the rest of the morning tending to his weapons, and most particularly to his crossbow, cleaning it of the salt and corrosion that had accumulated on it over the previous months at sea, then cleaning and polishing his supply of bolts and making sure that his supply of bowstrings was in prime condition, dry and well protected against dampness.
After the midday meal, lured by the sights and sounds of the butts where other crossbowmen had set up shooting posts and targets, he went ashore with two other knights and spent an hour at practice until Richard and his party arrived back from their sortie, laden with plunder. The story of their successful raid spread quickly and was greatly enjoyed. The men had found Isaac’s encampment undefended, all of its occupants asleep and not a one of them having considered that the enemy might follow them that night. Richard had attacked immediately, and the ensuing engagement had been a rout from the start, the enemy leaping out of their beds in panic and fleeing for the hills, making no effort to don their discarded clothing or weapons or to fight or defend themselves. Isaac had disappeared and was presumed to have fled among the mob, reportedly heading inland, through the Troodos mountain range to the north, towards Nicosia, seventy miles away, and Richard was in high good humor. The day was Sunday, the twelfth of May, the feast day of Saint Pancras in the year 1191, and it was to prove momentous in several ways other than the defeat of the hapless Isaac, the first of those being the sighting of the remainder of the fleet on the horizon, well ahead of schedule.
Andre had already listened to several versions of the morning’s events by the time he heard about the incoming fleet, and he was on his way back to his boat on the beach when he heard a familiar voice shouting his name and saw the King himself cantering up behind him. Richard’s color was high and he was very obviously pleased with himself. He swung down from his saddle and flung one arm around Andre’s shoulders, pulling him strongly and effortlessly down and inward across his chest in the semblance of a wrestling grip.
“I missed your face this morning,” he began, before removing his arm. “Thought you would be with me when I called for volunteers, but then I saw that yours was not the only Templar visage missing from the throng. None of you came with me. Why was that? Does the Temple have a message that it wishes me to be aware of?”
Andre grinned ruefully, flexing his right shoulder, which, months after his injury, could yet be tender at times. “Yes and no, my lord. I tried to join you but was reminded, as was everyone else who sought permission, that my first duty to this expedition is the rebuilding of our Order’s presence in Outremer. It was pointed out to me that an inglorious and pointless death at the hands of a buffoon in a small Cyprus field would do little to benefit the Temple, whereas my presence in the Holy Land might achieve great things on God’s behalf.”
“Hah!” Richard’s bark of laughter confirmed that not even the Temple’s policies could overcome his goodwill this day. “Whereas my own inglorious and pointless death in the same venture would have no impact at all upon the Temple! God’s balls, these people are arrogant beyond credence.” He hesitated, the merest fraction of a pause. “But you remain my vassal, do you not? You did not swear any vows while I was away?” He saw Andre’s head shake in denial, and his grin grew wider. “Then that is marvelous, because this day, before the fleet makes harbor and before God can lay claim upon your loyalties, I require you to achieve great things on
“Of course, my lord. What is it?”
The King looked him in the eye, appeared to hesitate, and then plunged on, his words tumbling over each other in his haste to get them out. “I need you to commandeer a boat.”
“Already done, my lord. I have one here, close by.”
