Lionheart (18 page)

WHEN THEY GOT to Bagnara, they found Richard’s private galley waiting for them. So was the royal fleet, having at last caught up with the king, and Morgan thought it was an astounding and magnificent sight: over a hundred ships riding at anchor, so many masts reaching skyward that it was like gazing upon a floating forest. They crossed the straits without difficulty and set up tents upon the beach a few miles from Messina. At supper that night, Richard had his companions in hysterics as he related the day’s misadventure, comically describing the goshawk, the enraged rustics, and the woman armed with a deadly broom. It was an amusing story and Morgan conceded that Richard told it well; too well, for the men were laughing so much that they did not seem to realize what a narrow escape their king had in that little village near Mileto. He could have been killed or severely wounded by one of those understandably irate peasants, and what would have befallen their holy quest then? It was a question that would trouble Morgan’s peace in the days and weeks to come.

THE CITIZENS OF MESSINA had been disappointed by the French king’s inconspicuous entry into their city, for they’d become accustomed to splendor and pageantry from their royalty. But Philippe had no interest in impressing Sicilian merchants and burghers. He’d been suffering from seasickness brought on by a storm so violent they’d had to jettison some of their supplies to stay afloat, and he’d wanted only to set his feet on firm land again. Moreover, he was shrewd enough to realize that Tancred, an insecure king of dubious bloodlines, would not appreciate being outshone by foreign monarchs. And he was rewarded for his modest arrival, being welcomed warmly on Tancred’s behalf by Jordan Lapin, the new Governor of Messina, who turned the royal palace over to the French for their stay in Sicily.

PHILIPPE WAS ENTERTAINING a delegation of Sicilian lords and prelates, including Jordan Lapin; Margaritis of Brindisi, the highly respected admiral of Tancred’s fleet; and Richard Palmer, an Englishman who’d managed to become the Archbishop of Messina. Attendants padded in and out, bringing dishes of ripe fruit and refilling wine cups. They were, Philippe thought, the perfect servants, invisible and deferential. It was unsettling, though, to be waited upon by men of the same blood as those he’d be fighting in Outremer. Sicily was a strange land, and while he admired its riches, he could not help wondering if it was truly a Christian kingdom. In his brief stay, he’d seen indications of indolence and moral laxity, the same corrupt influences that had tainted society in Aquitaine and Toulouse. He would be glad when he could depart for the Holy Land and was disheartened to be told that the season for sailing was all but past, that winter storms would make it too dangerous to venture out onto the open sea.

“And so, my lord,” the archbishop was saying with a genial smile, “it is our hope that you’ll give consideration to our king’s offer of an alliance between the kingdoms of France and Sicily. Lord Tancred has several lovely daughters, any one of whom would make a fine queen for you or mayhap a bride for your young son.”

“I am honored by the offer,” Philippe said with a noncommittal smile of his own, wondering if Tancred really thought he’d jeopardize his friendship with the Holy Roman Emperor for an alliance with a bastard-born usurper as likely to be overthrown by his own subjects as by the Germans. “I have indeed heard of the beauty of your king’s daughters.”

“We want to make your stay in Sicily as pleasant as possible, my lord king. I hope you will not hesitate to ask if I may be of any service whatsoever,” Jordan Lapin was declaring when one of the admiral’s men entered and murmured a few words in his ear.

Margaritis rose at once. “I ask your pardon, my liege, but we must depart. Richard of England’s fleet is entering the harbor.”

Philippe did not believe in delaying unpleasant tasks, preferring to get them over with as soon as possible. “We will accompany you,” he said, rising, too. “I am eager to see the English king, who is my former brother by marriage and a valued ally.”

THE WHARVES, DOCKS, AND BEACHES were crowded with spectators by the time Philippe and the Sicilian officials arrived. Coming to a halt, they gaped at the drama being played out before them. As far as the eye could see were brightly painted warships, shields hanging over the gunwales of the galleys, banners and pennons flying from their mastheads, as the oarsmen rowed in time to the beat of drums. Trumpets were blaring and horns blasting. The sun glittered on metallic hauberks and helmets, the turquoise waters of the harbor churning with frothy waves. And with an unerring instinct for stagecraft, Richard was standing erect in the prow of the lead galley, bareheaded, the wind tousling his red-gold hair, regal and proud, the very essence of what a king ought to be, all that Philippe Capet was not.

For that was the thought, however unkind, that crossed the minds of those witnessing Richard’s spectacular entry into Messina. It crossed Philippe’s mind, too, as he made ready to welcome his “brother by marriage and valued ally.”

AFTER RICHARD’S ARRIVAL, Philippe made a rash decision quite out of character for him, announcing that he would leave at once for the Holy Land although the sailing season was rapidly coming to a close. But even nature seemed to be conspiring against him, for no sooner had he left the harbor than contrary winds sprang up, forcing him to abandon his impulsive plan. For better or worse, he would be wintering in Sicily with the English king.

MATTHEW OF AJELLO, the new chancellor of Sicily, arrived at the royal palace in Catania several hours after Compline. He was not in a cheerful frame of mind, for it had been raining for most of the day and wet weather aggravated his gout. He knew why he’d been summoned at such an hour. Tancred had heard of the English king’s arrival in Messina.

He was escorted at once up to Tancred’s private chamber, where he found the king, his wife Sybilla, her brother Riccardo, the Count of Acerra, and their eldest son, Roger. So this was to be a family conference, was it? Matthew did not blame Tancred for taking his troubles to heart. God knows, he had enough of them. They’d finally put down the Saracen rebellion, and a German force led by the Bishop of Mainz had been repelled that past May. But the Saracens did not have the same loyalty to Tancred that they had to William. It was only a matter of time until Heinrich launched a full-scale invasion. And now they had the English king to deal with, a man with the Devil’s own temper, and a genuine grievance against Tancred. No, Matthew understood why Tancred had so many wakeful nights and uneasy days. What he did not understand was why Tancred was suddenly balking at taking his advice. Who’d have thought that it would be so much easier to make him king than to keep him one?

Matthew took a seat as close as he could get to the brazier of smoldering sea coals, for at his age, the cold and damp seemed to penetrate into his very bones. He smiled gratefully when Roger hurried over with a stool so he could prop up his throbbing foot. He was a good lad, Roger, would make a good king one day—if they made no foolish mistakes now, if he could get Tancred to listen to reason.

Sybilla, a conscientious hostess even in the midst of a crisis, had seen to it that a cup of his favorite wine was waiting for Matthew. Before he could touch it, Tancred leaned across the table and thrust a letter toward him. “A message from the English king,” he said. “Read it.”

Matthew had barely scanned the letter before Tancred erupted. “He demands that I send his sister to him in Messina with an escort to see to her safety, that I restore all of her dower lands to her, and for good measure, that I compensate her for the ‘suffering’ she endured at my hands. From the hostile tone of this letter, you’d think I’d been holding the woman in an underground dungeon instead of at the Zisa Palace!”

“For all we know, he may have been told that she was being maltreated,” Matthew said, reading the letter again, more deliberately this time.

“I do not care if he thinks I sold her to the Caliph of Baghdad! You’ve read the letter, Matthew. This is not the language that one king uses to another king.”

“No . . . it is the language of an angry brother, one with a formidable fleet at his command and the largest army ever to set foot on Sicilian soil.”

Tancred gave Matthew a sharp look. “I do not want to have that argument again, Matthew. You made it quite clear that you think we’d do better in seeking an alliance with England, not France. But I will not be treated as if I am of no consequence. I am an anointed king, and by God, he will acknowledge me as one!”