Crowner's Crusade

PART ONE — The Journey Anno Domini 1192
ONE

The Ninth Day of October

As the evening light faded, the King of England slipped away from the Holy Land like a thief in the night. Though it was quite contrary to his flamboyant nature, which revelled in pomp and ceremony, no trumpets sounded and no flags waved. Neither did any royal pennants stream from the masts of the inconspicuous merchant vessel Franche Nef, as she quietly slipped her moorings in Acre’s outer harbour and aimed her blunt prow northwards.

Richard the Lionheart stood at the rail of the sterncastle, wrapped in a cloak against the evening sea-chill that could be felt even in the Levantine autumn. He stared pensively at the great walls of the battered citadel as the ship glided past, thinking of the legions of men who had died there in battle or from disease — including more than two thousand Moslem captives that had been beheaded on his orders. His lips moved in an almost silent benediction as the gap widened between the vessel and the shore.

‘O Holy Land, I commend you to God,’ he murmured. ‘In his loving grace, may he grant me such length of life that I might give you such help as he requires.’ His tall, burly figure stood for some time as he stared landwards, thinking pensively of the greater part of the original crusading army who would never return home — and to such little result.

Eventually he gave a great sigh and turned away from the fading view of Palestine. ‘Is this the last we will ever see of Christ’s homeland, Sir John?’ His deep voice spoke sombrely to a man almost as tall as himself, who stood protectively at the head of the ladder that led up from the main deck. Though they were now at sea, spies and infiltrators were widespread and, amongst the numerous crew, one could well be an assassin. Sir John de Wolfe, a Devon knight who was one of the king’s small bodyguard on this voyage, was having similar thoughts of his own about this bare and bloody land.

‘Sire, you swore you would return for another attempt on Jerusalem, but surely that must now wait upon what you find in England and Normandy when we return.’

De Wolfe was stating the obvious, but he sensed that Richard desired someone to talk to on this day of despondency. His king had spent a year and a half fighting his way up and down Palestine against Saladin’s army and though he had twice come within sight of Jerusalem, he had known that even if he captured it, he could not hold it for long. Instead, he settled for a three-year truce, which enraged other Crusader kings, during which Christian pilgrims would be allowed to visit the Holy City. In addition, the shrunken Christian kingdom could keep a narrow strip of land along the coast.

The Lionheart did not respond to his retainer’s comment, but turned back to watch the barren coast recede into the gloom. He was wondering what hostile eyes might be searching for the vessel that was taking the leader of the Third Crusade away, so that messages could be sent throughout the Mediterranean to waylay the man who had made so many enemies, both Moslem and Christian.

As he pondered on what may lie ahead on the long journey home, the dusk and a thin mist soon obscured the coast. The vessel was gradually pulling farther out to sea, though the Italian sailing master, standing respectfully in the furthest corner of the quarterdeck, would always keep land in sight for as long as he could, navigation being uncertain on the open ocean.

John de Wolfe stood immobile on the other side of the deck, the hilt of his heavy sword poking out from under his black cloak, ready to be drawn at any sign of trouble. Like that of the other retainers on the ship, his armour was stored below deck, well wrapped in oiled hessian. A hauberk of chain mail rusted quickly enough on land, but salt air and spray would ruin it within days.

He stood bareheaded, his black hair a complete contrast to the fair auburn thatch of the king. Different too were the styles, as Richard Plantagenet’s was cropped short below a line running round above his ears, in the usual Norman manner. The maverick de Wolfe wore his long, swept back from his forehead to the nape of his neck. With satanic eyebrows of the same jet black as his hair and the dark stubble on his cheeks, it was easy to see why his nickname amongst the soldiery was ‘Black John’, though this was as much from his dour and unbending nature as from his appearance. His hooked nose and long, grim face were equally forbidding, though women somehow sensed that this was a man who could be a passionate lover.

The Lionheart turned eventually and addressed himself to the sailing master. ‘When should we arrive in Cyprus? The wind seems favourable, does it not?’

