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Joanna Crusader: Joanna Plantagenet, #2
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggereLunghezza: 427 pagine
- Editore:
- WordFire Press
- Pubblicato:
- Aug 28, 2018
- ISBN:
- 9781614755180
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
An epic novel of the Crusades.
Joanna Plantagenet accompanies her brother Richard the Lionheart on the Third Crusade—the only woman to visit Saracen-held Jerusalem. When she returns to France, Joanna learns that her renowned brother has been captured and held hostage, and with Richard's wife Berengaria, she most work for his release. And when Joanna marries for love—a rarity at the time—things go badly wrong when she finds that someone is trying to have her killed…
This is the conclusion to the grand story of a remarkable heroine from history.
Informazioni sul libro
Joanna Crusader: Joanna Plantagenet, #2
Lunghezza: 427 pagine
Descrizione
An epic novel of the Crusades.
Joanna Plantagenet accompanies her brother Richard the Lionheart on the Third Crusade—the only woman to visit Saracen-held Jerusalem. When she returns to France, Joanna learns that her renowned brother has been captured and held hostage, and with Richard's wife Berengaria, she most work for his release. And when Joanna marries for love—a rarity at the time—things go badly wrong when she finds that someone is trying to have her killed…
This is the conclusion to the grand story of a remarkable heroine from history.
- Editore:
- WordFire Press
- Pubblicato:
- Aug 28, 2018
- ISBN:
- 9781614755180
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Correlati a Joanna Crusader
Anteprima del libro
Joanna Crusader - Hilary Benford
Book Description
Joanna accompanies her brother, Richard the Lionheart, on the Third Crusade and is the only woman to visit Jerusalem itself (then held by the Saracens). She returns to France to learn that her brother has been captured and held hostage. With Richard’s wife Berengaria, she works for his release. She marries for love, at a time when that was a rarity, but things go badly wrong when she finds that someone is trying to have her killed …
A Sequel to
Sister of the Lionheart
An Historical Novel
Smashwords Edition – 2017
WordFire Press
wordfirepress.com
ISBN: 978-1-61475-518-0
Copyright © 2017 WordFire Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright holder, except where permitted by law. This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover design by Janet McDonald
Cover artwork images by Adobe Stock
Edited by Vivian Caethe
Maps by Nicole Cantarelli
Kevin J. Anderson, Art Director
Book Design by RuneWright, LLC
www.RuneWright.com
Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta, Publishers
Published by
WordFire Press, LLC
PO Box 1840
Monument, CO 80132
Contents
Book Description
Title Page
Dedicated
Map of the Holy Land during the Third Crusade
Map of the County of Toulouse in 1180
List of Characters
Part One Crusade 1191
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part Two France 1192
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
Glossary of Medieval Terms
About the Author
If You Liked …
Other WordFire Press Titles by Hilary Benford
Dedicated
to the memory of
Dr. Mary Hackett
who taught me medieval French, language and literature,
at King’s College, London
I hope she would have enjoyed the use I have made of La Chanson de Roland, Chrétien de Troyes, Erec et Enide, and all the other poems and poets she so lovingly introduced to us
Map of the Holy Land during the Third Crusade
Map of the County of Toulouse in 1180
List of Characters
The Royals
Joanna: widow of King William of Sicily, favorite sister of King Richard of England and, not coincidentally, the heroine of this story
Richard: King of England, Duke of Aquitaine, Duke of Normandy, Count of Poitou, etc., known as Coeur-de-Lion (Lionheart) for his exploits as a great warrior
Philip: King of France, not known for his exploits as a warrior and, unsurprisingly, resentful of Richard
John: younger brother of Richard and Joanna, resentful of everything and hoping to take advantage of Richard’s absence
Eleanor: mother of Richard, Joanna, and John; formerly Queen of England and before that, Queen of France, Duchess of Aquitaine in her own right, and a formidable woman by any standards
Berengaria: wife of King Richard, daughter of King Sancho of Navarre, still amazed that Richard chose her of all the women in the world to be his wife
Henry: Holy Roman Emperor, married to Constance of Sicily, not very well disposed towards Richard
Guy de Lusignan: King of Jerusalem, not born royal but has to be counted by virtue of his title though he acquired it by marrying Sibylla, the mother of the late child-King Baldwin. Richard supports his claim to the throne
Beatrice: daughter of Emperor Isaac of Cyprus (though he will not remain royal for long)
Saladin: leader of all the Saracens
Saphadin: his brother
The Nobles
Conrad of Montferrat: an able warrior and a rival of Guy de Lusignan for the throne of Jerusalem. Philip supports his claim. The question is moot as Saladin holds Jerusalem.
