Lionheart (2 page)

PROLOGUE

Theirs was a story that would rival the legend of King Arthur and Guinevere, his faithless queen. He was Henry, firstborn son of the Count of Anjou and the Empress Maude, and from an early age, he’d seemed to be one of Fortune’s favorites. Whilst still Duke of Normandy, he’d dared to steal a queen, and by the time he was twenty-one, he’d claimed the crown that had eluded the Empress Maude. She was Eleanor, Duchess of Aquitaine, a great heiress and a great beauty who trailed scandal in her wake, her tragedy that she was a woman born in an age in which power was the preserve of men. The French king Louis had rejected Eleanor for her failure to give him a male heir. She gave Henry five, four of whom survived to manhood. They ruled over an empire that stretched from Scotland to the Mediterranean Sea, and for a time, their union seemed blessed.

Henry loved his sons, but not enough to share power with them. Nor would he give Eleanor a say in the governance of her beloved Aquitaine. The result would be the Great Rebellion of 1173, in which Henry’s three eldest sons rose up against him, urged on by their mother, his own queen, an act of betrayal unheard of in their world. Henry won the war, but at great cost. His sons he could forgive; Eleanor he could not, for she’d inflicted a wound that would never fully heal.

Henry sought to make peace with his sons, but they were bitter that he continued to hold their mother prisoner and resentful that he kept them under a tight rein. Because he felt he could no longer trust them, he tried to bribe or coerce them into staying loyal. A great king, he would prove to be a failure as a father, for he was unable to learn from his mistakes.

His eldest and best-loved son, Hal—beguiling and handsome and utterly irresponsible—died in another rebellion against his sire, repenting when he was on his deathbed, when it was too late.

Upon Hal’s death, the heir apparent was his brother Richard, who’d been raised in Eleanor’s Aquitaine, meant from birth to rule over her duchy. Geoffrey, the third brother, had been wed to a great heiress of his own, Constance, the Duchess of Brittany. And then there was John, called John Lackland by his father in jest, for by the time he was born, there was little left for a younger fourth son. Henry was bound and determined to provide for John, too, and he unwittingly unleashed the furies that would bring about his ruin.

Henry demanded that Richard yield up Aquitaine to John, reasoning that Richard no longer needed the duchy now that he was to inherit an empire. But Richard loved Aquitaine, as he loved his imprisoned mother, and he would never forgive Henry for trying to take the duchy from him.

Henry made the same mistake with Geoffrey, withholding a large portion of his wife’s Breton inheritance to ensure Geoffrey’s good behavior. He only succeeded in driving Geoffrey into rebellion, too, and he’d allied himself with Philippe, the young French king, when he was killed in a tournament outside Paris.

The king who’d once jested about his surfeit of sons now had only two. When he stubbornly refused to recognize Richard as his heir, his son began to suspect that he meant to disinherit him in favor of John. Following in the footsteps of his brothers Hal and Geoffrey, Richard turned to the French king for aid, and it eventually came to war. By then, Henry was ailing and did not want to fight his own son. Richard no longer trusted him, though, and Henry was forced to make a humiliating surrender. But the worst was still to come. As Henry lay feverish and wretched at Chinon Castle, he learned that John, the son for whom he’d sacrificed so much, had betrayed him, making a private peace with Richard and King Philippe. Henry died two days later, crying, “Shame upon a conquered king.” Few mourned. As was the way of their world, eyes were already turning from the sunset to the rising sun, to the man acclaimed as one of the best battle commanders in all of Christendom, Richard, first of that name to rule England since the Conquest.

CHAPTER 1

JULY 1189

Aboard the Galley
San Niccolò

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Alicia had been fearful long before she faced death in the Straits of Messina. She’d been afraid since the spring, when she’d lost her father and the only home she’d ever known. Even the arrival of her brother Arnaud did not ease her anxiety, for he was ill equipped to assume responsibility for a little sister. Arnaud was a warrior monk, one of that famed brotherhood-in-arms known as the Knights Templar, returning to Outremer to join the struggle to free the Holy City of Jerusalem from the infidels known as Saracens or Turks. Unable either to provide for Alicia’s future or to abandon her, he’d felt compelled to take her with him. Alicia was grateful, but bewildered, too, for she did not know what awaited her in the Holy Land, and she suspected that her brother did not know, either. As he was her only lifeline, she had no choice but to trust in Arnaud and God as they left France behind.

The overland journey had been hard upon a young girl unaccustomed to travel. Arnaud had been kind in a distracted sort of way, though, and his fellow Templars had done their best to shield her from the rigors of the road, so some of her anxiety had begun to subside by the time they reached Genoa. But her fear came rushing back as soon as she set foot upon the wet, quaking deck of the
San Niccolò
.

Arnaud was pleased that he’d been able to book passage on a galley, explaining to Alicia that it would not be becalmed like naves and busses that relied solely upon sails, showing her the two banks of oars on each side of the ship. Alicia saw only how low it rode in the water, and she no longer worried about her uncertain prospects in Outremer, sure that she’d never survive the sea voyage.

