Crowner's Crusade

by Bernard Knight

  ‘It is not good news, my lord! Henry of Germany is now camped halfway up Italy with an inadequate army, angry at his inability to fight his way further south to attack Sicily – and blaming you for much of the problem. He has been in contact by courier with King Philip and since we sent messages to you at Limassol, we hear that they met together in Milan. Our spies report that they have sent warnings to Leopold of Austria and their allies and vassals along the coasts of Provence and northern Italy, to be on the lookout for you landing in those territories and to seize you if you are found.’

  Lawrence elaborated on the details, emphasizing how the city states of Genoa and Messina, previously favourable to the crusading king, had been turned against him by the propaganda and probably bribes of Philip and Henry. ‘Your only haven in Italy would be Rome, where the Holy Father is naturally protective of those who so ably defended the Cross,’ he said. ‘I can also report that the galley carrying your gracious queen and your noble sister arrived safely just as I left the island. By now, your admiral, Stephen de Turnham, will have taken them up the coast to Rome, where the Vatican will give them shelter.’

  Richard nodded, but did not seem too worried about the safety of his queen. Berengaria had tended him carefully when he was so ill in Acre just before he left, but he seemed content to leave her welfare in the hands of his mother and sister. He looked around the anxious faces ranged around the cabin. ‘So if the Mediterranean coast is closed to me from Pisa to Perpignan, where do you gentlemen suggest we aim for? What about Spain, in spite of the difficulties there?’

  There was a rumble of discussion, then John de Wolfe, who had fought for old King Henry down in the south of Aquitaine, spoke up. ‘In terms of distance, it would seem an advantage to land somewhere on the northern coast of Spain and strike up over the mountains to Navarre and hence into Aquitaine.’

  ‘What about continuing up the Adriatic from here?’ suggested Robert de Turnham. ‘We have no quarrel with Hungary, which controls much of the eastern coast north of Ragusa.’1

  Richard smiled rather bleakly. ‘It’s a possibility, though I’m not sure how well I am in favour with King Bela these days, as although he is married to my sister-in-law Marguerite, she is the sister of Philip of France – and Bela was not happy when I broke off my engagement to her other sister Alice, to marry Berengaria!’

  De Wolfe never ceased to be intrigued at the convoluted marital manoeuvres of the royal houses of Europe, which all seemed to revolve around politics and territorial gains, rather than affection or love. At the end of yet another unsatisfactory discussion, all that could be decided was that they would brave the wintry weather once again and make for Sicily, to get the latest news on the situation before committing themselves to aiming for the Spanish coast. The king gave Robert de Turnham the order to sail at dawn and make all speed to the next stop on this hazardous journey.

  THREE

  The next leg of the voyage was tedious and uncomfortable, as the weather, though free from storms, was uniformly windy and often wet. The sea was choppy and the buss pitched and rolled all the way to Sicily. Often the rain forced the passengers to sleep in the stinking hold, where the poor horses were having a bad time. After weeks in near-darkness, with only old hay for fodder, many were thin and listless, exhausted from the strain of trying to keep upright in the endless gyrations of the vessel. Two animals had died and had to be hauled up and pushed overboard.

  ‘When we eventually do manage to get to land, in the state they’re in, they’ll be damned near useless for riding,’ fumed Gwyn, a devoted animal lover, especially of dogs and horses. The issue was the subject of the next meeting of the king’s advisers and it was decided to sell them when they reached Sicily.

  ‘Better to hire new mounts with the money when we get ashore,’ advised de Wolfe after the conference was over. ‘Though from the way we may be dodging all over the Middle Sea, we may need camels instead!’

  They were sighted at sea by another vessel during the first few days, as the shipmaster had to claw his way across the Strait of Otranto to within sight of the Italian coast near Brindisi. A coasting vessel carrying pilgrims up to Assisi via Ancona, passed within a mile of the Franche Nef and Richard had no doubt that the identity of the large buss was recognized after all the unwelcome publicity of past weeks.

  ‘Perhaps it’s no bad thing that they saw us,’ he boomed, as he leaned on the rail of the aftercastle, staring after the other vessel. ‘When their tongues wag at the next port, it may mislead our enemies into thinking that we are making for the top of the Adriatic.’

