Crowner's Crusade

by Bernard Knight

  ‘Am I to tell the shipmaster to strike westwards from here to reach Sicily?’ asked Robert de Turnham, in his capacity as High Admiral.

  The king shook his large head decisively. Normally clean-shaven like most Normans, he had joined the others in letting his hair and beard grow since leaving Acre and now had eleven day’s worth of golden fuzz on his face.

  ‘No, we’ll keep to the original plan of stopping at Corfu, where there will be the most up-to-date intelligence from Italy, just across the straits from there. We can decide then what is the best course to take. It might be up into the Adriatic.’

  The journey continued and the weather began to worsen, as the season was now far advanced. Suspicious of the reaction of other Byzantine ports in the region, the king and his officers directed the shipmaster to keep to the south of the chain of islands in the Aegean, passing on the horizon Karpathos, Kasos and then the seemingly endless coastline of Crete. The buss wallowed along in worsening weather and any thought of hot food was banished, as no fire could be lit on the rolling deck. As well as Baldwin, the chaplain was seasick for days on end and Philip of Poitou had to lead the prayers, most of which were heartfelt pleas for deliverance from this slow torment. Thankfully, John de Wolfe was a good sailor and of course, Gwyn relished the motion, having spent much of his youth in cockleshells off the Cornish coast.

  ‘How long d’you think this bad weather will last, Gwyn?’ demanded de Wolfe of his squire, as they huddled for shelter under the windward bulwark.

  ‘What bad weather, Sir John?’ asked the ginger giant, with a roguishly innocent expression.

  ‘There’s a bit of a swell, admittedly, but at least the sea is staying where it’s supposed to be – outside the ship!’

  His reassurance did not last long, as when the Franche Nef eventually passed the western end of Crete, the ship began to pitch as well as roll and spray began to fly back from the bow. Within another day, occasional green waves were crashing over the low main deck and streaming out through the scuppers.

  ‘No sleeping on deck tonight,’ said Baldwin mournfully. ‘We share the hold with the horses from now on.’

  Below deck, under the large hatch sealed with planks and canvas, twenty horses shared the misery with them. The animals were penned in stalls at each side, the whites of their eyes rolling with terror as the ship plunged along. For a further week, the men tried to sleep as best they could. Some climbed into the diminishing piles of hay that were stacked under the forecastle, others tried to wedge their straw pallets between the crates and casks of the food stores that were lashed down in the centre of the hold.

  In the daytime, they staggered up on deck, preferring a wetting from the spray to the stink of horse manure and urine that seeped down to the bilges. Their own sanitary arrangements were little better – a bucket was the usual receptacle, as only the nonchalant crew dared use the ring-shaped wooden seat that was clamped to the bulwarks, hanging over the waves below. For obvious reasons, it was always fixed downwind on the ‘looward’ side, from which it got its nickname, ‘the loo seat’.

  William de L’Etang stood one day with John and Baldwin at the lee rail, gripping it with dogged determination. ‘I trust someone knows where we are,’ he shouted, over the moan of the wind and the soughing of the water as it churned ten feet below them. ‘One bit of the God-blasted sea looks the same as the next!’

  Geography was not the strong point of many on board, though the voyage out had given them some notion of the main way-stations. Maps and charts were speculative, outside local coastal waters.

  De Wolfe looked out at the empty sea, now that the islands were far behind. ‘I think Greece must be up there somewhere,’ he hazarded, waving a hand vaguely northwards.

  ‘That’s cheered me greatly!’ muttered William, as seawater swirled about his ankles as the deck tilted rhythmically. It was becoming cooler under a grey sky and they began to miss the comfort of hot food. The previous day, one of the crew attempted to boil them some stew over a brazier of charcoal in a sheltered corner of the deck, but the whole thing was overturned, scalding the man’s leg. Thankfully, the large wave that had upset it also flooded over the coals and prevented any conflagration.

  When a few more days had passed, it was nearing the end of October and the horizon was still empty, but as the ship laboured further northwards, they saw land again far away on their starboard bow, the wild mountains of the Greek Peloponnesus. A day or two later, as land closed in on both sides, the strong winds abated somewhat. They entered a wide strait between an island and the mainland, almost a score of miles across. John de Wolfe and Gwyn watched from the aftercastle as they passed between the rugged land on either side.

