Archers and Crusaders: Historical fiction: Novel of Medieval Warfare by Marines, Navy sailors, and Templar knights in the Middle Ages during England's ... (The English Archers Saga Book 6) (5 page)

       We get quite a shock when we open the gate and walk in, at least Jeffery and I do – for waiting for us inside the compound are a number of heavily armed Templars, more than a dozen of them. 

       The Templars are standing on one side of the compound.  On the other side, under the shade of our only tree and watching them rather warily, are four of the Marines who are stationed here permanently and a couple of elderly men who look like merchants waiting to do business with Martin.  One of our Marines is standing with the Templars talking to them as we open the gate and walk in. 

       Everyone looks up quickly as we enter – and the Marine talking to the Templars gets a look of guilt on his face when he sees us. 
Uh oh.  What going on here?

       “Martin, did you let them in?”  I ask quietly as we smile and raise our hands in a friendly greeting and the Templars raise theirs and smile in response.

       “Of course, they’re Templars aren’t they?” 

       “Yes they are. Of course.  And they’re our friends so you did the right thing.” 
But why are so many of them here? We’re badly outnumbered.  They could take us right now if they have a mind to do it.

      
“Ah, Bishop Thomas of Cornwall, you’ve arrived. We’ve been waiting for you,” an older Templar with a grey beard says with somewhat of a smile on his face as he walks over and takes my hand and kisses my ring. 

      
His face smiles but there is no smile in his eyes.  Why? And how does he know I just bought myself a bishop’s miter if I’m only wearing the simple tunic of the Poor Landless Sailors with the six stripes of a Marine lieutenant.

       “I am Pierre of Saint Lo and these are my brother Templars.”

       “I am honored to meet you, Sir Pierre,” I respond with an acknowledging bow towards him and then his men.  “What may we poor landless sailors do for you?”

       “As you may know, we have been fighting here with King Sancho’s men against the heathen Moors. But now the king is moving his army further north to fight the Spanish Christians of Leon and Castile and sending young men to study in France even though everything a man needs to know is in the bible.  We are on our way to Rome to report the King’s heresies.  We’re here because we know you stop in Lisbon each year about this time when you are on your way to Rome to see the Holy Father - we would like to travel with you to Rome.”

       “We’d be very pleased to have you and your Templar brothers travel with us.  Heresies such as education and fighting among Christians must indeed be reported to the Holy Father and stopped before they can spread - and the strong arms and weapons of you and your brothers will be a welcome addition to our own if we encounter pirates or Moors along the way.” 

      
It’s all ox shite, of course, about it being a heresy for a man to know more than just what is in the bible or to want to fight off foreign invaders if they claim to be Christians. I’m just gulling the Templar by telling him what he wants to hear.  We need to be careful around this man; he’s dangerous for sure.  I don’t know why but I can feel it.

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       Twenty two Templars will be on board with us when we sail.  That means, I inform Jeffrey loudly enough so the Templars can hear me, our water and supplies won’t last as long as they might - so we’ll be stopping in Ibiza to replenish our stores instead of going on to Palma.  From there we’ll sail on to one of the Pisan ports on Corsica for another replenishment before we head on to Rome.

      
At least that’s how I explained my decision to avoid Palma to Martin and Jeffrey and all who ask.  In fact, we really don’t need to stop early for supplies; we’re going to stop early because I don’t want the Templars to see how our depot operates in Palma or the defenses we have in place to keep out thieves and enemies.

       More important than where we stop, at least to me since the Templars are so opposed to education “since everything one needs to know is in the bible,” I decide to make no effort in Lisbon to find boys to join my students in Cornwall.  I also tell Martin not to sell any passages or parchment money orders for Rome or our intermediate ports on Jeffrey’s galley because we can’t carry any more than our crew and the twenty or so Templars without overloading the ship and running out of food and water. 

       Jeffrey starts to correct me by saying that we have room for more – but he gets my hard glance and quickly agrees with me that we don’t.

