John scowled at him. ‘What normal man wouldn’t fancy her? But she’s married to a good friend, so she’s out of bounds. Meredydd was a staunch comrade to both of us in France. And a damned fine archer, too.’
The Welsh were much sought after all over Europe as mercenaries, both as archers and foot soldiers. They even fought against fellow Welshmen, if the pay was good enough.
The two men lapsed into idle somnolence in the sunshine until late in the afternoon when Richard reappeared and reluctantly, the exodus to the ship began.
After evening prayers, the king again assembled his inner circle of counsellors up on the afterdeck. ‘There was little new information to be gained and what there was was not cheerful,’ he announced in a sombre voice. ‘Count Raymond of Toulouse is reported as being incensed at the attack on his lands by my brother-in-law, Sancho of Navarre.’
‘Sire, that will surely make our chances of crossing into Aquitaine from any part of the French or Spanish coast all the more hazardous,’ commented Baldwin, who was now against a Spanish landing.
The Lionheart nodded his agreement. ‘But what else can we do? Italy is closed to us, and we heard in Corfu that Philip Augustus and Henry of Germany met in Milan and agreed on joining forces to defeat me.’
Robert de Turnham shook his head despondently. ‘The more I hear, the less I like the idea of pushing on into the western part of this sea, my lord. The north coast of Africa is infested with Moorish pirates and many more use Majorca as a base to terrorize shipping in Spanish waters.’
Once again, the discussion went around in circles, with an increasing feeling that continuing westwards was courting disaster. Next day saw a development that at least brought them to a decision, for better or worse.
Late next day, with the sun dropping near the horizon, the hills of Sicily had faded from sight and the Franche Nef was alone on an empty sea. The wind was from the north-west and the ungainly buss was tacking to try to make headway.
John, who had a vague notion of the geography of the Middle Sea, wondered how near they were to Africa and had visions of them having to fight Mohammedans all over again! As if his thoughts were the mother to the event, at that moment there was a cry from the lookout up on the main mast, yelling that he could see two vessels coming up over the horizon from the south.
Everyone came to look, either lining the port bulwarks or clambering up on to the forecastle. Though from deck level there was nothing yet to be seen, within little more than an hour a pair of single-masted ships were visible.
‘They must be galleys,’ declared Gwyn. ‘No sailing vessel could approach that quickly with the wind in this quarter!’
The same conclusion had been reached up on the afterdeck, where the shipmaster, the admiral and Richard Coeur de Lion were in urgent discussion. Within minutes, shouted orders sent crewmen scurrying to haul around the sloping yards of the two sails and the two steersmen were heaving at the huge steering oar. The buss lumbered around and as the now more favourable wind filled out the great triangular sails, the buss soon doubled her speed.
‘We’re running away from the bastards!’ grunted Gwyn, almost saddened that he was being deprived of a fight.
Baldwin was beckoning to John to come up to the quarterdeck and soon the half-dozen royal retainers were clustered around their king.
‘They are Moorish corsairs!’ snapped Robert de Turnham, pointing over his shoulder at the two sleek galleys that were now only a couple of miles astern. ‘But now that we are running before the wind at this fair pace, they’ll not catch up with us before darkness closes in.’
It was already twilight, the sun having sunk well below the horizon.
‘We are not going to fight them off, then?’ asked de Wolfe, who like Gwyn had a natural distaste for running away from Saracens.
The king shook his head regretfully. ‘No doubt we could overcome them, but to what end? I am not interested in slaying a few pirates. We could lose a few lives and suffer injuries. I have more urgent business — we need to get home!’
‘So where are we going now, my lord?’ asked William, who was the closest to the king and best able to speak frankly.
‘This has made up my mind — perhaps God sent these vermin to end our indecision!’ boomed Richard, his fingers playing with the novelty of his beard. ‘We will return to Corfu and then head up the Adriatic to seek a landing in Hungary. What happens after that is in the hands of the Almighty, but it seems most sensible to pass through King Bela’s kingdom into Saxony, where we will be welcomed by my kinsman Henry the Lion.’
The Prince of Saxony had married Matilda, the Lionheart’s late sister. Their son Otto was both a nephew and close friend of Richard, having spent several years in England when young.
At dawn next day, the sea was empty, the galleys obviously having abandoned the chase when darkness fell. The wind remained favourable for travelling eastwards and, two days later, with some guesswork and not a little luck, the shipmaster was relieved to see Cape Passero again, on the corner of Sicily.
From there, they retraced their route of the previous week, keeping within distant sight of the heel and toe of Italy until they reached the straits across which lay Corfu. The wind was fairly kind to them, giving the lie to the prohibitions of sailing in late autumn. Without the horses, conditions were much better down in the hold on the few days and nights where rough seas kept them below deck.
John and Gwyn suffered the boredom and the endless rolling and pitching of the ship with resignation, having endured far worse conditions on dry land over many years. They ate the communal rations supplied by the crew and their own figs, dates and citrus fruit that they had bought in Licata. These lasted them almost a week, leaving only a few more days on dismal food until they reached Corfu. At dawn one morning the hilly western coast of that island came into view and the weary passengers lined the rail to welcome it as yet another stage on their erratic journey.
‘Are we keeping this vessel to go up the Adriatic?’ asked John, who was standing next to Robert de Turnham.
‘It would take a month in this old tub if the winds are against us,’ grunted the High Admiral. ‘They’re mainly from the north-east in the winter, the worst of them being the notorious bora.’
‘So what should we do?’ Gerald de Clare, the senior knight of the Templar contingent, sounded anxious. He was a tall, thin man, with a bushy grey beard. One eye was half closed by a livid scar running across his forehead on to his cheek, the legacy of a spear thrust at the battle of Arsuf the previous year, when Richard’s forces defeated a massive attack by Saladin. The Templars had played a crucial role in the victory, but paid a heavy price in dead and wounded.
‘We need a ship that will sail better than this one,’ replied de Turnham. ‘It can be much smaller, now that we no longer have the horses. There are coastal currents up the east coast that will help, as well as many islands that will offer shelter to a small vessel in this devilish time of year.’
Once again, it seemed that God was listening to the admiral, though at first the intervention of the Almighty looked more like a disaster than a blessing. Their discussion was suddenly brought to an end by a shout from a lookout on the forecastle, who was pointing towards the distant hills, just visible above the horizon. As he spoke a patois peculiar to the eastern Adriatic, they had no idea what he was saying, but his frantic gesticulations alerted the shipmaster, who yelled back at him in the same language.
‘What’s going on?’ shouted John, as several of the other knights began climbing on to the poop for a better view.
‘A galley coming out from the island!’ yelled the Venetian. ‘Almost certainly another corsair or a pirate.’ The difference was slight, though a corsair was supposed to have the blessing of the local Christian ruler to prey on Moorish ships, whilst a pirate would attack anyone.