by Hight, Jack
Despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, Richard and Philip were as close as brothers. They had fought together against Richard’s father, and as youths they had spent time together in Aquitaine. John had overheard old Sir Ranulf of Glanville muttering to one of his men that Richard had buggered the French king half a dozen times. But such rumours were always present in an army. When he asked Robert Blanchemains about Ranulf, the lord high steward had frowned. ‘Stay clear of that one, priest. He fought for Richard’s father. The King does not favour him.’
The two armies had marched south together until Lyon, where the French had turned west for Genoa. Philip had contracted with an Italian fleet to carry his men. Richard led his army to Marseille, where an English fleet thirty ships strong met them. Once at sea, both fleets had been caught in violent autumn storms that forced them to take shelter at Messina, in Sicily. It had not been long before Richard had fallen out with Tancred, the king of the island.
Richard’s younger sister, Joan, had been married to the previous king, William. When he died, the throne had been disputed. Joan had backed the losing side, and when Tancred took the crown, he had placed her in prison. When Tancred refused to immediately free Joan, Richard had left Messina in a rage. He had marched south and seized the castle of La Bagnara from one of Tancred’s vassals. Now he had returned with blood on his mind.
The plan was for a hundred French and English knights to approach the city’s northern gate under cover of darkness. A dozen men with grappling hooks would climb over the wall, kill the guards and open the gate. Once inside, Richard was counting on surprise and confusion to win the day. ‘If we make enough noise,’ he had said, ‘they will think our whole army is inside the walls. They’ll run before they even see us.’
It was a bold plan. A mad adventure, Philip had called it. The French king had elected to stay in camp. The sun was now nearing the mid-point in its daily journey across the sky, and he and John were still waiting for news of the battle.
‘Will you sit still!’ the king said.
John had not realized he was pacing again. ‘My apologies, Your Grace.’ He sat on a camp-stool beside Philip.
The king was reading from the second volume of a travel-sized version of De re militari. The military treatise had been written by a Roman over eight hundred years ago, but it remained popular amongst the nobility. Philip swore by it. In private, Richard had told John that he feared the French king cared more for books than battle. ‘If wars were won with a pen in hand instead of a sword,’ he had said, ‘then King Inkpot there would be mighty indeed.’ John did not share Richard’s scorn for scholarship, but nor could he understand how Philip could sit calmly reading while his knights were risking their lives.
Philip noticed John staring and lowered the book. He seemed to guess what John had been thinking. ‘Richard finds a reason for bloodshed wherever he goes. Tancred is no fool. Just last week, he invited Richard to Messina to discuss their differences. He thrust out his hand in friendship, and Richard pissed all over it. Lives will be lost because of it, the lives of my men and his. And what will be gained? A few pieces of gold, perhaps?’ He shook his head. ‘It is not truly the gold Richard wants. It is the fight.’
‘Why did you not try to stop him?’
Philip smiled, showing crooked teeth. ‘I would as soon stand before an arrow to halt its course. I could never stop Richard.’
The king looked away, his attention drawn by the sound of pounding hooves. John followed his gaze and saw an approaching knight. It was Peter de Preaux, one of Richard’s favourites. He was a handsome young man with curling blond hair and a bright smile that he flashed often. He had made his name at tourneys in Normandy and Aquitaine. Though he was not yet twenty-six, Richard had given him the honour of carrying the king’s standard in battle. John had heard other knights grumble about that.
Peter slid from the saddle and knelt before Philip. ‘Your Grace, Richard bid me tell you that the battle is won. Messina is ours, or what’s left of it.’
Philip raised an eyebrow. ‘What exactly did Richard do?’
‘Once we were inside the walls, we put the city to the torch, and went charging through town, shouting like madmen. When Tancred’s troops saw the smoke and heard us coming, they panicked and fled. It was hardly a battle.’
‘I heard screams – shouts of battle,’ John said.
‘Begging your pardon, father, but the women do scream sometimes when you stick it to them.’
