Richard drew a sharp breath, for the island looked like a fortress, its limestone crags ready to repel any intruders, and the closer they got, the more foreboding it seemed. The pirates were not panicking, though, straining at the oars as the helmsman manned the tiller, and as they rounded the tip of the isle, Richard saw a beach below the cliffs. It was strewn with rocks, some of them the size of boulders, but it offered their best chance for survival.
The surf was so wild that it looked like a boiling cauldron and the galley rocked from side to side as the crewmen rowed toward that rocky beach. But the helmsman kept it on course, and as soon as they reached the shallows, the sailors leapt out and began to drag the galley up onto the island. Richard and his knights splashed into the water to help. It was rough going and by the time they’d safely beached the galley, they were all exhausted. As they sprawled on the stony ground, the second galley drew closer, its men shouting and pointing toward Ragusa to indicate they were heading for the harbor a half mile away. Once they were sure the Sea-Serpent was going to make it, the men stranded on La Croma reluctantly struggled to their feet, for they were soaked to the skin and had to find shelter as soon as possible.
“We need to get a fire started,” Richard said, looking toward the tangled groves of pine and laurel that bordered the beach. “Does anyone live on this island, Petros?” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he had his answer. A light flared in the dark of the woods, moving so erratically that it could only be a lantern or torch. Richard and his knights dropped their hands to sword hilts, watching that swaying flame. Hooded figures were visible through the trees now, cloaked in black. At first glance, they seemed spectral and ghostly, even sinister. But then they emerged onto the beach and the shipwrecked men exchanged sheepish smiles, for these otherworldly wraiths were Benedictine monks.
Richard moved to meet them. He had no idea what language was spoken in Ragusa. Hoping that at least one of the monks had some knowledge of Latin, he said, “We are pilgrims returning from the Holy Land. Can you give us shelter?”
He was surprised to be answered in Latin as good as his own, as several monks assured him that he and his men would be welcome guests of their abbot. He thanked them courteously and then began to laugh. The monks had rescued other shipwreck survivors and since men often reacted emotionally after coming so close to dying, they saw nothing strange in Richard’s mirthful outburst. They had no way of knowing the real reason for his amusement—that this small, secluded community of monks would be the beneficiaries of his extravagant vow to God. With one hundred thousand ducats to spend, their isolated little island would have a church to rival the spectacular cathedrals of Rome, Palermo, and Constantinople.
RICHARD AWOKE WITH A START, torn from a dream that had not been a pleasant one. Arne was sitting cross-legged on the floor by his straw-filled mattress. Sitting up, he glanced around, but the abbey guest hall was empty. Where were his men? “What time is it, Arne?”
“You’re awake, sire!” Arne’s smile was bright enough to pierce the shadowed gloom of the hall. “I heard the bells ringing for None not long ago, so it is just past the ninth hour of the day.”
Richard frowned. Three o’clock? He’d meant to rest for a brief while. How could he have slept for more than six hours? “Why did you not awaken me?”
Arne was flustered by the sharp tone. “You . . . you did not say . . .” he stammered, “and . . . and you needed sleep?”
That was precisely the problem—that he had needed the sleep. To Richard, it was troubling proof that he’d not fully regained his strength, that his body was still weakened more than two months after his bout with quartan fever. Cutting off Arne’s apology, he said, “Never mind, lad. Do I have anything dry to wear?”
The boy nodded eagerly, saying they’d retrieved their coffers from the Sea-Wolf, and hurried to fetch braies, chausses, a shirt, and a tunic. All of their clothes were damp and wrinkled, smelling faintly of mildew after so long at sea, but they were still an improvement over the sodden garments Richard had peeled off before falling into bed. He rarely had the patience to allow his squires to assist him in dressing, for he could do it more quickly himself, and he waved Arne away as he pulled the braies on and then drew the shirt over his head. He was belting the tunic while Arne hovered nearby, eager to help, when the door slammed open and Baldwin and Morgan hurried into the hall.
“My liege, the Count of Ragusa and their archbishop are in the abbot’s great hall, asking to see you!”