Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 14

MARCH 1191

Messina, Sicily





Eleanor leaned back in her chair, regarding her son with affectionate, faintly suspicious hazel eyes. Richard had explained why he’d—as he put it—switched horses in midgallop, designating his little nephew Arthur as his heir instead of his brother John. He’d been candid about his troubles with the recalcitrant citizens of Messina, and he’d surprised her by speaking well of Tancred, insisting that he’d made sufficient restitution for his ill treatment of Joanna. But so far he’d not said a word about the “news from Rome,” and she was wondering why. Before she could ask him, though, he launched into a scathing account of the French king’s duplicity, and she listened with interest, marveling that Philippe could have been a son of the mild-mannered Louis’s loins.

“So Philippe is the one responsible for making me miss your wedding. I owe him a debt for that, and will look forward to repaying it.”

Richard smiled, thinking that he’d have loved to witness his mother’s retribution. “Alas, it will have to wait, for Philippe is no longer in Messina. He sailed for Outremer this morning at dawn, in such haste I could almost believe he did not want to meet you and my bride, Maman.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Eleanor said truthfully; she’d wanted to judge for herself the danger that the French king posed to her son. “Meeting Heinrich was quite interesting, for I now know that if he were cut, he’d bleed pure ice. I was hoping to have an opportunity to take Philippe’s measure, too.”

“Philippe is more of an annoyance than a threat,” Richard said derisively. “If he were cut, he’d most likely faint, since I doubt that he’s ever seen blood up close, for certes not on the battlefield.”

“You still have not told me why we must confer in private like this. If I were not the trusting sort, Richard, I’d think that you have something to tell me that I’ll not want to hear.”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a fond smile. “You know me far too well, Maman.” Rising, he busied himself in fetching her a cup of wine, such an obvious delaying tactic that she did not bother to point it out. “Last night a messenger arrived from Rome,” he said after he’d resumed his seat. “The Pope has been called home to God—or the Devil, depending upon which master he served. Clement died on March twentieth.”

“And . . . ?” Eleanor prompted. “Have they chosen his successor yet?”

“Not officially, but I have it on good authority that they’ll select one of the Orsini family, Cardinal Giacinto of Santa Maria in Scola Greca. I believe you’ve met him, Maman?”

“I did,” she confirmed, “many years ago. An odd choice, for he must be well into his eighties by now.”

“Eighty-five, I’m told.” Richard leaned forward, his eyes probing hers. “As little as I liked Clement, at least I knew whom I was dealing with. And he was receptive to English needs as long as I made it worth his while. So his death is inconvenient, for I’d recently put several requests before the papal curia, one of them to confirm Longchamp again as his papal legate.”

She raised an eyebrow, for she’d heard in Rome of the growing complaints about Longchamp’s heavy-handed rule. “Is that wise, Richard?”

“I know,” he conceded, “I know. . . . He has been collecting enemies as hungrily as a squirrel hoarding acorns. I’m not happy about it, but his loyalty is not in question. He needs to be reined in ere he goes too far, though, so I am sending the Archbishop of Rouen back to England to do just that. Between the two of you, you ought to be able to keep Longchamp from getting too besotted with his own importance.”

Eleanor thought the Archbishop of Rouen was a good choice. “I still do not see why we could not have discussed this at Bagnara.”

“Because I need you to be in Rome for the new Pope’s consecration, and Joanna will not be happy about that.”

“Neither am I, Richard. I’ve been here less than a day!”

“I know how much I ask of you, Maman. But we must make sure that the new Pope is friendly to English interests, and to do that, we need to get to him ere Philippe and Heinrich do.” Seeing her frown, he said before she could refuse, “There is no one better than you at such diplomacy. Moreover, you already know the man and none would doubt your authority to speak for me.”

Eleanor’s eyes searched his face intently. After a silence that he found ominous, she said with a sigh, “Very well. But it will be up to you to reconcile Joanna to our abrupt departure. I am sure she’d expected to have some time to get to know Berengaria.”

