A King's Ransom (5 page)

C
LIMBING THE LADDER,
Richard swung himself over the gunwale and grinned at the men crowding the deck. “It is all settled. I have hired two of their galleys and crew for two hundred marks.”

There was an immediate outcry, exclamations of shock and alarm and bewilderment. Raising his hand to still them, Richard explained that he was known to be sailing on the
Holy Rood
and his enemies would be on the lookout for it. Switching to the galleys was one way to throw them off his trail. That made sense to his men, but they did not find it as easy to trust in the word of a pirate chieftain as Richard apparently did. None voiced objections, though, for kings were not to be questioned.

Richard headed for the tent, with Baldwin and Morgan right on his heels. The others watched, hoping that a highborn lord and a kinsman might dare to do what they could not: express their misgivings about this new alliance with sea rovers. Jehan and Saer had already begun to remove the king’s hauberk. He was in good spirits and answered readily enough when Baldwin asked how he could be sure these pirates could be trusted.

“Petros was right. They do care about the fate of the Holy Land, and for the past few months, soldiers have been passing through Corfu on their way home, all of them carrying tales of the French king’s perfidy and the battles we fought against Saladin. At the risk of sounding immodest,” Richard said with another grin, “I come off well in those stories and Captain Georgios and his men are eager to hear my own account of them. They still want the two hundred marks, mind you, but they also want to help us escape our enemies. Georgios was actually indignant to hear of my plight, pointing out that men who’d taken the cross are under the protection of the Church. Ironic, is it not, that a pirate should have more honor than kings or emperors?”

Baldwin’s qualms were assuaged, for he believed Richard to be a good judge of character, a survival skill for those who wore crowns or commanded armies. Morgan was still shaken, for he’d just spent an hour fearing for the king’s safety and wondering how he was going to tell Joanna that he’d merely watched as her brother went off alone to meet with pirates. “But you did not know this Georgios was a man of honor when you got into that longboat,” he blurted out. “Are you never afraid for your own life?”

Richard’s eyebrows shot upward in surprise. “Surely you’ve not forgotten that Good Friday storm that scattered our fleet after we left Sicily? Need I refresh your memory, Morgan? The wind keening like the souls of the damned, the waves higher than church spires, all of us sure we’d breathed our last. Or the tempest we encountered in the Gulf of Satalea, where our ships were blown backward by the force of the wind. You show me a man who claims he was not afraid during those storms, and I’ll show you a liar.”

That wasn’t what Morgan needed to know; he’d taken it for granted that Richard feared storms at sea, not being insane. He’d gone too far to retreat, though. “But what of the battlefield? I’ve seen you take chances that . . .” He paused, then said simply, “Do you never fear for your own safety?”

Richard was quiet for a moment, considering whether that was a question he wanted to answer. He suspected it was one many a man had long wanted to ask, although the only person who’d ever dared had been his wife. It was easier just to brush the query aside. But he liked his Welsh cousin and knew that Morgan’s concern was genuine. “Well,” he said at last, “when a man’s blood is running hot and his heart is racing, it can be difficult to tell excitement from fear.”

There was a silence and then Baldwin said, very dryly, “Passing strange, for I have no trouble at all telling them apart.”

Richard laughed, handed his gambeson to one of his squires, and then made one final effort to explain what seemed to him quite obvious. “It is simple, really. In a storm, we are utterly helpless, at the mercy of the wind and waves. But on the battlefield, my fate is in my own hands. What happens is up to me.”

Morgan agreed that a lack of control would be frightening to any man, especially a king. But he was convinced that Richard was surely the only one on God’s earth who felt in control of events on the battlefield. Seeing that there would be no satisfactory answer to a question he ought not to have asked in the first place, he changed the subject and asked when the switch from the
Holy Rood
to the pirate galleys would occur.

“On the morrow. I need to provide our men with enough money to make their way home. The
Holy Rood
will take them to Brindisi, where they can choose to travel overland, pass the winter in Sicily, or even take passage on a ship sailing for one of the ports that are barred to me. They are not the quarry in this hunt, after all.”

Seeing that Baldwin and Morgan were confused, Richard explained that he was only taking twenty men with him, heading off any objections with some blunt speaking. “We do not have enough men to keep us safe, just enough to attract unwanted attention. The only chance I have to reach Saxony is to travel as fast and as inconspicuously as possible.”

Their first reaction was to protest, horrified by the very thought that their king would be venturing into enemy territory with only twenty men. Their second was a reluctant realization that Richard was right. Their third was to insist that they both be amongst the twenty men. Richard feigned displeasure that they were overstepping themselves, but he was touched that they were so willing to follow him into the frigid, far reaches of Hell, the German empire of Heinrich von Hohenstaufen.

T
HE MASTER AND CREW
of the
Holy Rood
were obviously relieved that they’d be spared a harrowing voyage along the Adriatic coast. But Richard’s knights and crossbowmen and men-at-arms responded as Baldwin and Morgan had done, all clamoring to accompany him. “You are daft, the lot of you,” he said huskily, “for no man with his wits about him would choose snowdrifts and bad German ale over Palermo’s palm trees and bawdy houses.” But he did not let sentiment influence his selection of the twenty men, hardening his heart against the tearful pleas of his own squires and choosing those who he thought would be most formidable in a fight, calmest in a crisis. He made exceptions only for his chaplain, Ancelm; his clerk of the chamber, Fulk de Poitiers; and—much to the boy’s delight—Arne, whose ability to speak German was sure to be an asset. The others chosen were Morgan, Baldwin, Hugh de Neville, Warin Fitz Gerald, his admiral Robert de Turnham, Robert de Harcourt, Guillain de l’Etang, Walkelin de Ferrers, four Templars, and his five best arbalesters. They would be facing dangers, hardships, deprivation, and possible death, but they reacted as if they’d been given a great honor, any fear they may have felt firmly tethered by pride.

Of all those who’d not been chosen, none were as devastated as Guilhem de Préaux. While the other men lined the gunwales to watch as Richard sailed away on a pirate galley, Guilhem retreated to the tent to rage and pace, tearful one moment, cursing the next. “How could he have left me behind?” he cried as his brothers, Pierre and Jean, followed him. “How could he ever have doubted my loyalty?”

“He did not, you fool,” Pierre said, and left it to Jean to console Guilhem, for Richard had entrusted them with the care of his squires and they were now in need of solace, too. As Pierre withdrew, dropping the tent flap to give them a small measure of privacy, Jean rummaged around until he found a wineskin and tossed it to his brother.

“Pierre is right. The king would never doubt your loyalty or your courage. You ought to know better than that.”

“Then why would he not take me with him?”

“Why do you think, Guilhem? Your loyalty cost you nigh on a year of your life, and whilst you rarely talk of it, we know you had no easy time in confinement. It is true that we owe a debt of fealty to Richard, our liege lord. But he would not have you pay that debt twice over.”

Guilhem studied his brother’s face, then took several deep swallows from the wineskin. “I would have paid it gladly.”

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

R
ichard 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.