Raymond de St. Gilles: son and heir to the Count of Toulouse, who will play a big part in this story
Henry, Count of Champagne: Richard’s nephew (son of Richard and Joanna’s half-sister Marie)
The Others
(Neither royal nor noble, they hardly count at all in the overall scheme of things)
Blondel: Richard’s minstrel
Berthe: Joanna’s lady-in-waiting
Part One
Crusade
1191
Chapter One
Joanna was furious. She was furious with the wind, with the waves, with her fellow passengers, and, especially, with God Himself. How could He allow this to happen? Did He not realize that they were sailing to defend His holy city from the unbelievers? Why would He risk the lives of the Crusaders at this juncture? She knew, of course, that she was being unreasonable. But being reasonable would mean being afraid, and she refused to feel fear. It was blasphemy, but she raged inwardly against God. All her life she had dreamed of seeing Jerusalem; God would not, could not, take that from her when she was so close.
The storm had come upon the Crusader fleet suddenly, around noon. The day had dawned fair, like all the others in the past fortnight. There was no sign of impending bad weather except for a brisk driving wind that bellied out the sail and lashed crisp peaked waves against the hull. Even the wide, slow-moving dromon with the women onboard surged forward and her brother Richard’s swifter galley moved so far ahead it was almost out of sight, its scarlet sail a bright dot on the endless blue horizon. Then the dark clouds appeared, massed to the right, driven north from the coast of Africa. In a short time, the clouds overtook them and a wall of rain hit the fleet. The dromon lurched heavily and veered north, running before the wind.
Joanna was on the forecastle. When the rain burst upon them, she climbed hastily down the wooden ladder to take shelter beneath the forecastle, but there was no shelter there. She clutched at the railing, wondering why the Lord had sent this growling, purple-bellied storm at His holy warriors. The rain came low and angled across the deck. As the waves grew higher, the bow of the ship smacked into them, sending great arching sprays of water crashing and streaming over the whole vessel.
The sun had disappeared, leaving the sky dark from horizon to horizon except for a strip of blue far off to the east where Richard’s red sail was no longer visible. A jagged streak of lightning cracked open the clouds and almost immediately, thunder banged and rolled overhead. The sailors crossed themselves and reefed the straining sail. The urgency of their movements focused Joanna’s attention. Until that moment, the rain had been an inconvenience to be endured. Now she saw that the sailors were afraid and she shivered suddenly. The wind whipped her hood off her head and she dragged it back again, pushing wet strands of hair out of her eyes. With one hand she clutched her wool cloak at the throat and with the other clung to the post that supported the forecastle.
The ship pitched badly up the side of a wave and then down into the trough with a crash that sent a wall of water sluicing across the deck. In the waist of the ship, one of her women screamed as she slipped and fell. The tilt of the ship tumbled her across the rain-lashed deck like a sack of potatoes. Entangled in her wet cloak and skirts, she slid helplessly toward the stern as the boat climbed another wave. There was another flash of lightning followed by a corresponding crack of thunder that spread into rumbles all around.