Richard looked uncomfortable. “Joanna will not be returning with you, Maman. I want her to accompany us to Outremer. It will not be easy for Berenguela in the Holy Land, and I thought she’d feel less homesick if she had Joanna for company. That is even more true now that we cannot wed until the end of Lent, for her reputation will suffer if she does not have a woman of high rank to act as her . . . duenna, as the Spanish call it.”

Eleanor bit her lip to keep from protesting. As little as she liked it, his reasoning made sense. “I will not be rushing off on the morrow,” she warned. “I’ll act as your envoy at the papal court, but I want some time with my daughter first.”

“Of course,” he agreed hastily and leaned over to graze her cheek with a grateful kiss before holding out his hand to assist her to her feet. “I am truly sorry that we cannot wed whilst you’re here, Maman. You missed so many family events during those years of confinement. It does not seem fair that you’ll be deprived of my wedding, too.”

Eleanor was both surprised and touched that he understood how much it had meant to her. “So . . .” she said with a warm smile, “what do you think of your bride?”

“She seems quite suitable,” he said with an easy smile of his own. “From all you’ve told me, she acquitted herself well during the hardships of your journey. I think she’ll make a good queen.”

Eleanor thought so, too. But for a moment, she felt an unexpected pang of regret, for she was in her twilight while Berengaria’s sun was just rising. Almost at once, she rejected that twinge of envy, for she’d not have traded her past for her daughter-in-law’s youth. She’d experienced so much that Berengaria never would, that few women had, and she smiled, thinking that no man would ever have dismissed her with Richard’s casual “quite suitable.” She’d wanted more, and if her memories were bittersweet now, they still testified to a life lived to the fullest, a life that had not lacked for passion or adventure or the élan of her beloved Aquitaine.

Richard was looking at her curiously. “You’ve an odd expression, Maman. If you were a cat, you’d be licking cream from your whiskers. What were you thinking?”

She gave him a half-truth. “Of my marriage and yours. Have you given any thought to how awkward it will be for Philippe, having to bear witness as you wed the woman who replaced his sister?”

“Why? You think I ought to ask Philippe to give the bride away?” He laughed down at her, stirring memories of the mischievous boy he’d once been, and she stilled the voice whispering that he took his enemies too lightly, for she knew he’d not have heeded her words of warning.



ELEANOR DID NOT DEPART for another four days, despite Richard’s coaxing. It was not until the afternoon of April 4 that her ship’s oarsmen began to maneuver their way out into the harbor. Richard, Joanna, and Berengaria stood on the quay, and Eleanor continued to return their farewell waves until Messina began to recede into the distance. A northwest wind had robbed the sun of much of its warmth, but Hawisa stayed loyally beside the queen instead of withdrawing to the shelter of their canvas tent. She knew that this parting was painful for Eleanor, so she’d done her best to hide her own elation, her joy that she’d not have to lay eyes again upon her husband for many months, if ever. Men died so easily in the Holy Land, after all.

Eleanor remained on deck, indifferent to the spray splashing over the gunwale. “I knew Richard would be facing daily danger in Outremer,” she said at last. “But I’d not expected to have to fear for my daughter’s safety, too.”

Hawisa glanced at the queen’s profile, wishing she could say there was no cause for anxiety. She couldn’t, of course, for the deadly miasmas and maladies of those eastern climes did not discriminate between men and women. But she wanted to offer some comfort, for she greatly admired the aging queen. “I understand your concern, Madame. I feel confident, though, that the Lady Joanna will come to no harm, not with the king to protect her. I’d wager that even Death himself would think twice ere he took Richard on,” she said lightly, “for I’ve never met a man who was so invincible.”

Her attempt at humor failed. “Richard is not invincible,” Eleanor said sharply. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she added, so softly Hawisa barely heard her, “He just thinks he is. . . .”