The Venetian raised a knuckled fist to his head in salute as he answered. ‘God willing, on the third day, sire. This breeze will take us well up the coast, then we must weather across westwards to Limassol. I regret that the Franche Nef makes no pretence at being a speedy ship.’

Richard and his advisers had chosen an ordinary merchant vessel for the journey, instead of the usual ship-of-war or a fast galley in which kings and princes normally travelled. The journey back to Normandy and England would be fraught with danger, as apart from seaborne Muslims and Mediterranean pirates, most of Europe’s rulers were on the lookout for Richard Coeur de Lion, keen to revenge themselves on him for his real or imagined sins against them. Amongst these, Philip Augustus of France and Count Leopold of Austria hated him most, as they had abandoned the Crusade in Palestine and returned home early, outraged at what they considered Richard’s slights against them and now his alleged capitulation to the Saracens. Another who would dearly like to get his hands on Richard was Henry of Germany, whose ambitions to conquer Sicily has been frustrated by the Lionheart. He had recently been elevated to Holy Roman Emperor after his father, William Barbarossa, had died falling into a river in Turkey on his way to Palestine at the head of a huge German and Hungarian army, most of whom had abandoned their mission after his death.

An hour later, King Richard was still staring into the growing darkness, reluctant to lose the last fading glimpses of the Holy Land, until feet clattered up the ladder from the main deck and a man appeared alongside de Wolfe.

‘Go down and get something to eat, John,’ he murmured.

‘It’s my turn to stand guard over our lord — though it’s time he went below, he can’t stand there all night in the cold and the dark.’

The new arrival was William de L’Etang, another staunch supporter and close friend of the king. A knight from Le Mans, he was a stocky, red-faced man of about forty, a couple of years older than John, with whom he had fought side by side in many of the campaigns against the Mohammedans.

As part of the king’s desire to make his voyage home as unobtrusive as possible, Richard was accompanied only by ten Templar knights and a sergeant, but there were a few others aboard. These included John de Wolfe, William de L’Etang, Baldwin of Bethune, his High Admiral Robert de Turnham, the chaplain Anselm, and his clerk Philip of Poitou. This was a very different journey to the one the previous year, when Richard had set out from Marseilles ahead of a massive convoy bearing his army of thousands of Crusaders.

The big merchant ship, known as a ‘buss’, was relatively empty, the crew well outnumbering the passengers. There was no cargo, which left plenty of room below decks for the horses that would be needed when they landed, wherever that might be. Richard had still not made up his mind about the safest route through Europe, even though he was anxious to reach Normandy and then England as quickly as possible. This had become even more urgent since he had had repeated messages from his mother, the doughty Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, warning him of the plot his treacherous brother John had hatched with the French king, for Philip to annexe Normandy and for John to seize the English throne.

William de L’Etang gave de Wolfe a friendly nudge to encourage him to go down for something to eat. ‘Your man Gwyn says he brought a joint of mutton from ashore and it’s still warm in a box of straw. Enjoy it while you can, John, we’ll not eat so well when we get out to sea this late in the season!’

De L’Etang was right about harsher conditions later in the voyage. It was already past the safe date for deep-sea voyages, which were forbidden between October and April by a number of countries around the Mediterranean. Cooking was difficult or impossible in rough weather, as the danger of fire on board was the constant fear of seafarers. Most voyages hugged the coast and the travellers usually went ashore every night, where food could be cooked on a quayside or a beach and fresh water obtained. However, de Wolfe was sure that the king would try to keep well clear of the mainland, both for safety against attack and the attention of spies, as well as wishing to press on with his urgent need to get home, even if it meant sailing day and night.

