“He did. When he charged us with looking after his squires, he said, ‘Guilhem has already been a guest of the Saracens.’ He made a grim jest, then, about Heinrich being a less gentle gaoler than Saladin.”
It had been intolerable for Guilhem, thinking that the king had judged him to be unworthy. But now that he knew better, he found it brought him little comfort, for the king’s need had never been greater and he would be hundreds of miles away, unable to help. When he slumped down on a coffer chest, Jean squeezed his shoulder again and then left so he might have some time alone.
Guilhem did not linger long in the tent. Draining the wineskin, he followed his brother back on deck, where he shoved his way toward the gunwale. There he stood, neither moving nor speaking, watching until the pirate galleys had disappeared from view.
CHAPTER TWO
NOVEMBER 1192
Aboard the Pirate Galley Sea-Wolf Adriatic Sea
Richard was accustomed to living on familiar terms with Death, but never had it been so close, so insistent. His body was as bruised as if he’d been absorbing blows from Saracen maces and he could still taste blood in his mouth after he’d been slammed to the deck as the galley heeled suddenly. Their tent was no protection against the stinging rain, for the canvas was being shredded by the wind. They huddled together for warmth and for protection, clinging tightly to one another to avoid being swept overboard. One of the pirates had lost his footing and would have gone over the gunwale if not for Guillain de l’Etang’s strength; he’d grabbed the man’s ankle and held on until other crew members could haul him back onto the deck. All of the men had become violently seasick once the storm struck, even the sailors, and the tent reeked of vomit, sweat, and fear.
As the Sea-Wolf rode the crest of another wave, the men tensed. Georgios, the pirate chieftain, had told them that they had a chance as long as Spyro, the helmsman, could keep the galley from being hit broadside. But it was terrifying to slide down into a trough, blinded by the flying spray, drenched by the cold water breaking over the galley. Each time it happened, there was a frozen moment in which they were sure they’d continue their downward plunge. When the ship continued to fight the sea, rising up again, they exhaled ragged breaths and thought of their God, their women, their homelands.
Richard found himself remembering a delirious night at Jaffa after he’d been stricken with quartan fever; he’d begun hallucinating, convinced his dead brother Geoffrey was there, laughing in the shadows beyond his bed. Closing his eyes now, he could hear echoes of Geoffrey’s lazily mocking voice. Face it, Richard, you’ll never make old bones. Other men lust after women. You lust after Death, always have. You’ve been chasing after her like a lovesick lad, and sooner or later she’ll take pity and let you catch her.
“No,” he said suddenly, “that’s not so!” He did not lust after Death, did not want to follow her into the black depths of this frigid, hungry sea. Those nearest to him turned at the sound of his voice, their eyes questioning, hopeful, for they hung on his every pronouncement, as if he alone could save them. Men had been depending upon him like that since his twenty-first year, when he’d taken the impregnable Taillebourg Castle, proudly proving to the world and his father that he understood war the way a bishop understood Scriptures. On the battlefield, he had answers, knew what to do. But on the pitching deck of the Sea-Wolf, he was as helpless as young Arne.
“Lord king!” Petros lurched into the tent, followed by the pirate chief, who squatted down as the sailor from Messina translated for him. Georgios hadn’t yet lost all of his bravado, but it was fraying around the edges and his dark eyes were somber even if his manner was blasé. “He wants me to tell you,” Petros said, “that his helmsman still cannot head for shore. As long as the night and storm obscure the coast, he does not know where we are.” As unwelcome as his words were, none thought to challenge him, for they’d seen the sheer cliffs to starboard earlier in the day; unless they were sure there was a harbor or cove hidden by the darkness, the galley would be dashed to pieces against those rocks if it ventured too close to land. Georgios spoke again, Petros cocking his head to listen. “He’s never seen a storm as fierce as this one, lord. He says that every sailor knows women and dead bodies are bad luck on shipboard. But he never knew kings could be bad luck, too.”