MORGAN WAS VERY PLEASED to be one of the knights chosen to accompany Richard to Bagnara. Life had gotten hectic in Messina now that their departure date was so close, and he welcomed this brief respite from his supervisory duties at the waterfront. He welcomed, too, the chance to renew his flirtation with the Lady Mariam and to visit with his cousin Joanna. After Richard went off to see Berengaria, Morgan strolled over to the guest hall with Warin Fitz Gerald, Baldwin de Bethune, and the Préaux brothers, Pierre, Guilhem, and Jean.

They were in high spirits, anticipating a pleasant supper with Joanna and her ladies, joking that they might even get to spend the night, for plight-troths were almost as binding as actual marriage vows and they all knew Richard was not one for waiting. While they were excited to be leaving Sicily at long last and eager to reach the siege of Acre, they were also uneasy, dreading the dangerous sea voyage that lay ahead of them, and so their laughter was loud and their badinage caustic. They mocked Pierre, whose recent run of bad luck carried over into several dice games, they threatened to tell Mariam of Morgan’s frequent visits to a dockside tavern and a buxom, black-eyed servingmaid, and they tormented Guilhem, who’d unwisely confessed to a fear of the sea, with tales of shipwrecks and savage storms. But when Richard suddenly strode into the hall and tersely announced that they were returning to Messina, they got hastily to their feet, keeping their faces carefully blank and their tongues bridled. They nodded dutifully when he told them to fetch their ship’s crew from the town tavern, and it was only after he’d gone to find Joanna that they dared to exchange knowing grins.

Joanna was in the priory gardens, teaching Alicia how to play chess. She was taken by surprise when Richard appeared without warning, announced he was going back to Messina, and turned on his heel before she could respond. She caught up with him in a few strides, though, grasping his arm while she looked up into his face. “Why are you leaving so soon? You just got here—” Comprehension dawning, she tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. “Oh . . . she turned you down?”

It was one of the few times she’d seen her brother off balance. He stared at her in open astonishment. “What are you, a witch?”

“It hardly took second sight to figure that out.” She glanced around to make sure Alicia was out of earshot, pleased to see the girl was already making a discreet exit. “You are obviously in a temper, and you have not been here long enough to quarrel with anyone but Berengaria. I’m surprised, though, that she was bold enough to tell you no.”

Richard had been surprised, too. “I had no idea she could be so stubborn. The plight-troth is binding upon us, the marriage but a formality—”

“Not to Berengaria.”

“Even if we’d not been plight-trothed, it is no great sin, venial at most.”

Joanna was not going to be sidetracked by a discussion of fornication. She didn’t doubt that most men shared Richard’s view, and many women, too. What mattered, though, was that Richard’s betrothed did not. “This is an argument you do not need—or even want—to win, Brother. I’m sure you’ve not been living like a monk whilst waiting for her arrival. If you’ve an itch, you can get it easily scratched in Messina. But if you coax or coerce Berengaria into doing something she sees as a grievous sin, you could make her skittish of the marriage bed. And Morgan and André say you never commit your troops to battle without first weighing the consequences and assessing the risks.”

Richard wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or amused. “Well, this I can say for certes, that I never expected to be lectured on carnal matters by my little sister.”

“Your ‘little sister’ is a woman grown, in case you’ve not noticed. For a number of years, I presided over a court as worldly as any in Christendom, and that includes Maman’s court at Poitiers.” There was an edge to her smile. Yes, Maman had been forced to overlook Papa’s infidelities, but at least he’d not kept a harim of Saracen slave girls. She was not about to discuss that with her brother, though. Instead she linked her arm through his and then gave him a playful push, telling him to go back to Messina whilst she comforted his bashful bride.

Joanna was as good as her word, and soon thereafter, she knocked upon the door of Berengaria’s guest cottage. It opened so quickly she knew the other woman must have been expecting Richard to return, an inference confirmed by the conflicted emotions that chased across Berengaria’s face: hope, disappointment, and relief. She stepped aside, politely opening the door wider when Joanna asked to enter.