“Good. Then take it and get you out to the dromons in the bay. Present yourself there to my betrothed and inform her that she and I will be wed today, this evening, before the dinner hour. I will send an escort for her and my sister when the time is right. In the meantime, she is to dress and make herself ready. She will have several hours in which to prepare—two hours, at least, and perhaps three. I have already spoken with Father Nicolas, my chaplain, on the way back from Kolossi. He will conduct the marriage rites, as is his privilege, and he is even now making the necessary preparations for the remainder of the ceremonies. We will use the Chapel of Saint George the Dragon Slayer in the castle of Limassol, which is already ours, and the assembled bishops of our various domains—we have the Bishop of Evreux here, and another from Bayonne, as well as a few archbishops—will name and anoint her formally as Queen of England and place the crown upon her brows as soon as we are man and wife. Tell her all that. And warn Joanna to make sure that everything is as it ought to be. Bid her bring her own women and Berengaria’s, too, to insulate the Queen from such a hedging-about of grim, unsmiling churchmen … And be sure to inform de Sable’s man, Coutreau, of how many women will be going ashore, for he will need to provide suitable transport for them—a barge, to keep them stable, and with a canopy to keep their hair and headwear free of risk from the wind and their clothing safely dry in the crossing. It would do me little good to have them row through wind and rain to appear there as a bedraggled brood, amidst all the ranks of peacockery that will assemble once the word of this is spread.” He stopped abruptly, then grasped Andre’s shoulder again, and the pinch of his digging fingers penetrated even the chain-mail shirt beneath Andre’s surcoat. “Do you understand all I have told you?”
“Aye, my lord.” Andre quickly rattled through the instructions he had been given, enumerating them succinctly for the King’s benefit, yet thinking all the time that this had come into being very quickly and without warning, and he wondered why that should be so. Lent was long over, and the natural post-Lenten nuptial period of Easter, with all its overtones of rebirth, renewal, and fecundity, had passed without comment, thanks to the Easter storm and the scattering of the fleet. The betrothal might now have been extended indefinitely, without incurring as much as a raised eyebrow, since the urgency of the impending campaign in Outremer now eclipsed everything else and was growing larger with every day that passed. So why, Andre wondered, was there such an urgency in Richard to perform this wedding now, within the space of a single day? There had been no mention of it the day before, after Andre’s visit to the Princess. Might it be such a sudden imperative, he wondered now, because the King, riding the high wave of victory over this island’s tyrant, needed to make the leap in full flight, before his courage failed him completely? He searched for signs of panic or desperation in Richard’s demeanor and discovered that he could see evidence of both, and in profusion, although both were muted and strongly held in check.
Richard, unaware of Andre’s scrutiny, was talking again. “Good. Tell my lady it will be splendid. There is a monastery here in Limassol, a Benedictine fraternity, and I am told they sing wondrously well, so we will have music and light—solid banks of the finest white candles—and copious, billowing clouds of fragrant incense. Tell her that, lest she believe she is being cheated of a Queen’s nuptials. Make sure she knows otherwise … Music and light and incense to set all the senses reeling … and a nuptial feast to follow, to be sure, oxen and sheep and swine already turning on the spit, and fish and fowl being prepared as we speak—” The King broke off, his face suddenly filled with doubt, and looked back over his shoulder. “At least, I trust they are … I spoke to—” He turned back quickly to Andre. “So be it. Go and do as I bid you. I have other things to see to and other folk to instruct. Quickly now. There’s little time to be lost and none at all for wasting.”
Before Andre could complete his salute, Richard was gone, swinging himself up into the saddle and pulling his mount sharply around, setting spurs to it and surging towards and through the crowds on the beach, scattering them with no regard for their safety as he bore down on them. Andre went in search of his boat.
This time his arrival at the dromon’s side was unexpected, and after his boat captain had hailed the deck, Andre had to bide his time in silence until someone eventually threw him down a rope ladder, his advent evidently having been deemed insufficiently important to warrant the effort of lowering the heavy access ramp. He had had to stand uneasily in the bobbing boat as his two oarsmen manipulated the small vessel with great skill until one of them managed to hook an oar between two of the hanging ladder’s rungs and angle it in to where Andre could catch it. He grasped the rope sides of the ladder in both hands, then leaned back against the sagging pull of it, looking up the swelling side of the enormous vessel and wondering how he would manage to climb up there in a full suit of mail.
“My thanks,” he called back to the senior oarsman. “If I don’t drown, I should not be long.”
He was dry, at least, when he reached the level of the deck, and consoled himself that only his own men, beneath him, could have seen his undignified scramble to pull himself up the ship’s side, but he was angry at having been put in a position where he needed to run the risk of falling into the sea, unobserved by anyone above.