Joanna’s grip on the post tightened. They were so near now, only a week perhaps from the Holy Land, and this storm was driving them off their course, lengthening their journey, separating them from Richard and the main body of the fleet. She did not dare even think to herself of worse consequences, of shipwreck, of the mast struck by lightning, of the ship overturned and sinking through the dark churning water. The dromon was flat-bottomed, wide and stable: it would not sink. And surely they were under God’s special protection, going as they were to recover His city from the hands of the infidels.
It was April, in the year of the Incarnate Word of Our Lord 1191. They had sailed from Sicily, which had been Joanna’s home since her marriage to King William of Sicily at the age of 12. William had died in the winter of 1189, in the midst of planning to embark on this Crusade. God had not seen fit to let him live to sail with the Crusaders. Joanna remembered how envious she had been, listening to him making his plans. She would have given anything to go with him, but never for a moment believed it possible. His death had changed everything. Her lips tightened as she remembered the year she had spent as a prisoner in Panorme, confined to a few rooms of the royal palace because she would not support the bastard Tancred’s claim to the throne.
But in the end Richard had come, as she had known he would. Of all her family, Richard had always been Joanna’s favorite. Her first riding lessons had been given by Richard, the two of them sneaking out from the palace at Poitiers when everyone was at morning Mass. It was Richard who had defended her that time when she had interrupted the ladies and courtiers gathered in Queen Eleanor’s rose bower at Poitiers when they were discussing whether love and marriage were compatible. Their mother had given in to Richard, as she always did, and allowed Joanna to join in their gatherings after that although she was only a child. Richard had defended and supported and teased her all through her childhood and she had worshipped him, her glorious, golden brother who loved being the center of attention, who could turn an aubade with the best of the troubadours and who had become the mightiest warrior in the West. When she left home at the age of eleven to marry the stranger, King William of Sicily, it was Richard who had ridden with her across France, down to the coast to Saint-Gilles where he had put her on King William’s ship.
They had not known then, either of them, that one day Richard would be King of England. Their older brother Henry had been alive then and already crowned as their father’s heir. Henry the Young King, poor handsome resentful Henry. He had died of a fever in 1183 and so Richard, who wanted only his beloved Aquitaine, had inherited the kingdom of England, the same year that Joanna’s husband William died. Just a year ago Richard had sailed into Messina with all flags flying, forced Tancred to release Joanna and return her dowry, taken the city of Messina and built his insolent wooden castle of Mate-Griffon. It was in that castle at Christmas that he had broken his twenty-year long betrothal to the King of France’s sister, and to that castle that their mother Queen Eleanor had brought his new bride, Berengaria of Navarre.
Less than a month ago they had sat there together, the four of them, Berengaria silent in a corner while Richard and his mother argued over the wedding date. Richard would not marry Berengaria then and there because it was already Lent. Queen Eleanor said in her usual brisk way, Then you must take her on Crusade with you and marry her when you can.
Richard was appalled at the idea. Had not he himself ordered that no women were to accompany the Crusade? Joanna felt sure that if she had not begged Richard to take Berengaria along, with herself as Berengaria’s chaperone, he would never have agreed. But here they were, two thirds of the way to Acre to help the Franks recapture that city from the Saracens.
In the waist of the ship, at the foot of the tall mast, Berengaria knelt, surrounded by her Spanish ladies. With every lurch of the ship, the ladies wailed. Only Berengaria was silent. Lips compressed, pale, determined, she stared down at the crucifix she held in one hand. Slipping and sliding even on bare feet, the sailors lashed rope lines the length of the ship. The women were tied together like a string of ponies, one loop for each of them. They huddled together on the deck, clinging to their ropes, screaming and moaning. Their faces, open-mouthed and white with terror, seemed to rise above an undulating sea of sodden cloaks and skirts, pulled this way and that by the savage wind.
Joanna! Look out!
She heard Berengaria shout and half turning saw the wall of water that towered above them. She embraced the post with both arms and bowed her head as the water fell on her. The impact knocked the breath from her and the water, as it swirled away, tugged at her skirts and pulled her feet, but she clung firmly to the post, her arms locked around it, her eyes closed tightly.