Joanna was glad to see she was still alone, not having called her duennas back yet, for a delicate discussion like this required privacy. She was glad, too, that Berengaria did not seem overly distraught; she’d half expected to find her in hysterics, weeping and apprehensive. But her pallor was the only sign of distress; Berengaria’s brown eyes were dry. Joanna suddenly wished she’d thought out what she wanted to say beforehand. Too late to retreat now, though. “I thought you might feel like talking, Berengaria. I remember my first argument with William—”

Berengaria gasped. “Richard told you?”

“No, he did not,” Joanna said hastily. “I guessed, which was easy enough to do, since he looked like a storm cloud. Also, I know how eager men are to plant their flags and claim their territory.”

Berengaria raised her chin. “If you’ve come to counsel me to yield—”

“Indeed not! You must follow the dictates of your conscience, not Richard’s. Assuming he has one,” Joanna added with a grin. “Actually, I think it was good that you stood up to him. It never hurts to remind a man that he cannot always have his own way. I wanted to make sure that you were not overly troubled by the quarrel. You need not fear that he’ll nurse a grudge or that he is well and truly wroth with you, for he is not.”

Berengaria surprised her then by saying, “I know. I could see that he was more vexed than outraged.” Sitting down on a coffer chest, she studied the other woman, trying to make up her mind. It would be wonderful to have a confidante, to be able to talk about the confusing feelings and urges that were preying on her peace. But did she dare to confide in Richard’s sister? When Joanna moved to the table and poured wine for them both, she said before she could repent of it, “I wish Richard and I had not quarreled. But I am not so sheltered that I do not know husbands and wives will disagree. It is something else that is troubling me, a serious sin. . . .”

Joanna did not like the sound of that. Summoning up what she hoped was a reassuring smile, she seated herself beside Berengaria on the coffer. “Can you tell me about it?”

Berengaria wavered before saying in a low voice, no longer meeting Joanna’s eyes. “Padre Domingo, my confessor, cautioned me that I must be vigilant in protecting my virtue. He said . . . said Richard might want to lie with me ere we were wed, but I must not permit it. So I was prepared when he . . .” She let her words trail off, but then she stiffened her spine and said resolutely, “I did not expect, though, to like it so much when Richard kisses me. I was too prideful, Joanna, sure that I could not be tempted by the sin of lust. . . .”

“I see,” Joanna murmured, trying to conceal her relief. She’d feared Berengaria was going to confess that she believed sexual intercourse was always a sin, even in the marriage bed, for she knew some women took to heart the Church’s teaching that no fruitfulness of the flesh could be compared to holy virginity, the highest form of spiritual purity. She watched color stain Berengaria’s cheeks and she suddenly realized that Padre Domingo was probably her only source of information about carnal desires. Her mother had died when she was just nine, and her sisters were younger than she. Joanna was convinced that there was not a father ever born willing to discuss lust with his daughter, and she doubted that Berengaria’s brother would have been willing, either. She doubted, too, that Berengaria, reserved and proud, would have turned for advice to her attendants, for they were all flighty young girls, and if one was not a virgin, she’d never have admitted it.

Joanna felt a surge of sympathy for her brother’s young bride, thinking how lucky she herself had been. Her mother had always been candid and comfortable about sexual matters, and Joanna had concluded at an early age that the marriage bed must be a place of great pleasure since her parents spent so much time in theirs. Wed at eleven, she’d had years to get to know her husband before she was old enough to consummate their marriage, and she’d had trusted female confidantes in Beatrix, Mariam, and Constance. Poor Berengaria, with only Padre Domingo to show her the way, the blind leading the blind! Well, it was not too late, thankfully.

“When Padre Domingo was warning you of the dangers of lust, did he happen to mention that marital sex is not a sin?”

“Yes . . . but only if it is done for procreation.”

“Not so,” Joanna said triumphantly. “The Church teaches that there are four reasons for a husband to have carnal knowledge of his wife, and only one is a sin. As you said, it is never sinful when it is done in hopes of having a child. But it is not sinful either if it is to pay the marital debt.”

