Crowner's Crusade (10 page)

William de L'Etang agreed with Baldwin, though Robert de Turnham was very dubious about crossing into Austria, given the bad blood that had arisen in Palestine between Richard and Duke Leopold. The Lionheart had thrown down Leopold's banner from the walls of Acre and had refused him a share of the loot, on the grounds that the Austrian had contributed little to the successful siege. De Wolfe had nothing to contribute to the discussion, but could sense that the Lionheart was already set on trying to get directly to Saxony.

‘Sire, are we to make ourselves known to the ruler of this city, or is that too dangerous?' asked William de L'Etang. ‘Some local knowledge of the route and perhaps the help of a guide would be of great help to us.'

They discussed this for a while, Robert de Turnham and a few others feeling that it would be too dangerous to approach a vassal of the Empire, in case orders had already reached them that the royal party was to be seized on sight. However, the idea attracted Richard, who seemed to find it hard to imagine that his kingly status would not overawe a mere count.

‘Baldwin, dear friend, you are the most diplomatic among us. Take this ruby ring I purchased in Ragusa and go up to the castle to present it with my compliments as a gift to this local chieftain. Your silver tongue will no doubt persuade him to offer us safe conduct and guidance tomorrow.' Richard pulled off the wide gold band carrying the precious stone and passed it to his courtier.

With misgivings on the part of some of the others, the man from Bethune sought out the innkeeper and, with a few more coins, persuaded him to take him to the town gate, where yet more silver got them entry through a wicket.

The group waited uneasily in the gloom of the tavern for his return. They were all dog-tired after being shipwrecked and then walking and riding across miles of unfamiliar countryside.

John de Wolfe, though a phlegmatic and somewhat unimaginative man, pondered on their being adrift in potentially hostile territory. They had only the clothes they wore, a few weapons and a pouchful of money, with many hundreds of miles between them and home. Though he had spent many months, indeed years, in foreign lands, he had always been part of an army, not isolated like this, with the great responsibility of protecting his king.

After two hours, John began to wonder if Baldwin had been seized at the castle, but finally he appeared at the door, looking anxious and agitated as he hurried to bend his knee to the king.

‘My Lord, dark though it is, I think we should leave at once. I do not trust the man I met to keep his word!'

B
y the afternoon of the next day, the weary fugitives had reached Udine, the main town of the province. This was another twenty miles to the north, where the stark outline of the Julian Alps were now clearly within view. The town, like so many, consisted of a fortress built on a central mound, surrounded by burgages inside an outer wall. This time, the gates were open, but today Richard was more cautious and sent William de L'Etang and seven others inside on foot to seek an inn, whilst he and the rest of the party remained outside at a tavern built amongst the straggle of dwellings that overflowed the city boundary. ‘When you are settled, come back and lead us to a different hostelry, for we are too conspicuous in one group,' he commanded.

William, Geoffrey de Clare and six of his Templars strode away while the king and his remaining escort waited uneasily in the outer tavern. They sprawled in exhaustion on benches in the taproom, where Baldwin used Latin mixed with miming signs to order ale and food from a surly potman.

‘There seems no sign of pursuit, sire,' observed John de Wolfe, as they used their knives to attack thick bread trenchers covered with gristly boiled pork and fried onions. ‘I feared that we would have been seized before we could leave Gorizia last night.'

The Lionheart extended his right hand to look at the ruby ring, which Baldwin had brought back from his abortive visit to Count Englebert the previous evening. The courtier again wished that the king would not flash such a striking jewel around in public.

‘He sounded an honourable man, given the circumstances,' declared Richard. ‘I've got my ring back and we still have our freedom.'

Their precipitate departure from Gorizia the previous evening had been in response to Baldwin's urgent concerns. He had been granted an audience with the count and offered him the ring as a goodwill gift from the rich merchant ‘Hugo of Tours' as an overture to requesting a guide for the journey north through the mountains. However, Englebert had handed it back and sardonically told Baldwin that he was well aware that ‘Hugo' was Richard, King of England, for whom half of Europe was searching. Fully expecting to be seized on the spot, Baldwin was astounded when Engelbert told him that both his party and the Lionheart himself were free to depart. The count declared that although he had the duty to arrest him on behalf of his Emperor, the honour King Richard had done him by offering such a valuable gift, made it unchivalrous for him to lay hands upon him in his own city.