She’d become seasick even before the Genoese lighthouse had receded into the distance. During the day, she huddled miserably in her small allotted space on the deck, obeying Arnaud’s orders not to mingle with the other passengers, trying to settle her queasy stomach by nibbling on the twice-baked ship’s biscuits. While some of the passengers had brought their own food, Arnaud had not, for he took seriously his Templar vows of poverty, obedience, and abstinence. The nights were by far the worst, and Alicia dreaded to see the sun sink into the sea behind them. She slept poorly, kept awake by the creaking and groaning of the ship’s timbers, the relentless pounding of waves against the hull, the snoring of their neighbors, and the skittering sounds made by rats and mice unseen in the darkness. Each passenger was provided with a terra-cotta chamber pot and, with every breath she took, she inhaled the rank smells of urine and vomit and sweat. Lying awake as the hours dragged by until dawn, scratching flea bites and blinking back tears as she remembered the peaceful and familiar life that had once been hers, she yearned for the comfort of her brother’s embrace, but Templars were forbidden to show physical affection to women, even their own mothers and sisters.

While most of the passengers were males, merchants and pilgrims and swaggering youths who’d taken the cross and boasted endlessly about the great deeds they’d perform in the Holy Land, there were several women returning to Tyre with their husbands after visiting family back in France, and even a few female pilgrims determined to fulfill their vows in the midst of war. One kindly matron would have taken Alicia under her wing, touched by the girl’s youth, but Alicia was too shy to respond, not wanting to displease Arnaud.

She did listen to the other woman’s cheerful conversation, though, marveling that she seemed so blithe about coming back to a land under siege. The port of Tyre and a few scattered castles were all that was left to the Christians in the Holy Land. Acre, Jaffa, and the sacred city of Jerusalem had all fallen to the infidels. On their journey, Alicia had heard her brother rant about the wickedness of the Saracens, bitterly cursing the man who led them, the Sultan of Egypt and Syria, Salah al-Dīn, known to the Christians as Saladin. Every time Alicia heard the name of Arnaud’s godless nemesis, she shivered. Arnaud’s courage was beyond question. He didn’t even seem afraid of the perilous, hungry sea. If he died fighting the infidels, his entry into Paradise would be assured. But what would happen to her?

Arnaud had told her that their voyage to Tyre would take about thirty-five days, explaining that the prevailing winds blew from the west and they’d make faster time with the wind at their back. Voyages from the Holy Land took much longer, he said, since ships were sailing into the wind. When he added casually that it mattered naught to them since they’d not be returning to France, Alicia felt a pang of dismay, for she did not know if she wanted to live out her life in the alien, war-torn kingdom known as Outremer—the Land beyond the Sea. She’d overheard Arnaud talking about her to one of his Templar companions, saying that he knew the abbess of Our Lady of Tyre and she might be willing to take his sister in as a boarder and later as a novice. Alicia realized she could not stay with Arnaud in Tyre, for women were banned from their temples and commanderies, even orphaned little sisters. But she was not sure she wanted to be a nun. Shouldn’t that be a free choice, not a last resort? Wouldn’t it please the Lord Christ more if His brides came to Him willingly, not because they had nowhere else to go?

The weather had remained clear for the first week, but as they approached the isle of Sicily, they could see smoke rising up into the sky. Alicia’s brother told her this was Sicily’s famous Mountain of Fire, which many claimed to be one of the portals of Hell, for it belched smoke and noxious fumes and even liquid flames that spilled over the slope and burned a path of destruction down to the sea. Arnaud and his companions had already alarmed her by relating the ancient legend of Scylla, a six-headed sea monster who lurked in a cave facing the Straits of Messina. Directly opposite her was Charybdis, a whirlpool waiting to suck ships into its maw. If ships trying to avoid Charybdis ventured too close to Scylla’s cave, she seized these unlucky vessels and feasted upon the captured sailors. Realizing belatedly that this was no story for his young sister’s ears, Arnaud had hastened to reassure her that the tale was merely folklore. She wanted to believe him, but a land that harbored fiery mountains might easily shelter sea monsters, too, and each time she eyed the distant Sicilian coastline, she surreptitiously made the sign of the cross.

The other passengers were increasingly uneasy as they drew closer to the Faro, the straits separating Sicily from the mainland. Even the sailors seemed on edge, for at its narrowest point, it was only two miles wide and the currents were notoriously turbulent, seething like a “boiling cauldron” one merchant said grimly.
Like Charybdis,
Alicia thought, wondering which was worse, to be drowned or devoured, and wondering, too, what other trials lay ahead.

She was not long in finding out. A darkening sky warned of a coming storm, and the ship’s master ordered that the sails be lowered as the wind rose and black, ominous clouds clustered overhead. The rain held off, but the sea soon pitched and rolled wildly, their ship sinking into troughs so deep that they were walled in by water. As the galley floundered, they were drenched by the waves breaking over the gunwales, bruised and battered against the heaving deck, tossed about like so many rag dolls. Sure that death was imminent, passengers and sailors alike offered up desperate prayers, but by now the wind was so loud they could not even hear their own words. Alicia was so petrified that her throat had closed up, and she could neither pray nor weep, waiting mutely for Scylla or Charybdis to claim the
San Niccolò
and end their suffering.

