Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 15

MAY 1191

Off the Coast of Cyprus





All of the passengers of the buss had crowded to the gunwales, so hungry were they for their first glimpse of land in more than two weeks. The Good Friday storm had swept their vessel far out to sea, almost to the African coast, where they’d then been becalmed for some nerve-wracking days, dreading both pirates and Saracen ships. Then their attempt to sail to the fleet’s first rendezvous, Rhodes, had been defeated by contrary winds. The buss’s master had finally decided to head for the next gathering point at Cyprus, charting his course by the sun’s position in the heavens and a floating magnetized needle that pointed toward the pole star. As a courtesy, he’d first consulted Stephen de Turnham, the English baron charged to see to the safety of Richard’s women. Stephen was wise enough to defer to the master’s far greater knowledge of the sea, and his faith was justified on the first of May when a sailor up in the rigging called out the sweetest words any of them had ever heard: “Land on the larboard side!”

At first, the passengers could see nothing. But then the smudged shadows along the horizon slowly began to take shape. In the distance, the sea was changing color, shading from deep blue to turquoise as the water grew shallower. “Is that Cyprus?” Berengaria asked, and when the master said it was, her murmured “Gracias a Dios” needed no translation, found echoes in every heart. She turned then, intending to thank the master, too, for they’d survived because of his seamanship. But at that moment, Joanna appeared on deck.

It was the first time she’d left the tent in days, and she blinked and squinted in the blaze of midday sun. As much as they’d all suffered during their ordeal, none had been as desperately ill as Joanna. She’d lost so much weight that she seemed alarmingly frail, her collarbones thrown into sudden prominence, her gown gaping at the neckline, and her chalky-white pallor made the dark shadows under her eyes look like bruises. Berengaria started toward her, but Stephen de Turnham and Mariam reached her first. She was too unsteady on her feet for false pride, and allowed them to guide her toward the gunwale. She was soon swallowing convulsively and when Berengaria took her hand, it was clammy to the touch. But she kept her eyes upon the horizon, watching with a painful intensity as the coast of Cyprus gradually came into view.

“Oh, no!” Joanna’s murmur reached no farther than Berengaria’s ears, more like a broken breath than a cry. They looked at each other in dismay and then back at the beautiful, blue-green, empty sea. For by now they ought to have seen a floating forest of timber masts, sails furled as the ships rode at anchor offshore. An involuntary groan burst from dozens of throats, so sure had they all been that they’d find the royal fleet awaiting them in Cyprus. None voiced their fears aloud, though, for the knights did not want to alarm the women, and Joanna and Berengaria’s ladies-in-waiting dared not speak out, for their mistresses had entered into a conspiracy of silence, refusing to acknowledge the possibility that Richard’s ship might have gone down in that Good Friday gale.

The silence that settled over the deck was a strangled one, therefore, fraught with all that they dare not say. When she saw Uracca struggling to stifle a sob, Berengaria forced a smile and offered the only comfort she could, saying with false heartiness, “How wonderful it will be to set foot on land again.”

She was taken aback by Joanna’s vehement reaction to that innocuous comment. “No!” Seeing Berengaria’s lack of comprehension, Joanna drew a bracing breath before saying, more calmly, “Cyprus is ruled by a man unworthy of trust. Isaac Comnenus seized power six years ago and dares to call himself emperor. But he has no honor, no scruples, and no mercy. We cannot go ashore.”

“The queen is right,” Stephen de Turnham said, swiftly and very firmly, wanting to head off any arguments. “Ere we left Messina, we were told to sail for Cyprus if our ships became separated. But the king said that if we arrived first, under no circumstances were we to land. We must await the arrival of the fleet.” Another silence fell at that. But while none were willing to say it aloud, the same thought was in all their minds. The fleet ought to have been here by now. What if it never comes?



