William de L’Etang slapped his friend on the back. ‘But, John, it’s typical of our lord and master! Fierce and even cruel at one moment, then hearty and boisterous at the next, throwing gold around as if it grew on trees. It’s what makes him what he is and we all love him for it.’
Anselm nodded his agreement, but partly sided with de Wolfe. ‘Yet I admit he is sometimes too impulsive and often fails to think of the consequences. Look at how yesterday he went with the Templars to the Treasury in Ragusa and borrowed thousands of Venetian ducats against a Templar promissory note. Chancellor Longchamp will have a stroke when all these bills come home to roost.’
John held his tongue, but William threw in a half-jocular comment. ‘And what did he do with some of that new money? Spent it on three expensive jewelled rings for himself!’
Baldwin came to Richard’s defence over this apparent extravagance. ‘Our lord is a great king, ruling lands that stretch from the Pyrenees almost to Scotland. He needs the appurtenances of a king, such as these ostentatious jewels, to display his power and influence in the world!’
‘Well, I wish he had used his power and influence to get us a better vessel than this,’ grumbled de Wolfe, looking down the deck to where Gwyn was contentedly fishing over the side, his ever-unruly hair blowing in the wind.
‘There’s little wrong with the Medusa, John,’ remarked Robert de Turnham, who had joined the group from his place up on the aftercastle. ‘She’s getting along quite well with this new southerly wind behind her.’
The Medusa was an ordinary merchant ship called a ‘cog’, which was much smaller than the more bulky Franche Nef. With a single mast and square sail, she was a maid-of-all-work similar to hundreds of others in the Mediterranean — though virtually all of those were now laid up for the winter. Only the generosity of the Lionheart to the bishop and city council of Ragusa had persuaded this shipmaster to venture up the coast of Dalmatia in December.
The violent bora had subsided as quickly as it had arisen and after two nights in Ragusa, with blissful sleep in the guest house of the monastery, the travellers were sent on their way towards Zara, about a hundred and sixty miles up the coast, well into Hungarian territory.
‘With this wind, we should reach Zara the day after tomorrow,’ prophesied the High Admiral. ‘The route lies behind the many islands that line this coast, so we should be protected from any westerly storms. Pray God we don’t suffer another bora.’ He crossed himself virtuously as he spoke.
At the king’s council held earlier that day, it was agreed that they would buy horses in Zara and make the long ride to the court of King Bela, who had a grand palace in Estergom on the Danube. There Richard would trade on his kinship with Bela’s queen, to seek hospitality and advice on how best to return to Normandy and England. Though most of the knights had only a hazy idea of the geography of Central Europe, both Richard and Baldwin knew enough to debate possible routes.
‘Either we aim for Saxony and the undoubted welcome of Henry the Lion,’ declared the king. ‘Or perhaps we could ride north to reach the Baltic and take ship to the German Ocean.’
Baldwin was dubious about the latter plan. ‘It would mean riding many hundreds of miles across turbulent territory. The Polish lands are in turmoil and we would not be welcome amongst them, even as returning Crusaders.’
Robert de Turnham had been equally pessimistic about the idea. ‘Sire, as you have discovered from our recent experiences of sea voyaging, we would be much too late in the season for safety. To attempt such a long journey across the northern waters in the depth of winter would be foolhardy in the extreme.’
The meeting broke up with a decision to wait until they reached the Hungarian capital, to hear what their opinion would be.
The king had a cubbyhole to himself on this vessel, too small to be called a cabin, just a large box built under the poop. The rest of them squeezed into other spaces under the aftercastle and the forecastle, sharing the deck boards with the dozen crew. None of these spoke a single word of any language they could recognize, other than the shipmaster who could manage a little Latin. The mattresses from the galley had been lost, along with their armour and most of their possessions, so new palliasses were provided in Ragusa, along with a change of clothing.
‘We’ll arrive home like beggars,’ muttered Gwyn, as they huddled under cloaks on the slowly rolling deck. ‘No spoils of war on this trip, that’s for sure.’
John de Wolfe told him what had been said at the council as they lay on the thin straw bags that were their beds, and Gwyn wanted to know more. ‘Who’s this King Bela, then?’
‘A powerful ruler and one of the richest in Europe, thanks to the minerals and salt in his country. Thankfully, he’s no friend of Henry, the Holy Roman Emperor, whom we’re trying to avoid.’
The Cornishman digested this and probed again. ‘But I heard that he’s related to our king. Is that true?’
John turned over with a grunt to relieve the pressure of his hip on the deck boards. ‘By marriages, at least. Bela’s wife is Margaret of France, who was the widow of Richard’s older brother, Henry the Young King who died years ago.’
Gwyn chuckled into his cloak. ‘I know of her all right! It was common knowledge that she was William Marshal’s mistress.’
He was talking about the Marshal of England, a great warrior and tourney champion.
‘Better not voice that about too loudly when we get to Hungary,’ advised de Wolfe. ‘She is also sister-in-law of Philip of France, which is a point not in our favour!’
Gwyn clucked his disgust with all these imperial entanglements. ‘These royal folk are like rabbits in a box, mating with someone different every five minutes! I’m not sure I want to go to Hungary!’
Perhaps God was listening once again.
Though the Lionheart had bribed the shipmaster to carry on sailing through the first night, the second was spent on shore, as they needed food and water. In addition, the helpful southerly wind had freshened markedly during the day and the motion of the Medusa became far too lively for much sleep to be had on deck.
They stopped in a bay on the mainland side of the island of Zirje, though the captain informed de Turnham in his halting Latin, that he had wanted to land on the opposite mainland.
‘It seems that the wind and the currents made it too difficult to cross the strait,’ Robert explained to the other knights. ‘He is also worried that tomorrow might bring a worsening of the wind, though, thank St Christopher, there seems no sign of that damned bora, which could take us back to Ragusa or even beyond.’
The cold, grey dawn showed them that the shipmaster was right. Once they left the shelter of Zirje, they were hit by a blustery half-gale, which took them towards the north-west, in spite of the crew’s efforts to get them back into the narrow channels between the mainland and the offshore islands of Kornat and Pasman.
The cog was far more seaworthy than the galley, but it was hopeless at sailing more than a few points off the wind. By mid-afternoon, the shipmaster admitted that they had no chance now of getting back into the archipelago that lay outside Zara.
As they raced on out into the open sea before the relentless south wind, Richard’s admiral, who was best at understanding the captain’s garbled speech, relayed the bad news. ‘He says there is no hope of getting to Zara, unless you wish to wait for days to get back to it after this gale stops.’
The Lionheart rapidly lost his recent good mood in his frustration at being repeatedly thwarted from getting back to his Norman dominions. After a string of choice oaths, he demanded to know where they were going now.