It’s our great pleasure to publish the first chapter from Ben Kane’s King, the third in his Lionheart series of books about Richard I and his trusted friend and follower, Ferdia. With thanks to Orion Books, Ben’s publisher, for the extract. Orion are also sponsoring a giveaway with us on 26 May.
Richard and a small band of his knights and servants are returning from the Crusades in December, 1192. They make a miserable landing on the Istrian shore of the Adriatic Sea, somewhere north of Trieste…
Cold seawater squelched in my boots. My tunic and hose, also soaking wet, clung to me. Shivering, I tugged my sodden cloak tight around myself, and turned my back on the south, wishing in vain that that would stop the icy wind from licking every part of my goosebump-covered flesh. Of the king’s score of companions, I was the only unfortunate who had fallen into the sea as we disembarked from our beached ship. Richard stood a dozen paces away, haranguing the pirate captain who had delivered us to this benighted spot, a featureless stretch of coastline with no villages or settlements in sight. Marsh grass and salt pools extended as far as the eye could see, suggesting a long walk inland.
‘Change your clothes now, while you have the opportunity.’
My sour-faced attention returned to Rhys, who had laughed at my immersion as hard as the rest. In truth I could not blame him, nor anyone else. The water had not been deep; I had come to no harm, other than a soaking. And after the travails of the previous few weeks, God knows we needed a moment of levity. Nonetheless, my pride was stinging. I gave him a non-committal grunt.
‘You will catch cold ere we find a place to spend the night.’ Now Rhys’s tone was reproachful. He had already contrived to go through my wooden chest, and was proffering a bundle of dry clothing. ‘Take it – go on.’
Teeth chattering, I studied the group. Few men were paying any attention, busy as they were with selecting whatever gear they could carry. We were all soldiers, I thought. We had suffered and sweated and bled in Outremer together, had seen countless comrades fall to Saracen arrows, or die of thirst and sunstroke. We had cradled our friends’ heads in our laps as they left this life, choking on blood and asking for their mothers.
In the face of that, baring my arse did not matter.
Stripping off my boots and clothes, I gratefully tugged on the new garments, ignoring the comments of Baldwin de Béthune, who noticed what I was at. He was a close friend and, like me, one of the king’s most trusted men. I thought with a pang of de Drune, another friend who would not have missed this chance to jibe. But the tough man-at-arms would poke fun no more. He had been swept overboard during the first of the storms that had battered us since our departure from the Holy Land almost two months before. I hoped his end had been swift.
‘Two hundred marks, and this is where they brought us to land?’ Richard’s volcanic temper showed no sign of abating. He threw a murderous look at the pirate captain, who had wisely retreated to his vessel.
When the tide came in, as it would that evening, he and his crew would do their best to push the long, low shape into deeper water. We were not waiting to help.
The pirate was a rogue, I thought, and the price he had charged for our passage was extortionate, but he was not to blame for the beach where we stood. ‘He could do little about the storm, sire.’
Richard glared at me, but I had spoken the truth.
Ferocious autumn gales had battered our large buss all the way from Outremer; we had been fortunate not to drown. At Sicily, the king had decided the open seas were too dangerous, so we aimed our prow for Corfu. Our plan had been to voyage up the more sheltered Adriatic, but further bad weather and an encounter with the pirates had seen Richard drive a bargain with the corsair captain. His two galleys were more seaworthy than the fat-bellied buss which had carried us away from the Holy Land. Or so we thought.
High winds – the bora – had struck soon after our departure from Corfu, and driven us, helpless, up the Adriatic. Three days, or had it been four? My memory could not be relied upon, so exhausted and sleep-deprived was I. Ceaselessly thrown up and down for hour upon hour, from side to side, forward and back, I had vomited until it seemed my stomach itself would come up my red-raw throat. There had been snatched, uncomfortable periods of rest, but never enough. I had forgotten the last time food had passed my lips. When the ship had run aground in the shallows, I had felt nothing but relief. Eager for dry land beneath my feet, paying not enough attention as I prepared to disembark, I had fallen into the sea.
‘Aye, well, there’s nothing to be done about where we are now,’ said the king. ‘And standing around will not get us to Saxony any sooner. Let us go.’
He was not now the godlike figure he had so often been in Outremer. There was no bright sun to wink off his mail, no high-prancing stallion to set him high above us. Even in plain tunic and hose, Richard remained an imposing and charismatic figure. Several inches taller than six feet and broad-shouldered with it, his handsome face framed by windblown red-gold hair, he looked like a king. He acted like one too: fierce-tempered, regal and fearless.
