their homelands and it was a pleasure to walk on ground that did not shift under their feet. The city itself was very prosperous and its streets were cleaner than any they’d seen. There were public baths, allowing them to soak off the accumulated dirt of the past seven weeks. They were able to get their clothes washed and mended, buying what they needed in the town’s thriving markets, for the Ragusans carried on an active trade with their Adriatic neighbors. Best of all, the people were very friendly, treating them like heroes.

  Even communication was not as troublesome as they’d anticipated. While the official language of Ragusa was Latin, the citizens also spoke dialects of Italian and Slavic, and what they called “Old Ragusan.” Richard, his chaplain, Anselm, Fulk, and Baldwin de Bethune could converse easily in Latin. The others either had a smattering of it or none at all, but Ragusa had been briefly under the control of Sicily and some of its citizens had learned the French spoken at the Sicilian court. Petros was in his glory, for he could understand the Italian heard in the city streets and so his services were in great demand. Petros passed most of his days in an agreeable alcoholic haze, for the knights enjoyed frequenting the local taverns, where men were eager to buy them drinks in order to hear their stories of the crusade. Life in Ragusa was so much more pleasant than life on shipboard that the men hoped it would take a while for the pirates to repair the Sea-Wolf and for Richard to arrange a loan to honor his pledge.

  There was a snake in this Adriatic Eden, though. Richard had warned his men to stay away from the local women. They understood the logic behind his order, but some of the female Ragusans were very pretty and very flirtatious. They were delighted, therefore, when Petros discovered that the taverns down by the harbor offered more than wine. Richard and Baldwin were dining with Archbishop Bernard, and the Templars declined because of their vows of chastity, but Warin and Hugh de Neville recruited so many of the others that they joked they ought to ask for a group rate.

  While Morgan had been hesitant at first, he’d managed to convince his conscience that the Lady Mariam would understand under the circumstances. Warin included young Arne, too, embarrassing the boy by declaring loudly that it was time the lad learned where his sword ought to be sheathed. Georgios kept his men under a tight rein in ports like Ragusa, for the pirates wanted to be able to come back on future voyages. But several of the crew had slipped away and joined the knights, so it was a boisterous and cheerful bunch who trooped into a wharf-side tavern called the Half-Moon.

  They were surprised to find that prostitution in Ragusa was run by women. The bawd, a handsome redhead in her forties with a practiced smile and hard eyes, told her hirelings to turn away other customers, for she calculated that men so long at sea would be so eager for female flesh that they’d pay well for the privilege. Some haggling ensued, but when she summoned the youngest and the prettiest of her whores, the men decided that her price was reasonable. It was then, though, that Morgan learned something that quenched his lust as thoroughly as if he’d been drenched with cold water. He’d been admiring a girl with blue eyes and wheat-colored hair—seeking one utterly unlike the sloe-eyed, golden-skinned Mariam, who was half Saracen—when the bawd casually mentioned that Ludmila was new, having been bought from slave traders just that past summer.

  Morgan had been taken aback by the slave markets in Sicily, Cyprus, and the Holy Land, for slavery was no longer known in the domains of the Angevin kings. But those slaves had all been Saracens, infidels. This girl would have looked at home in any European city. The bawd, puzzled by his questions, told him that Ludmila came from Dalmatia, as did most of Ragusa’s slaves, and conceded that she was Christian, although she added dismissively that Dalmatians followed the Greek Orthodox Church, not the Church of Rome, and so their faith was suspect. Not to Morgan, though, who was shocked that the Ragusans would be willing to enslave their fellow Christians, and he politely declined Ludmila’s services, feeling he’d be somehow complicit in her enslavement if he did not.

  The bawd was surprised and then scornful, although she tried to hide it. His companions’ astonishment quickly turned to amusement, and Morgan knew he’d be enduring their mockery for weeks to come. But his easygoing demeanor masked a strong will, and he remained adamant. He’d wait in the tavern whilst they went abovestairs, he declared, deflecting their ridicule with a sardonic gibe, saying he was sure he’d not have to wait long. They laughed, offered a few more playful insults, and began to pick their bedmates from the assembled women. It was then that Arne amazed them all by announcing that he did not feel right about swiving a slave, either, and he would wait with Morgan.

