The Heart of the Lion (21 page)

He shouted: ‘’Tis you then, Isaac Comnenus? Come then! You who have so boldly imprisoned my men and robbed them of their goods, come and we will joust. Fight me singlehanded.’

Because Richard was to tall and because he had a bearing which none other could rival, because his fame had travelled before him, Isaac began to tremble with terror. Confronted by this man who was a legend he saw death staring him in the face for he knew that Richard would have no mercy on his enemy, particularly one who had insulted and ill-treated crusaders.

Richard exulted when Isaac turned his horse and fled. He would have liked to give chase but on such a horse he saw that was useless.

Soon his horses would be brought ashore and then he would tackle the Cypriots in earnest. It was however dark before fifty of the horses could be brought on land.

‘Enough,’ he said. ‘We will charge them with this small band.’

‘Sire,’ said a timid voice at his elbow, ‘they are a large force and we shall be but fifty.’ The voice belonged to a certain Hugo de Mara who was a clerk and had joined the crusade rather as a pilgrim than a fighter.

Richard turned on him angrily. ‘You are fit only for clerking,’ he said. ‘Go back to your scriptures and leave matters of chivalry to me.’ He turned and cried: ‘Who is ready to follow me?’

Cries of: ‘I am!’ came from fifty throats.

Exultantly, perhaps a little delighted that his force was so small, for theirs would be the greater victory, they rode to the top of the hill. Below them in the valley were Isaac and his men. Shouting his rallying cry Richard galloped downhill and with great uplifting of his spirits, a feeling which was always with him on such occasions – and there had been many – he had the satisfaction of seeing his enemies scatter in all directions and the Emperor himself take to his horse, with the one desire to put as far between himself and Richard as possible.

Richard did not follow them. He contented himself with capturing Isaac’s banner – a beautiful object wrought in gold. Nor was that all. The Emperor had left his treasures behind him, eager only to save his life. There were armaments and rich garments, food and wine. Taking these and several prisoners, Richard went in triumph back to the fort of Limassol.

There he made a proclamation to the people. He had not come in war. He had merely come to take back what had been taken from him. He had no quarrel with the people. Only with their Emperor. All citizens might go about their business in peace. If any of his followers subjected them to insult or ill-treatment, those of his men should be punished. He came in peace on his way to fight a Holy War. If the people of Cyprus showed friendship to him they had nothing to fear.

There was rejoicing among the people. They were not very happy under their Emperor who could be tyrannical. Many of them now came to the camp Richard had set up to present him with gifts. Cyprus was noted for its delicious wine so this was brought for the King and crusaders. There was also corn and oil, plump poultry and meat.

The men who came with these gifts assured Richard that the fact that he had put the Emperor to flight was a delight to them and they offered to help him in his conflict with Isaac Comnenus.

Richard accepted the food with appreciation and the offers of help with caution. But it was a good beginning. His hungry men could feast as they had not done since leaving Messina; he had kept his image clear for them – in fact perhaps he had added an extra lustre to it.

He was not displeased with the day’s work.

He looked out to sea and saw the ships lying there. His next task must be to bring Berengaria and Joanna ashore.

Richard stood on the shore and looked out at the ships. There on the most elaborate of the Dromones were Joanna and Berengaria. They must be conducted ashore immediately and he would himself go out to their vessel and bring them in. There had been a time when he had thought they might be lost and if they were would there be some recrimination from Berengaria’s father because he had delayed his marriage and he and she had been obliged to sail on different ships. He realised that there could be no more prevarication and the wedding must take place before they left Cyprus.

He climbed on to the deck where they were standing waiting to receive him. Joanna gave Berengaria a little push forward. Berengaria would have knelt but he raised her up and kissed her warmly on both cheeks.

‘My Queen,’ he said,

Berengaria was enraptured. This was so much like an incident from her dreams. He had come and he was a godlike hero; he was all that she had dreamed he would be. She forgot his reluctance which had forced her to face the perils of the sea without his support; she forgot that he had somewhat churlishly postponed their marriage; she only knew that at last they were together, that the wedding was imminent and he was the greatest hero she had ever known.

How handsome he looked! The coldness had gone from his blue eyes and they were shining with pleasure. It could have been because of his recent triumph over Isaac Comnenus but Berengaria believed it was for her.

‘And my dearest sister.’

They embraced.

‘It will always be wonderful to see you, Richard,’ said Joanna. ‘But never could it be more so than at this time.’

‘My poor dear ladies! It has been a trying time for you. But you never doubted, did you, that I would come for you?’

‘Never,’ said Berengaria fervently.

‘Now we will leave this ship and go ashore. I have had a lodging made ready for you.’

‘And the Emperor?’ asked Joanna.

‘He is cooling his anger some miles away. He dare not come too near. His people do not greatly love him. I have had very little difficulty in making friends with them.’

‘Did we do right not to go ashore?’ asked Berengaria.

‘Indeed you did. He would have made you hostages. I should soon have rescued you, there is no doubt of that; but by staying on board you have saved me that trouble.’

‘I am so glad we did,’ said Berengaria.

