them. Even so, despite his seventy years, Barbarossa’s inspirational leadership and the army’s discipline got them across the rugged terrain of Anatolia in the depths of winter. They withstood constant harassment by the Seljuk Turks, including a major pitched battle at Iconium against Qilich Arslan’s army. They finally arrived in Armenia in the spring of 1190, from where, as a chivalrous gesture, Barbarossa wrote a formal letter of warning to his adversary.
Now that you have profaned the Holy Land, over which we, by the authority of the Eternal King, bear rule, we will proceed to restore the land you have seized! You shall learn the might of our victorious eagles and shall experience the anger of Germany: the youth of the Danube, who know not how to flee, the towering Bavarian, the cunning Swabian, the fiery Burgundian, the nimble mountaineers of the Alps. My own right hand, which you think enfeebled by old age, can still wield the sword that will bring the triumph of God’s cause.
Also an honourable knight, the Sultan Saladin sent Barbarossa a reply.
If you count Christians, my Arabs are many times more numerous. Between us and those who aid us, there is no impediment. With us are the Bedouin, the Artuqid Turcomans, even our peasants, who will fight bravely against those who invade our country and exterminate them. We will meet you with the power of God. And when we have victory over you, we shall take your lands with God’s good pleasure.
Chivalrous warnings given and returned, Barbarossa began to move his army through the Cilician Gates. The herald gave a graphic account of what happened next.
‘On 10th June of this year, we came to a river called the Saleph. It was a hot day; my Emperor was in full armour, but he still sat high in his saddle in the middle of the river, his great red beard cascading down his chest as he barked orders at his men. Suddenly, his horse, hit on the leg by a log floating down the river, stumbled, throwing my Emperor into the water. It was not very deep, but the shock of the cold water was great and he either suffered an apoplexy or his heart gave out. We got him to the bank in seconds and pulled off his armour, but he was already dead…’
The herald paused; there were tears streaming down his face.
‘My Lords, it took me many weeks to find you, but I have to tell you that most of our army has turned back and returned to the Empire to wait for the election of a new Emperor. Only Barbarossa’s son, Frederick, Duke of Swabia, has made it to Antioch with a much smaller army, about five thousand men in total.’
The Lionheart thanked the herald and told him to rest in Messina before making haste to Antioch, where he should tell Duke Frederick that Plantagenet and French armies would reinforce him as soon as possible. The German herald had brought chastening news, but it did not deter the Lionheart; in fact, he seemed more invigorated than ever. He called his Grand Quintet together and sent for Abbot Alun.
He came straight to the point.
‘We must sail for the Holy Land before winter has us in its grip.’
William Marshal was the first to respond.
‘None of us is a sailor, but even I know that the gales of autumn are just as dangerous as the storms of winter. It is almost November; we can’t sail until early spring next year.’
‘Then we will go overland. The fleet can follow.’
I made the next interjection.
‘Sire, with the loss of the Germans, our supplies are even more important. We must be cautious.’
The Lionheart looked around the room. No one supported his proposal.
‘But the Christians are hanging on by the skin of their teeth in Antioch. And now they have five thousand hungry Germans to feed.’ He turned to Abbot Alun, and implored him, ‘Alun, we must do something!’
‘We can pray, my King.’
The Lionheart seethed with impatience, but he knew we were right.
‘Then send for Berengere. I’ll be married and sire an heir.’
‘We can pray for that too.’
Alun’s ready quip eased the Lionheart’s mood. The King continued in a more reflective vein.
‘Perhaps that would be wise, given that Barbarossa’s army has gone home and I may die by Saladin’s hand and never return to England.’
Knowing that there would be a long winter ahead, Richard released his prisoners and unlocked the garrison; all remained calm in Sicily. Just before Christmas, the Lionheart called us together once more.
‘I have decided that the most sensible way to get the army to the Holy Land would be to employ Tancred’s existing ships and use his boatyard to build more. He has powerful triremes, equipped with Greek fire, and men who know how to use it. But I don’t want to pay for them. What do you suggest?’
Mercadier answered immediately.
‘Conquer the island, imprison Tancred and take his ships.’
‘I’ve thought about that, but Alun has some interesting information for you.’
Alun stood and spoke in his now familiar paternal tone.
‘Tancred is King here because of the Pope’s intervention and he will not tolerate us interfering in a realm so close to Rome. The throne should have gone to Lady Constance, the aunt of the old King, when he died without an heir. But she is married to Henry, a German prince of the Holy Roman imperial house, and the Pope does not want a German to rule here at the southern end of the Italian peninsula when he has more than enough Germans in the north to worry about. So he and the local Norman lords found Tancred and manoeuvred him on to the throne.’
Alun then looked at the King in his scholarly way, before issuing a warning.
‘Sire, the last thing you want is to be excommunicated before you even get to the Holy Land.’
‘So, what’s the answer?’
Alun was now in his element; a mischievous smile spread across his face.
‘Your sword, my Lord.’
‘What about it?’
‘It is a fine piece of craftsmanship, is it not?’
‘Of course, it was made in Toledo, the home of the world’s finest swords, by Master Zahib, the city’s most famous craftsman, who died a long time ago. It was given to me by my good friend, Alfonso of Aragon; it is very old.’
‘You know, of course, the story of King Arthur and his sword, Excalibur?’
‘I do, indeed. I was made to read Geoffrey of Monmouth’s
‘Well, Tancred has been asking me about King Arthur; he’s fascinated by the story and is reading the
‘And?’
‘Well, sire, let us tell him that your sword is Excalibur, passed to you at your coronation from all the kings of England back into the mists of time. If he could own Excalibur, he would give you his entire island in exchange.’
We all looked at Abbot Alun with expressions of amazement. Blondel led the questions.
‘For an Abbot, you’re typically devious, but unusually astute. Also, on this occasion, a bit naive. Do you really think he would believe it? And, if he did, isn’t there something very immoral about this, coming from you, who is supposed to be the keeper of the King’s conscience?’
‘Well, two things in reply, my dear Blondel. First, I have no doubt he would believe it; he’s stupid and he’s vain, an unfortunate combination for him, but fortuitous for us. As for the morality of the ruse, I would say this: Excalibur is a myth, so any sword could be called Excalibur, especially one as fine as this, with its jewelled pommel and beautiful workmanship. And if the King of England calls it Excalibur, then that’s its name. Besides that, Tancred is an odious little toad whose only gift seems to be an ability to spit wads of phlegm into his cuspidor. He is not worthy of any moral veracity – neither the King’s nor mine!’
We all looked at Alun in admiration. He was as clever as a fox, and a silver-tongued fox at that.