THE REALIZATION that her brother was still missing seemed to have sapped the last of Joanna’s strength and she asked Stephen to escort her back to the tent. Berengaria would have liked to escape the scrutiny of the others, too, but she sensed that Joanna needed some time to herself. Instead, she drew Mariam aside. “Can you tell me more of this man? Joanna called him Isaac Comnenus. Is he a member of the Royal House of Constantinople?”

“Yes, he was a kinsman of the old emperor. He has good bloodlines, but a dubious past. Cyprus was a possession of the Greek Empire, and seven years ago, Isaac showed up on the island, claiming to be its new governor. I’ve heard it said that his documents were forged; be that as it may, his claim was accepted. The following year, that monster Andronicus was overthrown and slain, and Isaac took advantage of the chaos in Constantinople to declare himself the Emperor of Cyprus. Actually, he just calls himself the emperor, so his ambitions may well extend to the Greek Empire itself. But he has Cyprus in a stranglehold, maintaining power by hiring Armenian routiers and terrorizing the local population. He is loathed and feared by the Cypriots for arbitrarily seizing their property and imposing high taxes. And he has a truly vile reputation where women are concerned; even respectable wives and daughters are not safe from his lustful attentions.”

Berengaria glanced toward the rolling hills now silhouetted against the sky. After so long at sea, Cyprus looked like a veritable Eden, but the snake in this Eden sounded more lethal than any viper. She was puzzled that this was the first she’d heard of Isaac Comnenus, given that his island was a rendezvous point for their fleet. “I am surprised,” she confessed, “that Joanna did not mention this man to me.”

“She was ashamed to do so,” Mariam said bluntly, “for Isaac Comnenus was her husband’s ally.” She smiled, somewhat sadly, at Berengaria’s shocked expression. “My brother had a good heart, but his judgment was flawed. So great was his hatred of the Greek Empire that he’d have allied himself with Lucifer himself to bring Constantinople down. As for Isaac, he realized the new Greek emperor would seek to reclaim Cyprus, so he made overtures to all of the empire’s enemies. He benefited far more from this alliance than Sicily did, for when Constantinople sent an invasion force, the fleet of William’s admiral, Margaritis, easily scattered them. After stories began to trickle back to Palermo of Isaac’s cruelties, I think William had second thoughts, but he was too stubborn to admit it. And by then it was too late for my half-sister Sophia, who’d been packed off to Cyprus as Isaac’s bride. Fortunately for me, I was wed when Isaac proposed that marital pact. But Sophia fancied the idea of being an empress. . . .” Mariam suppressed a sigh. Did a crown truly matter if she reigned in Hell?

Berengaria blinked in surprise. “I did not know you’d been married. Did your husband . . . ?”

Mariam was amused by that delicate pause. “My husband died after four years of marriage. He was a good man, albeit old enough to be my father, and I had no complaints as his wife. But widowhood is the only time when a woman is not under a man’s thumb, first as daughter and then as wife, and I like the freedom—”

Mariam cut herself off so abruptly that Berengaria instinctively turned to see what had caught the other woman’s attention. And then she, too, gasped, clasping her hand to her mouth as she looked toward the Cypriot coast.



AS SOON AS SHE WAS ALONE, Joanna slumped down onto her bed, keeping her eyes tightly shut so no tears could squeeze through her lashes. She would not cry for her brother; that would be a betrayal of faith, an admission that he could be dead. But where was he? Surely the fleet would not have sailed on to Outremer? Did he think they’d perished in that accursed storm? No, he would not give up hope that easily, not Richard. When Star, her favorite hound, put a paw on the bed and whined, she rolled over and gathered the dog into her arms. “Sweet girl, you hate the sea, too. How dreadful it must be for the poor horses. . . .”

“Joanna!” Mariam pulled the tent flap aside. “You need to come back out on deck.”