The boat lurched sideways as the wind veered and there was a rending sound from the sail. Joanna opened her eyes and saw a great patch of the sail ripped across by the wind flapping in tatters. The mast bent before the wind’s violence. Joanna stared up at it. At its head, Richard’s standard streamed out, rigid. At the thought of Richard, she straightened involuntarily.
A sailor was beside her with a rope. He made to pass it round her waist but she snapped at him, Take that away!
But my lady,
he protested, the master’s orders are …
"He orders me? I will not be bound like a sheep or a pig!"
The sailor hesitated, looking at her, but before he could speak again, another wave was upon them and he was driven against the side of the ship, still holding desperately to the rope. The women amidships screamed again. Joanna saw one reaching out for a sailor as she slid, bringing him down too to roll helplessly across the deck. The few knights they had with them were as abject as the women, she thought angrily, looking at them where they huddled beneath the aftercastle.
With a crack, the end of the yardarm snapped. The wind seized the dangling end of the sail and it tore away. The heavy wooden yardarm crashed to the deck, falling somewhere among the servants.
Beside Joanna, one of her women clutched at her hysterically.
We shall die, we shall all die!
she screamed.
The women at the foot of the mast were screaming too. We are doomed,
she heard them wail.
Rage and energy rose in Joanna to meet the violence of the storm. How dare it do this to her, Joanna Plantagenet, daughter of the great Henry of England? She had a sudden vivid memory of her father standing on the prow of a ship, in a storm, though not such a storm as this. It was in the Channel; they were embarking from Normandy and King Henry uttered a prayer that sounded more as though he were defying God to sink his ship. Joanna could no longer remember his words, but she remembered Queen Eleanor’s low laugh beside her and her sardonic comment: Was that a prayer or a challenge?
She and her mother had ridden out that same storm together across the English Channel when all but they and the sailors were seasick. They had not yielded to the elements then nor would she now. She would not die, she refused to die and these craven wretches were endangering them all. If they were all to pull one way in their struggles, they would break their ropes and tip the dromon. She shook her woman’s hand from her arm. Another of the women was clutching at a sailor and he was struggling to free himself from her grasp. Without releasing her grip on the post, Joanna stepped forward and kicked her hard. The woman fell sideways, caterwauling, and the sailor lurched away.
Pray, you blockhead!
Joanna shouted as the woman turned her face to her. Open-mouthed, the woman moaned and rocked from side to side. Joanna kicked her again. Pray!
Their minds were empty, the idiots, of all but terror.
Deus noster refugium,
she shouted but the wind whipped the words from her lips and hurled them away.
She leaned forward and bellowed at them. Deus noster refugium!
Some more faces were turned to her now. They were her women, her responsibility, and it was up to her to keep their hysteria from spreading to everyone on board.
God is our hope and strength,
she shouted again in a break in the wind’s howling. At the foot of the mast, Berengaria lifted her head and stared at her. Her eyes were huge and dark in her pale face, but her jaw was set. Joanna saw her lips move though she could not hear the words. Berengaria had understood and was following her lead.
Therefore, will we not fear,
Joanna went on, though the earth be moved.
They had heard her now. One by one they picked it up. Though the hills be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters thereof rage and swell.
The waters were indeed raging and swelling and the wind was screaming and the ship creaking, but above the turmoil Joanna could hear them chanting with her. There was no screaming now. As though their lives depended on it, they shouted with her, The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge.
The knights in the aftercastle had joined in, too. She heard them as a deeper sound underlying the shrill frightened voices of the women. The ship hurtled on through the waves, unpiloted as no pilot could steer it, tossing wildly.
The psalm had ended and they were all waiting for her. Another minute and they would be screaming and pulling at their ropes again. She needed a longer psalm to keep their minds occupied. What was the one about going down to the sea in ships? Another great wave fell across the deck and even as the first scream rose, Joanna found the opening line.