The Franche Nef was broad in the beam, leaving plenty of space on the main deck between the sterncastle and a smaller elevation at the bow. The only cabin on the ship was under the sterncastle, placed between the men who handled the two steering oars, as the old ship had not adopted the more recent invention of the stern rudder. This cabin was strictly the province of the Lionheart, the rest of the ship’s company living and sleeping on deck, except in bad weather when they could share the large hold with the horses. De Wolfe’s stomach persuaded him to take William’s advice and he bowed to the king and clambered down the steep ladder to the main deck below. He found Gwyn squatting against the windward bulwark, sheltering from the cold breeze, busy cutting a loaf of bread in half with his long dagger.

‘I saw you coming down, Sir John, so I’ve started on our supper!’

Gwyn of Polruan was a very large Cornishman, as great a contrast to his master as could be imagined, except in the matter of height. Built like a bull, with a barrel chest and massive shoulders, he had an unruly mop of ginger hair and long drooping moustaches of the same colour. A ruddy face carried a bulbous nose and a lantern jaw, relieved by a pair of twinkling blue eyes.

It was difficult to define his relationship with John de Wolfe, as he was bodyguard, squire and friend all rolled into one. Originally a fisherman from Polruan, a village at the mouth of the Fowey River, he had become a soldier in the Irish wars, where he served under de Wolfe and had developed this curious blend of mutual respect and comradeship that had now lasted for eighteen years. They were both a couple of years short of forty and in campaigns in France, Ireland and lately in the Holy Land, had saved each other’s lives several times over.

Gwyn handed his master a hunk of bread, on which were several thick slices of roast mutton, still warm even though it was several hours since they had come off a spit in their billet in Acre. ‘Get that down you, Sir John. There’s more here when you’ve finished.’

As de Wolfe squatted down on the deck, Gwyn pushed across a small wineskin and a pottery mug. ‘Wash it down with some of that! It’s the usual camel piss, but we should be used to it by now. Please God we’ll have some decent ale when we get back to Devon.’

When together, they spoke in a mixture of Welsh and Cornish, both very similar dialects of the Celtic tongue spoken widely in Devon and Cornwall. It was Gwyn’s native language and de Wolfe, though having a Norman father, had learned Welsh at his mother’s knee, for she came from Gwent in southern Wales.

Thankfully, the ship had only a slight roll in these calm waters, though a southerly breeze was moving them along quite briskly. John managed to fill his cup with the rough red wine without spilling much and, as he ate and drank, he looked about him in the growing dusk. Other groups of men sat or lay about the deck, some eating, some praying, especially the Templars. Others played dice, though a few had already rolled themselves in their cloaks and were sleeping either on straw palliasses or on the bare deck planks.

Gwyn hacked away at the joint and before long the two men had eaten all the meat and bread. Tossing the bone over the bulwark into the sea, Gwyn delved into the large leather bag that held his few belongings and pulled out some oranges. Passing two across to John, he began peeling his own as he meditated upon their journey. ‘I wonder, Sir John, how are we going to get home? There’s no way we can sail westward through the Pillars of Hercules — and even if we could, trying to cross Biscay this late in the year is just an easy way to get drowned!’

Gwyn always traded on his few years as a Cornish fisherman to set himself up as an authority on all things maritime, but John already knew that the current flowing into the Mediterranean past Gibraltar was faster than any sailing ship could overcome, unless they hugged the coasts, both sides of which were in the hands of their Moorish adversaries. In fact, the large Crusading fleet that had set out from Dartmouth back at Easter 1190, carrying the English army that was to rendezvous with the Lionheart at Marseilles, could never return from the Mediterranean. The remnants of the army would have to find their way home through Europe and the king’s most trusted general, Hubert Walter, Bishop of Salisbury, had been left behind in Acre to organize their evacuation to Sicily, a kingdom founded by the Normans.

‘I know that after Cyprus, the king has decided to follow the coast as far as Rhodes,’ replied de Wolfe. ‘But I don’t think any decision has been made yet as to where we go from there.’ He knew the small group who advised Richard, of which he was a member, were concerned about the dangers of virtually all the possible routes back to Normandy and England.

As if reading his mind, a figure rose from one of the nearby groups on the main deck and ambled across to them, still nibbling at a chicken leg until its bare remains were tossed over the side to follow Gwyn’s mutton bone.