John noticed Philip wince. ‘And Richard is well?’ he asked.
‘Not a dead man among us, though Lord Chauvigny won’t be sitting for some days. He took a crossbow bolt in the arse. Richard has invited you to feast his victory with him in the palace.’ De Preaux turned to John. ‘You are invited as well, priest.’
‘See to your horse, sir,’ Philip said. ‘We will find our own way.’ He shook his head as de Preaux sauntered off. ‘The fool plays at war as if it were a game.’
A dozen knights rode with Philip and John to the city, which consisted of a few churches and a sprawling palace set among hundreds of white stucco homes, all clustered at one end of a crescent-shaped harbour that opened on to the Straits of Messina. The western gate stood open. Inside, Messina had been reduced to a smouldering ruin. Their horses’ hooves kicked up clouds of ash as they rode. Only one building in ten still stood. The rest had collapsed into piles of blackened timbers. To the south, the fires still burned, leaping high into the sky. John could feel their heat from a quarter-mile away. He passed a man in a blacksmith’s smock lying in the street in a pool of his own blood, his throat slit. Near by, a woman was trying to cover herself with the torn remains of her tunic as she sat weeping in the doorway of one of the few standing homes. John’s grip on the reins tightened. The scene reminded him of the needless butchery that he had once seen in Egypt.
At the palace, an English man-at-arms showed them inside and down a cool, tiled hallway that opened out on to an expansive garden. There were hundreds of rose bushes, their last petals fallen and their leaves now tinged red. Orange trees stood around the edge of the garden, their branches heavy with green, unripe fruit. At the centre of the garden was a fountain, water spouting from the breasts of a full-figured bronze mermaid. Richard stood beside it. His face was blackened with smoke and ash. His white surcoat was red with blood.
‘Congratulations on your victory, Cousin,’ Philip greeted him.
Richard’s scowl deepened. He gestured to the fountain. ‘This should be torn down. It is unholy.’
Philip laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘It will be seen to, Cousin. We have other matters to attend to first. Do you have Tancred? Joan?’
‘He escaped south towards Catania. He took my sister with him.’
‘That is unfortunate.’ Philip hesitated before he continued cautiously. ‘You might not have burned the town, Cousin. We cannot leave Sicily until we have recovered your sister, and that means we shall be forced to winter in Messina. Where will the men live?’
‘You will find a place for them, Philip.’ Richard turned to John. ‘A word with you, priest.’ He led John to a corner of the garden. ‘I wish to confess my sins, father.’
John suppressed a frown. He had taken confession only a handful of times, and had never grown accustomed to sitting in judgement of his fellow men. ‘I am but a humble priest. Hubert Walter is the bishop of Salisbury. Perhaps he would be better suited.’
‘My soul is heavy with sin. I must confess now.’ Richard knelt and bowed his head. ‘I confess that I have kept to my baptismal vows worse than I promised our Lord, and my rank, which I ought to have kept in praise of God and for my own eternal salvation, I have held unworthily.’
‘If you truly repent and mend your ways, the Lord will be forgiving.’
Richard’s head snapped up. ‘Do not go lightly on me, John. Give me the penance that I deserve.’
‘I will. What other sins have you committed?’
‘I killed men today, at l
east a dozen. I have not the exact number.’
‘These were the defenders of Messina?’
Richard nodded.
‘Then you slew them under compulsion, for they were your enemies.’ John tried to recall the penance recommended in the penitential he had studied before becoming a priest. ‘You will fast for one year, consuming only bread and water, then for two years, you will fast each Wednesday. What other sins have you committed?’
Richard’s voice was almost a whisper. ‘I raped a woman. A maid. She can only just have come into her womanhood. She had dark hair, dark skin. She screamed in a foreign tongue when I took her.’
John’s jaw set. His brother Caelin had been right about Richard.
The king looked up at him, and John was surprised to see tears in his eyes. ‘Give me my penance, father.’
