Lionheart (17 page)

Every day brought fresh delights for educated and inquisitive travelers. Morgan hoped he’d remember enough to regale his family once he was back in Wales—a pirate castle on the summit of Cape Circeo, the volcanic island of Ischia, the Roman baths at Baia. They tarried for ten days at Naples, so interesting did they find the sights there. Morgan accompanied Richard to visit the crypt at San Gennaro, where the four mummified sons of a legendary French hero were proudly displayed, and he then went to see Virgil’s tomb, the ruins of a pagan Greek temple, and the isle of the Sirens where Ulysses had nearly been lured to his doom.

Morgan was even more intrigued by the exotic sea life of the Mediterranean. He’d befriended a helmsman from Brittany, for Breton and Welsh were similar enough for mutual understanding, and Kavan was happy to share his knowledge, pointing out seals basking in the sun on the rocky shoreline, flying fish that arced through the air like silver arrows, the fin of a shark shadowing their fleet, and once a whale with oddly wrinkled skin that was almost as long as their galley; watching in awe, Morgan no longer doubted the scriptural story of Jonah. It was the dolphins, though, that won his heart. They would splash playfully in the wake of the galleys, and then swim boldly alongside the ships, making loud clicking sounds as if they were trying to talk to the men peering at them over the gunwales, and Morgan marveled that he was actually looking upon the legendary creatures seen by Caesar and Alexander.

He’d had only one disappointment so far. When they landed at the mouth of the Tiber River, the cardinal bishop of Ostia was waiting to invite Richard to visit His Holiness the Pope at Rome, just sixteen miles away. The king was having none of that, though, and subjected the cardinal to a caustic lecture on the sins of simony, accusing Pope Clement of extorting large sums from the English Crown in return for naming Longchamp as a papal legate and approving the consecration of the Bishop of Le Mans.

So they never got to Rome. Instead, Morgan got his first glimpse of the English king’s fabled, fiery temper. He had entered Richard’s service with some reluctance, for he’d been devoted to the king’s brother Geoffrey, and had then served his father, an anguished eyewitness to the wretched death of the old king at Chinon. But Morgan was a realist and Richard was now king, so he’d attempted to put the past behind him. He was still getting to know Richard, and he’d been unnerved by the intensity of his royal cousin’s rage at Ostia. Henry had been notorious for his own bursts of temper, said to be hot enough to blister paint off walls. Morgan had soon concluded, however, that there was a calculated element in Henry’s rages, just one more weapon in a king’s arsenal. But as Richard verbally flayed the discomfited cardinal, Morgan felt as if he were watching a fire at full blaze, one that could easily have gotten out of control, and that had never been true of Richard’s father.

Aside from missing Rome, though, Morgan had no complaints, and he had to admit Richard had gone out of his way to treat him as a kinsman, which did much to elevate his status in the royal household. So he put aside any lingering misgivings, determined to make the most of these carefree, pleasant days in Italy, knowing life would be neither carefree nor pleasant once they reached Outremer.

Their leisurely progress down the Italian peninsula would soon come to an end. Upon leaving Naples, they’d ridden to Salerno so Richard could consult with the city’s famed doctors about his recurrent bouts of quartan fever. While there, he finally got word that his missing ships had been spotted near Messina, and he at once picked up their pace, no longer having time to spare for sightseeing. Richard had heard troubling rumors in Naples that Joanna had not been seen in nigh on a year. Now that they’d soon be rendezvousing with the royal fleet, he was hopeful that he’d finally get reliable news about his sister’s circumstances.

BY SEPTEMBER 21 , Richard had reached Mileto in Calabria, where he was offered the hospitality of the Benedictine abbey of Holy Trinity. Like many of the other knights, Morgan had found lodgings in the town, and the next morning, he strolled back to the abbey in hopes of breaking his night’s fast in the guest hall. There he found the king in a volcanic rage, stalking about the hall like a great cat on the prowl, spitting out curses under the awed eyes of Mileto’s bishop, abbot, and monks.

