A King's Ransom (7 page)

By now they’d reached the abbot’s great hall. For one of the few times in his life, Richard did not have a plan of action. He could deny he was the English king or try to shame them into honoring the Church’s protection for men who’d taken the cross, but neither of those options seemed likely to carry the day. He’d rarely felt so uneasy and he sought reassurance by dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword. As his fingers closed around the haft, the familiar feel of it was comforting, and he found himself remembering something he’d once read, that pagan Norsemen believed they could not enter Valhalla unless they died with sword in hand. And then he straightened his shoulders, raised his head, and shoved the door open, crossing the threshold with a deliberate swagger.

The hall was crowded. All of the monks were there, murmuring among themselves. The abbot was standing with two men who could only be the count and the archbishop. They made an odd couple, the former tall and so thin he appeared gaunt, the latter short and rotund, both of them elegantly garbed, though, with jewels flashing on their fingers. There was a hush as Richard entered and then an excited buzz swept the hall. Abbot Stephanus hastened toward Richard, moving with surprising agility for one no longer young.

“My lord king,” he said in impeccable Latin, and bowed. “I had no idea so illustrious a guest was being sheltered under our roof. May I introduce Count Raphael de Goce and Archbishop Bernard.”

Both men made respectful obeisances. The count opened his mouth to speak, but the archbishop was quicker. “We are honored to welcome the renowned and redoubtable king of the English to our city. Your war against the infidel Saracens has made you a hero wherever people embrace the True Faith. I never thought I’d have the opportunity to hear of these battles from the victor of Jaffa himself!”

When he paused for breath, Count Raphael seized his chance. Casting a glance toward the archbishop that revealed the rivalry between the two men, he said reprovingly, “Jaffa was indeed a great victory. But surely we’d be remiss, my lord archbishop, if we did not speak of the king’s greatest achievement in the Holy Land. Because of his efforts, Christian pilgrims can once again pray in the sacred city of Jerusalem.” Beaming, he turned and beckoned to a woman nearby. “May I present to you my lady wife, the Countess Marussa. We want to invite you to be our honored guest during your stay in Ragusa.”

“My lady,” Richard said, and she blushed and giggled when he kissed her hand, for he could play the gallant when he chose; he had grown up at his mother’s court in Aquitaine, after all. Any doubts he may have harbored had disappeared as soon as he saw the countess; the count would hardly have brought his wife along if this were a trap of some sort. Once again his luck had prevailed, shipwrecking them in probably the only place along the Adriatic coast where the Lionheart legend counted for more than the enmity of the German emperor and the French king.

R
ICHARD’S MEN LIKED
R
AGUSA
so much that they joked it was a pity he’d not agree to stay and become its king. The weather was much milder than November back in their homelands and it was a pleasure to walk on ground that did not shift under their feet. The city itself was very prosperous and its streets were cleaner than any they’d seen. There were public baths, allowing them to soak off the accumulated dirt of the past seven weeks. They were able to get their clothes washed and mended, buying what they needed in the town’s thriving markets, for the Ragusans carried on an active trade with their Adriatic neighbors. Best of all, the people were very friendly, treating them like heroes.

Even communication was not as troublesome as they’d anticipated. While the official language of Ragusa was Latin, the citizens also spoke dialects of Italian and Slavic, and what they called “Old Ragusan.” Richard, his chaplain, Anselm, Fulk, and Baldwin de Bethune could converse easily in Latin. The others either had a smattering of it or none at all, but Ragusa had been briefly under the control of Sicily and some of its citizens had learned the French spoken at the Sicilian court. Petros was in his glory, for he could understand the Italian heard in the city streets and so his services were in great demand. Petros passed most of his days in an agreeable alcoholic haze, for the knights enjoyed frequenting the local taverns, where men were eager to buy them drinks in order to hear their stories of the crusade. Life in Ragusa was so much more pleasant than life on shipboard that the men hoped it would take a while for the pirates to repair the
Sea-Wolf
and for Richard to arrange a loan to honor his pledge.

There was a snake in this Adriatic Eden, though. Richard had warned his men to stay away from the local women. They understood the logic behind his order, but some of the female Ragusans were very pretty and very flirtatious. They were delighted, therefore, when Petros discovered that the taverns down by the harbor offered more than wine. Richard and Baldwin were dining with Archbishop Bernard, and the Templars declined because of their vows of chastity, but Warin and Hugh de Neville recruited so many of the others that they joked they ought to ask for a group rate.

While Morgan had been hesitant at first, he’d managed to convince his conscience that the Lady Mariam would understand under the circumstances. Warin included young Arne, too, embarrassing the boy by declaring loudly that it was time the lad learned where his sword ought to be sheathed. Georgios kept his men under a tight rein in ports like Ragusa, for the pirates wanted to be able to come back on future voyages. But several of the crew had slipped away and joined the knights, so it was a boisterous and cheerful bunch who trooped into a wharf-side tavern called the Half-Moon.

They were surprised to find that prostitution in Ragusa was run by women. The bawd, a handsome redhead in her forties with a practiced smile and hard eyes, told her hirelings to turn away other customers, for she calculated that men so long at sea would be so eager for female flesh that they’d pay well for the privilege. Some haggling ensued, but when she summoned the youngest and the prettiest of her whores, the men decided that her price was reasonable. It was then, though, that Morgan learned something that quenched his lust as thoroughly as if he’d been drenched with cold water. He’d been admiring a girl with blue eyes and wheat-colored hair—seeking one utterly unlike the sloe-eyed, golden-skinned Mariam, who was half Saracen—when the bawd casually mentioned that Ludmila was new, having been bought from slave traders just that past summer.

