Crowner's Crusade (7 page)

‘We're going to be sleeping with our feet in the next man's mouth!' grumbled de Wolfe to Gwyn, as they clambered aboard the narrow vessel and surveyed the limited space for their eighteen men. The oarsmen were on a lower deck, not far above water level and above this was a flat main deck with a single mast carrying a triangular sail on a long sloping yard. Towards the stern, there was a wooden canopy arching over the deck to form a rudimentary shelter.

‘I suppose this is where we must live for a week or so,' said Richard cheerfully, revelling in the discomfort and the glum expressions on the faces of his retainers. He marched ahead of them and bent his big body to peer into the low deckhouse. ‘Come on, sirs, think of the adventures you will be able to relate to your grandchildren!' he chided them, ignoring the fact that the Templars were celibate monks.

They managed to squeeze a dozen mattresses into the shelter and the remaining Templars elected to go to the lower deck and find somewhere to lodge right at the stern, near where the two steersmen manoeuvred the long steering oar.

The haggling with the corsair's master for their hire of the galley was carried out partly through the buss's captain, who spoke a little of the Dalmatian language and also through the galley's mate, a villainous-looking Sicilian. He could speak fair Norman-French, so the king, Philip his clerk and Baldwin hammered out an agreement that for two hundred lira, the galley would deliver them to the Hungarian port of Zara, halfway up the Adriatic. These silver coins from Richard's treasure chest were minted in the Italian city state of Lucca and were used all over the Mediterranean lands, especially by Crusaders who used them as a common currency.

After Anselm had said prayers that evening, the new passengers had a remarkably good meal as the vessel sat in the calm anchorage. On the deck below, there was a gap halfway down the rowing benches where on one side the ship's skiff was stored. On the other was a large cooking brazier, where several of the pirate crew grilled scores of skewers carrying hunks of meat, onions and garlic. A couple of these, eaten with olives and flatbread made a satisfying meal, washed down with water and a local wine brought from ashore with the rest of the food.

As darkness fell, they crawled into the deck house to lie on the straw palliasses, squeezed in side by side. Even the king had the same meagre space, as there was no cabin for him on this vessel. With Baldwin on one side and de L'Etang on the other, all royal protocol was banished in the circumstances which had been thrust upon them. However, Richard seemed quite happy to be treated like one of his fellow soldiers and, as he had often done on campaign in Palestine, he shared their discomforts without complaint. Indeed, he seemed to revel in them, as if this was a welcome respite from the cares which had plagued him in the Holy Land and the travails that would face him at home.

John de Wolfe and Gwyn of Polruan were right at the open mouth of the shelter, but driving rain seemed unlikely that night and covered by their cloaks, they were soon sound asleep. When they awoke at dawn, the motion of the ship told them that they were already under way and the unfamiliar rhythmic swish of the oars and the thump of the drum seemed strange after being under sail for so long on the
Franche Nef
. The galley moved rapidly northwards, hugging the barren coast for many miles. Once out of the lee of Corfu island, the motion of the sea increased, but it was nothing like as rough as they had experienced on the trip to Sicily and back. The corsair captain, a sly-looking man with greasy black hair and a dark complexion which defied any guess as to his origins, wanted to follow the usual habit and pull into a bay to spend each night ashore, but the king dipped into his travel fund once more and bribed the man with a few more lira to keep going. They had lost over a week in the futile diversion beyond Sicily and the Lionheart had recurring visions of Philip of France advancing into Normandy in his absence. They were now in the first days of December and he had originally hoped to be home sometime in January, a hope that was now utterly unrealistic.

During the third day, a fresh wind blew from the south-east and the rowers shipped their oars, as the great sail was unfurled and they made just as good progress as from the efforts of the men on the benches below. After two nights spent at sea, the captain flatly refused to again forego their usual practice of going ashore, claiming that the crew would mutiny if made to spend another night on the benches. At dusk, the galley pulled into the shelter of a small bay. The captain was obviously quite familiar with this inlet and at dusk the galley was rowed up on to a soft sandy beach behind the headland. The crew disembarked and at the top of the beach they began building a fire to cook a meal. There were a few fishermen's huts nearby with some small boats drawn up into the bushes. The Sicilian vanished into one of the huts and soon came out to invite the passengers to use some outhouses as shelter for the night. These sheds stank of fish, but at least were stationary, not bobbing up and down and rolling as on the previous two nights when few of the travellers could get much sleep.