  In a few weeks’ time, the Lionheart may have cause to ponder on this prophetic remark, but at the moment, everyone was praying for a change in the wind and currents that would take them south and west. Thankfully, by next day their prayers were answered by a north-easterly wind the locals called the gregale and now sailing more rapidly, they rounded the heel of Italy and aimed down towards the toe. It grew warmer and calmer as they approached Sicily and the Lionheart held a council meeting on the poop, following Sunday Mass. All of them now had beards, the king’s being a reddish-blond, merging with the curly hair which had now covered his usual cropped neck. John de Wolfe’s normal black stubble had turned into a villainous-looking bush, but he said that he was damned if he was going to attack it with his specially honed knife until he could get some hot water and tallow soap to soften it.

  ‘We must soon make a firm decision on our route,’ the Lionheart declared, leaning against the taffrail with his advisers in a half-circle before him.

  The first advice came from Brother Lawrence, the Sicilian envoy. ‘We should not try to pass through the Straits of Messina, as those on the Italian side are not well-disposed to us – and also, fighting ships from Genoa and Pisa, now in thrall to the Emperor Henry, often lurk far to the south of Sardinia.’

  ‘So you suggest keeping to the south side of Sicily?’ asked Robert de Turnham, who as the king’s admiral, felt responsible for the ship’s progress.

  Lawrence nodded vigorously. ‘Most definitely! Also, King Tancred said that he would send messengers to the major ports along that coast, to give you the latest intelligence about those who are arrayed against you.’

  They had left Corfu on the eleventh of November and due to the favourable wind, they saw the tip of Mount Etna lift above the horizon on the twentieth of the month. Gwyn and de Wolfe stood watching for the next few hours as the coast came nearer and saw a wisp of smoke around the summit, something which highly intrigued the Cornishman.

  Baldwin came across to them and for a time they watched the distant plume of smoke, then talk turned to more personal matters. ‘John, you come from Devonshire, which I have heard some say is the end of the known world!’ Baldwin was being cheerfully provocative and neither of the two West Countrymen took offence.

  ‘That’s not Devonshire, but Cornwall, which sticks out like a sore thumb into the western ocean,’ retorted de Wolfe, with one of his rare grins. ‘That is truly the end of the world, peopled by giants with red hair!’

  Gwyn beamed amiably at the taunt. ‘Giants who had long been Christian when the Normans were still pagans clad in animal skins!’

  Baldwin roared with laughter and clapped the big man on the shoulder, before turning again to his master. ‘How came you to be in this Devonshire, John? Were you born there?’

  ‘I was indeed, and my father and grandfather before me. My great-grandfather came from Normandy with Duke William at the time of the Conquest and was granted a parcel of land which the family has worked into a manor over the generations. My father was Simon de Wolfe, son of Odo, but he was killed twelve years ago in a skirmish in Ireland.’

  The noble from Artois nodded. ‘But where does your “Wolfe” come from? I bear Bethune as a name, for that is my town. I know of nowhere called “Wolfe”.’

  John shook his dark head. ‘That was the battle name of my great-grandfather, given to him by his fellows because of his rabid madness when he had an
axe in his hand. He was originally a landless knight, born near Caen, so the family became named after the wolf’s head device on his shield.’

  A wide smile split Gwyn’s face. ‘The same rabid blood still runs in Sir John’s veins, only now he prefers a sword to a battleaxe!’

  ‘Have you been in England, Baldwin?’ asked John.

  ‘Only to Westminster and Winchester, on royal business,’ admitted the bland-featured knight. ‘That must be far from your home, I suspect.’

  De Wolfe explained that his home was more than a week’s ride from London, at Stoke-in-Teignhead, near the coast beyond Exeter.

  ‘And you have family there?’ persisted Baldwin, who seemed curious about these natives from the remote west of the Isle of Britain.

  ‘My mother Enyd is still hale and hearty, and I have a younger sister and an elder brother who manages the manors, for we also have a smaller estate some miles distant.’ He felt it unnecessary to add that his generous brother William, as well as supporting their mother and sister, gave John a quarter of the manorial profits.

