Lionheart (23 page)

Several carts had been overturned to form an impromptu barricade. The townsmen crouching behind it outnumbered Richard’s knights and crossbowmen, but they were mismatched against battle-seasoned, mail-clad warriors and were already giving ground by the time Morgan and his companions assailed them from the rear. Within moments the skirmish was over, the burghers in flight. Hurrying to keep pace with their king, the men followed him into another alley, barely a sword’s length in depth, and saw ahead of them one of the city gates.

Here they encountered fierce resistance from the guards, and in the bloody street battle that ensued, men on both sides began to die. Morgan was caught up in the emotional maelstrom peculiar to combat, a familiar surge of raw sensation in which excitement was indistinguishable from fear. A soldier was lunging forward, shouting in Greek. Morgan was yelling, too, Welsh curses interspersed with the battle cry of the English Royal House,
“Dex aie!”

His foe’s sword was already raised high. It swept down before Morgan could get his shield up to block the blow and he took the hit on his shoulder. A sword could slice through mail with lethal force, but only if it was a direct strike. Morgan was blessed that day, for the aim was off and the blade’s edge skipped over the metal links instead of cutting into flesh and bone. He staggered under the impact, somehow kept his balance, and slashed at his adversary’s leg. There was a spurt of blood and a scream. As the man’s knee buckled, Morgan slammed him with his shield, then hurdled his crumpled body and went to the aid of Baldwin de Bethune, whose sword blade had just broken against an enemy axe.

Baldwin’s foe turned swiftly upon Morgan, swinging his axe to hook the edge of the Welshman’s shield. But Morgan had been trained to thwart just such a gambit. Instead of instinctively resisting, he let himself be pulled toward his opponent and counterthrust, his sword cutting through the other man’s mail coif and slicing off his ear before the blade bit into his neck. As the man fell, Baldwin snatched up his axe, giving Morgan a grateful grin before the tide of battle swept them apart.

Some of Morgan’s companions were already starting to loot bodies, but there were still several pockets of fighting, as savage as any drunken alehouse brawl. Morgan caught sight of his king then, just in time to see Richard perform a classic maneuver known as a “Cut of Wrath,” making a powerful, downward diagonal strike that severed his attacker’s arm at the elbow. Without even pausing for breath, he whirled to take on a new opponent, this one wielding a spear. Morgan started toward them in alarm, for he’d never seen a spear so long. It looked almost like a lance, and he thought it could be difficult for a swordsman to counter its greater reach. But as the man charged him, Richard leaped aside and then brought his sword down upon the weapon, chopping off the spearhead before the man could react. He gaped at his demolished spear, then spun around and fled. Morgan was no less astonished, for the shaft had been reinforced with strips of metal and yet Richard had sliced through it as if it were butter.

As he reached Richard, a cheer went up, for their men had taken control of the gate. As they flung it open, their troops streamed into the city, and they raised another cheer, knowing that Messina was theirs.

RICHARD HAD PICKED UP the broken spear. “Look at this, Morgan. Have you ever seen such a weapon?”

Morgan hadn’t. Instead of a spearhead, a hooked blade had been attached to the haft. It was undeniably interesting, but it seemed neither the time nor the place to have a casual conversation about Sicilian innovations in weaponry. Richard had not waited for him to respond, though, and was already beckoning to André de Chauvigny. “Send some of our knights to guard the royal palace. If our lads go looking for booty there, Philippe will have a stark raving fit. There’s likely to be more fighting, too, so make sure that our men do not start celebrating until it’s safe to do so.”

“I’ll see to it,” André promised. “But afterward . . . they can have their sport?” Richard nodded. “Yes, but do not let it get out of hand, André. Remind them that we’re going to have to spend the winter here. Our men can have their fun, but keep it within reason. No slaughtering the citizens if they’re not offering resistance.”

Morgan was impressed by Richard’s composure in the midst of madness. His own emotions were still in turmoil. He’d killed at least one man and had nearly been killed himself, good reasons to get drunk, he decided. But then he had a better idea and hurried after Richard, who was heading toward the harbor, where smoke had begun to spiral up into the sky.

“My liege, someone ought to bring word to your sister that the city has been captured. She’ll be able to see the smoke from Bagnara and will be fearing the worst.”

“That is true,” Richard conceded. “Good thinking, Cousin. Are you volunteering for the mission?” When Morgan nodded eagerly, Richard slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “You’d best wash up first, then. Women tend to be squeamish about blood and gore.”

By the time they reached the harbor, the smoke had become so thick that an early dusk seemed to have settled over the city, the sun utterly obscured by those billowing black clouds. Richard was relieved to discover that the town was not on fire; it was the Sicilian fleet that was burning. Several of his admirals were already on the scene and they began complaining to him about the actions of the French, declaring they’d assisted the townspeople in keeping their ships from entering the inner harbor.

Seeing that Richard would be occupied for some time to come, Morgan sank down on a nearby mounting block. All around him was bedlam. Soldiers were looting shops and houses, gleefully carrying off the riches of Messina—candlesticks, furs, jewelry, bolts of expensive cloth, spices. They were also helping themselves to sides of bacon, sacks of flour, and baskets of eggs, claiming livestock, chickens, and horses. Some were helping themselves to local women, too, for screams were echoing from houses and alleyways. From where he sat, Morgan could see bodies sprawled in the street. He hoped he’d not lost any friends in the fighting. He was more shaken than he was willing to admit, and he decided to find a tavern, a public bathhouse, and a boat to ferry him across the Faro, in that order.