When the ship suddenly shuddered and stopped dead in the water, she was sure that they had been seized by Scylla’s bloody talons. But the sailors were yelling and scrambling across the deck, and after a time, she could comprehend what Arnaud was shouting into her ear. “We’ve run aground!”

Grappling for boat hooks and oars, the crew sought to push off from the shoal. But as the galley fought for its life, one of its two masts snapped in half and plunged into the sea. The ship’s master lurched toward Arnaud and the other Templars. Knowing he could not compete with the howling wind, he relied upon gestures, pointing toward the longboat tethered in the stern and then toward the knights’ scabbards. Arnaud was quick to understand. They were going to launch the longboat and try to reach the shore, less than half a mile away, and the master wanted them to maintain order, to keep the panicked passengers from mobbing the boat. Grasping Alicia by her shoulders, he pulled her to her feet, holding her tightly as they headed for the stern.

Alicia could never clearly recall her final moments upon the
San Niccolò
. She had only snatches of memory—the men kept at bay by the drawn swords of the Templars, the most important of the passengers scrambling into the longboat, the eerie calm of the ship’s master and the ashen-faced sailors. Once the affluent merchants, the women, an archdeacon, and several priests had climbed aboard, the master gestured for the Templars to join them. They were men who’d tested their courage against Saracen steel, and they did not hesitate now, sheathing their swords and clambering into the longboat. Alicia was too frozen with fear to move. Arnaud picked her up as if she were a feather, telling her to close her eyes as the longboat was lowered into the heaving sea.

Her memory went blank at that point, and the next thing she remembered, the current had thrust their little craft onto the Sicilian shoreline. The oarsmen leaped out into the water and began to drag the boat up onto the beach, and soon the passengers were jumping to safety, falling to their knees and thanking the Almighty for their deliverance. People seemed to have appeared from nowhere, helping the shipwreck survivors away from the crashing waves. An elderly man speaking a tongue that was utterly incomprehensible to Alicia jerked off his own mantle and wrapped her in it. She tried to thank him, but her teeth were chattering too much for speech. Someone else was offering a wineskin and she obeyed unthinkingly, gasping as the liquid burned its way down her throat. But where was Arnaud?

When she saw her brother standing by the beached longboat, she stumbled toward him, crying out in horror as she realized what was happening. Several of the sailors had balked, but the others were going back for the doomed passengers and their shipmates, and the Templars were going with them.

Arnaud turned as she screamed his name. He was saying that they were needed to help man the oars, saying there were Christian pilgrims still on the ship and it was his duty to rescue them, that it would shame him to stay on shore whilst the sailors braved the sea again. Alicia didn’t understand, didn’t even hear his words. Sobbing, she clung to him with all her feeble strength, begging him not to go, and he finally had to tear himself away, kissing her upon the forehead before he shoved her back onto the sand. “God will protect me,” he insisted, with a grimace that he meant as a smile, and then scrambled into the longboat as they launched it out onto the churning waves.

By the time Alicia got to her feet, her brother was gone. Others had joined her at the water’s edge, watching as the longboat fought the storm. It had almost reached the trapped ship when it was slammed by a monster wave. Alicia began to scream even before the longboat disappeared into its roiling depths. Hands were gripping her now, pulling her away, but she paid them no heed. Her eyes frantically searching the raging sea, she continued to scream for her brother.

THE MALE SURVIVORS of the
San Niccolò
wreck were given shelter at the monastery of San Salvatore dei Greci overlooking the harbor, and the injured women had been taken to the convent of Santa Maria della Valle, just west of Messina. Having strangers in their midst was always disruptive for the nuns, but it was the arrival of William de Hauteville and his entourage that created the real excitement, especially among the novices, for not even nuns were immune to his potent appeal of beauty, high birth, and gallant good manners.

“We were expecting a visit from you, my lord,” the mother abbess said with a fond smile, for she’d known William for most of his thirty-six years. “You’ve always been very generous to those poor souls shipwrecked in your domains, and I was sure you’d be no less openhanded with the survivors of the
San Niccolò
.”

“I do but follow the teachings of Our Lord Christ
,”
William said, with becoming modesty and a dazzling smile. “‘Be ye therefore merciful, as Your Father also is merciful.’” They were walking in the gardens, lush with summer blooms, for Sicily had been blessed with a mild climate. William paused to pluck a fragrant flower and presented it to the elderly abbess with a flourish. “Have your hosteller speak with my steward, my lady abbess, and he will reimburse your abbey for the expenses you’ve incurred in caring for these castaways. I’ve given orders that men should search the beaches for the dead, but I doubt that their bodies will be recovered. It is a sad fate to be denied a Christian burial, especially for the Knights of God. They deserved better than that.”