With Mariam’s help, Joanna got to her feet. She asked no questions, already sure she’d not like the answers. They were well into the bay by now, and the hills seemed beautiful beyond words after endless vistas of nothing but sky and sea. A ship was anchored not far from shore, a buss like theirs. Its deck was filled with waving, shouting men, but the passengers on Joanna’s ship were staring past them at the shredded sails, broken masts, and shattered timbers scattered along the beach, skeletal remains partially buried in the sand, washed by the waves, a scene of destruction and death looking eerily peaceful in the bright May sunlight.

“Dear God . . .” Joanna made the sign of the cross with a hand that shook. “How . . . how many?”

Stephen de Turnham shook his head, unwilling even to hazard a guess, but after studying the wreckage with a grim, practiced eye, the master said, “Two ships, mayhap three.”

The other buss had erupted into frantic activity, and their longboat was soon launched, men straining at the oars to close the gap between the two vessels. The master gave the command to drop their anchors, and as his sailors hastened to obey, a ladder was flung over the side. Joanna recognized Hugh de Neville, one of Richard’s household knights, as he scrambled up the ladder, and felt comforted by the sight of a familiar face in this alien, inhospitable environment.

Hugh seemed just as glad to see her. “Lady Joanna, thank God you’re safe!” Ever the gallant, he insisted upon kissing her hand before answering the questions bombarding him from all sides. “When the great storm hit,” he said, pausing to take deep, grateful gulps from a proffered wineskin, “our ship and three others managed to stay together. It was a week ago today that we were approaching Cyprus. A sudden squall came up and drove us toward the shore. Our ship’s anchors held, but theirs did not and they were swept onto the rocks and broke apart. Many drowned, may the Almighty have mercy upon their souls. Some clung to the floating debris and managed to reach the beach, battered and halfnaked from the waves. We could only watch as the local people—God-cursed Griffons—came out and took them away.”

Hugh paused to drain the wineskin. “King Richard had warned us that Cyprus was ruled by a tyrant, an ungodly man who preys upon pilgrims, extorting ransoms from the wealthy and enslaving the poor. So we feared for the survivors and sent a small landing party ashore at dawn, hoping to discover their whereabouts. By the Grace of God, the first one we encountered was an elderly priest. None of us spoke Greek, but he had a smattering of French. He managed to convey to us that our comrades had been taken prisoner. His agitation and his gestures made it clear that we were in great danger, so we retreated back to our ship. After that, all we could do was wait . . . and pray.”

“You acted wisely,” Stephen said, catching the undertones of remorse in the other man’s voice. “It would have served for naught to join them in their prison. One of our sailors is from Messina and Greek is his mother tongue. We’ll send him ashore after dark to see if he can learn where they’re being held. Once we know that, we can decide what to do next.”

Hugh’s face was sunburned and gaunt, a raw, red welt slashing across his forehead into his hairline. But his smile was radiant with relief. “When we saw your sail, we dropped to our knees and gave thanks to God for answering our prayers. Where is the fleet? When will the king get here?” His smile fading as his words were met with averted eyes and utter silence.



JOANNA’S COMPANIONS were convinced that her weakened state was due in large measure to her inability to keep fluids down or to get the rest her ailing body needed. Mariam had brought along a store of useful herbs and persuaded her friend to take a sleeping draught after drinking a cup of seawater, which was said to aid those suffering from mal de mer. Whether it was because they were now anchored in the relative calm of the bay or because she’d reached her breaking point, the draught worked and Joanna fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that lasted almost eighteen hours. When she finally awakened, she was surprised to discover it was now late afternoon on the following day and even more astonished to learn that she’d slept through a gaol break and a rescue mission.

Much to Joanna’s relief, she found that she needed a chamber pot for its proper purpose and not because she was overcome by nausea again. Beatrix and the young widow Hélène helped her to dress as Mariam perched on their clothes coffer and told her of the day’s eventful happenings.