       “Aye.  You’re right, Thomas, that you are.  We can’t take the risk of being overloaded or running out of water – particularly not if we’re carrying Templars on their way to Rome to carry out an important mission for the Pope.”

       A fear of overloading the galley and running out of water is not the reason for my order and Jeffrey knows it.  I told Martin not to sell passages because I do not want these particular Templars to see the number of coins that flow to us from our operations here or how we protect them.  I don’t know why but I have a bad feeling about our passengers and their leader.

       Later, before we walk back to the ship, I quietly take Jeffrey aside to tell him my concerns about the Templars and give him instructions as to what I want him to do next.

       “Send a man back to the galley.  Tell the men we’ll be heading into pirate waters from here and you’ll be holding an inspection as soon as we get back from eating at the tavern – and you want to see every Marine with his bow on a peg next to his bench and a shield and sword under his rowing seat; and that those who don’t have them under their seats when you look won’t be getting a shore leave to drink too much ale and dip their dingles in the local girls.”

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       Three days later we’re fully resupplied, the rowing drum begins its beat, and we slowly row out of Lisbon’s great harbor bound for Gibraltar, Ibiza, Crete, and Rome.  The sea is calm and the wind and weather look favorable.  Even so, the Templars are already getting seasick and crowding the deck railings to the loudly announced disgust of the Marines whose oars are below them and will sooner or later have to be shipped.

       All goes well until we reach the city of Bonifacio in Corsica. 
It is my first time in the city.  It is a Christian city with a Byzantine governor and quite insignificant because Corsica is insignificant.
Then everything changes - for the very first thing the Templars do upon entering the city is provoke its citizens by attacking a Byzantine priest in the market. 

       Jeffrey is with me and I am just coming out of the tax collector’s office inside the city walls when one of Jeffrey’s sergeants, the one in charge of his sailors, rushes in all out of breath to report big trouble.  He’d been in the city market buying supplies and seen it all.

       “Just walked up to the priest and cut him down with his sword.  That’s what the Templar done.  Never seen the likes of it in me whole life.  The priest was just walking past minding his own business.  Didn’t say a word, did he, the Templar, I mean. He just ups and cuts the poor sod down?”

       “Back to the ship” is my immediate response as Jeffrey and I look at each other in amazement. 

       “This is no quarrel of ours.”  …  “What’s our water and food situation, Jeffrey?” 
Then it strikes me. My God.  We brought the Templars here.  The Byzantines will blame us.

       We can hear a loud and growing rumble of noise behind us as we walk rapidly back toward the dock.  People on the street are alert and become fewer and fewer as we hurry past them.  Window shutters are being quickly closed and doors locked. 

        Some of the men we see as we hurry along the narrow street are putting on helmets and arming themselves to protect their properties and a few of them are carrying weapons and moving towards the growing noise. So are a large and rapidly growing number of young boys.  Obviously most of the people on the street are like us – we don’t know what the hell is going on and don’t intend to wait around to find out.

       Suddenly the noise increases and here come the Templars hurrying down the street behind us toward the city gate that opens on to the city’s dock – and behind them there is a huge mob of rock throwing and shouting young men and boys.  They’re very angry and out of control.

       “Hurry.  Run for the ship goddamnit.  Run.  This is no place for us.” 
What the hell is going on here?

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       We reach our galley and I literally jump aboard without breaking stride as Jeffrey heads straight for the fore and aft mooring lines.  The first of the Templars jumps on right behind me and joins me in taking a tumble as he does. 
It’s a pity he didn’t break his goddamn neck; I’m angry about being made to appear to be involved.

       Jeffrey throws one line off and then runs down the dock and throws off the other.  Then he jumps on to the deck of his galley as it slowly drifts away from the dock – and drifts far enough out away from the dock to leave about half of the Templars unable to jump aboard.  We watch as they turn to fight the mob and our men pour on deck with their arms. 
Well hell; we can’t leave them even if I’d damn well like to do.

