“Most soldiers I know admit they are sinners, find a confessor to lay light penances, and make sure that they are shriven ere they go into battle—or set foot on a ship like the Sea-Wolf. You could do worse than to follow in their footsteps, Arne.” Adding with a grin, “And if Warin and the others tease you about abstaining tonight, just tell them you’d heard a rumor that the Ragusan whores were poxed. That will shut them up!”
Arne laughed and was soon chattering happily as they finished a second flagon. Morgan drank his wine, listened, and marveled at the vagaries of fate—that a Welsh knight and an Austrian stripling should be sharing wine and confidences in this shabby, wharf-side tavern, far from home and all they held dear. The ways of the Almighty truly were beyond the understanding of mortal men. So many crusaders had left their homes and families for God and glory, only to find lonely graves in foreign lands. He fervently hoped it was the Almighty’s Will that they’d be luckier than the thousands who’d been stricken by pestilence, struck down by Saracen swords. He was convinced that Richard had God’s favor. How else explain why he was still alive, as reckless as he was with his own safety? He would get them home if any man could. But as Morgan signaled for another round of drinks, Wales had never seemed as far away as it did on this early December eve in Ragusa.
THE RIVALRY BETWEEN RAGUSA’S count and archbishop had become even more intense now that they had a genuine prize to compete for—the favor of a king. Richard had taken a liking to Archbishop Bernard, who was enthralled by his stories of the campaign against Saladin. The portly prelate had a keen sense of humor, too, laughing heartily when Richard joked that he was remarkably bloodthirsty for a man of God. Count Raphael’s company was less enjoyable, for he tended to be pompous and long-winded. It was politic to keep his goodwill, though, so Richard did his best to divide his time between the two men, although he complained to his friends, only half in jest, that he’d begun to feel like a bone caught between two hungry dogs. The tension would ignite at a lavish feast given in Richard’s honor on his last day in Ragusa. But when it happened, Archbishop Bernard and Count Raphael would be unlikely allies, united against the abbot of the Benedictine monastery on La Croma.
Richard was seated on the dais with the count, archbishop, members of the city’s great council, and their wives. He’d insisted that Abbot Stephanus be seated at the high table, too, while his own men were scattered at the lower tables, all enjoying the rich fare, so different from the rations they could expect once they were back at sea. They were savoring the latest dish—roast swan—when raised voices attracted their attention. The count was on his feet, red-faced, pointing an accusing finger at the black-robed abbot. The latter pushed his chair back and rose, too, apparently giving as good as he got. Morgan and Warin did not have enough Latin to follow the argument, but they watched with interest as the abbey’s prior and monks moved from their lesser seats to join the abbot, like soldiers rallying around their commander, for theirs was the stoic demeanor of men knowing they faced overwhelming odds but determined to resist, nonetheless.
By now the quarrel had reached the stage where all were clamoring loudly and no one was listening. Richard was leaning back in his chair, arms folded, looking bored, which Morgan and Warin knew meant that he was fast losing patience. They grinned and nudged each other when he finally stood and shouted for silence. Once the hall quieted and he was sure he held center stage, he began to speak, at one point rebuking the count as he tried to interrupt. By the time he was done, men had begun to exchange glances, reluctantly nodding their heads. The archbishop now acted as peacemaker, moving forward and holding out his hand to the abbot. This earned him a resentful look from Count Raphael, but after his wife leaned over and whispered in his ear, he joined the other two men, and the hall erupted in relieved applause.
Richard’s knights could only speculate among themselves as to the reason for the uproar, but their curiosity was not satisfied until the conclusion of the meal. As the trestle tables were taken down and musicians entered the hall, Richard sauntered over and explained what they’d witnessed but not understood.
“The highborn citizens of Ragusa were not happy that Abbot Stephanus and his monks were to receive such a windfall. They argued that so large a sum of money was best spent on rebuilding their cathedral, not ‘wasted’ on a church that none but monks would see. The abbot balked, insisting it was clearly God’s Will that the church be built on La Croma, since that is where we came ashore.”
“You seem to have resolved the dispute, sire,” Morgan pointed out, “for they are no longer hurling insults at one another. How did you do it?”