“St Gilles is a cankered, malevolent weasel,” Richard growled, with a vitriol he usually reserved for the French king and the Bishop of Beauvais. “When that treacherous whoreson balked at taking the cross, I knew he meant to take advantage of my absence to ravage my lands in Aquitaine, and that is indeed what he did. He got those malcontents the Count of Périgord and the Viscount of Brosse to rebel after my seneschal took ill. Fortunately my queen’s father came to my aid, sending his son Sancho to put down the rebellion. Sancho had such success that St Gilles realized he had to take Navarre off the chessboard, and so he approached the King of Aragon, whose rivalry with the Navarrese king proved stronger than his friendship with me. Alfonso accepted St Gilles’s offer to ally with him against Navarre, which means that the entire southern coast of France is barred to me, as are Barcelona and the other ports in Aragon.”
“Where can we land, then?” Richard’s admiral, Robert de Turnham, was not a man easily shaken, but he could not keep the dismay from his voice. He was more familiar with maps than most, and was quicker, therefore, to realize that their options had just narrowed dramatically and dangerously.
“A very good question, Rob,” Richard said, with another of those mirthless smiles. “The Count of Conversano says that I cannot land at any Italian port, for that hellspawn on the German throne has the Genoese fleet patrolling the coast in search of our ship. Moreover, Heinrich has made a new pact with my erstwhile allies at Pisa in preparation for his invasion of Sicily, so it is out, too. And needless to say, we cannot sail directly to England or Normandy or any ports in Aquitaine.”
There were nods of agreement, for even those with a weak grasp of geography understood that much. To attempt to pass through the Pillars of Hercules out into the Atlantic Ocean would be utter madness. The currents in the straits flowed toward the east, with a speed no ship could hope to match, and beyond lay winter storms of unbelievable savagery, with waves towering as high as sixty feet.
A stunned silence settled over the tent as they began to comprehend the full extent of their peril. The three de Préaux brothers conferred in whispers, and then Jean cleared his throat. “Sire . . . it might be best to pass the winter in Sicily, at King Tancred’s court. You’d be welcome there and that would give us time to find another route home.”
Several of the men winced, for there was a glaring flaw in Jean de Préaux’s plan and their king’s temper could be as combustible as sun-dried straw. Richard surprised them by saying without anger, “If I did that, Jean, there would be no kingdom waiting for me when I did reach home. My brother and the French king would thank God fasting if I gave them such an opportunity, claiming I was dead and John the legitimate heir to the English throne.”
Morgan understood why Richard had reacted with such unusual patience. If it was true that the Lionheart never forgot a wrong done him, it was also true that he never forgot a kindness, and Guilhem de Préaux had saved his life in the Holy Land. Richard had delayed his departure beyond the point when it was safe to sail as he sought to ransom Guilhem from Saladin, and Morgan was sure the de Préaux family would be basking in royal favor until the English king drew his last breath. He glanced at the Préaux brothers and then back toward his cousin. “What mean you to do, my liege?” he asked, sure that Richard already had a plan in mind, for he’d never known another man so quick-witted or coolheaded in a crisis, one of the reasons for his spectacular successes on the battlefield.
When Richard looked over at the Bishop of Salisbury, Morgan saw that they’d discussed this, either during their visit to the Count of Conversano’s galley or immediately upon their return to the Holy Rood. “We have few choices open to us,” Richard said bluntly, “since we cannot land in France or Spain or Italy. After studying the count’s map, it was obvious that we must turn back. We will have to sail up the Adriatic coast, land at a port where I am not likely to be recognized, and then try to reach my nephew and brother-in-law’s lands in Saxony.”
There were a few gasps and then an eerie quiet as the men tried to come to terms with their new reality. It was not easy, for they’d been just a three-day sail from Marseille, and now suddenly they found themselves facing a sea voyage that could last for weeks, at a season when even experienced sailors like the Genoese and Pisans did not venture far from port, and then a long and dangerous overland winter journey through territories hostile to their king.
One of the Templars, Sir Ralph St Leger, asked if they had a map and Richard’s clerk produced one, unrolling a parchment sheet that offered only the bare outlines of the lands bordering the Greek, Ionian, and Adriatic seas. “I agree that Saxony would offer us a safe haven,” the Templar knight said slowly. “Your brother by marriage and his son are in rebellion against the Emperor Heinrich again. But how do we get there?”