  Even Morgan was startled, although he welcomed an ally and defended Arne’s decision until the others lost interest and let their whores take them abovestairs.

  Back in the tavern common room, Morgan ordered wine and found a corner table for them. They drank in silence for a time, but he sensed Arne had something on his mind and after several cups of surprisingly good wine, the boy had quaffed enough liquid courage to make a confession.

  “If I confide in you, Sir Morgan, will you promise not to tell the others?”

  “If that is your wish, Arne. Does this secret of yours have something to do with your refusal to go abovestairs with one of the whores?” Arne was regarding him as if he had second sight, but he’d suspected there was more to the boy’s reluctance than an aversion to slavery; he was still young enough to remember how powerful hungers of the flesh could be for a lad of Arne’s age.

  Arne nodded, then ducked his head to stare intently into his wine cup. “I have been lying, Sir Morgan, lying to the king, to you all,” he confessed, flushing so deeply that even the tips of his ears turned red. “You think I am sixteen, but I am not. I was born at Michaelmas in God’s Year 1178.”

  “You are only fourteen, lad?”

  Arne nodded again. “When I entered my lord’s service in Austria, my uncle told him I was fourteen. It was not so—I was twelve—but I was big for my age and I’d be one less mouth for my uncle’s family to feed. . . .”

  Arne’s diffidence made more sense to Morgan now; a green lad of fourteen was more likely to be skittish his first time, and to be fearful he was committing a mortal sin. Arne confirmed that by mumbling a rambling story he claimed to have heard about a youth who’d been taken by his brothers to a brothel and then shamed himself by being unable to perform. “Not only was he the laughingstock of the village when the whore told his brothers that he’d spilled his seed ere he could even get into bed, but their priest heard and warned him that thinking of a sin was as bad as doing it and so he’d still go to Hell! How fair is that, Sir Morgan?”

  Morgan quickly brought his wine cup up to hide a smile. This was definitely not how he’d expected his evening to go—tutoring this fledgling in the ways of carnal lust. Ordering more wine, he did his best, assuring Arne that there was no hurry, no need to rush into sin. His own body would tell him when he was ready, and whilst it was natural for a man to be somewhat nervous his first time, a naked woman did wonders to dispel any anxieties or qualms. And although the Church did indeed preach that fornication was a mortal sin, many men—King Richard amongst them—felt that it was a venial sin at worst, for certes not as serious as adultery or breaking a holy vow of chastity. Arne cheered up to hear that Richard thought fornication to be a minor matter, for he was convinced that the English king’s most casual comment was to be taken as Gospel. He was further reassured when Morgan reminded him that the point of confession was to wipe a slate clean.

  “Most soldiers I know admit they are sinners, find a confessor to lay light penances, and make sure that they are shriven ere they go into battle—or set foot on a ship like the Sea-Wolf. You could do worse than to follow in their footsteps, Arne.” Adding with a grin, “And if Warin and the others tease you about abstaining tonight, just tell
them you’d heard a rumor that the Ragusan whores were poxed. That will shut them up!”

  Arne laughed and was soon chattering happily as they finished a second flagon. Morgan drank his wine, listened, and marveled at the vagaries of fate—that a Welsh knight and an Austrian stripling should be sharing wine and confidences in this shabby, wharf-side tavern, far from home and all they held dear. The ways of the Almighty truly were beyond the understanding of mortal men. So many crusaders had left their homes and families for God and glory, only to find lonely graves in foreign lands. He fervently hoped it was the Almighty’s Will that they’d be luckier than the thousands who’d been stricken by pestilence, struck down by Saracen swords. He was convinced that Richard had God’s favor. How else explain why he was still alive, as reckless as he was with his own safety? He would get them home if any man could. But as Morgan signaled for another round of drinks, Wales had never seemed as far away as it did on this early December eve in Ragusa.