  ‘Where are we now, master?’ demanded John of the Venetian who navigated the vessel. The man spoke enough French for them to converse and told him that the island was Zakynthos and that ahead of them was an inland sea.

  ‘We come through these islands to gain shelter, even though they have dangerous currents and jagged reefs,’ replied the man, turning away to yell something in a strange language at some of his seamen struggling with ropes attached to the single large sail that was driving them along.

  ‘Much as I love the sea, I’ve had my fill of it for now!’ complained Gwyn, hunched over the rail in his scuffed jerkin, made of stiff boiled leather that was almost as good as armour. Other than in the hottest weather, he seemed to live in it, thought John. It had a pointed hood hanging down the back, which when worn, made him look like a huge Cornish pixie, especially as he also had coarse worsted breeches tucked into wrinkled ankle-length boots. Whereas all the others had given in and allowed their beards to grow unchecked, Gwyn periodically scraped off most of his stubble with a sharp knife, leaving his bushy red moustaches to droop down to his collar.

  ‘You’ll not recognize your two boys when we get home, Gwyn,’ observed his master. ‘They’ll be a couple of years older by then.’

  The Cornishman grinned. ‘As long as there are not more than two there when I get home, I’ll be happy!’ he said mischievously. ‘And what about your own lady, Sir John? You’ve not seen her for the same length of time.’

  De Wolfe scowled at him, his long, saturnine face glowering under the nascent black beard. ‘You know damned well that the less I see of her, the better I’m pleased! I came on this Crusade more to get away from her, than from any great desire to slaughter Saracens!’ Everyone in Exeter knew that the relationship between John and Matilda de Revelle was anything but a love match. Pushed into a marriage of convenience by their respective parents some fourteen years earlier, they lived in a state of smouldering antagonism. During that time, de Wolfe had spent less than a year living with her, managing to find a war somewhere in Ireland or across the Channel to give him a legitimate reason for his absence. It had also gained him a sizeable store of silver, which he added to his winnings and ransom money from his success at tournaments, all wisely invested in a joint wool-exporting enterprise with a prominent merchant friend in Exeter.

  ‘Where is she living while you are away?’ asked Gwyn, in an innocent tone, though he well knew the answer.

  ‘With her bloody brother, who she considers is only slightly less sanctified than Almighty God himself!’ growled de Wolfe, cynically. ‘She’s either at his house in North Street or up at his estate in Tiverton.’

  His brother-in-law was Sir Richard de Revelle, a wealthy knight with aspirations as a politician. He had estates in several counties in the West Country and had been sheriff of Somerset for a short time. John detested him even more than he disliked his own wife. De Revelle had carefully avoided joining the king in either his French wars or in taking the Cross for service in the Holy Land. De Wolfe strongly suspected him of being a covert supporter of Prince John’s intrigues to unseat the Lionheart from the throne, as he had been cultivating a close association with some of the canons of the cathedral, who were in favour of the prince as the new king.

  ‘My wife wants me to buy a hous
e in the city when I return,’ grumbled de Wolfe. ‘She was content for us to live with her cousin in Fore Street for the past few years, but managed to insinuate herself into her brother’s household when I left for Palestine. God knows how she gets on with his wife, the icy Eleanor, for they dislike each other intensely.’

  Gwyn nodded his shaggy head understandingly. ‘Thank Jesus I don’t have that sort of trouble. My good wife Agnes manages to survive on the loot I left her last time I was home, though she also keeps a cow, some fowls and a goat in our backyard to make a few more pennies.’ Gwyn rented a small cottage in the village of St Sidwell, just outside Exeter’s East Gate.

  Their discussion of family matters was ended by the gong which summoned them to their midday dinner. By now, a crewman had taken advantage of the calmer weather to light a charcoal brazier and as all the meat had long been eaten or gone rotten, fish was on the menu, bought from a small boat that came out to them from the islands. At least it was fresh, a great improvement on the dried stuff that came from casks in the hold. The last of the bread from Rhodes had gone mouldy but there was plenty of hard, unleavened biscuit. The fish were grilled on skewers over the brazier and a passable meal was handed around, washed down by either brackish water or the indifferent wine from Acre.