“Whilst it was still dark and there were no sentries on the beach, Stephen had Petros rowed ashore. He seemed remarkably cocky for one going alone into the lion’s den, but young men ofttimes seem to have more courage than common sense. It was arranged to pick him up at nightfall, but he suddenly appeared on the beach in midmorning, astride a mule. He rode it right past the startled guards and out into the bay! At that point he and the mule had a difference of opinion, the mule wanting to return to shore and Petros to continue on. The mule won. But Petros slid off into the water and swam like a fish toward Hugh’s ship, which was closer than ours. I do like that lad’s style,” Mariam said with a grin before continuing.

“When he was pulled onboard, he said that he’d found our men being held in a house on the outskirts of Amathus, that village off the beach. It did not seem to him as if they were well guarded, and when he saw several of them at an upper window, he said he acted on impulse, yelling out in French that a second buss had dropped anchor offshore. Soon thereafter, he heard shouting and thumping and realized they were trying to overpower their captors, so he raced back to the beach, ‘borrowing’ the mule along the way. Stephen and Hugh at once ordered their knights and crossbowmen into our longboats and they rowed for shore, where they found the prisoners had broken out and were being chased by the villagers. Their arrival tipped the scales in our favor, and after some fighting which we could actually see from our buss, our men reached safety on our ships. That noise you hear is the victory celebration. It was,” Mariam concluded, eyes sparkling, “well done, Joanna, well done, indeed!”

Joanna agreed that it was, hoping that this bold sortie would raise morale. She did not ask about the missing fleet, for Mariam’s silence on that issue was an answer in itself. Instead, she managed to swallow a little wine and even a few bites of bread, the first solid food she’d had in days, and then ventured out onto the deck with Mariam unobtrusively bracing her on one side and Beatrix on the other.

Her appearance was welcomed with boisterous enthusiasm, and she had to listen again to an account of the day’s events, this one offered by the participants themselves. Petros was the hero of the hour, obviously enjoying his well-earned turn on center stage, and much praise was also lavished upon Roger de Harcourt, a Norman knight who’d managed to seize a local man’s mare, charging into the crowd of pursuers and riding down those who were not agile enough to jump out of the way. Now that they had an audience of highborn women, the men were only too happy to gloss over the very real dangers they’d faced and the blood spilled on both sides, dwelling instead upon the sweet taste of their triumph and the individual heroics of men like Petros and Roger. Joanna and Berengaria and their ladies played their part, too, with sincere exclamations of admiration and approbation and, for a time, all were able to ignore the realities of their plight, stranded in the domains of a man said to surpass Judas in faithlessness and Ganelon, the betrayer of Roland, in treachery.

The respite soon came to an end. While the men were laughing and teasing Roger for having ridden a mare, a mount deemed unmanly for knights, Stephen quietly drew Joanna and Berengaria aside. “Isaac knew of your presence in the fleet, and when the shipwrecked men were interrogated, they were asked many questions about you both. You can be sure he now knows that it is your ship out in the bay, for the people on shore will have told him they’ve seen women aboard. I daresay Isaac can scarce believe his good luck, and like as not, he is already wondering how much ransom to demand.”

Joanna was expecting news like this, but Berengaria was shocked. “Surely he could not be that foolhardy? He must know that even if Richard paid to get us safely back, he’d then wreak a terrible vengeance upon Isaac and Cyprus.”

“From what I’ve heard, Isaac Comnenus is both arrogant and stupid, a dangerous combination.” Stephen hesitated before deciding that they deserved to know the full extent of the danger they were facing. “I am sure he has heard what happened in Messina and he must be uneasy about the arrival of an army led by a soldier king. He may well be thinking that you ladies could prove to be very useful hostages. There have been rumors for years of Isaac’s clandestine contacts with the Saracens. What would King Richard do if Isaac threatened to turn you over to Saladin?”

Berengaria’s face was suddenly ashen. Joanna had not considered a threat like that, either. But she soon rallied her defenses and said briskly, “That will never happen. I have no desire to end up in a Saracen harim, which is likely even worse than a Sicilian one. Moreover, I would die ere I let Isaac use us as weapons against my brother like that. It is unthinkable that Richard should have to choose between rescuing us and recovering the Holy City.”