JOANNA HAD WATCHED in dismay as smoke darkened the sky above Messina. She was not surprised when the English lion was soon flying over the city, for Richard was the most celebrated soldier in Christendom. His sister rejoiced in his victory. But the queen could take no pleasure in the sight of a foreign flag on Sicilian soil. She did not doubt that the townspeople of Messina had been vexing, belligerent, and eager for profit, for they were known to be like that with their fellow citizens. They were still William’s subjects, her subjects, however, and she grieved that it had come to this.

She’d never expected that she’d have to choose between her two lives, her two worlds. But her precarious position was brought home to her by the Bishop of Bagnara, who’d demanded that she intercede on behalf of the Messinians and berated her as he’d not have dared to berate Richard. He was so incensed that he’d inflamed her own temper; she found herself fiercely defending her brother, burning yet another of her Sicilian bridges. After his angry departure, she’d remained at a window in her bedchamber, staring out across the straits at Messina for hours, her eyes blurring with tears.

Morgan’s arrival was the only flicker of light in a very dark day. Heedless of convention, she had him brought to her private chamber, greeting him so warmly that he actually blushed, for he was somewhat in awe of this beautiful cousin whom he’d known for less than a week. Joanna’s common sense told her that Morgan could not tell her what she yearned to hear. He could not deny that Messina had fallen to Richard’s troops. But she hoped that he might be able to explain the bloodshed in a way that would enable her to accept it as inevitable and thus reconcile her divided loyalties.

It had not occurred to Morgan that she might not see Messina’s fall in the same light that he did—as a triumph. The aftermath of battle could be intoxicating, and his senses were still reeling from the sweetness of his reprieve, as well as from several flagons of spiced Messinian wine. The sight of Joanna reminded him of the feats her brother had performed that day, and he launched into an enthusiastic account of the battle, lavishly praising the courage of their men and boasting of the ease with which they’d captured the city.

“Your brother’s strategy was brilliant, my lady. He is by far the best battle commander I’ve ever seen, leading the assault himself, always in the very thick of the fighting.” He started to tell her that more than twenty of Richard’s own household troops had died in the attack but decided it was better she not know that. “The king is utterly without fear and I understand now why his men vow they’d follow him to Hell and back. So would I, for he is doing God’s Work, destined to regain Jerusalem from the infidels.”

“You believe that, Morgan . . . truly?” And when he assured her earnestly that he did, Joanna discovered there was comfort in that thought, in the reminder that nothing mattered more than the recovery of the Holy Land. “If Richard is doing God’s Work, does that mean the Messinians were heeding the Devil’s whispers? Were many of them slain, Cousin?”

“Not so many.” He almost added, “Not as many deaths as they deserved,” but thought better of it, remembering Richard’s warning that women were distressed by violence. “There was plundering, of course, for that is a soldier’s right. But the king took measures to make sure there’d be no widespread slaughter.”

“I am glad to hear that.” She was silent for a few moments before saying softly, “Did . . . did my brother give any orders to protect the women of the city?”

Morgan found himself at a rare loss for words, suddenly realizing that she had come to consider Sicily as her home. He supposed it was to be expected that she’d pity the wives and maidens of Messina, for rape was likely to be a fear ingrained in every woman’s soul, even one as highborn as Joanna. He wondered if he ought to lie to her, decided she’d not believe him if he did. “My lady . . . men see that as a soldier’s right, too.”

She said nothing, but he’d begun to notice the signs of stress—her pallor, the dark hollows under her eyes. “It was not as brutal as it could have been, Madame,” he said, and Joanna gave him a wan smile, thinking that was a meager comfort to Messina, yet recognizing the uncompromising truth of it, too.

“It was good of you to bring me word yourself, Cousin Morgan. You’ll not be wanting to cross the Faro after dark, so I’ll see that a comfortable bed is made ready for you.”

“Thank you, Madame.” Morgan glanced toward Joanna’s attendants, who’d withdrawn across the chamber to give them privacy. The woman he’d wanted to see was not among them. “I was hoping I might pay my respects to the Lady Mariam.”

Joanna gave him a surprised look and, then, her first real smile of the day. “Mariam mentioned that she’d met one of Richard’s knights at the nunnery, a ‘cocky, silver-tongued rogue,’ she said, ‘with a great interest in learning Arabic.’ So that was you, Cousin?”

Morgan grinned, pleased beyond measure that Mariam had discussed him with Joanna; that was surely a good sign. “Do you think she might see me?” But when Joanna hesitated, some of his confidence waned.

“It might be better to wait for another time, Morgan. This has been a difficult day for her.”

Morgan was disappointed, but it made sense that Mariam would mourn the fall of Messina, for the blood of a Sicilian king ran in her veins. After taking his leave of Joanna, he was escorted to the priory guest hall. Richard had garrisoned Bagnara with a large number of knights sworn to see to Joanna’s safety, and the hall was crowded. Upon learning that Morgan had taken part in the assault upon the town, they were eager to hear his account, and he was quite willing to accommodate them. Eventually, men unrolled blankets and made ready to bed down. Morgan’s nerves were still vibrating like a taut bowstring and he knew sleep would not come for hours yet. Helping himself to a wineskin, he wound his way midst the bodies and bedrolls, and then slipped out a side door.