When he led the way, we twenty willingly followed.
I was unsurprised that Rhys was the first with a question. In an undertone, he asked, ‘How far is it to Saxony?’
‘I do not know. Hundreds of miles. Many hundreds.’
I had told him this before, but Rhys’s expression darkened anyway.
‘It will not all be on foot. We will buy horses.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘I would we had left earlier. We might have sailed all the way.’
‘That was never a possibility.’ I explained again to him how the winds and currents that had helped us east across the Greek Sea were too powerful to permit westward travel through the narrow straits that separated Spain from Africa.
Rhys fell silent and, downcast myself by the long journey before us, I began to brood. Landing on the French or Spanish coast might have been an option, but it was precluded by Richard’s long-running enmity with the Count of Toulouse, who, with his Spanish allies, controlled the region. We could not travel up through Italy either, because most of its rulers were in league with the Holy Roman Emperor. Heinrich VI, one of the most powerful monarchs in Europe, historically held no love for Richard because of his support for another Heinrich, der Löwe, the former Duke of Saxony. Recently, the divide between Richard and the emperor had deepened. The French king Philippe Capet had met with Heinrich VI on his way back from the Holy Land, winning him over and forging a new alliance.
Thoughts of Heinrich der Löwe made me remember, wistfully, Alienor, the blonde beauty who had served Matilda, his late wife and Richard’s sister. It had been years since I had seen Alienor, but the mere thought of her quickened my blood. There was even a chance we might meet. Once our roundabout route had taken us through Hungary, we would travel to Saxony, ruled by Richard’s nephew, and further northeast to the lands of Heinrich der Löwe. I prayed that Alienor was alive, and in Heinrich’s service. Then, guilt-ridden for thinking of her while still in love with Joanna, the king’s sister, I put her from my mind.
It was as well that I had elected not to wear my second pair of boots. For an hour or more we trudged through a sandy marshland, its only inhabitants the seabirds that lifted, screeching, at our approach. We waded through saltwater pools; it was my turn to laugh at de Béthune and the rest as they sank to their knees, cursing their own soaking boots. Reaching the shore finally, we came upon a collection of rundown hovels that would struggle to be called a hamlet.
While Richard hung back – a man of his size and stature would stick in anyone’s memory – de Béthune and I went with the royal standard bearer, Henry Teuton, to find out where we were, and to buy any horseflesh that might be on offer. Thanks to the soldiers we had met in Outremer, de Béthune and I had some Italian, and Henry Teuton was fluent in his father’s language. Between us we managed; the silver coins I proffered also loosened tongues. The area we found ourselves in was the county of Gorizia. I thought nothing of the name, but I caught de Béthune’s expression as its ruler, Meinhard II, was mentioned.
Telling his apprentice to fetch out the horses he had, the smith explained that Meinhard co-ruled with his brother, Engelbert III, the lord of the nearest town, also called Gorizia. It lay some miles away, at the foot of the mountains.
As we haggled over the nags, de Béthune risked much by asking about Meinhard’s and Engelbert’s relationship with emperor Heinrich VI. The smith twined a forefinger and middle finger, indicating they were close allies, and my concerns rose.
But the king laughed when de Béthune told him what we had heard. ‘We are in enemy territory from the outset,’ he declared. ‘As it was in Outremer, when Saladin’s men threatened us at every turn.’
Our confidence bolstered by his, we grinned at one another.
William de l’Etang, another of the king’s close companions, frowned. ‘I remember the name Meinhard, sire.’
‘Speak on,’ urged the king.
‘I am sure he is related to Conrad of Montferrat, sire – his nephew, I think.’
De Béthune and I gave each other a look; Richard’s expression tightened.
Conrad had been an ambitious Italian nobleman who rose high in Outremer society. Crowned King of Jerusalem the previous spring, he had been murdered within the week. Everyone in the Holy Land at the time knew that the Assassins – a mysterious Muslim sect – were behind Conrad’s slaying, but malicious gossip spread by Philippe Capet and his followers since had been remarkably effective. Conrad’s family were not alone in believing that Richard was responsible.