“I agree,” Berengaria said resolutely, and Stephen gave the women a tight smile that was both admiring and grim, assuring them that his men would fight to the death in defense of the king’s sister and betrothed. But after they were left alone by the gunwale, Berengaria said softly, “What now, Joanna?”

“We do what Hugh de Neville did. We wait and we pray that Richard arrives ere Isaac does.”



JOANNA’S PRAYER was not to be answered. The next day, the men and women on the two busses spent hours staring out to sea, but no sails appeared on the distant horizon. In the afternoon, though, there was a sudden commotion on the beach. Riders were being greeted by the sentries, and so much deference was paid to a richly clad man on a spirited dun stallion that few doubted they were looking upon the self-proclaimed Emperor of Cyprus.

Hugh had rowed over to Stephen’s ship, and when they saw a small boat launched from the beach, he said bleakly, “Here is trouble on the way.”

It drew so close to the buss that some of the crossbowmen had itchy trigger fingers and exchanged looks of resignation and longing. As soon as it had dropped anchor, a man rose and made his way to the prow. His clothing and sword proclaimed him to be a person of rank, as did the fact that he addressed them in French. It was so heavily accented, though, that they did not find him easy to understand, and Stephen beckoned Petros to join them at the gunwale.

Delighted to be the center of attention again, Petros called out in Greek. The man looked both surprised and relieved, and the two engaged in a conversation that was utterly incomprehensible to those listening; the only words they could make out was the name “Isaakios Doukas Komnenos.”

Stepping back from the rail, Petros rolled his eyes. “What a pile of—” Remembering that the queen and queen-to-be were listening, he censored himself and said with a shake of his head, “He was amazed that there would be one amongst the barbarians who could speak Greek. He claims to be some highborn local lord, but I think he is one of Isaac’s lackeys, so I paid no heed to his name or title. This is his message from his august emperor; Christ keep me if he did not call Isaac Kosmokrator!” Seeing the blank looks, he said with a chuckle, “It means ‘master of the world.’ Anyway, Isaac wants us to believe that he knew nothing about the imprisonment and deaths of our men. He says he was greatly displeased to hear of it and will punish the culprits severely. I was hard put to keep a straight face at that point, God’s Truth!”

But when Stephen prompted him to relay the rest of the message, Petros lost his jaunty demeanor. “He wants you to come ashore, my lady,” he told Joanna. “You and the ‘Damsel of Navarre.’ He says he will put his palace at Limassol at your disposal and do all in his power to make your stay in Cyprus a pleasant one. It was like watching a wolf trying to coax lambs into his cave, but this wolf is not going away.”

“Tell him,” Joanna said, “that we are greatly honored by his kind invitation. But we are awaiting the arrival any day now of my brother the English king and his fleet. King Richard, known throughout Christendom as the Lionheart in recognition of his great prowess on the battlefield, will gladly accept the emperor’s hospitality once he reaches Cyprus. Whilst we wait, we wish to send some of our men ashore to replenish our water supply. As we are pilgrims on our way to the Holy Land, I am sure that one as celebrated for his Christian faith and generous spirit as the illustrious Emperor Isaac will gladly grant our small request.”

Petros had listened intently, committing her words to memory, and then nodded, giving her an approving grin. “Well said, my lady.” Leaning over the gunwale, he spoke at some length and with considerable animation. The other man’s face was grim by the time he was done speaking and his own response was terse. As his boat headed toward the beach, Petros turned back to his attentive audience. “I told him what you said, my lady, throwing in a few sweeteners by calling Isaac all the high-flown titles I could think of. The lackey was not pleased, as you could see. He said he’d tell Isaac of your request for water. He also said that he hoped you’d reconsider, for his emperor might well take your refusal as an insult. I got the sense,” Petros said somberly, “that he was speaking for himself then. I’d wager Isaac is not one for rewarding failure.”

