We stayed and talked at the riverfront tavern for so long and drank so much wine that Antonio’s guards had to hire a cart and carry him home. George and I were so tipsy that we staggered over to spend the night on Sergeant Tinker’s galley, which was moored only a few steps away against the riverbank wharf instead of going back into the city to spend the night with Martin Archer and his men at our post in Rome.
Our non-arrival worried Martin, the senior sergeant captaining our post in Rome, so much that when we didn’t show up he turned out his men and sent them searching for us. The next morning, we heard that his archers showed up at the galley and wouldn’t leave until someone fetched a candle lantern and held it up so they could see us sleeping. Martin always was such a worrywart.
Chapter Thirteen
Thomas and George sail for Cornwall.
A big storm blew in during the night so we didn’t leave the next day. It was just as well; after all of last night’s wine, I was in no shape to handle even the gentlest of seas. It was an easy decision to put off our sailing until the weather cleared and, instead, take George on a tour of the city.
We hired a horse cart with a sun roof of palm fronds to armour us against the rain and off we went. A second, similarly roofed horse cart filled with a guard of archers followed us. It was quite enjoyable and made more so because a fellow recommended by the tavern keeper rode in the cart with us to tell us what we were seeing. There was no sense courting trouble so neither George nor I wore our clerical robes, just our mail shirts with plate in front and the lightweight Egyptian robes with our rank stripes.
Our guide’s stories were entertaining but far-fetched. We spent an enjoyable day listening to them and seeing the sights, particularly after the rain stopped in the early afternoon. The streets and markets were packed with people but no one bothered us or paid us any attention. Pilgrims and merchants from distant lands were common in Rome. My headache from last night’s drinking stopped after George and I and our guide stopped for some olives and we had another bowl of wine
George and I returned from our sight-seeing in the city to find Cardinal Bertoli and a handful of papal guards waiting for us. This time Antonio was wearing a simple, lightweight peasant’s gown in order to stay cool in the summer heat and safer in the streets by drawing less attention.
“I heard you had stayed over because of the weather so I brought you these,” he said.
With that, Antonio handed me copies of the secret parchments that would be going out to various princes with the Pope’s great seal affixed to them. He also gave me the original of the parchment we had decided not send to King John of England. Then we walked to the nearby tavern to read them, celebrate working together once again, and talk about the world and the Pope and the various princes who might be gulled out of their coins if we found the relics.
******
We rowed down the Tiber and out into the Mediterranean the next morning with our deck crowded with a great mass of squawking and fluttering chickens whose legs had been tied together in bundles of ten and a couple of bawling steers whose hamstrings had been cut.
It was a fine day. We were bound for Cornwall and happy about it. George and I spent most of the morning of our first day at sea taking turns being seasick and once again reading the Pope’s secret parchments and talking about them.
There were subtle differences in each of the parchments and none of them mentioned English archers, just that the relics of Constantinople were missing and the Church was willing to make great concessions to get them, especially the gold-covered hand of Saint John and the silver-covered head of Saint Paul. The parchment for the King of England was quite interesting even though the Pope had decided not to send it.
The Pope’s requirements for King John of England avoiding a stay in purgatory, those we had decided not to send, were by far more demanding than those that were actually sent to the other princes. John’s avoidance of purgatory and the end of his excommunication would have required not only that he provide the relics but also required an agreement with his barons as to their rights, a peace treaty with Phillip of France, his acceptance of whomever the Pope crowned as the new Holy Roman Emperor, and his acceptance of the Pope’s right to name England’s bishops.
Pope Innocent’s concerns about King John made sense, particularly the part about the Holy Roman Empire. What Antonio had told me about John’s meddling in the German princes’ election of a new emperor had surprised me since neither England nor France were part of the empire.
According to Antonio, John had sent messages to the German princes in support of the election of a German prince named Otto who had agreed to leave Italy to the Pope—but then Otto changed his mind immediately after he was elected and demanded that the Pope also crown him King of Italy at his coronation. The Pope had refused to do either and was furious with John for supporting Otto.
“Otto acted too quickly,” Antonio had sniffed with a great deal of pleasure.
“He should have waited until the Pope crowned him as the Emperor of the Germans before he started claiming Italy. As a result of the Pope’s refusal, another group of German princes elected another prince named Frederick to be Emperor despite efforts of Otto and his supporters to keep the second election from occurring.”
Antonio had hardly been able to contain his pleasure when he had told us about it.
“Now there are two German princes claiming to have been elected and neither has been crowned. They’re sure to bid against each other and pay too much for the relics if you find them.”
Neither the Pope nor Antonio, nor I for that matter, could understand why John tried to influence which German prince was elected emperor. He must have been promised something. But what?
“Even the Pope couldn’t understand why John wrote to the princes supporting Otto,” Antonio admitted.
All in all, the Pope’s requirements were so great that John didn’t sound like a good candidate to buy the relics and donate them to the church. Moreover, I knew John wouldn’t have enough coins with which to buy them unless he levied a new and very large tax, a tax which would almost certainly drive more of his barons to rebel.