  They watched Etna’s cone slowly diminish in the distance as they continued to sail down the east coast of Sicily. When they rounded Cape Passero, the wind sharpened and the Franche Nef began to pitch again. Everyone on board was thankful when they entered the harbour of Licata next morning. This was a small port on the island’s south coast, where Brother Lawrence said a courier from Messina would be waiting. There was deep enough water in that almost tideless sea for the shipmaster to bring the buss against the quay that projected from the town.

  For once, King Richard stifled his desire for speed and agreed that all his entourage could disembark for the first time since leaving Acre, as Sicily was a Norman country, the only safe haven for them in the whole Mediterranean. With unsteady legs, the Templars and the other companions of the king went thankfully down the gangplank and entered the little town. Here they could at least eat and drink in the taverns, while the Lionheart went with Baldwin, de L’Etang and Brother Lawrence to the portreeve’s house where Tancred’s messenger would be waiting.

  Here arrangements were made to transfer the horses ashore and to leave them to be sold after they had left. The portreeve was willing to pay the king for them from the town’s treasury, but at a price little more than half their original worth, because of their poor condition. The king’s clerk, Philip, was eager to bolster the contents of the strongbox in Richard’s cabin, for no one knew what the remainder of the long journey home would cost.

  John and Gwyn gladly took the chance of a few hours on dry land, the first since they had enjoyed since their brief excursion on Corfu. They stocked up on some palatable food for themselves as a relief from the ship’s provender. Fruit, cheese, figs and honey was bought from stalls in the single street, then they joined several of the Templar knights who were eating and drinking in a nearby tavern. Gwyn bemoaned the absence of ale, but at least found that the wine was a better quality than in Palestine. They watched as the horses, thin and bedraggled, were hauled out in slings from the ship and herded off on tottering legs to pasture outside the town.

  Sitting outside the tavern on a plank laid across two logs, the warm Sicilian sunshine and the wine was conducive to nostalgic reflection.

  ‘I wonder what my good wife is doing now?’ mused Gwyn. ‘Feeding the fowls or clipping my naughty lads around the ear?’

  John de Wolfe had no such fond thoughts about his own spouse. Matilda was probably on her knees in some church or other, praying to God to send a thunderbolt down on her wayward husband. His wandering thoughts shifted from a certain passionate widow in Sidmouth to a willowy blonde in Dawlish. Gwyn broke in again on John’s mildly erotic reverie.

  ‘I’ll wager Gabriel is either playing dice in the castle gatehouse or down in the Bush Inn drinking good Devon ale brewed by your friend Nesta.’

  Gabriel was the sergeant of the garrison in Rougemont, the nickname for Exeter castle, from the ruddy colour of its sandstone walls. His mention of the Bush and of Nesta sent John’s reverie off on a tangent. She was the young wife of the landlord, Meredydd, a Welsh archer who de Wolfe had known during the last campaign in Touraine. Not long before John had left for the Crusade, Meredydd, wounded in the leg, had bought the tavern in the lower part of Exeter with the money he saved and looted during his years of service. He had brought his wife from Gwent, the cradle of archery and started to revive the fortunes of the down-at-heel alehouse. Nesta was a very pretty and vivacious redhead and the pair were working hard to make their new venture a success when John left.

  ‘I hope the Welsh couple are doing well in the Bush, Gwyn’ he said, as he downed the rest of his wine. ‘They deserve to. She brews a great drop of ale and the archer was a popular landlord.’

  Gwyn’s yellow teeth showed beneath his great moustache as he grinned at his master. ‘I think you quite fancy her, Sir John! She’s a fine woman, that’s a fact!’

  John scowled at him. ‘What normal man wouldn’t fancy her? But she’s married to a good friend, so she’s out of bounds. Meredydd was a staunch comrade to both of us in France. And a damned fine archer, too.’

  The Welsh were much sought after all over Europe as mercenaries, both as archers and foot soldiers. They even fought against fellow Welshmen, if the pay was good enough.

  The two men lapsed into idle somnolence in the sunshine until late in the afternoon when Richard reappeared and reluctantly, the exodus to the ship began.

