“There we can rest in safety for a few days,”
Ambrose said, “while we arrange to take ship for Ireland.”
They never reached Bangor. Along the way they
were intercepted by Welsh tribesmen, who took them as prisoners to
Gryffyn, the local leader. In a wooden hall set behind a tall log
palisade, Ambrose, who as a priest was the member of their party
most likely to be believed, recounted a simplified version of the
events at Banningford Castle that had caused them to flee
England.
“You speak well,” said the dark, wiry
Gryffyn, “but how do I know you are not spies, sent to learn if we
Welsh are plotting against the wicked Normans? I cannot let you
leave me without first confirming your story. You will remain here,
as my guests, until the scouts I will send across the border have
heard the latest gossip from our friends along the Marches.”
“And when you learn that Father Ambrose has
not lied, what then?” demanded Alain, who was much irritated by
this delay.
“If it’s truth you speak,” Gryffyn retorted,
“I’ll see you on your way with my blessing, for I have no love for
our neighbors to the east, who would dearly like to hold all Wales
in the same tight grip that has strangled England for the past
seventy years. But if I discover that you have lied, by the next
sunrise your heads will decorate my gateway.”
“We have not lied,” Ambrose told him calmly,
before Alain could give vent to the anger that rose in him too
swiftly these days.
It took Gryffyn’s spies more than a month to
verify the tale. Having heard the report his men brought, Gryffyn
informed his increasingly restless guests that Radulf was still
seeking information about Alain and Piers, and Father Ambrose,
too.
“
He calls
you a horse thief,” Gryffyn told Ambrose. “Radulf says you rode
into his castle on a mule and left it with three of his best
mounts. ‘Tis a shameful thing, Father, that a man of God should
commit such an offense.” By the twinkle in his ey
es it was
plain that Gryffyn was highly amused by the story, and that he
admired Father
Ambrose’s
cleverness.
“It was my plan to give the horses to the
monastery at St. Deiniol.” Ambrose looked not the least bit ashamed
of what he had done. “I thought they could be sold and the silver
used to feed the poor.”
“What did you imagine would happen if simple
monks were known to be selling stolen horseflesh?” Gryffyn asked.
“Those horses, fine though they are, will cause trouble for St.
Deiniol’s. Give the horses to me instead. I’ll see that they are
smuggled into South Wales and then into England, to a location
where their discovery and identification, if it ever occurs, will
only confuse Baron Radulf as to where you have gone. As for the
monks of St. Deiniol, out of admiration for your wit and your
courage I will present six Welsh ponies to them, to use as they see
fit. Just leave it all to me; my greatest joy is found in teasing
and tormenting those border barons.”
“He has probably stolen the ponies he’ll give
to St. Deiniol,” Alain muttered afterward, but Piers and Ambrose
both accepted Gryffyn’s arrangements, so he made no protest. He did
not really care what Gryffyn did. His heart was not in Wales, but
at Banningford Castle. He longed to see Joanna, to put his arms
around her and comfort her, to tell her he would love her always.
He wanted to free her from her father’s cruel imprisonment.
And he knew that Piers and Ambrose were right
when they told him, each time he raised the subject, that there was
nothing he could do that would not end in his death and, probably,
in even stricter confinement for Joanna. Each night before he slept
he repeated his vow to find a way to return to Joanna. But after
Gryffyn freed him and his companions and found them a ship bound
for Ireland, Alain set his face each day in a direction that took
him ever farther from his love.
Once in Ireland, it was ten days before they
found a ship sailing to Bordeaux, and their vessel was storm-tossed
and mightily uncomfortable, but Alain was much relieved to discover
that, unlike Piers and Ambrose, he did not become seasick, so he
did not need the few days they spent resting in Bordeaux once the
ship had berthed there.
From
Bordeaux they traveled overland, following the course of
the
River Garonne to Agen,
where
Ambrose fell ill, with vomiting and a severe flux of the bowels. At
first Alain teased him, saying Ambrose had eaten too many of the
luscious plums for which the area around Agen was famous, but when
on the following day he and Piers also became ill, it was no longer
a laughing matter.
In the difficult weeks that followed Alain
began for the first time in his life to think seriously about his
own death, and the possibility that he might not live long enough
to see Joanna again. A deep, quiet sadness descended upon him, and
with it a dignity and reserve that hastened the transformation from
the boy he had recently been to a man of dignity and maturity.
It took them six weeks to recover enough from
their illness to travel again, and by then it was late October.
Still not in the best of health, they pressed on by easy stages to
Toulouse, to Carcassonne, and finally to Narbonne, where an
exhausted Ambrose insisted that they all must rest before
undertaking the rigors of another sea voyage.
They spent the Christmas season in Narbonne,
and it was not until mid-January that they set out again, only to
encounter more of the difficulties that routinely plagued all
travelers. They were within sight of Sicily when a storm blew them
far to the northwest, driving their ship aground in Majorca, where
they were forced to spend weeks waiting for it to be repaired.
Finally, in mid-March, they approached Sicily a second time. Again
they were battered by one of the severe storms that can strike
suddenly in that part of the Middle Sea, but this time they were
more fortunate. In a driving rain their captain brought his vessel
around the jutting end of the breakwater into the harbor, where the
rolling waves of the open sea were immediately replaced by calm
water. To Alain’s amazement, as the sailors cast out the lines and
secured the ship at wharf-side, the rain stopped and the sun broke
through the clouds.