‘Better that we should not pretend to be Templars,’ Richard declared. This had been his initial plan. ‘We would draw unwanted attention; our heads must be further below the parapet. Pilgrims, we shall be, then, returning from the Holy Land. Hugo of Normandy will be my name. There is no need for you to have a false identity, Baldwin. You shall act as the military leader of the party.’
This seemed a better ploy, I thought. My relief was momentary, for with his next breath the king ordered Henry Teuton to take one of the four new horses and ride ahead to Gorizia. There he was to ask the authorities for safe passage, a guide and treatment according to the Truce of God, a Church ruling that protected those who had taken the cross from physical violence. Pulling off a magnificent ruby ring, Richard handed it to Henry with the declaration that this should be a mark of his good faith.
Their thoughts on roaring fires and hot meals, few of the group took notice.
I could not believe the risk-taking, however. ‘This is his idea of travelling in secret?’ I whispered to de Béthune.
‘I agree with you, Rufus, but he is our lord.’ He saw my face, and said, ‘Cross him at your peril. He is in a fey mood.’
I saw that de Béthune was right. The king’s bonhomie on the ship had been genuine enough, but the beaching of the vessel in the middle of nowhere, our long trudge to an armpit of a village, the swaybacked, spavined horses – all that had been on offer – and Meinhard being Conrad’s nephew had hit Richard hard. If he could not be a proud Templar, the next best thing was a rich and influential pilgrim. And by his haughty expression, his mind would not be changed. I decided on another course of action.
‘Sire, let me go also.’ Adding that I wanted to improve my German and that Henry was a good teacher was enough. Richard even gave me one of the three remaining nags, a ribby chestnut.
We set off at once. The interrogation began before we had ridden a hundred paces.
‘You vant to learn Tcherman?’ Henry had a thick, hard-to-understand accent.
‘Yes.’ I was not about to admit my main purpose. Henry was a no-nonsense, direct type I could see marching into the castle at Gorizia, loudly asking for all of Richard’s requests. I hoped for a more discreet approach and, if possible, that the ruby ring should stay hidden.
I could tell Henry none of this – dutiful and rigid, he would fulfil the king’s orders to the letter – and so my punishment was to endure a prolonged, finger-wagging lesson in basic German that lasted for the entire ride to Gorizia. I sound ungrateful; Henry was in fact a half-decent teacher, and I learned more in those miles than I had during the entire voyage from Outremer.
Gorizia stood at the foot of a hill upon which perched the castle, Engelbert’s stronghold. The town had its own wall; there were guards at the main gate, but to my relief we passed through unchallenged.
‘Do not look around so much,’ Henry said in an undertone.
I checked my enthusiasm. After the guts of two months at sea, with the only interlude being at Ragusa, even an inconsequential place like Gorizia had me gazing about like a wide-eyed child. Although Henry was right to bring me back to our mission, I thought, we were not in so much of a hurry that I could not visit a nearby bakery. Tired of mouldy bread and salted pork, the smells emanating from it were too much to resist. Hurling my reins at a protesting Henry, I strode inside, emerging soon after, triumphant, four honeyed pastries in my grasp.
‘Two for you and the same for me,’ I said, prepared for his outburst. ‘We can eat and walk towards the castle at the same time.’
Won over, Henry ceased grumbling, and set to with a will.
The guards at the castle entrance were a slovenly crew, their mail covered in brown rust spots; they paid us as little attention as their counterparts at the town gate. Their lack of interest was explained by the crowds in the courtyard beyond, where we discovered – happily – that Count Engelbert was holding court in the great hall.
We left our horses in the charge of a stick-thin, sharp-featured boy of perhaps twelve years. Eyes fixed on the two silver pennies Henry brandished as his reward afterwards, the lad swore that he would guard the horses with his life.
‘See that you do,’ Henry warned him quietly, ‘or we will hunt you down and open you from balls to chin – as we did with many a Saracen.’
Pale-faced, the lad nodded.
We joined the queue of petitioners, locals come to plead their cause with Engelbert, who sat with his feet up on a table, playing idly with a dagger. He was the picture of boredom. The line advanced at a snail’s pace, but eager not to draw attention, we dared not jump it. If we talked, it was in low tones; the fewer people who heard either French or my bad German, the better. Time dragged by. I listened in to the conversations around me, trying to understand. To my frustration, I recognised only words here and there rather than the full meaning of what was being said. There would be plenty of time for further lessons from Henry on our long journey, I told myself.
