Crowner's Crusade

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 her 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.

From there, they retraced their route of the previous week, keeping within distant sight of the heel and toe of Italy until they reached the straits across which lay Corfu. The wind was fairly kind to them, giving the lie to the prohibitions of sailing in late autumn. Without the horses, conditions were much better down in the hold on the few days and nights where rough seas kept them below deck.

John and Gwyn suffered the boredom and the endless rolling and pitching of the ship with resignation, having endured far worse conditions on dry land over many years. They ate the communal rations supplied by the crew and their own figs, dates and citrus fruit that they had bought in Licata. These lasted them almost a week, leaving only a few more days on dismal food until they reached Corfu. At dawn one morning the hilly western coast of that island came into view and the weary passengers lined the rail to welcome it as yet another stage on their erratic journey.

‘Are we keeping this vessel to go up the Adriatic?’ asked John, who was standing next to Robert de Turnham.

‘It would take a month in this old tub if the winds are against us,’ grunted the High Admiral. ‘They’re mainly from the north-east in the winter, the worst of them being the notorious bora.’

‘So what should we do?’ Gerald de Clare, the senior knight of the Templar contingent, sounded anxious. He was a tall, thin man, with a bushy grey beard. One eye was half closed by a livid scar running across his forehead on to his cheek, the legacy of a spear thrust at the battle of Arsuf the previous year, when Richard’s forces defeated a massive attack by Saladin. The Templars had played a crucial role in the victory, but paid a heavy price in dead and wounded.

‘We need a ship that will sail better than this one,’ replied de Turnham. ‘It can be much smaller, now that we no longer have the horses. There are coastal currents up the east coast that will help, as well as many islands that will offer shelter to a small vessel in this devilish time of year.’

Once again, it seemed that God was listening to the admiral, though at first the intervention of the Almighty looked more like a disaster than a blessing. Their discussion was suddenly brought to an end by a shout from a lookout on the forecastle, who was pointing towards the distant hills, just visible above the horizon. As he spoke a patois peculiar to the eastern Adriatic, they had no idea what he was saying, but his frantic gesticulations alerted the shipmaster, who yelled back at him in the same language.

‘What’s going on?’ shouted John, as several of the other knights began climbing on to the poop for a better view.

‘A galley coming out from the island!’ yelled the Venetian. ‘Almost certainly another corsair or a pirate.’ The difference was slight, though a corsair was supposed to have the blessing of the local Christian ruler to prey on Moorish ships, whilst a pirate would attack anyone.

There was a bang below as the king’s cabin door slammed open and Richard appeared to see what the fuss was about. Baldwin of Bethune rapidly told him that an attack was likely and immediately the Lionheart took charge, almost eager to get involved in some violence to ease the tedium of the voyage.

‘Shipmaster, how long before they can reach us?’ he bellowed.

On learning that they had more than an hour, the king called everyone to arms. ‘Every man get your hauberks, shields and helmets from the hold and buckle on your swords!’

There was a rapid, but orderly scramble as the experienced soldiers prepared for a fight and the crew also went to their stations, fetching crossbows and spears from the forecastle. The king disappeared into his cabin and with the help of the Templar sergeant, soon came out attired in his long coat of chain mail over which was a scarlet linen surcoat with two golden lions² emblazoned across the chest. He wore a round iron helmet with a narrow gilt crown around the brim. From a broad belt and baldric, a massive sword hung almost to his feet.

John joined his fellows in recovering his armour from the hold and after unwrapping the oily cloth, Gwyn helped him lower the hauberk over his shoulders and gave him the plain helmet with a nose guard.

‘I’ll leave that off until I know we are actually going to fight,’ growled John, tucking the helmet under his arm.

There was no time to unpack the gambesons for the knights, the thick padded tunics that were normally worn under armour to soften the shock of heavy blows, but this was not to be a battlefield combat, with thundering horses and the impact of long lances.

Gwyn pulled a battered helmet on to his unruly ginger hair, but had no armour. For years, he had depended on the half-inch thick boiled leather of his jerkin to absorb or deflect most of the sword clashes and arrow points that came his way.

