tolerated. Manned by such a highly disciplined and religiously obedient crew, the vessel was also capable of serving as a ship of war should the need arise, with triple banks of oars, fighting platforms, and a metal-clad ramming prow. It also incorporated specific modifications that permitted it to function as a monastic vessel at times, although that concept, of a monastic ship, was as revolutionary in its time as the notion of military monks had been ninety years earlier.
Since adherence to the Rule was all-important in the daily life of the brethren, additional space had been created within the hull, directly below the rowing deck, for the brethren of the Order to assemble for common prayers and services. It was a cramped and crabbed space, entirely lacking in comfort, and only along the narrow central aisle could a man stand upright without stooping, but the men who would use this space had no regard for physical comfort and would gladly offer up their discomfort to God, in penitence. The central aisle offered the sole access to the space. The brethren would enter by the aisle, then crawl or climb to their assigned places in the spaces that flanked it, where they would sleep at nights, and at other times sit, and sometimes kneel, for the prayers and readings of the daily Rule. That commitment was extraordinary at a time when every inch of shipboard space was precious, but it had been deemed necessary for the spiritual and physical welfare of the monks who would be crewing the vessel.
In the years since then, three sister ships had been built, and five more were now in preparation, to the same design, forming what the Templars now called the Mediterranean squadron, based in the port of Brindisi, on the outermost heel of the Italian mainland. One of the earliest preceptories built by the Order in Italy, Brindisi had in recent years begun to assume significant importance to the emerging nautical interests within the Temple Order, situated as it was within easy sailing distance of a cluster of shipbuilding yards that had been there, some said, since Roman times. The vessels they produced were expensive and highly prized.
Tournedos, now the squadron’s commodore, had sailed south and west from Brindisi to Messina, to join the great fleet assembled by Richard of England for the expedition to the Holy Land, and in Messina he welcomed aboard his own vessel the senior members of the Order’s latest reinforcing expedition to Outremer, including some of the highest-ranking Templars in all of Christendom, all of whom were eager to inspect the ships of which they had heard so much. And at the same time, they took aboard the newest crop of reinforcements, including the least of the Temple’s least—the latest contingent of low-level recruits and novices.
Now Tournedos stood on the stern deck of his ship, looking about him at the surrounding scene. They had anchored that morning, after entering Limassol on a rising tide, and the island of Cyprus towered above him, its rugged hills appearing to offer no hint of warmth or refuge. Gazing at the scene and at the port, Tournedos, who had somehow managed to visit the island only twice before in all his years of sailing, decided yet again that the island of Cyprus, beautiful as it might be, held no allure at all for him. He turned his eyes away and looked to his right, where, perhaps a quarter of a land mile distant but no closer to the shore, two massive ships, the dromons he had been sent to find and protect, dwarfed his own. Between him and the dromons, moving rapidly under oars towards the closer of the two ships, a remarkable young man, of whose existence Tournedos had been unaware until the previous day, stood in the stern of his ship’s boat, gazing straight ahead to where an access ramp was being lowered from one of the great ships to await his arrival. Tournedos scratched absently at his bearded cheek with the tip of one finger, then turned again to look at the outlying anchorage behind him, where three more newcomers were now arriving. He scanned them once again, for perhaps the sixth time since being warned of their approach, looking for symbols by which to identify them. They were Christian ships, easily distinguishable from the low, rakish galleys used by Muslim pirates, and they had approached from the east, perhaps from Outremer itself, which would explain his inability to identify them. He sniffed, knowing he would find out who they were within the hour or soon thereafter, and turned away again to squint at the high, densely packed buildings surrounding the harborfront of Limassol.