  The passage across the gap between Zathynkos and Ithaca took a couple of days, the erudite chaplain Anselm informing anyone who would listen that the latter island was the home of Odysseus, news which was lost on all his flock, none of whom had ever heard of The Odyssey.

  The king was becoming more impatient as time went on, urging the shipmaster and his High Admiral to push on with greater speed, something which the clumsy buss was incapable of doing. Richard was anxious for more up-to-date news of what his enemies were doing, both in their efforts to block his return home and what avaricious designs Philip Augustus now had on Normandy. Before leaving Acre, he had sent a fast galley to Messina to inform Tancred that he expected to be in Corfu in a few weeks’ time and fervently hoped that the Sicilian would honour his promise to send couriers with the latest information.

  Out beyond the shelter of the coast, the sea became rougher again and it was with relief that the hazy outline of Corfu became visible on the morning of the ninth day of November.

  Next day, they had clawed their way up the inner side of the large island to reach Kirkira, the main city and port, where with great thankfulness, they dropped anchor. Corfu was also part of the Byzantine Empire ruled from Constantinople and Richard and his advisers were unsure of the reception they would get there. Philip of France had also called at Corfu on his way home the previous year and Richard was not sure of what poisonous lies he had left behind him about his rival. It was known that he had been proclaiming all over Europe that the Norman king had been trying to kill him and also the lie that he had ordered the fatal stabbing of Conrad Montferrat, ruler of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. However, it was imperative that they learned what they could from Tancred’s messengers, as well as taking on food and water for the next leg of the voyage, as by now their stores were seriously depleted.

  ‘You go with William and Baldwin, John,’ commanded the Lionheart, as the ship’s boat was lowered over the side. ‘Seek out these men from Sicily, if God willing, they have arrived. Take Gwyn with you, he is worth any three men if you have to fight your way back!’

  They dressed in sober clothing with no rich adornments, so as not to attract undue attention, and left the Templars on board, as they were not always welcomed by the Orthodox communities. They clambered gingerly into the small boat and two crewmen rowed them the half mile to the long curving beach with its stone jetty. Many ships were drawn up on the strand, including Venetian trading vessels hibernating for the coming winter.

  The boat grounded on the sand near the base of the jetty and the three knights waded ashore, Gwyn following behind, his old sword scabbard slung across his back from a leather strap. They climbed a slope up to the town, where several streets rambled away, lined with a mixture of wooden and stone buildings, the latter gleaming in the autumn sun. The people in those streets were even more mixed than the buildings. Some of them wore Moorish robes, others dressed like farm peasants and yet more were obviously merchants, artisans and labourers.

  The four men attracted curious glances and some hostile glares, for it seemed that everyone knew that it was the ship belonging to the King of England that lay at anchor in their bay.

  ‘Keep your hands near your weapons,’ advised William de L’Etang. ‘Some of these fellows don’t seem all that pleased to see us.’

  They strode up the main street away from the sea and it seemed to John that the crowds parted to let them pass, as if they might have some contagious disease.

  Gwyn moved up to walk alongside de Wolfe and muttered in his ear. ‘How are we supposed to find these Sicilian messengers? We know no one here to enquire, do we?’

  ‘I understand that they will find us, if they are here. If not, we must return to the ship after a couple of hours.’

  As they walked farther from the more open area near the beach, the main street closed in, with many narrow, crooked alleys running off on each side. The smell of a town grew stronger, a mixture of cooking, sewage, rubbish and unwashed humanity. Though well used to similar odours in almost every town they had ever visited, after weeks at sea in clean, open air, the stink affected their nostrils more than usual. Shops and stalls lined the road, a haphazard collection selling all manner of goods, as Corfu was a meeting place of several cultures. Venice had strong trading links with it and Italy was not far over the western horizon. Merchants from North Africa and the Levant added a Muslim flavour, the various styles of clothing of all these people making a bewildering mixture.