Berengaria looked puzzled, but interested. “What is the marital debt?”

“Padre Domingo forgot to tell you about that, did he? According to St Paul’s teaching, the husband must render the conjugal debt to the wife and the wife to the husband, for he has power over her body and she over his. The Church position on this is so uncompromising that even if a husband or wife contracts leprosy, the partner still owes the marital debt.”

Berengaria’s eyes were wide with amazement. “You mean that I could demand this ‘debt’ from Richard and he’d have to oblige me?” And when Joanna confirmed that he would, that idea was so improbable to Berengaria that she began to giggle. Joanna joined in her merriment, and their shared laughter did much to diffuse any awkwardness between them.

“The third permissible reason for having marital sex,” Joanna resumed, “is one of the reasons for getting married, to avoid the sin of fornication.” She almost added that most people parted company with the Church on that, agreeing with Richard that fornication was harmless as long as the participants weren’t married or had not taken holy vows, but she thought better of it. “The only time that a married couple sin is if they are so driven by lust that satisfying their carnal needs is all that matters to them.”

“Oh. . . .” Berengaria was quiet for a moment, considering what she’d just been told, and then she smiled. “Joanna, thank you! You see . . . I told Richard that we could not lie together until we were properly wed. Yet I did not dare remind him that even married couples are supposed to abstain during Lent. After he left, I realized that this would pose a problem in our marriage, for there are so many days when the Church prohibits carnal union—Sundays and Wednesdays and Fridays and during Pentecost and Advent or when the wife is with child.... Somehow I could not envision Richard taking all these restrictions in good grace. And as his wife, I could not refuse him, which would mean that I’d be sharing his sin. But now I see that I would not be sinning, that I’d merely be satisfying the marital debt!”

She laughed, almost giddy with relief. But then her face shadowed again. “You said it was still a sin to be ‘driven by lust.’ I feel reasonably sure that I feel lust when Richard kisses me, Joanna, or touches me . . .” She was blushing hotly now, and Joanna felt a protective urge that was almost maternal.

“You feel desire,” she corrected, “the natural desire that a woman is supposed to feel for her husband. And that is not a sin. It is part of the Almighty’s Plan, for many doctors believe that a woman cannot conceive unless she experiences pleasure.”

This was a day of surprises for Berengaria. “Is that truly so?”

Joanna hesitated, but Berengaria had been very candid. It seemed only fair to be candid in return. “Richard told you that my son died soon after birth.” She had to blink rapidly, for there were some wounds that never fully healed. “I was unable to conceive again after that. Eventually, I had William take me to Salerno, which has some of the best doctors in Christendom, and a few of them are female. I consulted several of these women physicians, hoping they could help. They told me when a woman was most fertile and gave me herbs and assured me that I was more fortunate than many wives, for I enjoyed making love with William. That would improve my chances of getting pregnant, they said. . . .” She managed a flickering smile, a slight shrug.

Berengaria found herself blinking back tears, too, for the pain on Joanna’s face was so naked that she felt as if it struck at her own heart. “I cannot even imagine what it would be like to lose a baby,” she confessed. “But it must be of some comfort to know that he is in God’s Keeping, blessed and safe for all eternity.” When Joanna nodded, Berengaria overcame her natural reticence and squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand. “I am very glad that you are coming with us,” she confided. After a few moments of companionable silence, though, she said, “But what of a woman who is raped and then gets with child? That happened to a milkmaid at our palace in Olite. She was forced by a drunken lout, so I am sure she got no pleasure from it. Yet she became pregnant.”

“That same thought occurred to me, too,” Joanna admitted, “and I asked the Salerno doctors and midwives about it. Most likely a male physician would have insisted pregnancy was proof of pleasure. Women know better, of course. So, yes, a woman can sometimes conceive even if she was unwilling. But they assured me it is true more often than not, and it made sense to me that a husband’s seed would be more likely to take root if his wife was relaxed and receptive.”