According to what Tournedos had been told, the so-called Emperor of this place, Isaac Comnenus, had misplayed a minor opportunity for advantage into a looming disaster for himself and his countrymen. With an option plainly open to him to win favor and acclaim when the survivors of the great storm were blown into his harbor seeking assistance, Comnenus had chosen instead to abuse, affront, and insult the future Queen of England and her companion, the former Queen of Sicily, thereby giving intolerable offense to the implacable man who was husband-to-be to the first and brother to the second. Richard of England, the man becoming increasingly known as the Lionheart, had been much closer to hand than the hapless and badly informed Isaac had ever imagined, and now Isaac must pay for his folly and greed. Richard’s fleet, bearing his entire army, would arrive in Limassol the following day, and when it did, and the army disembarked, life would become extremely interesting for everyone in the region, and most particularly for the self-styled Emperor of Cyprus.
ANDRE ST. CLAIR STOOD nervously, poised on his toes and ready to leap as soon as the man in the prow of his boat gave the word. Close by him, though the space between it and him varied constantly in distance, height, and angle, a sloping platform dangled dangerously, supported by hanging chains and strapped underfoot with wooden cleats to make it easier to climb up its steep incline. Andre swallowed hard and flexed his fingers, his eyes flickering briefly again towards the helmsman handling the tiller expertly and easily in the stern.
“Wait for it,” the big man growled, maintaining his pressure on the tiller while keeping his eye on the end of the hanging platform. “It’s not going anywhere without you. Wait you … Wait … There …
Andre jumped, his feet landing solidly on the ramp while his left hand clamped in a firm grip on the chain that served as a hand rail. He released his breath explosively but without changing the expression on his face, then looked back at the boat master, nodding his thanks. As he looked away again, raising his eyes, the ship above him, the largest Andre had ever seen, leaned sideways on a swell, looming over him, and he felt his gorge threaten to rise. He swallowed it down determinedly and threw himself into the task of pulling himself up the steep surface, making sure that his boots were firmly anchored against the wooden cross-straps before he took each step, for the wooden ramp was wet and slippery and he had no wish to slide down into the sea wearing a full suit of mail. Halfway up the great, swelling side of the dromon, where the ramp folded back upon itself for the second, almost level segment of the climb, he found a flat, hinged platform between the flights and stopped to make sure that he would be presentable when he emerged onto the vessel’s deck. Richard had not quite warned him about that, not in so many words, but he had mentioned the mid-climb platform and observed that it seemed to be a natural place to pause and make sure one’s appearance was … appropriate … before proceeding to the deck. Ladies were temperamental creatures and much influenced by appearances, had seemed to be his message, and Andre had been attuned to it.
While he worked at straightening his clothing, a niggling voice somewhere far at the back of his mind murmured about the sin of personal vanity and the scandalous impropriety of any Temple brother having any dealings with women of any description. He knew that when the time came to take his final vows, he would be required to abjure all contact with women. For the time being, however, he was content to bear in mind that he was not yet a Temple Knight; that he was still answerable to, and bound to obey, the wishes of his liege, Duke Richard; and that there would be time enough in future for penitence and self-denial. He therefore twisted his shoulders and adjusted his mantle until it hung comfortably, and as he did so, he, too, eyed the three new vessels that had entered the anchorage. He knew none of them, but did not expect to. His knowledge of ships and shipping extended to whatever deck lay beneath his feet at any time, and there it ended. Andre St. Clair was not and would never be a seaman. He knew that every seasoned eye on every ship in the anchorage would be trained on the newcomers, and they would be either welcomed in or driven off. Either way, it was of no immediate concern to him.
His mantle finally settled comfortably about his shoulders, he set about the climb again, rising swiftly to the gate at the top of the ramp, where he was awaited by a brightly dressed group of five dignitaries, three of whom were more richly attired than the others, and all of whom regarded him as though they had found a rat crawling around the edges of their deck. One of the three best dressed would, Andre knew, be Sir Richard de Bruce, the Norman-English officer in command of the three dromons as a group. The other two, he suspected, would be the individual captains of the two remaining vessels, and the two less brightly caparisoned officers would be senior lieutenants. A swift scan of the deck showed him that there were no women in sight. He stepped forward immediately, through the gate that one of the common seamen was holding open for him. He made a choice instinctually, choosing the tallest and haughtiest-looking of the group, and drew himself to attention, saluting as he did so.
“Sir Richard de Bruce? I bring you greetings from King Richard and written personal greetings for his