  ‘No one has approached us yet,’ said Baldwin, looking around expectantly. ‘Maybe those couriers from Tancred never arrived. Shipwrecked perhaps, if they were as foolish as us to venture on the high seas at this time of year.’

  Soon the road widened out into a marketplace, even more crowded and chaotic than the main street. Amid the stalls and booths, old women sat on the ground amid piles of vegetables and fruit, donkeys and packhorses trod between them and roaming dogs and urchins added to the general confusion.

  ‘Now where in hell do we look?’ demanded de Wolfe, stopping to view the congested square with distaste.

  A voice from his right answered him in perfect Norman-French. ‘I think you may be seeking me, sirs!’ A short man stepped out from behind a canvas booth selling fish. He was dressed in drab, but good-quality clothes, a short tunic and baggy breeches, a floppy wide-brimmed hat on his head. His light cloak carried several religious badges and he held a long staff in his hand, giving him the general appearance of a pilgrim. He had a smooth, bland face, one that John thought was instantly forgettable, perhaps an advantage in a secret courier.

  Baldwin advanced on him, glad that the quest seemed to have ended. ‘You have business with the king’s men?’ he asked.

  The man nodded and introduced himself as Brother Lawrence. ‘In spite of my appearance, I am a priest and one of King Tancred’s chaplains, though I seem to spend more time serving him than the Almighty!’ He turned and beckoned to another figure, who was still lurking behind the fish-stall. ‘This is Gilbert, a lay brother and my protector on covert missions such as this.’

  A large and ugly man appeared, grasping a cudgel and wearing a short sword on his belt. He nodded curtly, but said nothing, looking about him as if ready to fend off any attack.

  ‘You have intelligence for us?’ William demanded of the Sicilian priest. ‘King Richard is most anxious to learn of any news about those that wish to confound him.’

  ‘We have, sir. But this is no place to impart it.’ He looked around, just as his bodyguard was doing. ‘Since the scurrilous accusations put about by the French and the Germans, many in these islands are ill-disposed to your king. They know who you are, so I suggest returning with us to your ship as soon as we can.’


  As they retraced their steps through the crowded streets, de Wolfe was well aware of the scowls and muttering that some of the populace directed at them. As they neared the harbour, a small group of younger men shouted some unintelligible abuse at them from across the lane and then a stone was flung at them, which hit Gwyn on the leg. The big Cornishman was not one to suffer insults and with a roar, he launched himself across the street, pushing bystanders aside as he slipped his scabbard from his shoulder and pulled out his sword. The youths instantly scattered, but not before Gwyn had landed a few blows with the flat of his long blade and whacked another man with the heavy scabbard. They vanished into a side lane as Gwyn sheathed his weapon and walked back to the others.

  ‘Well done!’ growled de Wolfe. ‘But the local populace don’t seem so pleased with us.’

  A number of the people in the crowded street were glaring at the strangers and several shook their fists and shouted, though they were careful not to come within range of Gwyn’s sword.

  ‘Let’s get back to the ship before we start a riot,’ advised Baldwin and they moved more briskly towards the beach where their skiff was waiting.

  As they clambered aboard, several men and a couple of small boys followed them at a safe distance, shouting insults and, when the boat was safely afloat, they began throwing pebbles at the departing visitors.

  ‘How will you fare with them when you go back ashore?’ asked William of Brother Lawrence.

  The priest shook his head. ‘We are not going back, sir. We will have to travel with you to Sicily, as I know you will need to land there for provisions and to hear any more news that has come to the ears of King Tancred.’

  Once aboard the Franche Nef, Gwyn took the silent Gilbert to find something to eat and a place to lay a mattress, leaving the three knights and the Sicilian messenger to go straight to Richard in his cramped cabin, where Robert de Turnham and the senior of the Templar knights, Gerald de Clare, were closeted with the Lionheart. After they bent their knee to the king, Richard motioned them to sit on the narrow benches fixed to the bulkheads. His clerk, Philip of Poitou, poured wine for everyone and the envoy from Messina delivered his message.