Back on deck, fifteen knights now assembled, together with the sergeant and many of the crew who had armed themselves with a variety of weapons. They lined the bulwarks on the side facing the approaching galley, Richard being up on the poop with Robert de Turnham and de L’Etang, the rest either on the main deck or up on the forecastle. On the king’s instructions, the Templars stood in the most prominent positions, so that the universally known red crosses on their white surcoats could clearly be seen.

As the galley came nearer, they saw it was of medium size, with a single tier of rowers, about twenty oars each side.

‘At least its pennant shows it’s Christian, not Moorish!’ shouted the shipmaster.

The sail was furled, as it was moving against the wind, but the rhythmical beat of the oarsmen was sending it along at a brisk pace. The high prow, which curved forward at the waterline to form a ram, carried a fighting platform. On this were a few dozen men waving spears and swords, while others had coils of rope and grapnels. The galley curved around behind them to move in the same direction.

‘They can’t come alongside to attack us,’ explained Gwyn, their maritime oracle. ‘The oars would be snapped off — and if all the boarders ran to one side, they’d capsize, as these narrow vessels are top-heavy!’

He knew that the usual technique was to ram the victim ship with the armoured spike under the bow, then swarm aboard from the forecastle, the ships being held together by grappling irons thrown on first impact.

Across the water, they could now hear the regular beat of the drum which gave the time to the rowers and soon added to this were yells and screams of defiance, designed to terrify the prospective victims. They had picked the wrong ship this time, as the Templars stood stoically at the rail, looking impassively at the approaching galley, which began to overtake, coming up on the buss’s port quarter.

When it was just within crossbow range, the Lionheart gave a great bellow and hauled out his sword which he brandished in the air. As one man, the rest of the knights did the same, holding aloft a forest of blades which glittered in the sun. Then up on the aftercastle, the Templar sergeant took careful aim with his bow and pulled the trigger. A few seconds later, they saw one of the crowd on the nose of the galley stagger and clutch his arm. A scream was added to the tirade of threats, which rapidly faltered as the rhythm of the drum altered, then ceased. The galley lost way as the oarsmen stopped pulling and it glided parallel to the Franche Nef, but now just out of arrow shot. The buss was still moving at her usual speed, but by deft movements of their steering oar and yelled commands to the oarsmen, the sleek galley kept pace at a respectable distance. The watchers on the buss could see animated gestures going on between the figures on the fighting platform of the other vessel and very soon a man began shouting at them through cupped hands.

‘What’s he saying?’ the king demanded of the shipmaster.

The Venetian put a hand to his ear, then translated. ‘He has seen the crosses and wants to know if we are returning Crusaders, sire. He cannot be a local man or he would have learned that already from Corfu.’

The Lionheart leapt up on to the rail of the poop, grabbing a mizzen stay to support himself. Raising his arm to better display the golden lions on his surcoat, he brandished his large sword at the galley. ‘Tell him this ship carries King Richard of England back from the Holy Land!’ he yelled at the master. ‘And if he dares interfere with us, I will kill him and his crew — and the Pope will send all their souls to hell!’

It was impossible to tell if the Venetian gave a literal translation in the local language, but it was immediately obvious that the aggressive mood of the pirates rapidly subsided. Weapons were lowered and the boarding party on the forecastle began to disperse following some commands from their leader. A few moments later, there were more unintelligible shouts between the two ships. The buss’s master explained that the galley chief was allowing them to pass unhindered, as they were the soldiers of the Almighty.

‘Sensible man, for we would have cut them to pieces and then sunk their lousy ship!’ growled Gwyn, who stood protectively behind John de Wolfe.

But Richard Coeur de Lion had not finished with the pirates. After a rapid discussion with his admiral and Baldwin of Bethune, he yelled again at the shipmaster to pass a surprising message to the galley.

‘Tell him I wish to hire his vessel to take us to Zara — there’s good Italian silver waiting for him if he agrees!’