Two cases had been dealt with when I heard church bells in the town tolling one. My hopes began to fall. There was no obligation on Engelbert to hear the case of everyone in the queue. He could call a halt whenever his patience ran thin. To our good fortune, however, he flew into a rage with a hand-wringing peasant. According to Henry’s amused translation, the wretch was lamenting the theft of his hens – by a neighbour, or so he claimed. Unconvinced by the claim, Engelbert ordered the unfortunate peasant from his sight. He refused to hear the petition of the next man as well – a merchant whose stammer annoyed him – and reached a decision about the next case the instant it had been explained to him. Moved up the queue three places, we drew near enough to watch Engelbert.
Perhaps thirty-five, he had thinning brown hair and a prominent forehead. Although he had lost his temper with the peasant, his face was amiable, and he was laughing now at whatever the latest plaintiff had said. This was no reason to let down our guard, however, I thought. Engelbert was an enemy.
Our turn came at last. Bored, cold from standing around – for like all great halls, the room was as draughty as a barn – I marshalled a humble but enthusiastic expression onto my face as, urged by a steward, we advanced towards Engelbert’s table. Both of us bowed deeply, as we had agreed. Flattery could only help.
His initial glance was disinterested. Then, taking in our muddy, travel-stained clothing and our daggers, which marked us out from the other supplicants, his expression sharpened. Not only were we strangers, but armed ones. An eyebrow rose, and he said something in German.
Henry replied, and I heard the words for ‘Holy Land’, taught to me on our ride to Gorizia. He was telling Engelbert we were returning pilgrims.
The count’s face came alive. He asked a question, and then another and another. I heard mention of Jerusalem, Saladin, Leopold and Richard.
Henry’s answers, calm and measured, took some time. I stood by his side, wishing I understood more of what he was saying. The less he gave away, I had told Henry as we waited, the better. Plead our case simply, I said, and do not mention de Béthune and the merchant Hugo unless you have to. Henry had not liked that, but conceded it might be awkward if Engelbert, interested, demanded to meet these pilgrims. The ring, I warned, would also attract too much attention. On this Henry had balked, stubbornly saying that the king had ordered it be offered to Engelbert. Anxious, I had managed to persuade him not to offer the priceless gift unless he felt it absolutely necessary.
The count asked another question, and Henry replied. This time, I heard ‘Acre’ and ‘Joppa’. My mind filled with memories of our brutal march from the first to the second, and the titanic battle against Saladin outside Arsuf. I cast a look at Henry, whose face had grown animated. He too had been there. I began to worry that he might inadvertently reveal something about Richard. Keep it simple, I thought.
A messenger approached Engelbert, aff ording me an opportunity to speak with Henry. ‘Have you asked for safe passage?’ I said. ‘Has he granted it?’
‘I did at the start, yes, but he began asking questions at once. He is fascinated by the campaign against Saladin. What can I do but tell him?’
I had no answer. Refuse to answer Engelbert, and we risked his denying us safe passage and a guide. Offer too much detail, and he might glean that our master was not de Béthune but someone far more important. We had put into enough ports on our voyage for word of the king to have spread this far.
His business with the messenger concluded, Engelbert returned his attention to Henry. Now there was mention, several times, of ‘Herr’, the German for master or lord. Henry replied; he said ‘de Béthune’ and ‘Hugo’. He asked for safe passage again, I could understand that, and after a heartfelt ‘bitte’, or ‘please’.
Alarmed that he sounded too desperate, I casually turned my head towards Henry. He did not see me. I slid my boot sideways and, touching his, kicked him.
He glanced at me, and I mouthed, Do not give him the ring.
His brow wrinkled. His lips framed a ‘What?’
Christ, I thought.
A question from Engelbert; he was frowning.
Henry did not immediately reply.
I threw caution to the wind. ‘What is he saying?’
‘He says he can offer safe passage and the Truce of God, but guides with knowledge of the mountains are hard to find. He wants money, I think.’
A grim look passed between us. We had only the silver coins in our purses; enough to buy food, but nowhere near the sum required to win the favour of a man like Count Engelbert.
Henry was like me, ever a man of action. The muscles of his jaw bunched, and then he was reaching into his purse. Out came the ring.
Engelbert could not conceal his avarice. The ruby at the ring’s heart was deep red, the size of a large pea. It was worth a fortune by anyone’s standards. He held out a hand. There was silence as he examined it and, after a tense few moments, a broad smile.