John hesitated. He had known plenty of men who raped and pillaged without a second thought. Richard’s remorse seemed genuine enough. ‘The penalty for taking a maid in fornication against her will is excommunication. But as you were stoked with bloodlust and thus not in your right mind, I shall lessen your penance to one additional year of daily fasting, and six more years of fasting each Wednesday. Have you anything else to confess?’
‘No, father. I ask you to be my witness on Doomsday regarding these sins, so that the devil might not gain power over me and the Lord not judge me overharshly.’
‘I will, and if you perform your penance faithfully and repent your deeds truly, the Lord will surely show you mercy.’
Richard rose. The cloud over him seemed to have lifted. ‘My thanks, John. There is nothing like a good shriving after a battle.’ He took a deep breath. ‘How many years did you say I must fast? I lost count.’
‘Two years daily, my lord, and each Wednesday for eight more years.’
‘My men will share my fast with me these next three days, and the food they would have eaten will be distributed to the people of Messina. Eight thousand men for three days: that adds up to well over ten years of fasting, yes, father? Good. Now, I have another task for you. Tancred has taken my sister. You will go to Catania and treat with him for her release. Now that he has lost Messina, perhaps the King of Sicily will be more accommodating.’
John was still digesting Richard’s rather cavalier attitude towards penance. He was less than eager to serve his king. ‘I am only your secretary, my lord. Tancred will be more likely to listen to someone of higher rank. He might even see my presence as an insult.’
‘Tancred will not want to listen to any of my men, not after today. You are from the Holy Land and archdeacon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. That is why I am sending you. But you are right; rank also has its value. Bishop Walter will accompany you.’ Richard gripped John’s shoulder. ‘Make certain my sister is well and bring her back to me. With her dowry.’
October 1190: Catania
The palace in Catania stood behind tall, strong walls on a cliff overlooking the sea. Behind the palace, gardens had been planted to provide food in the event of a siege. They stretched to the very edge of the cliff, where there was no wall – the sheer slope offering adequate protection. When they arrived, John and Walter were led there. They found Tancred seated in the shade of a lemon tree and looking out to sea. The sun was setting behind them, turning the waters to shimmering gold.
The king had wavy brown hair, a thin nose, pointed chin and shrewd eyes. He stood as they approached. He was a short man, and he stood rigidly straight as if trying to compensate for his stature. His right leg was bandaged around the thigh, and he leaned heavily on a crutch. When he spoke, his voice was tight with pain. ‘Richard has sent you with his terms?’
‘Yes, Your Grace. I am Hubert Walter, Bishop of Salisbury, and this is John of Tatewic, formerly Archdeacon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and at present the secretary to King Richard. We—’
Tancred raised a hand. ‘Let me save time by telling you what you will say. Richard wants Joan, and her dowry and inheritance, too. He will not settle for less. We shall have time enough to discuss what Richard wants. The autumn storms are here, and the seas will be unsafe for months to come. Now, I am sure you will wish to make certain Joan is well. My men will take you to her.’ He turned his back to them and lowered himself on to the bench.
Tancred’s guards led them back to the palace, where bishop Walter excused himself, saying he wished to rest after their journey. John was shown to Joan’s quarters. She looked to be six or seven years younger than Richard, in her mid twenties, but other than that the resemblance between the two was striking. She had his reddish-gold hair, his clear blue eyes framing a straight nose and his prominent cheekbones. Her beauty was only marred by her shoulders, which were broad for a woman. She sat with two maids in a thickly carpeted room, the walls of which were hung with tapestries portraying the goddess Diana at hunt. A single window looked out over the sea. Joan and her maids had been talking, but they fell silent as John entered.
‘My lady queen, I am Father John of Tatewic, secretary to your brother Richard.’
‘You are welcome, father.’ Joan touched her maids lightly on the arm. ‘Leave us. I wish to speak with him alone.’ The maids passed through a door to the next room, and Joan patted one of the seats they had vacated. ‘Sit beside me, father.’