       “Lower deck men man the oars,” Jeffery roars out in a great shout.  “Hold your arrows.  Don’t launch.  We’re bringing her back to the dock to pick up the Templars.” 

      
I’m almost tempted to tell Jeffrey to leave the Templars to the fate they’ve earned - and I would if I were absolutely sure that is the right thing to do.  But I’m not.  What the hell is going on here?

     The Templars who arrive on the dock too late to jump board are in a group facing the hostile crowd with their swords drawn and their backs to the water as our oars make a tentative start and then slowly move the galley back up against the dock.  The remaining Templars, a dozen or so, turn around and begin jumping on to the galley’s deck.  One of them seems to be injured, probably by a rock that hit his head.  There is no time for niceties – he’s literally picked up and thrown aboard by a couple of his fellow Templars. 

       A few seconds after the injured Templar lands on the deck with a thump we push off from the dock with our Swiss pikes and pull away.  A hail of rocks follows us as the mob surges forward.  The last of the Templars, the two who picked up the injured man and threw him aboard, jump down onto the deck as the Marines and sailors with pikes push us off.

       “Sir Pierre, where are you?”  I roar amongst all the shouting and confusion. I’m absolutely furious and rightly so.

       “What was that all about?  Did one of your men really cut down an orthodox priest in the market?”

       “I don’t know, Bishop.  I really don’t.” 
He’s a goddamn liar.  I can see it in his eyes and I know it from what Jeffrey’s sailing sergeant told us.  But why did he do it and what should I do now?

       “Jeffrey, are all of our men on board?  Have your sergeants make an immediate count of their men, please.  We’re Marines – we’re not leaving anyone behind even if we have to go back and fight the bastards.” 
I spoke quite loudly so our men and the Templars could hear.  Of course I did.

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       A few pulls on the oars is all it takes us to move us far enough away from the dock to escape the rocks.  I’d leave immediately without trying to resolve the matter except that then we’d be short of both water and supplies.  So we wait while the crowd continues to grow. 

       After about an hour later a dinghy is lowered from one of the ships still tied along the dock and rows toward us. There is a man at the oars and a single passenger.

       “Bring our dinghy alongside, Jeffrey, with a good ferryman on the oars.  I’ll go talk to them.”

       I take off my tunic, shed my chain mail, and put my tunic back on; then I kick off my shoes, step over the galley’s rail, and climb down into Jeffrey’s dinghy with a couple of Jeffrey’s men holding me so I don’t fall. 
I learned to swim in the river that ran past the village when I was a boy but I was never very good at it.  Everyone says it’s particularly hard to do when you are wearing armor and shoes.  I don’t want to find out.

       My visitor’s dinghy stops and waits well away from our galley when he sees me start to climb down into our dinghy. I can’t say as how I blame him for being cautious.

        “Hello.  Who are you?” he hails first in Italian and then in Latin as we approach.

       “I’m Herman von Neurath,” I reply in French.  “Captain of the Valkrie out of Frankfurt.  Carrying a party of Teutonic Knights from Frankfurt to Beirut to join the crusade.  Who are you?”  
Of course I lie about who I am.  Wouldn’t you under the circumstances?  Maybe I can blame this disaster on the Teutonic Knights if they didn’t catch any of the Templars or our crew.  We don’t have any dealings with the Teutonic knights you know.

     
“I am Valens, the son of Joseph.  I’m the commander of the city watch.  Bishop Bardas sent me to find out why our priests were murdered and bring the murderers to him.” 
Damn.  There were more priests than just the one and they died.  That will make settling this all the more difficult.

      
“Priests?  Priests were murdered?  More than one?  That’s terrible.  Very terrible.  What happened?  Can you tell me what happened?  All I know is that I was walking back to my galley from the harbor office with a couple of my men when a mob started chasing us and throwing rocks.”