A King's Ransom (8 page)

T
HE RIVALRY BETWEEN
R
AGUSA’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.

A
FTER TAKING THE
S
EA-
W
OLF
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 with 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.

The storm that hit hours later was not as savage as the one that had stranded them on La Croma, but it proved to be longer-lasting. For three days, the
Sea-Serpent
was battered by the waves and wind, pelted with sleet. The men slept little, ate less, gulped syrup of ginger to calm their heaving stomachs, and prayed—not just to the saints they’d drawn, but to every saint they could remember. The wind was cold and fierce and Spyro, the helmsman, told them it was a bora, which swept down from the inland mountains and wreaked havoc during the winter months. Shivering in their wet clothes, Richard’s knights crouched miserably in the tent and longed for Zadar the way they’d been told infidels yearned for Mecca.

They’d been driven far out to sea by the bora, had not seen land for two days. When Richard demanded to know how much farther to Zadar, Georgios reluctantly admitted that the port was lost, far behind them. Unnerved by the English king’s volcanic outburst, which put him in mind of Sicily’s Mountain of Fire, he assured Richard that there was another Hungarian port at Pula and they could put in there once the winds decreased and Spyro could use his navigational aid, a magnetized needle stuck in a sliver of cork that, when floated in a bucket of water, always pointed north. Sailors relied upon the stars and landmarks to chart their course, he reminded Richard, neither of which were now available to Spyro. As soon as the weather cleared, they would land at Pula or they could sail back to Zadar if that was the king’s wish. He sounded very matter-of-fact and confident, but he had no answer when Richard asked what would happen if the storm did not slacken soon.

On the third day, they finally glimpsed land, only it was on the larboard side of the galley. As they realized they were gazing at the Italian coast, the men were shocked that they’d been swept so far off course. That distant shoreline soon disappeared and once more they could see nothing but sea and sky. Georgios promised again that they would head for a Hungarian port after they escaped the bora’s accursed clutches. He made the wind sound like a malevolent entity, capable of malice, and few of Richard’s men would argue with him at that point.

When the storm was finally over, the men on the
Sea-Serpent
, passengers and crew alike, were too exhausted to rejoice; the most they could muster was numbed relief. Spyro consulted the sailing needle and adjusted the ship’s course. But they did not have long to savor their reprieve, for a few hours later, calamity struck. The first indication Richard had that something had gone very wrong was a sudden shout, followed by a burst of profanity; even though he spoke no Greek, there was no mistaking the tone. Hastening out on deck, he found the pirates clustered around the tiller, all talking at once in an obvious panic.

“Petros! What has happened?”

The young sailor usually thrived on danger and chaos. Now, though, he just looked scared. “God help us, lord, for we’ve lost the rudder! It is not responding to the tiller!”

Petros went on to say that it must have been damaged by the constant pounding of the waves, or else it had become entangled in seaweed or a fishing net. Richard was no longer listening, for an alarming image was flashing before his eyes—a crippled Saracen ship, floundering helplessly after some of his sailors had dived into the water and tied ropes around its rudder, disabling it so their galleys could attack. Without its rudder, a ship was unable to steer, at the mercy of the waves and wind.