Berengaria thought that made sense, too. “I am grateful we had this talk,” she said, smiling at the older woman. “You are much more knowledgeable about carnal matters than Padre Domingo!”

“Consulting a priest about carnal matters is like asking a blind man to describe a sunset,” Joanna said teasingly, and was gratified when Berengaria joined in her laughter, for even a few days ago, she was sure the young Spanish woman would have seen such flippancy as blasphemous. She began to relate a story she’d heard some years ago, one meant to reinforce in Berengaria’s mind the link between sexual pleasure and conception: that the French king had been persuaded to divorce Eleanor only after his advisers convinced him that she’d never bear him a son now that their marriage was irretrievably broken and she was unlikely to find satisfaction in his bed.

Joanna was very pleased with herself, confident that she’d done much this afternoon to make sure her brother’s marriage would be a successful one. It might be a good idea, though, to suggest to Richard that Padre Domingo be sent back to Navarre and a more open-minded confessor found for his bride. A pity Richard would never know how much he owed her. But she could not tell him without violating Berengaria’s trust, and she had no intention of doing that. She thought they’d planted the seeds this day of something worth nurturing—a genuine friendship.



RICHARD HAD HIS wooden castle dismantled and the sections were marked before being stowed in ships to be reassembled in Outremer. The same was done for his numerous siege engines. As his army made ready for departure, huge crowds gathered upon the docks to watch. The Messinians were awed by the magnitude of the undertaking. The cargo vessels were gradually filled with tuns of wine, sacks of flour and cheese and dried fruit and beans and salted meat; rumors spread that these long-tailed Englishmen were taking more than ten thousand slabs of cured pork alone. They were fascinated by the endless procession of provisions being lugged onto the gangplanks: huge barrels of water, grain and hay, arrows, crossbow bolts, armor, saddles, blankets, tents, and coffers filled with silver pennies, gold plate, and jewels, an astonishing mix of the mundane and the precious.

Daily life in Messina came to a halt, and even the markets were deserted as people gathered to watch hundreds of horses being loaded upon transport galleys called “taride.” These vessels were backed onto the beaches instead of the wharves, and port doors were opened in their sterns. Then the stallions were blindfolded and led up ramps into the ships, where they’d be separated by wooden hurdles and held upright by canvas slings that slid under their bellies and were attached to overhead iron rings. A tarida usually accommodated forty horses, and once they were stabled below deck, the vertical inner door was barred and the outer door caulked to make it watertight. The loading of so many high-strung destriers did not always go smoothly. Sometimes the horses balked and men’s tempers flared, and the spectators agreed it was almost as entertaining as a troupe of traveling players.

It was not until Wednesday in Holy Week that the royal fleet was ready to sail, and most of the city turned out for the event, thankful that this foreign army was finally departing but also delighting in this extraordinary spectacle. More than two hundred ships and seventeen thousand soldiers and sailors. Large transport vessels called busses. Naves that relied only upon sails. And the ships that drew all eyes and evoked admiring murmurs from the townspeople—the sleek, deadly war galleys, painted in bright colors, their gunwales hung with shields, the red and gold banners of the English king streaming from their mastheads. The crusade of Richard Coeur de Lion was at last under way.



AFTER SUCH a dramatic departure from Messina, what followed was anticlimactic. The wind died and the fleet found itself becalmed off the coast of Calabria. They were forced to drop anchor and wait. After the sun had set in a blood-red haze, many took comfort from the glow of the lantern placed aloft in Richard’s galley. He’d promised to light it each and every night, a guiding beacon for his ships, reassuring proof of his presence in the midst of the dark, ominous Greek Sea. The next day the winds picked up, but they remained weak and variable, and not much progress was made. Yet so far the voyage had been calm and for that, seventeen thousand souls were utterly thankful.