  After evening prayers, the king again assembled his inner circle of counsellors up on the afterdeck. ‘There was little new information to be gained and what there was was not cheerful,’ he announced in a sombre voice. ‘Count Raymond of Toulouse is reported as being incensed at the attack on his lands by my brother-in-law, Sancho of Navarre.’

  ‘Sire, that will surely make our chances of crossing into Aquitaine from any part of the French or Spanish coast all the more hazardous,’ commented Baldwin, who was now against a Spanish landing.

  The Lionheart nodded his agreement. ‘But what else can we do? Italy is closed to us, and we heard in Corfu that Philip Augustus and Henry of Germany met in Milan and agreed on joining forces to defeat me.’

  Robert de Turnham shook his head despondently. ‘The more I hear, the less I like the idea of pushing on into the western part of this sea, my lord. The north coast of Africa is infested with Moorish pirates and many more use Majorca as a base to terrorize shipping in Spanish waters.’

  Once again, the discussion went around in circles, with an increasing feeling that continuing westwards was courting disaster. Next day saw a development that at least brought them to a decision, for better or worse.

  Late next day, with the sun dropping near the horizon, the hills of Sicily had faded from sight and the Franche Nef was alone on an empty sea. The wind was from the north-west and the ungainly buss was tacking to try to make headway.

  John, who had a vague notion of the geography of the Middle Sea, wondered how near they were to Africa and had visions of them having to fight Mohammedans all over again! As if his thoughts were the mother to the event, at that moment there was a cry from the lookout up on the main mast, yelling that he could see two vessels coming up over the horizon from the south.

  Everyone came to look, either lining the port bulwarks or clambering up on to the forecastle. Though from deck level there was nothing yet to be seen, within little more than an hour a pair of single-masted ships were visible.

  ‘They must be galleys,’ declared Gwyn. ‘No sailing vessel could approach that quickly with the wind in this quarter!’

  The same conclusion had been reached up on the afterdeck, where the shipmaster, the admiral and Richard Coeur de Lion were in urgent discussion. Within minutes, shouted orders sent crewmen scurrying to haul around the sloping yards of the two sails and the two steersmen were heaving at the huge steering oar. The buss lumbered around and as the now more favourable wind filled out the great triangular sails, the buss soon doubled he
r speed.

  ‘We’re running away from the bastards!’ grunted Gwyn, almost saddened that he was being deprived of a fight.

  Baldwin was beckoning to John to come up to the quarterdeck and soon the half-dozen royal retainers were clustered around their king.

  ‘They are Moorish corsairs!’ snapped Robert de Turnham, pointing over his shoulder at the two sleek galleys that were now only a couple of miles astern. ‘But now that we are running before the wind at this fair pace, they’ll not catch up with us before darkness closes in.’

  It was already twilight, the sun having sunk well below the horizon.

  ‘We are not going to fight them off, then?’ asked de Wolfe, who like Gwyn had a natural distaste for running away from Saracens.

  The king shook his head regretfully. ‘No doubt we could overcome them, but to what end? I am not interested in slaying a few pirates. We could lose a few lives and suffer injuries. I have more urgent business – we need to get home!’

  ‘So where are we going now, my lord?’ asked William, who was the closest to the king and best able to speak frankly.

  ‘This has made up my mind – perhaps God sent these vermin to end our indecision!’ boomed Richard, his fingers playing with the novelty of his beard. ‘We will return to Corfu and then head up the Adriatic to seek a landing in Hungary. What happens after that is in the hands of the Almighty, but it seems most sensible to pass through King Bela’s kingdom into Saxony, where we will be welcomed by my kinsman Henry the Lion.’

  The Prince of Saxony had married Matilda, the Lionheart’s late sister. Their son Otto was both a nephew and close friend of Richard, having spent several years in England when young.

  At dawn next day, the sea was empty, the galleys obviously having abandoned the chase when darkness fell. The wind remained favourable for travelling eastwards and, two days later, with some guesswork and not a little luck, the shipmaster was relieved to see Cape Passero again, on the corner of Sicily.