‘Well, John, we’re on our way — though only God knows where we’ll end up!’ Echoing their discussion, Baldwin of Bethune squatted down between them and nodded amiably at Gwyn before continuing. ‘At least we can take stock when we reach Limassol in a day or two. The Templars there should have had some news from Sicily or Corfu by now.’

Baldwin came from a prominent family in Artois in north-eastern France and was a couple of years older than de Wolfe. He was a good-looking man with a tendency to dress in mildly dandyish fashion — which did not prevent him from being a fearless fighter when the occasion demanded. Baldwin had become a firm friend of the Lionheart, who valued his help and opinions, especially as Baldwin had trained as a lawyer in his early years.

Gwyn found a spare mug and poured the newcomer some of the indifferent wine. ‘We were just speaking of the problems of finding a route home, Sir Baldwin,’ he said respectfully. Though the Cornishman was a mere commoner and always deferred to his Norman masters, he was no craven peasant. His well-known devotion to John de Wolfe and his almost manic prowess in battle with sword and mace, had gained him the respect of all the Crusaders.

Baldwin nodded gravely. ‘Everyone aboard has the same concerns, Gwyn. The obvious way would be to go back to Marseilles and then ride north into Aquitaine, but now Provence is in the hands of Raymond of Toulouse, who’s no friend of ours since the king’s brother-in-law Sancho invaded his lands.’

Sancho the Strong of Navarre was the brother of Berengaria, Richard’s new, and somewhat neglected queen.

‘Could we not land on the Spanish coast and aim for Navarre and then over the mountains into Aquitaine?’ asked Gwyn. This large Duchy in south-western France was Richard’s homeland, as, though born in Oxford, he was its Duke, where he had been brought up as a young man. The marriage of his mother, the doughty Eleanor, to King Henry II had linked Aquitaine to Normandy and England.

‘We’ve discussed that option in our council,’ answered de Wolfe. ‘But the east of Spain is all hostile — the Moors in the south and in the north, Aragon and Catalonia favour Philip of France. No doubt they have been bribed by him to arrest Richard if he sets foot anywhere between Barcelona and Provence.’

They sat glumly sipping their wine, unable to think up any more cheerful news than the fact that at least the island of Sicily was a safe haven, thanks to their king’s intervention there on the outward voyage. He had supported the new Sicilian ruler Tancred against the prospect of being displaced by Henry of Germany, whose wife Constance was next in line to rule the island after the death of her father, King William of Sicily. In the convoluted liaisons between European rulers, William had been married to the Lionheart’s sister Joanna — who Richard had even tried to marry off to Saladin to obtain a treaty, until she flatly refused to be wedded to a Muslim!

The three men sat discussing the problem until the wineskin was empty, by which time it was totally dark. Their king had come down from the sterncastle and was in his spartan cabin, with a pair of Templar knights guarding the door. The Franche Nef steadily ploughed northwards, the sailing master steering by the stars and the occasional glimmer of light from headland beacons on the distant shore.

Baldwin of Bethune, already feeling a little sick from the motion of the ship, returned to his other friends, who included Brother Anselm and Philip of Poitou. They settled themselves down for the night, laying on a mixture of blankets, cloaks and thin mattresses, which though not particularly comfortable, were far better than many a night spent in the arid wastes of Palestine.

John de Wolfe and Gwyn, who after many years of campaigning across Europe, could have slept on a bed of nails, soon followed their example. Within minutes they were asleep, Gwyn to dream of playing dice in an Exeter tavern and John to lying in a Devon hay barn, his arms around Hilda, the lover of his youth.

The shipmaster had been correct with his forecast of their arrival at the Cypriot port of Limassol, as it was the early morning of the third day when the Franche Nef dropped two of her many anchors in the bay. John de Wolfe leaned on the port bulwark with Gwyn and William de L’Etang, looking across at the small town a quarter of a mile away.