Richard watched her stealthily. He thought: She will be docile. If I must marry, Berengaria is as good as any wife could be.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘I wish you to be luxuriously housed. I have ordered that a banquet be prepared for you. This is a fruitful island and the people live well here. I want to compensate you for all you have endured at sea for my sake.’

‘We are amply repaid by having you here with us,’ replied Berengaria.

Joanna asked when the wedding was to take place.

‘It will be here in Cyprus,’ said Richard. ‘I cannot risk having you two sailing in any ship but my own from henceforth.’ He turned to his sister. ‘How happy I am that you are with Berengaria. It was a thought which gave me great comfort. It was sadness which brought you with us, of course, for had you been a wife instead of a widow you must have remained in Sicily. But then had your husband not died we should not have lingered in Sicily. We should be at Acre by now. But what is the use of saying if this and if that. So it is and so we must accept it. But, sister, you give me comfort.’

‘My dearest brother, then I am as happy as it is possible for me to be in these circumstances. I am a widow but I have my uses, and your bride and I love each other already as good sisters.’

He slipped an arm about both of them and they made their way to the waiting boat.

They were quickly rowed ashore.

One of the noblemen of the island had put a house at Richard’s disposal and in this he installed the ladies. It was luxurious.

Berengaria and Joanna shared a room, for they agreed they would feel uneasy if they were separated.

‘But, my dear sister,’ said Joanna, ‘you have Richard to protect you from now on.’

Richard slept that night in the magnificent tent which he had captured from Isaac Comnenus. Made of silk, it was the finest he had ever seen.

He did not, however, pass a restful night. Sleeping on foreign soil he must be constantly alert. It was hardly likely that Isaac would allow things to remain as they were and there would most certainly be a counter attack, and when it came he must be ready. He was not unduly disturbed on this score. Battle was his life; it thrilled him, stimulated him, made life exciting as nothing else could, and he had little doubt that when the time came to do battle the Emperor would be vanquished.

There was another matter which gave him great uneasiness. His marriage! There would be no avoiding it now. He had gained a brief respite but there could be no more procrastination. Already people were asking why he had not married Berengaria in Messina. Why had he not? Even he did not quite know the answer. He had intended to marry her. He must marry her. He was thirty-four years of age and he must get a son. It was expected of him.

Oddly enough the thought of a son did not excite him very much. Most men – and perhaps in particular kings – passionately desired sons, in fact considered them necessary for they were eager to see the direct line of succession carried on. Yet he felt indifferent.

What if he died without sons? There was Arthur, his brother Geoffrey’s son, whom he had made his heir. The English would not care for him though, because he would not seem English to them. He had a foreign mother, Constance of Brittany, whom Geoffrey had married for the sake of her estates, and the boy would have lived most of the time far from England. But besides Arthur there was his brother John.

Ah, that was the darker side of the picture. John was in England and doubtless casting covetous eyes on the throne. John was not meant to be a king. He was sure of that. There was a cruel streak in John; there was a selfishness, a ruthlessness, an indifference to public opinion . . . all characteristics which would not make a good ruler.

Perhaps he should order Constance to take Arthur to England so that the boy could be brought up in the court there.

What thoughts were these for a youngish man to have on the eve of his wedding! He was strong and lusty, and Berengaria was a healthy young woman. Why should he be considering his brother’s son, even if the boy concerned was the true heir to the throne?

He knew the answer which was that he did not want to marry. He did not care for women and he did not particularly want children. Was he thinking of his own family . . . that brood of sons, of which he was one, who had fought against their father and made his life an unhappy one? No, it was not that. He was a man who loved to go into battle. The feel of a horse beneath him, the sight of the enemy in full flight, conquest – and best of all a Holy Enterprise. This was what he wanted . . . this and this only.

He seemed to see Philip smiling at him slyly.

This only, Richard?

He must face the truth. He had been guilty of lewd pleasure. There were times when he indulged without restraint in orgies which later filled him with shame. He would repent and for a while he would care for nothing but his battles. He was a great soldier – none could deny that – the greatest of his day. It was what he wanted to be; and more than anything in the world he wished to be known as the man who drove the Saracens from the Holy Land and brought it back to Christianity.

‘And certain friendships are good to have.’ He could almost hear Philip speaking.

Why had he allowed Philip to go on to Acre without him? What when they met there? He could picture the sly smiling eyes of the King of France.

‘And your marriage, Richard, how was it?’

And all the time Philip would know full well that there had rarely been a more reluctant bridegroom than the King of England.

He slept at last. Day had broken when he awoke. There were noises outside his tent, the sound of excited chattering voices.

He dressed hastily and went out to see what was the cause of the excitement.

No sooner had he appeared than several of his knights came hurrying to him.

‘Three galleys have just come into sight, Sire. Look. You can see them . . . out there on the horizon.’

Richard could see them.

‘By God’s eyes,’ he cried, ‘whose can they be?’

For the moment he had felt a wild excitement, for he had thought that they might well be Philip’s. The storms which had beset him would have worried the French fleet and the French were not as good sailors as the English. They lacked that passion for the sea which most Englishmen felt, and preferred to travel by land when possible.