It was quiet for a time after that. Hugh made a point of telling Joanna that he thought she’d refused Isaac’s offer very tactfully, and with luck, that might well be the end of it. They both knew better, though.



ISAAC’S MAN WAS BACK the next morning, this time requesting permission to come aboard their buss. He was conspicuously ill at ease, obviously fearing that he might be held hostage by these alien barbarians. Stephen would have considered it had he thought Isaac actually cared about the welfare of anyone but himself. But when Isaac had defied the Greek emperor Andronicus, the two kinsmen who’d stood surety for his good faith had been put to a gruesome death by impaling, and there was no evidence that their fate had weighed upon Isaac’s conscience. His messenger was bringing gifts from the emperor for Joanna and Berengaria: Cypriot wine and bread and ram’s meat.

Joanna had to stifle a hysterical giggle. Beware of Greeks bearing gifts. When he again urged the women to come ashore, she told him that they dared not, for they could not leave the ship without the permission of her brother the king. No man had ever looked at her as he did now, with utter and implacable hatred. Even though she knew he dreaded returning to Isaac with another refusal, she found it unsettling, nonetheless. He did get the last word, though, telling them brusquely that his emperor had refused to give them permission to replenish their water supplies, saying there would be water in plenitude in the royal palace.

After his departure, there was nothing to do but stare out to sea. But in late afternoon, a flurry of activity began on the beach. Men rowed out to the wrecked ships and began chopping at the broken masts. Others were bringing carts from the direction of Limassol, the nearest town, and whipping heavily laden small donkeys. As those on the ships watched, the doors of houses and shutters and planks were piled onto the sand, soon joined by barrels and fence rails and large shields, even benches. A barrier was being constructed out of whatever materials the Cypriots could lay their hands upon. Their barricade might be makeshift, but there was no mistaking the intent. These were preparations for war.



THEIR FIFTH MORNING at Cyprus dawned in a sunrise of breathtaking beauty, pale gold along the horizon, and a rich, deep red above as clouds drifted into the sun’s flaming path; for a timeless moment, it looked as if the earth itself were afire. Then as if by magical sleight of hand, the vivid colors disappeared and the sky took on the same brilliant blue as the foam-crested waves below, the clouds now gliding along like fleecy white swans in a celestial sea. Enticing scents wafted out into the bay, the fragrances of flowers and oranges and sandalwood, the sweet balm of land, almost irresistible to people trapped in seagoing gaols, ships they’d come to hate for the fetid smells and lack of privacy and constant rolling and pitching, even at anchor. This Sunday gave promise of being a day of surpassing loveliness and Joanna hated it, caught up in a sense of foreboding so strong that she could almost taste it. Something terrible was going to happen today.

She had not long to wait before her premonition took tangible shape and form: five large ebony galleys. At first some of the others had been excited by the lookout’s shout, but they soon realized that these galleys came from the wrong direction, from the east. They anchored close to shore and several armor-clad men embarked in small boats, on their way to confer with the man who commanded these deadly instruments of war.

Within the hour, Isaac’s envoy was making his by-now familiar voyage out to their ship. This time, his little boat did not anchor, the men resting on their oars as he shouted across the water. Petros chewed on his lower lip, mumbling the message, as if that could somehow make it less than what it was—an ultimatum. “He says the emperor is done with waiting. He insists that you come ashore today. The lackey added the usual blather about hospitality, but he did not even try to make it sound convincing. What do I tell him, my lady?”

Joanna plucked at Stephen’s sleeve and they drew away from the rail, joined after a moment by the ship’s master. “Tell me the truth,” she said. “It is obvious they mean to take us by force if we do not agree. Can they do that?”

While her question was ostensibly directed at Stephen, it was really for the master to answer. Staring across the bay at those predatory beaked galleys, he said glumly, “Yes, I fear that they can. We do not have enough water to venture out into the open sea. And even if we did, the winds today are light and variable. We’d not be able to outrun them. I am not saying they’d have an easy time of it. A lot of men would die. But they’d likely be able to take the ship.”

