Richard didn’t like the sound of that, thinking this was a rather exalted welcoming committee for ordinary pilgrims. Joanna had told him that her husband had often personally taken a hand when shipwreck survivors turned up in Sicily, and he wanted to believe this was a similar act of Christian charity. But good soldiers developed sharp survival instincts, and his were beginning to tingle. “They asked for me?” he said, trying to recall the name he’d given the abbot.
Morgan had an expressive face, not meant for secrets, and his concern was obvious. Baldwin was more phlegmatic, rarely revealing his inner thoughts. Now, though, he looked as troubled as the Welshman. “They asked for the king of the English,” he said grimly.
Richard caught his breath and then swore, cursing the pirates in language that added substantially to Arne’s growing list of French obscenities. When he turned to demand his sword, he saw the boy was already holding out the scabbard.
“What will you do, sire?” Arne was not surprised when Richard did not reply, for what could they do? They were trapped on the island. They could not flee and he did not see how the king could resist, either, with just ten men at his back. No, nine and a half, he amended unhappily, knowing how little help he could offer in a fight. Scurrying after Richard as he left the guest hall, Arne caught up with them in time to hear Morgan ask if Ragusa was an ally of the Holy Roman Empire. He could not repress a shiver, for he knew their fate might well turn upon the answer to that question.
Richard hesitated, trying to recall all he knew of Ragusa, which was not that much. “It is a city-state like Venice or Genoa. I was told that it recognizes the suzerainty of Constantinople, but the Greeks do not meddle in its governance. I do not think it has ties to the Hohenstaufens, at least not formal ones. For all I know, though, their count could be Heinrich’s cousin,” he said bitterly, remembering his surprise upon learning that the Duke of Austria claimed kinship to Isaac Comnenus and bore him a grudge for deposing the Cypriot despot.
By now they’d reached the abbot’s great hall. For one of the few times in his life, Richard did not have a plan of action. He could deny he was the English king or try to shame them into honoring the Church’s protection for men who’d taken the cross, but neither of those options seemed likely to carry the day. He’d rarely felt so uneasy and he sought reassurance by dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword. As his fingers closed around the haft, the familiar feel of it was comforting, and he found himself remembering something he’d once read, that pagan Norsemen believed they could not enter Valhalla unless they died with sword in hand. And then he straightened his shoulders, raised his head, and shoved the door open, crossing the threshold with a deliberate swagger.
The hall was crowded. All of the monks were there, murmuring among themselves. The abbot was standing with two men who could only be the count and the archbishop. They made an odd couple, the former tall and so thin he appeared gaunt, the latter short and rotund, both of them elegantly garbed, though, with jewels flashing on their fingers. There was a hush as Richard entered and then an excited buzz swept the hall. Abbot Stephanus hastened toward Richard, moving with surprising agility for one no longer young.
“My lord king,” he said in impeccable Latin, and bowed. “I had no idea so illustrious a guest was being sheltered under our roof. May I introduce Count Raphael de Goce and Archbishop Bernard.”
Both men made respectful obeisances. The count opened his mouth to speak, but the archbishop was quicker. “We are honored to welcome the renowned and redoubtable king of the English to our city. Your war against the infidel Saracens has made you a hero wherever people embrace the True Faith. I never thought I’d have the opportunity to hear of these battles from the victor of Jaffa himself!”
When he paused for breath, Count Raphael seized his chance. Casting a glance toward the archbishop that revealed the rivalry between the two men, he said reprovingly, “Jaffa was indeed a great victory. But surely we’d be remiss, my lord archbishop, if we did not speak of the king’s greatest achievement in the Holy Land. Because of his efforts, Christian pilgrims can once again pray in the sacred city of Jerusalem.” Beaming, he turned and beckoned to a woman nearby. “May I present to you my lady wife, the Countess Marussa. We want to invite you to be our honored guest during your stay in Ragusa.”
“My lady,” Richard said, and she blushed and giggled when he kissed her hand, for he could play the gallant when he chose; he had grown up at his mother’s court in Aquitaine, after all. Any doubts he may have harbored had disappeared as soon as he saw the countess; the count would hardly have brought his wife along if this were a trap of some sort. Once again his luck had prevailed, shipwrecking them in probably the only place along the Adriatic coast where the Lionheart legend counted for more than the enmity of the German emperor and the French king.