Morgan had been taken aback by the slave markets in Sicily, Cyprus, and the Holy Land, for slavery was no longer known in the domains of the Angevin kings. But those slaves had all been Saracens, infidels. This girl would have looked at home in any European city. The bawd, puzzled by his questions, told him that Ludmila came from Dalmatia, as did most of Ragusa’s slaves, and conceded that she was Christian, although she added dismissively that Dalmatians followed the Greek Orthodox Church, not the Church of Rome, and so their faith was suspect. Not to Morgan, though, who was shocked that the Ragusans would be willing to enslave their fellow Christians, and he politely declined Ludmila’s services, feeling he’d be somehow complicit in her enslavement if he did not.

The bawd was surprised and then scornful, although she tried to hide it. His companions’ astonishment quickly turned to amusement, and Morgan knew he’d be enduring their mockery for weeks to come. But his easygoing demeanor masked a strong will, and he remained adamant. He’d wait in the tavern whilst they went abovestairs, he declared, deflecting their ridicule with a sardonic gibe, saying he was sure he’d not have to wait long. They laughed, offered a few more playful insults, and began to pick their bedmates from the assembled women. It was then that Arne amazed them all by announcing that he did not feel right about swiving a slave, either, and he would wait with Morgan.

Even Morgan was startled, although he welcomed an ally and defended Arne’s decision until the others lost interest and let their whores take them abovestairs.

Back in the tavern common room, Morgan ordered wine and found a corner table for them. They drank in silence for a time, but he sensed Arne had something on his mind and after several cups of surprisingly good wine, the boy had quaffed enough liquid courage to make a confession.

“If I confide in you, Sir Morgan, will you promise not to tell the others?”

“If that is your wish, Arne. Does this secret of yours have something to do with your refusal to go abovestairs with one of the whores?” Arne was regarding him as if he had second sight, but he’d suspected there was more to the boy’s reluctance than an aversion to slavery; he was still young enough to remember how powerful hungers of the flesh could be for a lad of Arne’s age.

Arne nodded, then ducked his head to stare intently into his wine cup. “I have been lying, Sir Morgan, lying to the king, to you all,” he confessed, flushing so deeply that even the tips of his ears turned red. “You think I am sixteen, but I am not. I was born at Michaelmas in God’s Year 1178.”

“You are only fourteen, lad?”

Arne nodded again. “When I entered my lord’s service in Austria, my uncle told him I was fourteen. It was not so—I was twelve—but I was big for my age and I’d be one less mouth for my uncle’s family to feed. . . .”

Arne’s diffidence made more sense to Morgan now; a green lad of fourteen was more likely to be skittish his first time, and to be fearful he was committing a mortal sin. Arne confirmed that by mumbling a rambling story he claimed to have heard about a youth who’d been taken by his brothers to a brothel and then shamed himself by being unable to perform. “Not only was he the laughingstock of the village when the whore told his brothers that he’d spilled his seed ere he could even get into bed, but their priest heard and warned him that thinking of a sin was as bad as doing it and so he’d still go to Hell! How fair is that, Sir Morgan?”

Morgan quickly brought his wine cup up to hide a smile. This was definitely not how he’d expected his evening to go—tutoring this fledgling in the ways of carnal lust. Ordering more wine, he did his best, assuring Arne that there was no hurry, no need to rush into sin. His own body would tell him when he was ready, and whilst it was natural for a man to be somewhat nervous his first time, a naked woman did wonders to dispel any anxieties or qualms. And although the Church did indeed preach that fornication was a mortal sin, many men—King Richard amongst them—felt that it was a venial sin at worst, for certes not as serious as adultery or breaking a holy vow of chastity. Arne cheered up to hear that Richard thought fornication to be a minor matter, for he was convinced that the English king’s most casual comment was to be taken as Gospel. He was further reassured when Morgan reminded him that the point of confession was to wipe a slate clean.

“Most soldiers I know admit they are sinners, find a confessor to lay light penances, and make sure that they are shriven ere they go into battle—or set foot on a ship like the
Sea-Wolf
. You could do worse than to follow in their footsteps, Arne.” Adding with a grin, “And if Warin and the others tease you about abstaining tonight, just tell them you’d heard a rumor that the Ragusan whores were poxed. That will shut them up!”

Arne laughed and was soon chattering happily as they finished a second flagon. Morgan drank his wine, listened, and marveled at the vagaries of fate—that a Welsh knight and an Austrian stripling should be sharing wine and confidences in this shabby, wharf-side tavern, far from home and all they held dear. The ways of the Almighty truly were beyond the understanding of mortal men. So many crusaders had left their homes and families for God and glory, only to find lonely graves in foreign lands. He fervently hoped it was the Almighty’s Will that they’d be luckier than the thousands who’d been stricken by pestilence, struck down by Saracen swords. He was convinced that Richard had God’s favor. How else explain why he was still alive, as reckless as he was with his own safety? He would get them home if any man could. But as Morgan signaled for another round of drinks, Wales had never seemed as far away as it did on this early December eve in Ragusa.