Joanna looked from one man to the other. “So we yield or we fight and lose. I do not like either of those choices. Find me another one,” she said tautly, and they stared at her in wary surprise, suddenly remembering that this woman was the daughter of Eleanor of Aquitaine, the sister of the Lionheart. Turning away, she returned to the rail. “Tell him, Petros, that we will be honored to accept the emperor’s kind offer of shelter. We will have need of a doctor, for the Lady Berengaria is ill. But I think she will be well enough on the morrow for us to leave the ship for the emperor’s palace in Limassol.”

The man in the boat frowned, insisting that the emperor wanted them to come ashore today, claiming that a storm was brewing and they’d be safer on land. But when Joanna repeated her promise to disembark the next morning, he was forced to settle for that. The ship’s passengers watched in silence as he was rowed back toward the beach. Joanna closed her eyes for a moment, blocking out the sinister sight of those galleys, their sails as red as blood. Looking over then at Stephen and the master, she said, “I’ve bought us some time. Now it is up to you to make the most of it.”

They eventually came up with a third option, although it, too, was fraught with peril. They would try to slip out of the bay under cover of darkness that night and head for the island’s northern coast. There were sheltered coves where they could take refuge, and with luck, it might take Isaac a while to track them down. The winds would have to be favorable, though. And even if they succeeded in slipping out of this trap, they risked another danger. What if the king’s fleet arrived and found them gone? Limassol was the designated port; he’d not think to look for them on the other side of the island. Since it was still a better choice than surrendering, it was agreed upon, and Stephen sent their boat over to Hugh’s buss to let them know what was planned. Meanwhile, men continued to work on the beach barricade, more armed guards appeared to keep watch on the two ships, and the five galleys rode easily at anchor, sea wolves awaiting the word to attack.

Never had a day passed so slowly. The men occupied themselves with their weapons, sharpening their swords on whetstones and replacing the strings of their crossbows. But for the women, there was nothing to do but gaze out hopelessly at that vast, empty sea. When Joanna found Alicia weeping soundlessly in a corner of the tent, she felt remorse stab her as sharply as any dagger’s blade. Gathering the girl to her, she dried Alicia’s tears with her sleeve. “I am so sorry, Alicia. I ought to have insisted that you remain in Sicily, I ought to . . .”

“No.” Alicia clung tightly, but her voice had steadied. “I want to be with you.” Joanna did the only thing she could and sat with the child, stroking her blond braids as she tried not to think what might befall Alicia and the other women if they ended up in Isaac Comnenus’s power. She thought she and Berengaria could reasonably expect to be safe from molestation; damaged goods were worthless in trade. But who would protect Mariam and Beatrix and Hélène and Alicia?

The sun was slowly sliding into the sea when Berengaria found Joanna standing at the rail, watching as the waves took on delicate tints of rose and lavender. For a time they stood in silence. “When we were in Bagnara,” Joanna said at last, “my mother told me something my father had once said to her, that kings play chess with the lives of other men. So do queens, Berengaria, so do queens. . . .”

“I have faith that all will be well for us, Joanna.” Berengaria was not sure if she still believed that, for this terrible sea voyage had not been what she’d expected when her father promised her to the English king. So much had gone wrong. It was almost as if the Almighty had turned His Face away from them. But true faith did not waver when tested. If she yielded to despair, she’d be failing her God, herself, and the man she’d pledged to wed. “I am sure of that,” she said, with all the conviction at her command, and Joanna managed a shadowy smile, thankful that her brother had chosen a woman of courage for his wife.

A sudden shout turned all eyes toward the rigging, where a sailor had been perched all day. Straddling the mizzenmast, he leaned over so far that he seemed in danger of losing his balance. “I see a sail to the west!”