Morgan sidled up to a friend, the Fleming Baldwin de Bethune, who’d been with him in the old king’s service. “What has happened? Why is the king so wrathful?”

“He learned that his sister has been grievously maltreated by the usurper. Not only did Tancred seize the dower lands that were rightfully hers, he has been holding her prisoner in Palermo, keeping her isolated from the rest of the world so she could not appeal to Richard or to the rightful Queen of Sicily, the Lady Constance. Richard,” Baldwin said dryly, “took the news rather badly.”

“This Tancred must be a fool!”

“According to the bishop, Tancred had more immediate worries than the anger of a distant English king, for he was facing a rebellion of the island Saracens and fearing a German invasion. I suppose he hoped that political turmoil would keep Richard in his own domains or that he’d be as indifferent a brother as the French king. Those were two serious miscalculations.”

“Indeed,” Morgan agreed, wondering if they’d be shedding blood in Sicily ere they even reached the Holy Land. Not that he blamed Richard for reacting with such fury, for he had a sister, too, back in Wales. He thought it likely that the news of Joanna’s imprisonment had also lacerated an old wound, for all knew how bitterly Richard had resented his mother’s long confinement. He suspected that Tancred might be about to pay a debt twice over, both for Joanna and Queen Eleanor.

Richard had gotten his temper under control long enough to bid his Benedictine hosts and the bishop a courteous farewell, making a generous donation to the abbey coffers before giving the command to move out. They’d planned to return to their ships for the final leg of their journey, but Richard changed his mind once he was in the saddle. “The rest of you go ahead,” he ordered. “I need some time to myself. Have my galley meet me at Bagnara.”

His knights and lords raised an immediate protest. Richard’s habit of going off on his own without a thought to his personal safety had given them more than one sleepless night. He usually paid no heed to their fears, annoyed that they thought he, of all men, had need of a nursemaid, but this morning he made a grudging concession and agreed to take a knight with him. His gaze falling upon his cousin, he decided Morgan would do as well as any, and told the Welshman he could come along.

Morgan was less than thrilled to be accompanying Richard in his present dark mood, but he hastened to mount and follow the king as they rode out of the abbey precincts. Once they were on the road, some of Richard’s anger seemed to dissipate in the open air, and by the time they stopped to water their horses, he was telling Morgan about the plans for his entry into Messina.

“Philippe arrived last week, in a single ship if you can believe that, with all the fanfare of a merchant returning home from a day at the market.” Richard shook his head in mock sorrow at the French king’s lack of majesty. “There is more to power, Morgan, than the exercise of it. There is also the demonstration of it, as I shall show Philippe and the citizens of Messina on the morrow.”

Morgan was not fully in agreement with Richard, for Henry had been utterly indifferent to the trappings of power, needing no props to display his mastery over other men. He was not about to argue with the king, though. Instead, he offered his sympathy for the Lady Joanna’s plight, which Richard acknowledged with a nod, saying ominously, “God help Tancred if he has laid so much as a finger on her.”

They’d dismounted beside a small stream so their horses could drink, and they soon began to attract the attention of the inhabitants of nearby houses, who shared the curiosity of villagers worldwide about strangers in their midst. Eventually, a matronly woman approached, speaking a tongue that was alien to them both, though Richard guessed it was an odd dialect of Greek. She made it clear by gestures that she had food and drink for sale, and after Morgan fumbled in his scrip for a few Sicilian coins—kings rarely bothered to carry money—she returned with slices of freshly baked bread smeared with olive oil, and two clay cups of a strong red wine. She’d been followed by her daughter, and Morgan could not resist flirting a bit, exchanging complicit smiles with the girl until her mother noticed and shooed her back toward their house.

“I’d take care if I were you, Morgan,” Richard said, amused by the byplay. “I hear they are right protective of their womenfolk in Sicily, and a wink or a lingering gaze can cost a man dearly. So unless you have peculiar yearnings to become a gelding, I suggest we ride on.” He stopped, though, in the act of mounting his stallion, his head cocked. “Did you hear that?”