  THE RIVALRY BETWEEN RAGUSA’S count and archbishop had become even more intense now that they had a genuine prize to compete for—the favor of a king. Richard had taken a liking to Archbishop Bernard, who was enthralled by his stories of the campaign against Saladin. The portly prelate had a keen sense of humor, too, laughing heartily when Richard joked that he was remarkably bloodthirsty for a man of God. Count Raphael’s company was less enjoyable, for he tended to be pompous and long-winded. It was politic to keep his goodwill, though, so Richard did his best to divide his time between the two men, although he complained to his friends, only half in jest, that he’d begun to feel like a bone caught between two hungry dogs. The tension would ignite at a lavish feast given in Richard’s honor on his last day in Ragusa. But when it happened, Archbishop Bernard and Count Raphael would be unlikely allies, united against the abbot of the Benedictine monastery on La Croma.

  Richard was seated on the dais with the count, archbishop, members of the city’s great council, and their wives. He’d insisted that Abbot Stephanus be seated at the high table, too, while his own men were scattered at the lower tables, all enjoying the rich fare, so different from the rations they could expect once they were back at sea. They were savoring the latest dish—roast swan—when raised voices attracted their attention. The count was on his feet, red-faced, pointing an accusing finger at the black-robed abbot. The latter pushed his chair back and rose, too, apparently giving as good as he got. Morgan and Warin did not have enough Latin to follow the argument, but they watched with interest as the abbey’s prior and monks moved from their lesser seats to join the abbot, like soldiers rallying around their commander, for theirs was the stoic demeanor of men knowing they faced overwhelming odds but determined to resist, nonetheless.

  By now the quarrel had reached the stage where all were clamoring loudly and no one was listening. Richard was leaning back in his chair, arms folded, looking bored, which Morgan and Warin knew meant that he was fast losing patience. They grinned and nudged each other when he finally stood and shouted for silence. Once the hall quieted and he was sure he held center stage, he began to speak, at one point rebuking the count as he tried to interrupt. By the time he was done, men had begun to exchange glances, reluctantly nodding their heads. The archbishop now acted as peacemaker, moving forward and holding out his hand to the abbot. This earned him a resentful look from Count Raphael, but after his wife leaned over and whispered in his ear, he joined the other two men, and the hall erupted in relieved applause.

  Richard’s knights could only speculate among themselves as to the reason for the uproar, but their curiosity was not satisfied until the conclusion of the meal. As the trestle tables were taken down and musicians entered the hall, Richard sauntered over and explained what they’d witnessed but not understood.

  “The highborn citizens of Ragusa were not happy that Abbot Stephanus and his monks were to receive such a windfall. They argued that so large a sum of money was best spent on rebuilding their cathedral, not ‘wasted’ on a church that none but monks would see. The abbot balked, insisting it was clearly God’s Will that the church be built on La Croma, since that is where we came ashore.”

  “You seem to have resolved the dispute, sire,” Morgan pointed out, “for they are no longer hurling insults at one another. How did you do it?”

  “I told them that I was willing for the money to be spent on renovating the cathedral, but only on two conditions. First, the Pope must consent to the change, for it was a holy vow, after all. Second, some of the funds must be used to rebuild the abbey church. And as a sweetener for the abbey, I suggested that the abbots of La Croma be allowed to say Mass in St Mary’s Cathedral every year at Candlemas to honor this generous concession.”

  Richard’s mouth curved in a faint smile. “The best way to tell if a compromise is fair is if both sides are dissatisfied with it. In this case, there was some disappointment, but they could see the justice in my proposal, for they’d all benefit by it, too. It helped, of course, that the Ragusans are reasonable men. In other words, not French.”

  They laughed, even though they knew there was no humor in that joke; Richard would never forgive his French allies for doing all they could to sabotage the crusade. Warin seized this opening to advance a supposition of his own.