What John did sound like was a good candidate to send William Marshal and an army to seize the relics and offer them to the Pope. When we were ready to sell them, we’d have to take them under very heavy guard to someplace where it would be safe to exchange them for the coins.
“Antonio,” I had said when we were discussing potential buyers, “I am concerned about wasting the Holy Father’s time by having you offer King John a way to escape a well-deserved stay in purgatory.
“The more I think of it, the more I am sure that King John does not have enough coins to cover the expenses that will have to be born to recover the relics and no way to get them without causing such a great unrest that it would prevent us from searching for the relics.
“Worse, because John doesn’t have enough coins to cover the expenses of finding the relics, and no way to get them, he might send an army to seize the relics from us if we are able to find them. Then there would be no coins to pay our men for recovering them.” Or send you your one coin in ten for your trouble and expenses.
Antonio had immediately understood why the Pope should not encourage John to seek the relics so he could donate them to the church. He assured George and I that the Pope would not mention the relics to King John. Giving us his draft parchment was Antonio’s way of assuring us that he meant what he’d said when we discussed whether John should be offered a chance to bid on the relics.
“The Pope is a good man and very busy. He certainly would not want to waste his time nor do anything to prevent you and me and your dear archers from receiving the coins needed to cover our relic-related expenses, such as by offering the King of England an incentive to avoid purgatory by taking them from you without payment.”
******
We had rowed through the strait between Corsica and Sardinia with our sail up and were about two days sailin
g from Ibiza when opportunity struck. There was a hail from the lookout’s nest on the mast alerting us that three sails were in sight on the horizon off to our starboard side. Sergeant Captain Tinker raced up the mast to see for himself and soon began shouting orders down to his sailing sergeant. A few minutes later a three-masted ship of a strange design could be seen from the deck. It had three masts with big triangular sails and was accompanied by what appeared to be a couple Moorish war galleys.
“It’s a big Moorish transport with three masts and strange sails, and it’s being escorted by war galleys so it must have a valuable cargo,” Sergeant Tinker had said as he came down the mast and he and his loud-talker and sailing sergeant joined us on the roof of the stern castle.
Sergeant Tinker’s words spread like wildfire through our galley’s crew. Spirits and the level of activity rose everywhere. They increased even more as our rudder men turned our galley towards the Moors and Sergeant Tinker ordered the arrow bales brought to the deck for the archers and every rower to have a sword and shield and his rowing bench.
“Arrow parties to bring the bales on deck and open them; swords and shields to every man.”
Our lookouts were not the only ones with good eyes. The two Moorish galleys had seen us before we’d seen them. They had turned and begun rowing toward us even before Sergeant Tinker had raced down the deck to join us on the castle roof and begin to give his orders. With a little luck, we told each other, the Moorish galleys may consider us a potential prize until it’s too late for one or both of them to get away.
“Fetch our mail shirts and bows,” I ordered George, “and a bale of arrows for the castle roof.” All around us sergeants were swearing great oaths and excited men were racing about to gather supplies and prepare their weapons. I could see archers climbing on to the roof of the stern galley and others climbing with their bows to the lookout’s nest on the mast. Even our usually silent bales of chickens and our two remaining sheep were making noises and flopping about.
Our galley’s deck looked chaotic as the men ran this way and that to man their positions and get ready for a fight, but it wasn’t; retrieving their weapons and getting ready to fight was something every galley’s crew practised doing at least once every day.
Only the cook was waiting for someone to tell him what to do. He wouldn’t be told to throw his hot coals over the side until the battle was about to begin; he might need them to cook the bread and meat strips needed to sustain the rowers in the event of a long chase. He’d already placed a short sword and galley shield where he could instantly pick them up.
When George came back I told him to put on his mail shirt and then go get a couple of galley swords and shields for us in case we need them. It never hurts to be ready with a sword and shield, does it? Then I took off my tunic and put on my mail shirt.
******
“String your bows; string your bows,” cried the sergeants as the two Moorish galleys rapidly closed with us. Most of the archers had done so already but someone might have forgotten in all the excitement.
The strange three-masted sailing ship the Moorish galleys were protecting wasn’t taking any chances. It adjusted its three triangular sails and turned away to flee before the wind. The two galleys, however, came straight at us. From the look of them, they intended to come upon us from both sides, perhaps breaking off our oars so we couldn’t escape.
“Bows free,” roared Tinker. “Archers push when you have targets.” His loud-talker and archer sergeants immediately repeated Tinker’s command at the top of their voices. Seconds later our arrows began to fly.
“Get ready to instantly ship your oars,” roared Tinker as the Moors closed with us. “Ready grappling irons and throw as soon as you can hook her,” he said. His loud-talker repeated the order a moment later.
Suddenly, one of the Moorish galleys lost its nerve and turned away as a storm of arrows descended on it and its lookout fell off the mast with an arrow in his chest. The other Moor kept coming.