Confetimini Domino … let us give thanks unto the Lord, for He is gracious …
A furious energy possessed her, a spirit of defiance that would not allow the elements to steal from her, at its outset, this great adventure she had been longing for. Leaning forward from her post, she shouted the familiar words into the wind. So they cried unto the Lord in their trouble and He delivered them from their distress.
She no longer thought of what she was saying nor heard the chorus from the deck. She had to keep going, as though her words were driving them on, as though only her words could hold the ship together. She was free at last, free after years of being no more than an ornament at William’s court. She was still young, and rich, now that her dowry had been returned to her, and she was sailing with the Crusaders, to see the Holy Land … Hastily she corrected her thoughts. Not for me, Lord, but for You, she prayed silently. They would free God’s city, visit the holy shrines of His passion.
For He brought them out of darkness and out of the shadow of death …
Joanna’s arms ached and her throat was sore from shouting above the wind.
They are carried up to the heavens and down again to the deep … they reel to and fro and stagger like a drunken man …
The ship was indeed lifted up to the sky and dropped again into the deep troughs, but no one was reeling and staggering. The sailors knelt on the deck, arms locked, braced against the rowers’ benches. The women and servants crouched or sat along the center of the ship, lashed firmly together by ropes. In the stern, the knights knelt, too, and all of them faced Joanna, shouting with her.
For He makes the storm to cease … and so He brings them unto the haven where they would be.
The master of the ship had come to stand beside Joanna. When the psalm ended, she stood there swaying, clinging to the post, unable to think of another. There was a pause and then a voice called, Non nobis, Domine, non nobis,
and they all joined in again, voices uplifted against the wind and the waves.
I thank you, my lady,
the master said.
Joanna had to bend her head towards him to hear what he said. His lips moved again but a rumble of thunder drowned his words. She looked up at him, a tall lean man with a dark beard. His eyes, narrowed against the cold rain, regarded her with admiration, even awe.
What did you say?
she shouted.
He leaned towards her. Water dripped from his hair and nose and chin. I said, now I see you are truly the sister of the great Lionheart.
Chapter Two
For a moment, Joanna forgot the icy cold of the wind blowing through her wet cloak and dress. Warmth ran through her as she watched the master fight his way back along the ship. She, and she alone, had brought order out of chaos. Truly the sister of the great Lionheart.… Where was Richard himself now, she wondered, and how had he fared in this storm?
It seemed less violent now; the rain was lessening and surely the sky would grow lighter soon. They would be able to see the other ships and regroup the fleet. But the dromon surged on and the sky remained dark. Presently Joanna saw stars pricking the darkness overhead.
She was amazed. Night had come already. Had she really stood for hours leading them all in prayer? She would have believed some other being had done all that if it were not for her sore throat and aching muscles. She was now shivering uncontrollably. The cold seemed to have gone into her very bones and she was exhausted, drained, dazed. When they led her to a pallet in the hold, she could hardly walk.
There was no supper that night. Joanna refused some dried meat and took only a little bread and hard cheese and a long draught of wine. The pallet was damp around the edges and hard all over, but she was so glad to lie down that she hardly noticed. Someone covered her with rugs. She lay in the dark, breathing in the foul stink of the hold, a smell compounded of pitch and rope, vomit and onions and fish and ale. Her face felt stiff with salt and her eyes stung, even closed. And everything felt damp and cold: her clothes, her hair, her skin. She would not be able to sleep, she thought, but at least it was better to be lying down. The boat still pitched heavily but she was out of the wind now. She could hear the thudding of feet on the deck close above her and the creaking of timbers all around her and everywhere the rush of water sucking and swirling and sluicing until finally it washed her into insensibility.
She woke to a rush of feet and the sound of shouting. Grey light filtered into the hold and rain was pattering on the deck. She pushed herself up on her arms and winced at the aching stiffness of them from clinging for hours to the post. She was stiff all over, in fact, and her clothes were still damp and clung to her legs when she tried to rise.
