A King's Ransom (4 page)

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 arrived 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?”

The clerk was unperturbed by the sarcasm. “Those are all possibilities,” he said, “although you left a few out. We could encounter bandits on those mountain roads. You could end up in a Viennese dungeon, too, if we stray across the Austrian border, for their duke is said to bear you a bitter grudge.”

Richard had heard that, too, and was puzzled by it, for his quarrel with Duke Leopold had been a minor matter, not worthy of a vendetta. “Tell me, Fulk, do you ever allow yourself to believe that the worst is not a certainty? Just for a change of pace?”

“We balance each other out, my liege, for you can never conceive of defeat.”

Richard didn’t deny it. “Well, you know what the Romans said. ‘Fortune favors the bold.’ And the lucky. You will admit that I am lucky, Fulk?”

The older man glanced up from the coffer. “Aye, you’ve been lucky, my liege,” he agreed, before adding, “so far.”

Richard shook his head, torn between amusement and exasperation. But they both knew he valued the dour Poitevin for the very trait that could be so irksome—his candor. He always got from Fulk de Poitiers what kings were rarely given—unsparing honesty.

B
Y
N
OVEMBER 11,
the
Holy Rood
was approaching the island of Corfu. The sight of its mountains and lush greenery was both welcome and disheartening. The men were thankful to have crossed the open waters stretching between Sicily and Greece, but they could not help remembering that they’d landed at Corfu just a few weeks ago, never dreaming they’d see it again so soon. On their earlier visit, they’d dropped anchor at Kerkyra, where a small town had grown up around the castle; this time they meant to avoid the Corfu Channel and sail up the west coast. Corfu, notorious as a pirate’s den, was also honeycombed with spies and they did not want word to spread that the English king’s ship had been seen in the Ionian Sea.

They would have to stop hugging the shoreline before they reached the castle of Angelokastro and the ship’s master decided to halt in a small cove and replenish their supply of fresh water. The anchors were thrown overboard and as their longboat rowed toward the beach, the passengers took advantage of this brief respite from the waves and wind to amuse themselves. Martinmas in their homelands was usually chilly and wet, offering a foretaste of the coming winter, and so they were all enjoying the warm sun and mild air, many of them stripping off their mantles as they watched Guillain de l’Etang take on another challenger. A trestle table had been set up on deck and the Norman was locking arms with Hugh de Neville, an English knight. The wagering had stopped, though, for Guillain had already defeated two of the Templars and a burly sailor and now no one was willing to bet against him. Hugh put up a valiant fight, but his hand was soon forced inexorably down onto the table. It ended quickly, as the other matches had done, and Hugh mustered up the unconvincing smile of a man trying to be a good sport.

Glancing around for another contender, Warin Fitz Gerald grinned as his eyes lit upon the man leaning against the gunwale. “What of you, sire? Why not teach Guillain a lesson in humility? We do not want him to get too puffed up with pride, do we?”

Richard was tempted. But he’d learned that few men were willing to defeat a king, be it at chess, arm wrestling, or jousting, and the only thing he hated more than losing was being allowed to win. Deciding that Guillain was too honest and too honorable not to give his best effort, Richard was reaching for his mantle’s clasp when their lookout yelled, “Sail ho!”

The game forgotten, the men squinted and shaded their eyes against the sun’s glare until they spotted the galleys heading their way. The ship’s master spat out an oath, for no merchant would choose a galley to carry his wares; they were seagoing weapons of war. There were three of them—sleek ebony hulls riding low in the water, triangular sails the color of blood, bronze spurs meant for ramming glimpsed each time they rode the crest of a wave. No flags flew from their mastheads and they were close enough now for those on the
Holy Rood
to see that the men on deck were holding crossbows, swords, axes, and grappling hooks. But Richard had already given the command, “To arms,” for one glance had been enough for him to discern their predatory intent.

His young squires, Jehan and Saer, were awaiting Richard in their tent, and hurried to help him don his gambeson, the padded tunic worn under his hauberk. Other knights were crowding into the tent to retrieve their armor, carefully packed away in coffers to protect it from the corrosive sea air. Once he’d buckled his scabbard and fastened his helmet strap, Richard snatched up his crossbow and hastened back on deck.