It seemed to take forever before those on deck could see it, too, a large ship skimming the waves, its sails billowing out like canvas clouds. When the lookout yelled that there were two ships, excitement swept the buss, for with these reinforcements, surely they could fend off Isaac’s galleys? Men were laughing and slapping one another on the back, sailors scrambling up into the rigging to get a better view, and Joanna’s dogs began to bark, hoarsely, as if they’d forgotten how. “You see,” Berengaria said, with a beatific smile. “God does hear our prayers.”

“Yes, He does,” Joanna agreed, for it would have been churlish to quibble with salvation. But she could not banish the question from her mind as she could from her lips. Where was the fleet? Where was Richard?

It happened with such suddenness that men were not sure at first if they could trust their senses. There was nothing to the west but sea and sky and those two ships tacking against the wind. And then the horizon was filled with sails, stretching as far as the eye could see. A moment of stunned disbelief gave way almost at once to pandemonium, and for the rest of their lives, there would be men who vowed they’d never experienced an emotion as overwhelming as the joy of deliverance on a May Sunday off the coast of Cyprus.

The sharp-eyed sailors spotted it first. “The Sea-Cleaver! The king’s galley!” But Richard’s women needed to see it for themselves, scarcely breathing until it came into focus, looking like a Norse long-ship, its hull as red as the sunset, its sails catching the wind, and streaming from its masthead the banner emblazoned with the royal lion of England.

Berengaria found it hard to tear her gaze away from the sight of that blessed galley. “It is like a miracle, Joanna,” she said in awe, “that he should reach us in our hour of greatest need.”

Joanna gave a shaken laugh. “Richard has always had a talent for making a dramatic entrance, but he has outdone himself with this one!”



AS SOON AS RICHARD swung himself up onto the deck, Joanna took a backward step to make sure the first one he greeted was Berengaria. She needn’t have worried, though. For once, the younger woman’s Spanish reserve was forgotten and she flung herself into Richard’s arms. He embraced Joanna next, and then Berengaria again, this time bending her backward in a kiss that seared like a brand and left her flushed and breathless. But when he really looked at Joanna, his own breath hissed through his teeth and his hand clamped onto her arm hard enough to hurt. “Jesu, Joanna!”

“I do not feel as wretched as I look,” she assured him hastily. “Truly I am on the mend. But where were you, Richard? We were half out of our minds with worry!”

“We ended up having to spend ten days in Rhodes, waiting for the missing ships to straggle in. I sent out galleys to look for our lost sheep, and that took time,” he said with a quick smile. He’d also been stricken with a recurrence of the malarial fever that had plagued him for years, but he saw no reason to mention that since he preferred to deal with his illnesses by ignoring them if possible. “We finally sailed on last Wednesday and would have been here earlier had we not encountered a storm in the Gulf of Satalea. We were actually blown backward by the winds.”

Even as he was speaking, his gaze had shifted past the women to the barricaded beach and the stark evidence that ships had run aground. “Not all of my fleet is with me, but it looks as if I got here just in time. What is going on?”

He’d directed that last question toward Stephen de Turnham, but Stephen had taken Joanna’s measure by now and he deferred politely to her. “Three of our ships sank after being blown onto the rocks, and one of the men drowned was your vice chancellor,” Joanna said sadly, knowing that would grieve him. “That buss is Hugh de Neville’s. He and Stephen have been a godsend, Richard, doing all they could to keep us safe under very difficult circumstances.”

His eyes had narrowed. “Tell me about those ‘difficult circumstances.’”

They did, Joanna now the one to defer to Stephen when it came to describing the struggle to free their men. Richard listened in ominous silence, then summoned Roger de Harcourt to get a firsthand account of their imprisonment. He even called Petros over to question him about what he’d seen in Amathus. And then he moved over to the gunwale, stood for a time staring at the beach and those low-riding Greek galleys. When he turned back to the other men, there was a universal sense of relief that this lethal rage was not directed at any of them.

“It takes great courage to maltreat half-drowned shipwreck survivors and to threaten defenseless women. But now we will see how Isaac likes dealing with me.”