“In oars; in oars,” shouted Tinker just before we closed with the on-rushing Moor. He was standing next to me with an arrow nocked and ready to push. Every man including the sergeant captain fights on our galleys, including passengers such as me and George.
Tinker’s orders reached our men just in time. Their oars came in fast and I don’t think we lost a single one. The Moor was not so lucky. There was a crash and the distinctive sound and screams that occur when oars are sheared off and snapped back against their rowers. Our veterans had heard it before.
Our galley’s deck was packed with men and so was the Moor’s. Out of the corner of my eye, as I pushed an arrow into a Moor standing on his galley’s castle roof, I could see sailors on both galleys begin to throw their grappling irons. We were so close I could clearly see the shock and surprise on the faces of the men on the Moor’s deck as they realised we were so many and armed with longbows—and we were throwing grapples to keep them from getting away.
The sword-waving men on the Moorish galley were cut down by our archers like a Damascus blade going through cheese as our grapple throwers strained to get their galley tight up against ours. A few seconds later, there was the familiar sound of two hulls banging together and we all staggered slightly from the initial collision. By then, there was almost no one left standing on the Moor’s deck. They were either down on the deck with arrows in them or had dived below to hide among the slaves on their lower rowing deck.
As our boarders jumped on to our victim’s deck, the other Moorish galley started to turn back to join the battle, but then its captain thought better of it and turned away to follow the three-master.
“Prize crew number one board the prize; prize crew number one board the prize,” screamed an excited and enthusiastic Tinker and his loud-talker. “Hurry, lads; don’t let the bastards get away.
Chapter Fourteen
We take another prize.
We pushed off from our new prize so quickly that we left almost a dozen men of the boarding party on board in addition to our prize crew. I thought it might have been a mistake since it would leave us short of men when we went after the fleeing Moors, but I didn’t say anything to Sergeant Tinker. Besides, he’ll certainly have done the right thing if we catch another one of them as a prize with the men who remain. We also took casualties—two dead men and three wounded, one seriously. Thankfully, George and I weren’t among them. The Moors must have had a few archers in their crew. We’ll find out more when we rendezvous with our prize in Ibiza.
Sergeant Captain Tinker ran up the mast to join the archers in the lookout’s nest as soon as we pushed off from our prize, but not before he ordered the sail raised and everyone to the oars including me and George. We were going to try to take another prize.
Within a few moments, the oars on the lower bank were fully manned and pulling hard with two men on every oar; on the upper bank, there were two men on every oar but only about half of the oars were manned because of our casualties and the prize crew and the boarding party still on our new prize. The rowing drum began to beat faster and faster as we began to pick up speed.
Our galley ignored the second Moorish galley, which veered away to the south. We rowed instead straight for the big sailing ship as it slipped over the horizon to the east and ran before the wind. The other Moorish galley soon went over the southern horizon. We never saw it again.
*****
It was already dark when we finally pulled up next to the big and very strange-looking Moorish ship with its three masts and its big and little triangle sails. The sky was partly cloudy and in the moonlight we could barely see it looming in the night off to our starboard. That’s where we stayed all night long—one or two galley lengths behind it. We were afraid to come any closer to board it until we could see it better. Speculation as to what kind of ship it was and what it might be carrying continued all night long.
We got our first good look at the big Moorish three-master in the morning as the sun began to move overhead to st
art its never-ending rotation around the earth.
“It’s a big dhow,” our white-haired pilot assured us. “It comes from far to the east where there are dragons and the women are rigged differently. I saw one once when we was blown far to the east during old King Henry’s day.”
The dhow kept going and we kept following closely. Sergeant Tinker put our best archers up in the lookout’s nest and they quickly cleared off both of the Moor’s lookouts and that part of her deck that could be seen from the mast. Clearing part of the Moor’s deck, however, was not enough to stop the Moors on the dhow from trying to flee and dragging us along with them.
That was the state of affairs when one of our sailors came up with an idea. He climbed up past the lookout’s nest to the very top of the mast with a roll of galley rope slung over his shoulder. When he got to the very top, he fixed a line to tie an archer up there above the lookouts.
Sergeant Tinker said the sailor’s name was Alan. We watched as he helped one of the archers climb up from the nest and get into the harness he had tied. Then Alan handed the archer his bow and a quiver of arrows and gave him an encouraging pat on his leg. It sounded easy but was altogether quite difficult because the top of the mast was constantly swaying and jerking back and forth as our galley bumped over the waves and responded to wind gusts.
Finally, the archer settled in and began to loose his arrows. It was difficult because of the swaying and jerking mast, but he did it even though his waist and shoulders were up above the top of the mast.
“He’s the best archer I’ve got,” commented Tinker out of the side of his mouth as we stood looking up at the archer high above us. “Wins all the tournaments, doesn’t he?”
As Alan the sailor came down the mast I looked over at Sergeant Tinker and mouthed “another stripe for sure, maybe two.” Tinker nodded back.
Sea Warriors Page 9