‘Not much of a place, but the wine was better,’ observed William, recalling the weeks they had spent there on the outward journey. King Richard had rapidly conquered the island to depose the tyrant Isaac Commenus, a renegade Byzantine. Then he sold it to the Templars as a base for their operations, before getting married to Berengaria in the Chapel of St George in Limassol. His bride had arrived from Sicily before him on a different ship, being chaperoned by his sister Joanna. Their honeymoon had been brief, as news arrived from Tyre that Philip of France had already arrived outside Acre. Richard, dubious about Philip’s intrigues and abilities, had hurried away in his fast galley, the Tranche Mer, to join in the siege, leaving his wife and sister to follow with the main fleet. Now he was back again in Cyprus.

‘If our lord is in such a hurry to get home, why did he want to stop here?’ asked the ever-curious Gwyn. ‘We’ve surely got supplies enough to last us until Rhodes.’

‘Money, that’s the reason for most things!’ replied William. ‘The king will need plenty of coin for hiring and bribing on our journey, as well as for feeding us and our horses.’

‘So why come here? asked John de Wolfe, who had also been wondering about this diversion to Limassol. De L’Etang was a closer confidant of the king and knew much more about the intriguing that went on.

‘When he sold Cyprus to the Templars, they failed to pay him the full amount. Now that he’s given the island to Guy of Lusignan to compensate him for losing the kingship of Jerusalem, Guy owes him the balance of the money, so I’m sure he’s called here to collect an instalment.’

‘And we need to get the latest news of our enemies,’ came a voice from behind them. Baldwin of Bethune had approached to join them, resplendent in a bright green surcoat over his long red tunic. ‘Tancred promised to send regular messengers to our main ports of call with reports on what those bastards in France and Germany are up to.’

Gwyn raised his arm to point shoreward. ‘There’s a boat coming out already. Looks like some Templars are aboard.’

As it came nearer, they could see a skiff pulled by four oarsmen and, in the stern, two men with the familiar red cross on their belted white tunics. Baldwin hurried across to the cabin under the sterncastle, the door guarded by another pair of Templars, a knight in a white surcoat and a sergeant in a brown uniform, both emblazoned with the eight-pointed cross. Baldwin vanished into the king’s quarters and within a few minutes, emerged with Richard, dressed more grandly than usual in a long white tunic, a jewelled velvet belt and large sword, with a narrow gold circlet around his head suitable for a visit to the nominal ruler of the island.

Behind him came another of his small band of retainers, Robert de Turnham, an English knight who was the king’s High Admiral. A burly man with a pock-marked face, he was an administrator rather than a sailor, responsible for the fleet of vessels that had brought the crusading army to Palestine and was now doing his utmost to see that his monarch was returned safely. His elder brother Stephen was also an admiral, now charged with organizing a fleet to get the remaining troops back to Sicily, together with Richard’s new queen and his sister, chaperoned by the Bishop of Salisbury, the king’s second-in-command at the Crusade.

The trio went to the rail to join de Wolfe and William de L’Etang, who each gave a quick bow of deference, as Gwyn backed away to a respectful distance, though Richard acknowledged him with a wave and a grin. Aboard ship, with its tight little community cramped together for many weeks, the formalities of the court were greatly relaxed, even more so than during the eighteen-month campaign up and down the Holy Land. Though the Lionheart was a stickler for discipline and etiquette, with moods that swung from light-hearted banter to towering rages, the harshness of life on the battlefield or in the privations of long marches in near-desert conditions, had discouraged a strict adherence to the usual separation between king and subject.

‘Sirs, I’m off to visit de Lusignan!’ he shouted robustly. ‘I’ll risk my life in that cockleshell down there and trust to those worthy knights to save me if it sinks!’

The small boat pulled alongside and Robert de Turnham clambered down a ladder hanging over the side, closely followed by an agile king. Though he had been quite ill during the past weeks in Acre, a flux of his bowels bringing him very low, Richard now seemed quite recovered and his six foot two of muscular body, with his notably long arms and legs, swung easily over the rail. He shinned down without mishap, but all those clustered along the bulwarks were relieved to see the boat push off safely.