On the instructions of the Sicilian, the king's clerk distributed a few Lucca coins to the fishermen for their accommodation and for an ample supply of fresh fish. This was grilled on the fire and with some coarse bread, olives and dried figs, made a welcome meal before settling down to sleep. Next morning the galley was slid back into the sea and they set off northwards once again. Though the sea had become more choppy the previous day, a strong easterly wind now churned it even more and to avoid being blown out to sea, the sail was lowered and they resorted to the oars.

By noon, the weather worsened as the wind shifted more to the north-east and brought a chill with it that warned them that warm Mediterranean days were now well behind them. The Sicilian and the galley master were becoming more animated as they argued and gesticulated towards the land, now about seven miles away on their starboard side. Eventually, the mate came across to speak in his tortured French to Richard and his admiral.

‘It is the
bora
, sirs, and it is getting worse. We cannot carry on, or we will founder. We must seek shelter until it dies down.'

‘And how long might that be?' demanded the king, anxious to get to their landfall in Hungarian territory.

The Sicilian shrugged. ‘Maybe a day – maybe a week. But we must make for Ragusa
³
and hope that God preserves us that far.'

‘How distant is that?' bellowed the Lionheart, his now luxuriant golden beard bristling in his frustration.

‘A few leagues further, sire. A safe harbour, if we can get into it in this weather.'

‘And if not?' demanded Richard.

For answer, the Sicilian crossed himself.

The
bora
worsened during the afternoon and the galley laboured against it, the oarsmen weakening with the sustained effort. The master steered much further towards the coast to try to gain some shelter, but de Wolfe failed to notice much advantage. He was beginning to fear for his life as the rolling and pitching increased and the cries of the rowers below became more strident as they struggled with oars that were deep below water one moment and pointing at the sky the next, water pouring over the low bulwarks as the hull corkscrewed along.

‘A hell of way to die after all we've been through, Gwyn!' John muttered to his squire and friend, as he clung to the rail and stared anxiously at the grey cliffs that were now only a mile away.

The former fisherman, who had spent years off the Atlantic cliffs of Cornwall, was philosophical about it, as were so many sailors, few of whom ever learned to swim. ‘Never say die until you draw that last breath, Sir John!' he advised. ‘This master, bloody pirate though he be, seems a good seaman.'

As the early dusk of winter began to close in, the galley captain and his mate seemed to get more agitated, pointing ahead where a faint light shone from a headland a mile or two away. As they laboured nearer, they could see a flickering flame from a fire burning in a large brazier high on the cliff.

‘Just beyond that beacon is the bay of Ragusa,' yelled the Sicilian, pointing at it. ‘But the wind will be worse when we pass the shelter of the cliffs.'

He staggered back along the deck and went down the ladder to survey the shambles below where stores and provisions were rolling about. The oarsmen were desperately trying to keep stroke with the drum, even though the inboard ends of the sweeps were fighting them at every heave.

Within an hour, the mate's forecast proved correct, as when the galley turned east to enter the bay, the full force of the gale struck them, coming straight off the snow-covered mountains of the Balkans.

All the passengers, now wet through with spray, either clung on to the top of the bulwarks or lay in the shelter, hanging on to the ribs at the sides to avoid being rolled across the deck. De Wolfe and Gwyn stood hunched, clinging to the rail, looking ahead into the gloom, the wind tearing at their hair and clothing. It came in gusts, sometimes dying down for a few moments, allowing the oarsmen to recover some semblance of rhythm. But a moment later, a gust like a hammer blow would come again and, several times, John feared that the vessel would capsize.