Berengaria was asleep beside her. She looked younger in her sleep, her long upper lip vulnerable as a child’s, the little curved mouth slightly open, the dark eyelashes motionless on her cheeks. Joanna flung off the rugs, massaged her arms and legs briefly and went up on deck.
Land … There was land off the starboard bow. She went forward eagerly, ignoring the rain that lashed into her face and the chill seeping back into her wet garments. That was what the shouting had been about. They would be able to go ashore, get off this accursed tossing boat for a while, eat fresh meat, put on dry clothes, wash in warm water … She went to the rail and stared through the rain at the long grey shoreline. There was a sizable town with a port there. She could see the curved wharf jutting out into the sea and white-washed houses clustered behind it and at least two churches.
She turned to see the master beside her. He inclined his head briefly to her and answered her unspoken question.
It’s Cyprus, my lady. That is the port of Limassol.
Cyprus?
Her heart sank and her hands tightened on the rail. She looked out again at the land, so near that she could see goats moving on the hills. Are you sure?
I fear so.
All the Crusaders had heard tales of the tyrant Isaac, who had usurped for himself the title of Emperor of Cyprus. They said he surpassed Judas in treachery and Ganelon in deceiving; he seized pilgrims who put in there and held the rich to ransom and forced the poor to become slaves; it was even reported that he and Saladin had drunk each other’s blood as a sign of mutual treaty.
Joanna sighed deeply and bowed her head. The disappointment was so bitter that she could almost taste it, like gall in her throat. When she looked up again, the coastline was no nearer despite the wind that drove towards it. The remnants of the sail were furled, the sailors idle. She looked questioningly at the captain.
We have dropped anchor, my lady.
Can we not go on?
There is another storm coming from the south and I think it best to ride it out here rather than venturing back into the open sea. Besides, it gives us a chance to regroup as the other ships may be driven here, too.
Yes. You are quite right, Robert,
she said tiredly.
He was right about the other ships. There must have been a round dozen of them bobbing at anchor alongside them by the evening. But Joanna was not convinced that he was right about riding out the storm so near the rocky coast. A little before sunset the storm fell on them, as violently as before. The boats rocked wildly, straining at their anchors, and the rain and the waves lashed over them.
Joanna no longer had the energy and the passion that had sustained her through the previous day’s storm. She felt drained and miserable. Through the fading light and the heavy rain, she watched the line of rocks west of the jetty. The wind was blowing strongly to the west. The master had suggested that she and Berengaria take shelter in the hold and Berengaria had gone below. Joanna had refused and remained on deck. If I must die, she thought to herself, I will not die trapped in a dark smelly hole, but out in the open where I can face what is coming to me. Then she reproached herself for this thought. Where was her spirit of yesterday, when the captain had recognized her as a worthy sister of the great Lionheart himself? It was no use. She was exhausted, frightened, and nauseated.
The light was going fast. Sudden screams rose above the wind, way off to their left. Joanna had been sitting huddled at the foot of the post. She scrambled to her feet and strained to see through the sheets of rain. The wind dropped momentarily and the screams of men in terror for their lives carried clearly. Then she could see them as the rain slackened and fell straight.
A ship had torn its anchor loose or broken its chain. It was being driven towards the shore by the wind. Joanna gasped and the nausea rose into her throat. The sailors had run to the ship’s rail but they were too far away to help, and, in any case, there was nothing they could do. Like ants under an upturned rock, the sailors on the distant ship swarmed in every direction. Joanna could see their uplifted arms and hear their shrieks. They were running out the oars and rowing, furiously trying to keep off the rocks. Helplessly, the sailors along the dromon’s rail watched as the ship was driven nearer. They saw the men on board dive off into the water on both sides. There was an almighty crash. With a nightmarish sense of unreality, Joanna saw the ship list to starboard and settle lower in the water. She heard the screams of injured men and of drowning men in the water calling for help. On the dromon, the sailors crossed themselves.
Berengaria was beside her, white-faced, her dark eyes huge.