  “I’ve been thinking, my lord,” he began, jabbing Hugh de Neville in the ribs when he pretended to reel back in shock. “I know we’ve been worrying about the lies that the Bishop of Beauvais has been spreading about you on his way back to France—that you were conspiring with the Saracens and never wanted to retake Jerusalem, nonsense like that. But the Cypriot pirates and the citizens of Ragusa did not believe it, for they’d heard the truth from soldiers returning home. Is it not possible that the truth will prevail over the slanders even in Germany and France?”

  Richard was surprised by the other man’s naïveté. “Philippe already knows the truth about what happened in Outremer, but that will not stop him from trying to brand me as a traitor to the Christian faith. As for Heinrich, he is as indifferent to truth as he is to honor. But if it is true that a man is judged by the enemies he’s made, I must be doing something right.”

  They laughed again and their last evening in Ragusa ended on a grace note, all grateful for this brief respite from the harsh reality that awaited them on the morrow, when they left the city’s sheltered harbor for the open sea.

  AFTER TAKING THE SEA-WOLF for a trial run, Georgios had concluded it was still not seaworthy, and so he took command of the Sea-Serpent, leaving some of his crew behind to recaulk the Sea-Wolf’s hull. Most of Ragusa’s citizens turned out to bid Richard farewell, cheering as the pirate galley unfurled its sails and raised its anchors. Richard waved from the stern, laughing and promising to come back to hear Mass in their splendid new cathedral. But he felt a chill when a cloud suddenly blotted out the sun, casting shadows onto the deck of the Sea-Serpent, for he sensed that it would be a long time before he saw such friendly faces again.

  They were heading for the Hungarian port city of Zadar, about 175 miles up the coast, and Georgios said complacently that it ought to be an easy voyage, for a galley could cover a hundred miles a day if the winds were right. The more superstitious among Richard’s men thought that he’d jinxed them by such arrogance, for once they left Ragusa behind, the wind became fitful and they were soon becalmed. They were forced to drop anchor and await favorable winds. Instead, they awoke the next morning to find themselves shrouded in thick, smothering fog. It was unsettling and eerie, for all sounds were oddly muffled and they felt like blind men, trapped in a wet white cloud. The fog did not disperse until the third day, and they felt a surge of relief as the Sea-Serpent got under way. Once they reached Zadar, they would not have to set foot on an accursed ship again, at least not until they had to cross the Narrow Sea that lay between England and France.

  Richard had not decided if he ought to identify himself openly in Zadar and seek a safe conduct from King Bela. Their passage through Hungary would be much easier wi
th Bela’s official blessing. If only he could be sure that Bela’s queen would not seek to poison her husband’s mind against him. Marguerite was not likely to think well of him. His brother Hal’s widow, she was also Philippe’s half sister and a full sister to the Lady Alys. He hadn’t thought of Alys in a great while. They’d been betrothed in childhood and she’d grown up at his father’s court. She was pretty enough, but as tame as a caged songbird, lacking spirit or fire, or any of the qualities that might have caught his interest. Conventional women had always bored him. He supposed his wife could be considered conventional, too, for the Spanish raised their women to be deferential and biddable. For certes, Berenguela had a strong sense of duty and she was almost too pious at times. But she would be loyal to him till her last mortal breath and there was steel in her spine. She had shown her courage time and time again during their voyage to the Holy Land and in the months that followed, and there was nothing he admired more than courage. He’d not have traded Berenguela for Alys even if that meant he’d have been welcomed at the Hungarian court like Bela’s long-lost brother.

  Georgios guessed they were less than a hundred miles from Zadar now, raising their spirits. But the dawn sky the next morning was redder than blood and by midday clouds were gathering along the western horizon. The Sea-Serpent was soon wallowing in heavy swells and, sure that another storm was brewing, the pirate chieftain cut a roll of parchment into strips, had Richard’s chaplain ink in the names of saints, and shook them into his cap. The crew and passengers each chose one and promised to say a Mass for that saint when they safely reached shore. Georgios had exempted Richard from the drawing, saying with a glimmer of mischief that the king had already paid his dues, since one hundred thousand ducats could buy a lifetime of Masses. He then ceremoniously cast the saints’ names into the sea and they all breathed easier, at least for a while.