Henry and I glanced at each other in relief.
Th e count thanked Henry, and then said something else. The only words I understood, and they were enough, were ‘König’ and ‘Löwenherz’. My blood ran cold. King. Lionheart.
‘He says that no nobleman, still less a merchant, would offer so rich a gift,’ muttered Henry.
‘He is right,’ I hissed, wishing that I had stood up to the king, and asked for a purse of gold bezants instead of his magnificent, far-too obvious gift. ‘But you must persuade him otherwise! Tell him the ring was taken from a dead Turkish noble on the battlefield.’
Henry did his best, his tone eloquent and persuading.
He was still mid-flow when Engelbert placed the ring on the table with an empathic, metallic clunk. ‘Nein,’ he said. ‘Nein. Ihren Herr ist ein König. König Richard.’
Henry fell silent. My eyes shot to the guards lounging behind the count. I fully expected them to be ordered to arrest us. We had no chance of fighting free, unarmoured and with daggers as our only weapons. I cared nothing for us, but the king had to be warned.
Rather than issue a command, Engelbert smiled. It was an open smile, with no hint of malice. He spoke fast then, earnestly. I heard the words ‘Kaiser’ and Heinrich. Breathing fast, sick with tension, I waited until he had finished, and Henry could translate.
Henry grinned at me. ‘He insists that our master is Richard, and he holds the king in great admiration for what he did in Outremer and has no wish to do him any harm. The same cannot be said for his brother Meinhard, or the emperor Heinrich.’
‘Can Engelbert supply us with a guide?’
Henry shook his head. ‘There is no time to find one. We must leave Gorizia today.’
‘Are things that bad?’ I asked, my hopes of a comfortable bed in a warm inn dwindling.
‘So he says. Meinhard would pay a huge sum to anyone delivering the Lionheart into his hands. No one in the town can be trusted.’
We thanked Engelbert and took our leave. At the door, I looked back. The count had not called forward the next petitioner but was talking intently to his steward. Then, as if he discerned my stare, he turned his head. Our gaze locked for a heartbeat. Engelbert smiled, but his eyes were as cold and calculating as a falcon’s.
I told Henry what I had seen. It was likely, we decided, that Engelbert would send word to Meinhard about the king’s whereabouts.
‘Tadhg an dá thaobh, he would be called in Ireland,’ I said.
‘Tie-gh on daw . . .?’ Henry mangled the words. ‘I do not understand.’
Chuckling, I explained, ‘Timothy of the two sides. He has a foot in both camps.’
Henry looked downcast. ‘You were right. I should not have offered the ring to him.’
‘Look on it as a blessing,’ I said. ‘If you had not, we would have sought accommodation here in Gorizia and, like as not, had our presence reported. But for Engelbert’s warning, we might have been taken while here.’
This realisation was scant solace as we set out southwards to find our companions. The wind was sharp as a knife. Yellow-grey clouds threatened snow; even as I lifted my gaze upwards, little skirls came falling from the sky.
Only God knew if we would find shelter that night.
King by Ben Kane, the third in his Lionheart series, is published on 26 May, 2022.
To celebrate, we’ve teamed up with his publisher, Orion Books, to offer a big giveaway on the same day. Come back and enter!
And don’t forget, if you pre-order King before 26 May, you could win a tour of Chepstow Castle and a pub lunch with Ben. See more on the publisher’s website.
If you’d like to read more of Ben Kane’s writing, have a look at these extracts from the two previous books in this series, Lionheart and Crusader.
Or read our Historia Q&A with him.
Images:
- Gorizia Castle in Autumn: Wikimedia (CC BY-SA 3.0)
- Map showing the County of Gorizia (Goritz) north of Istria, detail from Austrian Littoral in the Rand McNally World Atlas, 1897: Wikimedia (public domain)
- Emperor Heinrich VI by Peter of Eboli, 12th century: Wikimedia (public domain)
- Gorizia Castle in the snow: T137 for Wikimedia (CC BY-SA 3.0)
- Tomb of Richard I at Fontevraud Abbey: Wikimedia (public domain)
- Miniature of the siege of Acre from f 24v of Chroniques de France ou de St Denis: British Library via Picryl (public domain)
- Ring: Metropolitan Museum of Art via Picryl (public domain)
- Counter seal of Richard I of England, 1195: Historial de Vendée via Wikimedia by Selbymay (CC BY-SA 3.0)