What is it, Joanna? What happened?
Joanna told her, then went to the rail and vomited.
There were bobbing lights along the shoreline, lanterns held by men who had come out from the city. Joanna and the others on board strained to see through the lashing rain and the gathering darkness whether the men had come to help the survivors, to attack them, to wait for plunder washed up from the wreck, or were there simply out of curiosity. Few of the sailors could swim, but some made it to shore. They saw them pulled from the water by the Cypriots, but at that distance and in the poor light, they could not tell whether their reception was friendly or hostile. The pounding of the waves on the rocks and the howl of the wind covered all other sounds. Presently the wavering line of lights retreated back into the city.
Night fell. The storm intensified. On board the dromon, no one slept. They were all on deck, praying, sobbing, or tensely silent. In the darkness the wild screams, the crashing and splintering of wood were more terrifying. Occasional flashes of lightning showed nightmare visions of a ship scudding helplessly towards the rocks, of spars and planks tossing on the waves, or arms and pale faces briefly upraised from the water.
The storm died down in the small hours. After the constant turmoil of wind and water, of thunder and cracking wood and tearing canvas, of shrieks and groans, it seemed as though an eerie silence succeeded it. The water lapped along the hull, the boat creaked as it rocked on the now gentle waves, but no one noticed these sounds. They heard only the silence. There were no cries for help, no screams, no shouts from the shore. The dromon lay peacefully at anchor, but somewhere out there in the darkness, between ship and shore, lay the unseen, but vividly imagined, carnage of wrecks and drownings.
Gradually, the darkness thinned. First a pearly pink flush glowed in the east, then rays of light intensified and spread, driving back the grayness, flooding the sea and sky with purple radiance, and finally the incandescent disk of the sun rose from the sea. Little, foam-capped waves ran inland one after the other. The strengthening light glinted on gold crosses on white churches in Limassol. The sound of bells carried across the water. They must be ringing for Prime, Joanna thought. They were the first bells she had heard since leaving Sicily a week before.
Three ships had been wrecked in the night. One, driven up on a rock, lay tilted over on its side, its mast snapped, another had sunk near the shore, and the third had been entirely broken up. The shoreline was littered with boards and boxes, and the sea around was strewn with flotsam. As Joanna watched, a boat put out from one of the nearby ships to go and search the wreck for survivors or supplies.
Stools had been set for Joanna and Berengaria. They sat with their backs to the forecastle. Around them, in a rough semi-circle, the men squatted, forearms resting on their thighs. They balanced easily on the rocking deck, accustomed as they all were to sea travel. They had gathered here from all the surrounding ships, officers of the fleet or court, ranking knights, ships’ masters.
We should send a reconnoitering party ashore. Find out what happened to them. Are the Griffons holding them or what?
Robert, the ship’s master, spoke first.
Spies, you mean? That’s what the Griffons will call them. They won’t like that.
His first mate answered.
Too bad …
Now wait a minute. Why don’t we send provisions for the men? That way it won’t look like spying. It’s reasonable. They’ll need things and it will show we don’t mean to be a burden on the Cypriots.
That was Stephen de Turnham speaking, Richard’s treasurer. He looked sideways at Master Robert, his blue eyes shrewd.
Robert spat. Good chance they’ll steal the provisions and hold the men who bring them, I’d say.
Joanna leaned forward. You think they’re holding prisoner the men who swam ashore, then?
It looks like it, my lady. There’s no sign of them today.
Perhaps they’re injured?
All of them?
Joanna was silent. It did not look good. None of the men had returned to the ships nor had the Cypriots sent any message out to them.
So we send armed knights with the provisions. If they can bring off the men, so much the better, but at least they can try to find out how many they are, who they are, and where they are.
Robert spoke decisively.
Let us hope that Roger is safe among them, and not drowned; him they call Malus Catulus.
Stephen de Turnham’s voice betrayed his anxiety.
Malus Catulus?
The nickname sounded
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