The anchors had been hauled up and the sailors were unfurling the sails; on the beach, the stranded crewmen were dragging the longboat onto the shore, apparently hoping to hide from the pirates if the
Holy Rood
was taken or sunk. Richard’s arbalesters were awaiting his orders, their crossbows spanned and bolts aligned. Some of the knights had not taken the time to put on the mail chausses that protected their legs, although all were wearing their hauberks and helmets. They were combat veterans, but unlike his sailors, they had no experience in sea warfare. Glancing around at their tense faces, he pitched his voice so all could hear. “Defending a ship is no different from defending a castle, lads . . . aside from the risk of drowning, of course.” As he’d hoped, that dispersed some of the tension; soldiers usually responded well to gallows humor.

Morgan pushed his way toward the king. He was still fumbling with his ventail, seeking to draw it across his throat. He usually felt more secure once he was clad in mail; now, though, he could not help thinking that if he slipped on the wet deck, it would drag him down like an anchor. Richard was studying the pirate ships as intently as he studied battlefields, and Morgan hoped he was formulating a strategy for another unlikely victory; the odds were not in their favor.

He reached his cousin just as Richard beckoned to the ship’s master, saying that he needed a man who spoke Greek. The Pisan nodded, for that was the native tongue of half a dozen members of the seventy-five-man crew. Before he could summon any of them, Hugh de Neville offered another candidate. “What of Petros, sire? You remember—the sailor from Messina. He acted as translator when your ladies were shipwrecked on Cyprus and proved to be very useful. He might even know some of those cutthroats, for I heard him boasting that he has a cousin on a pirate ship out of Kassiopi.”

“Get him.”

The words were no sooner out of Richard’s mouth than a youth materialized as if by magic before him. Petros’s black eyes were shining, for he was never happier than when he was the center of attention. “You ask for me, lord king? I speak Greek from the cradle, but my French . . . it is very good. When we were in Cyprus—”

“I need information about these pirates. Do they know about Saladin? The war in the Holy Land?”

“Of course they do, lord! They care about the recovery of Jerusalem, too. Why, some have even taken the cross. A man can be a pirate
and
a good Christian.”

“Have they heard of me?”

Petros grinned. “I daresay they’ve heard of you in Cathay, lord. After what you did at Jaffa—”

Richard usually enjoyed hearing his battlefield prowess lauded, but now he cut off the sailor’s effusive praise with a gesture. “I hope you are right, Petros. I want you to tell them that this is the
Holy Rood
out of Acre, commanded by the English king.”

Petros blinked in surprise. He obeyed at once, though, calling out to the closest of the pirate galleys. A reply soon came echoing across the waves. “They ask why they should believe that, lord.”

Richard had expected as much. Turning to the ship’s master, he told the man to raise his banner and, within moments, the royal lion of England was fluttering proudly from the masthead. The knights were murmuring among themselves, uneasy about the king’s decision to reveal his identity. “Now tell them this, Petros. Say the English king is called Lionheart because he does not know how to surrender. He will never yield to them. To take this ship, they will have to fight to the death.”

For the first time, Petros hesitated. “They are proud men, lord. I do not think they can be—”

“Tell them,” Richard said, and Petros did. His message appeared to stir up a lively debate among the pirates. Richard waited a few moments, and then nodded again to Petros. “Now tell them this—that it need not come to that. There is a way by which we both benefit and with no blood being shed. Tell their chieftain that I would speak with him.”

As Richard had anticipated, that was a challenge no pirate could refuse, and Petros was soon negotiating a meeting, while the knights clustered around their king, the bolder ones expressing their misgivings, fearing that he would agree to meet the pirate chieftain on his own galley, for they well knew Richard was quite capable of such a reckless act. He shrugged off their protests, and it was eventually agreed that he and the pirate would meet at midpoint between the two vessels. Their longboat was summoned from the beach, and much to the dismay of Richard’s men, he and Petros were soon being rowed out toward the approaching pirate longboat.

Morgan and Baldwin de Bethune stood at the gunwale, never taking their eyes from the tall figure in the prow of the longboat. They’d both been loyal to the old king, Richard’s father, had stayed with Henry until he’d drawn his last anguished breath at Chinon Castle, and while they were pragmatic enough to recognize Richard as their lawful king, they’d been wary at first of this man they knew only by repute. But that was before they fought beside him in Messina, Cyprus, and the Holy Land. Now they watched anxiously as he conferred with the pirate within range of the latter’s crossbowmen; that the pirate was taking the same risk was no comfort to them. The conversation was an animated one and Petros was kept busy translating from French to Greek and back to French again. It was not long, though, before a reassuring sound drifted back on the wind—laughter. Morgan and Baldwin exchanged glances, marveling that once again Richard had managed to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.