John was careful to move the chair further away before he sat. He was uncomfortably aware of Joan’s beauty. Her lips were full and her fair skin almost luminescent. It had been years since he had been this close to such a woman. It made him feel old. He cleared his throat. ‘Your brother has sent me to see that you are freed, my lady.’
‘My brother cares nothing for my freedom,’ Joan replied curtly. ‘It is my inheritance and dowry that he wants, to pay for his wars. I will be disposed of quickly, married off to a man of his choosing. What sort of freedom is that?’
‘I assure you, my lady, your brother cares for you.’
Joan laughed. ‘You are a fool or an innocent, John of Tatewic. Richard is a stranger to me, and I to him. I came to Sicily as a girl of eleven, to be married to King William. I have not seen Richard for fourteen years and more. Sicily is my home now. I have no wish to leave.’
‘But Tancred holds you prisoner.’
‘I will deal with Tancred in my own way. There is much that he has not told you, or Richard. Roger of Andria has the support of the barons in Apulia, the land across the straits. Even now, he leads an army south, with the backing of the German emperor. He will crush Tancred, and once he does, I will marry Roger’s son Robert. We are of an age, and Robert is to my liking. Our union will solidify Roger’s claim to the throne. He will be king, and in time, I will be queen again. So you see, father, I have no need of my brother, nor of you.’
The guard outside Tancred’s chambers pushed the door open. ‘My lord,’ he declared. ‘John of Tatewic to see you.’
John was ushered into the king’s quarters. Tancred sat before the fire, his injured leg propped up before him. He waved John forward. ‘Sit. Would you like a glass of mulled wine?’ He did not wait for an answer, but gestured to a servant, who brought John a glass of the steaming beverage. It smelt of cloves and orange peel. Tancred sipped at his own wine. ‘You have spoken with Joan?’
‘I have, Your Grace.’
‘So you have seen what a scheming bitch she is. I will be glad enough to be rid of her. I might even pay to have her gone, but I must be certain that Richard will take her from Sicily. She must be married, and not to a German or an Italian lord. I will not have her children coming to seek my throne.’
‘If what Lady Joan says is true, then you are in no position to make such demands.’
‘She only knows half the truth. She believes my chancellor has betrayed me. She gives him letters for Roger, and he delivers the replies. They are forgeries. Roger is dead, betrayed by his friends. The count of Acerra turned him over to me for gold. His son Robert will join him in the grave soon enough. Joan’s would-be husband is besieged at the fortress of San
t’Agata.’
‘If that is true, then why the charade? Why not tell Joan the truth?’
‘Why indeed?’ Tancred sipped at his wine as he stared into the fire. The flames reflected in his brown eyes. ‘Her letters have proved most instructive. In them, she sometimes names fellow conspirators of Roger, men in Sicily who are waiting to join his side when he arrives. Some of them I put to death, others I am content to watch. It is good to know your enemies, John of Tatewic. That is a lesson your King Richard would do well to learn.’
‘What do you mean?’
Tancred waved the question away. ‘Enough idle talk. We have much to discuss. Why have you come here, John?’
‘To treat on behalf of my king.’
‘Yes, yes. To free Joan and take my coin. I know that. But what do you want?’
‘I am only a simple priest, Your Grace. What I want is of no importance.’
‘Oh, but it is, John. It is. You are not like Richard. You are older, and wiser, I hope. You are a priest, which I presume means you do not share his taste for bloodshed. You saw what he did to Messina. You have seen the sort of man he is.’ He leaned forward. ‘Tell me, why do you serve him?’
John was unnerved. Tancred had read him as if he were an open book. Still, he saw no harm in telling the truth. ‘I wish to return to the Holy Land. It is my home.’
Tancred sat back. ‘Ah, yes. I see it now. Then you wish Richard on his way just as much as I. We are of one mind.’ The king smiled shrewdly. ‘So tell me, John, what must I give up before Richard will leave my lands and you can return home? And more importantly, what is your king prepared to give me?’