When Baldwin brought this news back to the inn, there was no demur when the Lionheart ordered an immediate evacuation, in case Engelbert changed his mind. Paying their bill and forfeiting a night's lodging, they took to their horses and hurriedly rode off in the moonlight, feeling their way along the high road to the north. At least every man now had his own horse, and when Gorizia was five miles behind them, they turned aside into a lonely wooded glen. Here they rolled themselves into their cloaks and lay on the damp turf. Though exhausted, they slept fitfully until dawn, with ears cocked for sounds of pursuit. Unfed, they set off again at first light and still on a good Roman road, reached Udine soon after midday.

They now rested in the tavern outside the town, where to Gwyn's relief, he found that being now in a Germanic region, the inn provided ale as well as wine, even if it tasted quite different to the English variety. Though hardened soldiers, used to extremes of discomfort and privation, the two months at sea and little sleep for several nights had taken their toll on John de Wolfe and his squire. They slumped on hard benches in the tavern, waiting to hear from William about him having obtained accommodation within the city. They drank a few pints of the local brew and promised themselves an early retreat to the mattresses laid out in the loft above, as the early winter dusk was already setting in under an overcast sky.

‘God alone knows what's ahead of us on this journey,' growled de Wolfe. ‘So we'd best get as much rest as we can now.'

Both he and Gwyn had always subscribed to the campaigner's principle that you should eat, sleep and fornicate whenever the opportunity arose, as you never knew when the next chance might come along – especially as perhaps it would never come, given the uncertainties of warfare.

There was also a single room for hire at this inn and Richard had installed himself in it, feeling that even a token display of his true status was long overdue for a king. He had taken himself to it to have a meal brought and then get some sleep, leaving the others of his diminished group in the taproom. Baldwin of Bethune and Philip of Poitou sat on the bench next to John and worried about their royal master's inability to keep a low profile.

‘He grossly overpaid the landlord for the room and food,' fretted Baldwin. ‘And when he handed over the coin, I saw the man's eyes glint when he saw the profusion of gold and jewels on his fingers.'

‘It makes it hard to sustain this pretence that we are travelling pilgrims when our lord persists in such ostentation,' agreed the royal clerk. ‘I wish he would keep those damned rings in his pouch.'

Their grumbling was suddenly interrupted by Gwyn, the one with the keenest ears. ‘What's going on outside?' he growled. ‘I hear the clinking of harness and the rattle of steel?'

‘Probably a messenger from William telling us he's found somewhere better to stay the night,' grunted de Wolfe.

Before he could get up to investigate, a figure appeared in the street doorway. A tall man, dressed in a mailed hauberk and a Norman-style helmet with a nose guard, stared intently around the room. As the ‘pilgrims' scrambled to their feet, the new arrival held up a hand to placate them, as his eyes roved across their faces.

‘Which one of you is Hugo the merchant?' he demanded. To their surprise, he spoke in French, with an accent that was undoubtedly from Normandy.

Baldwin, eyeing the swords that they had stacked in a corner of the room, took a step towards the newcomer. ‘Our master is resting in another room,' he replied, indicating a door in the back wall. ‘But who are you, sir, who speaks the language of my homeland so well?'

The Norman turned and slammed the door shut, but not before the men inside saw two armed soldiers standing in the street. ‘I am Roger of Argentan, a servant of Count Meinhard, the ruler of this region. He has sent me to investigate reports of travellers coming to his city. I need to speak with your leader.'

The inner door opened and the Lionheart appeared, disturbed by the raised voices. ‘Who wants me? And who are you?' he demanded of the man in armour.

If they had been surprised by the man's accent, they were even more astonished when he dropped to his knee before Richard and bent his head in obeisance. ‘My Lord King, it is many years since I saw you that Christmas at Argentan, but I know full well that you are no pilgrim merchant, but Richard Coeur de Lion!'