King Richard, standing a few yards away, was obviously of the same opinion. ‘If God wills us to survive,' he cried, ‘I solemnly promise to pay for a church on the spot where we land, in grateful thanks for His compassion!' Turning to his chaplain, who stood alongside him with his clerk Philip, he made sure that the Almighty heard his promise. ‘Mark my words well, Anselm, and ensure that my soul be damned if I do not fulfil this heartfelt vow!'

He crossed himself as he spoke and the priest followed suit. The other knights heard him swear his oath, but were more concerned with muttering their own prayers for survival as they anxiously scanned the coast for any sign of the harbour.

‘There's an island coming up, with a light on it,' yelled Baldwin, who as a self-confessed landlubber, had suffered badly from seasickness throughout the voyage. However, when the violence of a gale was this bad,
mal de mer
was banished by the prospect of impending doom.

‘That's the Isle of Lokrum, just outside Ragusa,' replied Robert de Turnham, who had been here before on a voyage from Venice.

‘I can see faint lights beyond it, in the distance,' shouted Gwyn. ‘That must be the port. Another mile or two and we'll be safe!'

They passed the wooded island, now just visible in the gloom and headed for the flares of the distant harbour in what was momentarily, a lull in the gale. But just as everyone was thanking Jesus Christ, the Virgin and every saint in the calendar for their deliverance, a violent squall roared across the water and hit them on the port side. There were yells and screams from below as the inboard ends of the long oars swept men from their benches, then the galley heeled over, water pouring over the lee bulwarks of the lower deck. For a moment, the vessel was poised on the very brink of capsizing, but at the last second, the force of the wind on the hull slewed it around and drove it careering back towards Lokrum, now only a few hundred yards distant. Either their combined prayers – or the Lionheart's vow to endow a new church – must have persuaded the Almighty to preserve them, for the galley was driven straight on to the only safe patch of beach which lay between large boulders at the foot of a wooded hill. Though it was not soft sand, it was at least pebble and shingle, free of any large rocks. The shallow draught of the hull slid up with a grinding noise that could be heard even above the howling of the gale.

‘Get yourselves off as fast as you can!' yelled Gwyn, whose stentorian voice was a match for even the worst weather. ‘Get ashore in case she's sucked back by the undertow.'

There was a scramble for the ladders down to the rowing deck, with the king's inner circle and the Templars making sure that Richard was safe – though his own bull-like roar made it equally sure that his small treasure chest was carried along with them. Thankfully, the almost flat keel of the vessel kept her upright and though a wind-lashed surf was rolling up the beach, the castaways found that by moving almost to the bows before jumping over the low sides, the water was then only waist-deep. There was still a glimmer of twilight in the far western sky, enough to let them stumble from the waves that sucked at their legs and to crunch their way up the beach. The shipmaster and the Sicilian were yelling at their crew to take ropes from the bows and trail them up the beach to secure the galley to the nearest trees.

The pines grew almost down to the pebbles and once free of the water, John de Wolfe looked up in the dim light at the steep hill that was Lokrum. ‘There's a light up there at the top,' he growled at Gwyn, as they stood shivering and shaking water from themselves like dogs.

‘Let's hope there's also a good fire up there as well. I'm as cold as a whore's heart,' replied his companion, squeezing water from his wild hair and long moustaches.

‘Over here, all my good men!' shouted the king, rallying his exhausted entourage around him under the trees. ‘Are we all here, safe and sound?'

The energetic Baldwin checked their party and found every soul present, albeit drenched and bedraggled. Philip of Poitou also confirmed that the small treasure chest was safe, inside which was another box which carried Richard's narrow battle crown and his Great Seal.

‘That poor thing has been shipwrecked twice now,' bellowed the king. ‘It must have the nine lives of a cat!'

His official seal, which was impressed on to the wax of all documents to confirm that they bore his royal will, had been lost on the outward journey to the Holy Land. His seal-bearer, Roger Malcael, was drowned when his ship, part of the flotilla that also carried Berengaria and the king's sister Joanne, was wrecked off Cyprus. Miraculously, his dead body was washed ashore with the seal still hanging from a chain around his neck.