‘Thank God no one was wearing their hauberks,’ muttered de Wolfe. A coat of chain mail would send any man straight to the bottom, as the last Holy Roman Emperor had found to his cost after falling from his horse in a Turkish river. No one aboard wore their armour, unless an attack by another hostile ship was anticipated. Even their military monks, the Templars, stuck to their light tunics, as the daytime sun was still hot, even in October. They watched as the boat reached the stone jetty that stuck out from the beach and saw the passengers safely climb ashore. Even at that distance, they could see a reception party, with more Templars forming a strong guard.

As they vanished into the town, John de Wolfe and the other knights settled down to more tedious hours of waiting. Even after only a few days of the voyage, boredom was already the main feature of the journey. Playing chess, cards or dice filled a few hours. Eating and sleeping occupied some of the remainder, together with singing, in which the Lionheart took part lustily, even singing solo, sometimes songs which he had composed himself. Twice a day, the chaplain Anselm held prayers on the main deck, with frequent celebrations of the Mass, where all on board prayed fervently each time for the preservation of their lives on that most dangerous of elements, the sea.

Thankfully, during the first part of the voyage, the calm weather allowed the crew to cook, a charcoal fire being lit in a large iron pan secured on a slab of stone set in the deck. At noon, they would have spit-roasted chicken from the scores of fowls kept in a cage in the forecastle and soon, the enterprising merchants of Limassol were rowing out to the ship to sell fresh meat and fish, as well as bread, wine and a variety of fruits. Another boat provided kegs of fresh water which would keep them and the horses supplied for the next leg of the voyage to Rhodes.

As the day wore on, there was no sign of the king returning and after their dinner of vegetable potage and chicken, de Wolfe, Baldwin, and de L’Etang sat in the shade of the aftercastle, drinking some of the better local wine that they had bought from a bumboat.

‘I wonder what we’ll find when we get back?’ mused Baldwin. ‘I live too damned near to the lands of Philip Augustus for comfort. He’s got his eye on Artois, just as he has on the whole of Normandy.’

The King of France, though nominally overlord of a large area of the country, actually had control of only a relatively small area around Paris and was always seeking ways to enlarge his territory. Now that Richard Coeur de Lion was far away in the east, Philip Augustus was greedily eyeing Artois, which spread up to the coast at Boulogne and also the Vexin, the northern part of Normandy. Though the lands of absent Crusaders were supposed to be inviolate, Philip had tried to get Pope Celestine to lift the protection, but had so far been rebuffed.

‘The same is happening in England,’ grunted de Wolfe. ‘His treacherous brother John has been hoping that Richard would never return from the Holy Land. I’ll wager he prays every night for him to be struck down by a Saracen arrow or a rampant fever, so that he can take his crown.’

They went again through the catalogue of men who wished the Lionheart ill will, from Philip Augustus and Henry of Germany, through Leopold of Austria to Raymond of Toulouse and the princes of Genoa and Pisa — all the adversaries that were now blocking their pathway home.

The time passed slowly, Gwyn returning to his old profession for a while, as he took to fishing with hook and line over the ship’s side. Whether by luck or remembered skill, he landed half a dozen sizeable fish to add to their supper, until in the late afternoon, there was a cry from the lookout up in the barrel lashed to the mast above the spar for the single furled sail.

‘They are coming back, sirs!’

Moving to the rail, they saw a procession coming down the main street to the quayside and soon two boats were being rowed towards the Franche Nef, the second carrying a small chest.

Once alongside, King Richard hauled himself aboard and when Robert de Turnham followed him, the admiral turned to the crew and threatened them with horrible tortures if they allowed the treasure box in the second skiff to fall into the sea. When it was safely on the deck, a Templar staggered with it into the king’s cabin, as Richard watched them with a satisfied smile.

‘The contents should see us across Europe, gentlemen. Though only God knows how we’re going to achieve it!’