Two nights later, the depleted band of exhausted fugitives had their first undisturbed sleep since the storm in the Adriatic.

With only ten of them left, they had walked their tired horses up the long track to reach the monastery of Moggio, high above the long valley that cleft the Julian Alps from west to east. Carrying the old
Via Julia Augusta
alongside a wide, stony river bed, the Val Canale joined Italy to Austria, with only the relatively easy Pontebba Pass as a barrier at its western end.

After once again fleeing from Udine, the king and his small party had spent the hours of darkness hiding deep in the forest off the high road. They rode all the next day, afraid to visit inns for food, their horses having to survive on cropping the sparse winter grass in woodland clearings. All they had to eat was some coarse bread that their inconspicuous chaplain and clerk were sent to buy in one of the villages through which they had passed. There was the daunting prospect of yet another night spent in the open, this time well into the cold mountains. Thankfully it had not yet snowed, though plenty lay high up on the peaks on either side of the valley. They survived that night, burrowing under drifts of dry leaves beneath the trees and next day, riding from dawn till dusk, they covered many more miles. As the light faded, the sight of a monastery high on its rock on the valley side was too tempting to be ignored.

‘For the Blessed Christ's sake, we are returning Crusaders, under the Pope's protection!' shouted Richard from his horse. ‘If we can't trust holy men to honour the Truce of God, then I'll stop saying my prayers!'

As they turned off the main road and began to climb the last mile up the mountain track, the cautious Baldwin suggested that they first try their ‘Hugo the pilgrim' ruse, in case the monks had a strong political loyalty and the chaplain agreed with him.

‘The bishops of Bamberg and Salzburg are masters of huge areas of Carinthia and Austria,' advised Anselm. ‘They are almost certainly sympathetic to both Duke Leopold and the Emperor.'

When they reached the monastery, the abbot and his dozen monks seemed to accept their cover story without question and they were given food and a place to sleep in the guest house of the grim edifice. In return, Richard made a generous donation to the abbey coffers, the size of which again made Baldwin and the others concerned that he was drawing unnecessary attention to himself. After the meal, they sat with the abbot and some of the monks in the warming room, the only chamber to have a fire between November and April. The abbot was keen to hear details of their pilgrimage and again it was fortunate that Anselm had actually been to Ephesus and visited the alleged House of the Virgin, so that he was able to spin a convincing tale. They went on to describe their intention of returning to France by way of Moravia and the difficulties of travelling in this region when none of their number spoke German. It was either this friendly conversation or the size of Hugo's gift that must have prompted the abbot to offer them the services of an orphan youth who had been in Moggio since being left there as a baby.

‘He has no interest in serving God as a monk and if he stays here, he will always remain a lay-brother,' explained the abbot. ‘This boy, Joldan, is a clever lad, having picked up Latin from us, as well as having his native German. It seems a waste for him to spend the rest of his life herding goats and hoeing turnips.'

The abbot paused to top up Richard's cup from a jug of hot, spiced wine, before continuing. ‘Joldan has become impressed by travellers' tales of life in the cities and would like nothing better than the chance to seek his fortune in one. He is a wily lad, and would survive and prosper wherever he settled. You could drop him with a few coins at somewhere like Villach or even Judenberg. He can always find his way back here if he so wishes.'

Joldan was brought before them – a wiry boy of about twelve, with a thin, foxy face in which quick, intelligent eyes roved around warily. The old abbot put the proposition to him and the lad eagerly accepted the chance to escape this mountain prison for his imagined paradise of urban life. Richard agreed to take the boy with them when they left in the morning.

‘He can ride up behind you, Gwyn,' he added jovially, the royal spirits restored after a good meal and the prospect of a bed for the night. ‘Your horse will never notice his featherweight, compared to your bulk!'

The Cornishman grinned amiably, as with two boys of his own back in Exeter, he was quite happy to play godfather for a few days. After prayers in the abbey church, to which Anselm willingly contributed, the travellers retired to the guest dormitory and before collapsing on to their pallets, the chaplain led them in private prayers for the safety of their compatriots left behind in Udine.