Morgan nodded. “It sounded like a hawk.” When it came again, he was taken aback by Richard’s next action. Tossing his reins to Morgan, he strode off toward a nearby house. The woman’s pretty daughter had ventured out again and was removing laundry from a line of rope tied between two trees, watching Morgan all the while. He was tempted to go over and help but, mindful of Richard’s warning, he stayed with the horses, giving her a regretful smile and a shrug.

It was a tranquil scene, people going about their daily chores, dogs sleeping in the sun, children interrupting a game with wooden weapons to stare at Morgan’s real sword. He was about to toss them a few coins when the village peace was suddenly shattered by angry voices and the piercing cry of a hawk. Morgan tensed as several men hurried toward the house, for by now he recognized one of the raised voices as Richard’s. He couldn’t make out the words, but there was no mistaking the belligerent tone. He hastily swung up into the saddle just as the door burst open and Richard backed out, using a knife to keep the furious villagers at bay.

“Morgan!” he yelled, not daring to take his gaze from the threatening crowd, for by now other villagers had been drawn into the fray, several carrying pitchforks and hammers. They scattered as Morgan rode into their midst, giving Richard the time he needed to mount his own stallion. Spurring their horses, they soon outdistanced the curses, barking dogs, and a few poorly thrown rocks.

When they at last drew rein on the crest of a hill, Morgan turned in the saddle to stare at the other man. “What in Christ’s Name was that all about?”

“The hawk,” Richard said, as if that were self-explanatory, busying himself in brushing a powdery substance from his tunic. It looked like flour to Morgan and that only deepened the mystery.

“What about the hawk?”

“It was a fine goshawk, obviously stolen.” Richard paused, having discovered a cut on his wrist. “But when I seized it, they protested vigorously and tried to stop me from leaving with it.” Seeing the incredulous expression on his cousin’s face, he said impatiently, “Rustics are not allowed to own hawks. You know that, Morgan.”

Morgan opened his mouth, about to point out the obvious.
That may be true enough in England or France, but this is Sicily!
He caught himself in time, and then said in measured tones, “Under the circumstances, would it not have been easier just to give them back their blasted hawk?”

“Why? They were in the wrong, not me. At first they were just cursing me; at least that is what I assume all that shouting meant. But then one hothead lunged at me with a knife. I was not about to spill a peasant’s guts in front of the fool’s family, so I hit him with the flat of my sword. But damned if the blade did not snap in two!” Richard sounded astonished and indignant. “When I think how much I paid for it.... Then they were all flailing at me, even the women. I snatched up whatever I could, pelting them with apples and eggs until I could wrest the knife away and reach the door.”

Looking over his shoulder at the village below them, Richard frowned. “And they still have the goshawk.”

“I do hope you are not thinking of going back.” Morgan was trying very hard to act as if Richard’s insanity was normal behavior for a king, but it was not easy. He could not imagine Geoffrey or Henry ever getting themselves into such a ludicrous predicament. “You do know you are bleeding?”

“My head?” Richard explored the gash, looked at his bloodied fingers, and shrugged. “That must have happened when the man’s wife hit me with her broom. She was buzzing about like a maddened hornet. I am probably lucky she was not the one wielding the knife!”

The image of the King of England under assault by an outraged Sicilian housewife was too much for Morgan, and he nearly strangled as he tried to choke back his mirth. Fortunately for him, Richard was also beginning to see the humor in his mishap. His mouth twitched and soon both men were laughing so hard that they had to dismount, leaning against their horses as they sought to get their hilarity under control. When Richard admitted that one greybeard had swung at him with a crutch, Morgan lost it altogether and sank to his knees, gasping for breath.

Richard reached down, pulling Morgan to his feet, and then unhooked a wineskin from his saddle. They took turns drinking from it, not caring that the wine was warm and overly spiced. Realizing that they’d best be on their way if they hoped to reach Bagnara in time to cross the straits, they remounted and Richard tossed the empty wineskin into the grass. After a moment, he glanced over at Morgan with a grin. “I ought to send you back to retrieve the goshawk,” he joked and learned a new swear word from his Welsh cousin.