Bernard Knight - Crowner's Crusade

His brother-in-law was Sir Richard de Revelle, a wealthy knight with aspirations as a politician. He had estates in several counties in the West Country and had been sheriff of Somerset for a short time. John detested him even more than he disliked his own wife. De Revelle had carefully avoided joining the king in either his French wars or in taking the Cross for service in the Holy Land. De Wolfe strongly suspected him of being a covert supporter of Prince John’s intrigues to unseat the Lionheart from the throne, as he had been cultivating a close association with some of the canons of the cathedral, who were in favour of the prince as the new king.

‘My wife wants me to buy a house in the city when I return,’ grumbled de Wolfe. ‘She was content for us to live with her cousin in Fore Street for the past few years, but managed to insinuate herself into her brother’s household when I left for Palestine. God knows how she gets on with his wife, the icy Eleanor, for they dislike each other intensely.’

Gwyn nodded his shaggy head understandingly. ‘Thank Jesus I don’t have that sort of trouble. My good wife Agnes manages to survive on the loot I left her last time I was home, though she also keeps a cow, some fowls and a goat in our backyard to make a few more pennies.’ Gwyn rented a small cottage in the village of St Sidwell, just outside Exeter’s East Gate.

Their discussion of family matters was ended by the gong which summoned them to their midday dinner. By now, a crewman had taken advantage of the calmer weather to light a charcoal brazier and as all the meat had long been eaten or gone rotten, fish was on the menu, bought from a small boat that came out to them from the islands. At least it was fresh, a great improvement on the dried stuff that came from casks in the hold. The last of the bread from Rhodes had gone mouldy but there was plenty of hard, unleavened biscuit. The fish were grilled on skewers over the brazier and a passable meal was handed around, washed down by either brackish water or the indifferent wine from Acre.

The passage across the gap between Zathynkos and Ithaca took a couple of days, the erudite chaplain Anselm informing anyone who would listen that the latter island was the home of Odysseus, news which was lost on all his flock, none of whom had ever heard of The Odyssey .

The king was becoming more impatient as time went on, urging the shipmaster and his High Admiral to push on with greater speed, something which the clumsy buss was incapable of doing. Richard was anxious for more up-to-date news of what his enemies were doing, both in their efforts to block his return home and what avaricious designs Philip Augustus now had on Normandy. Before leaving Acre, he had sent a fast galley to Messina to inform Tancred that he expected to be in Corfu in a few weeks’ time and fervently hoped that the Sicilian would honour his promise to send couriers with the latest information.

Out beyond the shelter of the coast, the sea became rougher again and it was with relief that the hazy outline of Corfu became visible on the morning of the ninth day of November.

Next day, they had clawed their way up the inner side of the large island to reach Kirkira, the main city and port, where with great thankfulness, they dropped anchor. Corfu was also part of the Byzantine Empire ruled from Constantinople and Richard and his advisers were unsure of the reception they would get there. Philip of France had also called at Corfu on his way home the previous year and Richard was not sure of what poisonous lies he had left behind him about his rival. It was known that he had been proclaiming all over Europe that the Norman king had been trying to kill him and also the lie that he had ordered the fatal stabbing of Conrad Montferrat, ruler of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. However, it was imperative that they learned what they could from Tancred’s messengers, as well as taking on food and water for the next leg of the voyage, as by now their stores were seriously depleted.

‘You go with William and Baldwin, John,’ commanded the Lionheart, as the ship’s boat was lowered over the side. ‘Seek out these men from Sicily, if God willing, they have arrived. Take Gwyn with you, he is worth any three men if you have to fight your way back!’

They dressed in sober clothing with no rich adornments, so as not to attract undue attention, and left the Templars on board, as they were not always welcomed by the Orthodox communities. They clambered gingerly into the small boat and two crewmen rowed them the half mile to the long curving beach with its stone jetty. Many ships were drawn up on the strand, including Venetian trading vessels hibernating for the coming winter.

The boat grounded on the sand near the base of the jetty and the three knights waded ashore, Gwyn following behind, his old sword scabbard slung across his back from a leather strap. They climbed a slope up to the town, where several streets rambled away, lined with a mixture of wooden and stone buildings, the latter gleaming in the autumn sun. The people in those streets were even more mixed than the buildings. Some of them wore Moorish robes, others dressed like farm peasants and yet more were obviously merchants, artisans and labourers.

The four men attracted curious glances and some hostile glares, for it seemed that everyone knew that it was the ship belonging to the King of England that lay at anchor in their bay.

‘Keep your hands near your weapons,’ advised William de L’Etang. ‘Some of these fellows don’t seem all that pleased to see us.’

They strode up the main street away from the sea and it seemed to John that the crowds parted to let them pass, as if they might have some contagious disease.

Gwyn moved up to walk alongside de Wolfe and muttered in his ear. ‘How are we supposed to find these Sicilian messengers? We know no one here to enquire, do we?’

‘I understand that they will find us, if they are here. If not, we must return to the ship after a couple of hours.’

As they walked farther from the more open area near the beach, the main street closed in, with many narrow, crooked alleys running off on each side. The smell of a town grew stronger, a mixture of cooking, sewage, rubbish and unwashed humanity. Though well used to similar odours in almost every town they had ever visited, after weeks at sea in clean, open air, the stink affected their nostrils more than usual. Shops and stalls lined the road, a haphazard collection selling all manner of goods, as Corfu was a meeting place of several cultures. Venice had strong trading links with it and Italy was not far over the western horizon. Merchants from North Africa and the Levant added a Muslim flavour, the various styles of clothing of all these people making a bewildering mixture.

‘No one has approached us yet,’ said Baldwin, looking around expectantly. ‘Maybe those couriers from Tancred never arrived. Shipwrecked perhaps, if they were as foolish as us to venture on the high seas at this time of year.’

Soon the road widened out into a marketplace, even more crowded and chaotic than the main street. Amid the stalls and booths, old women sat on the ground amid piles of vegetables and fruit, donkeys and packhorses trod between them and roaming dogs and urchins added to the general confusion.

‘Now where in hell do we look?’ demanded de Wolfe, stopping to view the congested square with distaste.

A voice from his right answered him in perfect Norman-French. ‘I think you may be seeking me, sirs!’ A short man stepped out from behind a canvas booth selling fish. He was dressed in drab, but good-quality clothes, a short tunic and baggy breeches, a floppy wide-brimmed hat on his head. His light cloak carried several religious badges and he held a long staff in his hand, giving him the general appearance of a pilgrim. He had a smooth, bland face, one that John thought was instantly forgettable, perhaps an advantage in a secret courier.