RICHARD HAD CHOSEN one of the largest busses for Joanna and Berengaria; it was a heavy, cumbersome vessel, but safer than the low-riding galleys. As Good Friday dawned, the fleet sailed on, the swift galleys holding back to keep pace with the slower craft. Determined to keep them all together, Richard kept a sharp eye out for any stragglers—like a sheepdog nipping at the heels of its flock, his men joked. But they welcomed the sound of trumpets echoing from one ship to another, and took heart from the sight of the royal galley cleaving the waves like a battle sword as it led the way toward the Holy Land.

By midmorning, the winds shifted, coming now from the south, and the sea grew choppy. As their buss wallowed in the heavy swells, most of the women were soon stricken with seasickness. To her dismay, Joanna discovered that she was still as susceptible to mal de mer as she’d been during her initial sea voyage at the age of eleven. As her suffering intensified, she was groggily grateful to her future sister-in-law; Berengaria never left her side, holding a basin when she had to vomit, wiping the perspiration from her face with a cool, wet cloth, fetching a vial of ginger syrup herself and gently persevering until Joanna had choked it down. The atmosphere in their tent was stifling, the stench enough to roil heaving stomachs, their coffers and trundle beds pitching every time the ship did. Joanna’s dogs were whimpering softly, and she could hear the sobbing of one of Berengaria’s ladies. When she realized that Alicia was huddled by her bed, she tried to put a comforting arm around the girl’s trembling shoulders. But it was then that the deck dropped so steeply that several of the women screamed and Joanna would have been thrown from the bed had Berengaria not grasped her arm and held tight. None of them breathed until the ship righted itself, sure for a terrifying moment that they were plummeting down to their deaths.

“Joanna!” A gust of salt air swept in as Mariam stumbled into the tent. Her face was blanched of all color, and she clutched her pater noster beads so tightly the string had frayed. “The ship’s master . . . he says a bad storm is nigh.”



THE SKY DARKENED long before the rain arrived. It was as if night had come, hours before its time. The crew of Richard’s galley was rushing to lower the sails, tugging on the pulleys that controlled the halyard. All the day’s light had been smothered by sinister storm clouds as black as pitch, and as Richard and his men watched in awe, lightning blazed overhead, casting an eerie green glow over their ship. The sea was tossing and bucking like an unbroken horse, and each time the galley plunged into a trough, it took an eternity until it struggled back up again. Most of Richard’s companions fled to the dubious shelter of their tent, but he had always faced his foes head-on and he remained on deck, clinging for support to the gunwale as the sailors struggled to pull in the oars.

The hours that followed were the most frightening of his life. The waves flung their ship about as if it were a child’s toy; never had he felt so helpless, so at the mercy of forces beyond his control. The helmsman remained at the tiller, jerking it with all of his strength, but it was obvious to Richard that the rudder was not responding. Rain was soon pelting down, stinging with needle-sharpness against his skin; within moments, he was utterly drenched. Water was splashing over the gunwale and the deck was awash. Each time a wave smashed into the hull, it sounded as if millstones were raining down upon them, and the wind was keening like the souls of the damned. Distant peals of thunder were much closer now, and when lightning stabbed through the clouds, he was horrified to see it strike the mast of a nearby galley, half blinding him with a searing flash of blue-white fire. Flames illuminated the doomed ship for a harrowing moment, and then it was gone, swept away into the black void of sea and sky, the drowning men’s screams muffled by the howling wind. Richard did not dare release his hold on the gunwale to make the sign of the cross; closing his eyes, he entreated the Almighty to spare his fleet and his men, offering up a despairing prayer that he not be punished for past sins ere he had the chance to redeem himself in the Holy Land.

The squall was as swift-moving as it was savage, and by evening the wind’s force began to ease and the sea gradually quieted. The sailors recovered first, for they were accustomed to gambling with Death and winning. For those experiencing their first storm at sea, it was not as easy. Richard’s men, their bodies bruised and battered, their stomachs still churning, were too shaken to sleep, and slumped, glassy-eyed and mute, on their soaked bedding, not yet believing their reprieve.

Richard could not sleep, either. He did his best to appear composed, for a battle commander must not show fear before his soldiers. But he did not think his appetite would ever come back, and he found he had no more control over his brain than he’d had over the tempest. He could not forget the faces of the men on that burning galley. Two hundred and nineteen ships. How many of them had survived the storm? How many men had he lost? What of his sister? Berenguela? Surely their buss was sturdy enough to have ridden out the gale? How could it be God’s Will that they perish at sea, alone and afraid?



ALMOST AS IF NATURE were making amends for the Good Friday storm, the winds were favorable the next morning and on the four days that followed. By Wednesday, April 17, a dawn flight of birds and seaweed in the water alerted the sailors that they were approaching land. When the ship’s master informed Richard that the island of Crete lay ahead, Richard gave the order to put ashore there.

The southwest coast of Crete was exposed to southerly winds and sudden squalls sweeping down from the mountains, so the fleet had to seek shelter on the island’s northwest coast, finally dropping anchor in the Gulf of Chandax. Richard then dispatched Guilhem de Préaux in a small galley called a “sagitta,” with orders to count their ships as they straggled in, to see if any were missing and if any were in need of storm repairs. After that, he settled down to do what he found most difficult—wait.

The sun was flaming out in spectacular fashion when Jaufre of Perche was rowed over to the king’s galley. He found Richard studying maps of Rhodes and Cyprus, which had been designated as rendezvous ports in case the fleet was scattered at sea. Refusing an offer of cheese and bread, Jaufre confessed that the mere sight of food would be enough to make him sprint for the gunwale and begin feeding the fish. He did accept a cup of wine, though, saying, only half in jest, that he’d heard Crete was a fine place, and if his men began to desert, he’d be sorely tempted to join them.

“I was told that the mountain we saw as we approached the coast is midway between Messina and Acre,” Richard said. “But if I thought the second half of the journey would be as accursed as the first half, I might consider starting life anew in Crete myself. You may have been better off sailing with Philippe, Jaufre. At the least, you’d be approaching the Holy Land by now, with the worst of the voyage behind you.”

“I’ve no regrets about that,” Jaufre said noncommittally. He’d never discussed with Richard the reasons for his defection, but the English king had not been surprised by his decision, for he’d seen the look of shock on Jaufre’s face during that chapel confrontation with Philippe. It had taken courage, though, to defy his king, and Richard intended to bestow enough favors upon Jaufre and Richenza to compensate for Philippe’s hostility.

“Besides,” Jaufre added with a smile, “if I’d sailed with Philippe, I’d not have been in Messina for your lady mother’s arrival and I’d not have gotten her news—that my wife gave birth to a healthy son last September. My father will be overjoyed when he hears, for this is his first grandchild.”

Jaufre’s father had been at the siege of Acre for the past year. Seeing the genuine pleasure on the young man’s face, Richard was surprised to find himself envying the bond that obviously existed between the count and his son. He did not often think of his turbulent relationship with his own father, for he’d never been one to dwell upon past regrets. Mayhap it was because he’d come so close to death during that Good Friday storm, he decided. He’d certainly had his share of narrow escapes on the battlefield, but a man fighting for his life did not have time for fear. “My father liked to boast that he’d never gotten seasick in all those Channel crossings, but I wonder how he’d have fared—” He broke off, then, for he’d heard the shouting that heralded Guilhem de Préaux’s return.

Plunging from the tent, with Jaufre right at his heels, Richard was waiting on deck as a ladder was lowered into Guilhem’s smaller vessel. Scrambling aboard, he gave the king a look of such misery that Richard’s mouth went suddenly dry.

“My news is not good, my lord. Twenty-five of our ships are missing.”

There were gasps from the men gathered around to hear Guilhem’s report. Richard spat out a savage oath, profane enough to impress even the tough-talking sailors. But when Guilhem looked away, no longer meeting his eyes, Richard knew worse was to come. “What else?” he said hoarsely. “Hold nothing back.”

“I am so sorry, my liege. But one of the missing ships is the buss carrying Queen Joanna and the Lady Berengaria.”