“A good omen for your arrival,” the captain
said to Alain, glancing skyward.
“
I hope
so,” Alain replied, his own eyes on buildings made of pale gold
limestone, on a huge cathedral in the process of construction, on
the spire of a minaret beside a gold-domed mosque. So strange, all
of it, and so oddly beautiful. The streets in the vicinity of the
harbor were thronged with folk in a variety of dress
– Norman knights dressed in
chainmail, Jewish merchants wearing dark robes and curly beards,
Moslems in turbans and cloaks, smooth-shaven Greeks with dark eyes
and high-bridged noses – for on this island, ruled by a tolerant
and cultivated king, all religions and all conditions of men lived
together in a state of peace. So Ambrose had told him, and now
Alain saw the evidence of that claim.
Throughout their seemingly endless journey
and despite his long illness, Ambrose had done his work well; Alain
was able to understand a few words of the Arabic that drifted up to
him from the dock, and he caught also the rapid sounds of Greek
being spoken. Drawing in a deep breath of exotically odorous spring
air, he looked westward, toward the royal palace that sat apart and
a little above the city.
“At last.” Having recovered from his
seasickness enough to rise from his pallet below-deck, Ambrose
joined Alain at the rail, with Piers not far behind. “After so long
a voyage I hope you are not disappointed by your first view of
Palermo.”
Alain did not answer. He was too busy
watching the activities along the wharf to speak. Beside him, Piers
squinted against the sudden brilliant sunshine so he could see
better.
“The city looks dry,” Piers said, “and dusty
in spite of the rain. Not at all like England.”
“There will be so much for you to see and to
do,” Ambrose told him, “that you will soon forget to be
homesick.”
“I am not at all homesick,” Piers replied,
looking around with great interest. “I am fascinated.”
So was Alain, but not in the same way. While
Piers, during the next days and weeks, embraced Sicily with the
enthusiasm of a man who has left nothing behind to regret, Alain
found that amid the colors and sounds and smells of this warm and
sunny land there remained a corner of his heart that held the
picture of cool, misty greenness. The central image of the picture
was a girl with long waves of golden hair and eyes like the finest
sapphires.
Not that Sicily was all hot sunlight and
brilliant color. They all three found cool oases where flowers
bloomed and fountains played and green leaves sparkled with drops
of breeze-blown water. But that was later. First, before they were
allowed to explore the city and find lodgings, they had to undergo
the examination required of all travelers who put in at
Palermo.
This took place in a small building just off
the wharf where their ship was docked. It was cool inside the thick
walls, and the shade was welcome to eyes not yet accustomed to
Sicilian sunshine. They were welcomed by a splendidly dressed man
in a spotless white turban and a blue-and-white-striped robe. His
dark beard was neatly trimmed, his black eyes searching and
intelligent.
“I am Abu Amid ibn Amid, the royal
commissioner in charge of gathering information.” With a graceful
wave of one hand, the man indicated that they should be seated upon
a bench softened by pillows and a layer of thick carpets. In front
of the bench a brass tray rested on a carved wooden stand, and on
the tray were several pitchers and silver goblets, a plate of dried
fruit, and a second plate piled high with pastries. Abu Amid seated
himself opposite his guests. “Allow me to offer you refreshment
while we talk.”
The pitchers contained cooled fruit juices;
the pastries were dripping with honey and crunchy
with almonds; the dried fruits were dates
and figs and apricots, all so intensely sweet they made Alain’s
teeth hurt. But the juice tasted wonderful. He emptied his cup and
accepted more from the servant who silently glided about the room,
seeing to their needs. When they had all been served Abu Amid began
to speak, his carefully phrased Norman French giving Alain the
impression that he had spoken the same words many times. As Abu
Amid continued, it became clear that this was indeed the
case.
“
Our
great and honored king, Roger II, being interested in all manner of
knowledge, has formed a commission to gather from visitors to our
land whatever geographical information they can provide. From what
land do you come, good sirs, and how did you voyage here? Was it
entirely upon ship, or overland for part of the way? Will you
describe to me the rivers, mountains, cities along your route, the
weather, the storms you enco
untered, the appearance of the
skies at night?” He
went on and
on, asking question after question, until Alain felt completely
drained, as if the journey itself had been drawn out of his memory
to be recorded by the secretary who sat at a nearby table, writing
down every word in flowing Arabic script.
They answered Abu Amid honestly. They had
nothing to hide, and Alain at least had the feeling that the royal
commissioner would have known if he had spoken one false word.
Never was the questioning less than courteous, but it was
persistent, and for their honest answers they had at the end of
several hours a reward that was to change all their lives.
“Because you have knowledge of a land still
unfamiliar to us,” Abu Amid said, “you ought to have an interview
with King Roger. But he sees no one at present. Only a month ago
our beloved Queen Elvira died, and the king has withdrawn into
seclusion to mourn her loss, for she was the very light of his
life. However, there is another man who will be interested in what
you have to tell of distant lands and uncharted seas. Especially
the seas. Yes, you must meet the Emir of Emirs, Emir-al-Bahr,
George of Antioch.”
“Emir-al-Bahr? Ruler of the sea?” The title
roused Alain from his sympathetic consideration of a king who had
lost the woman he loved.
“You speak Arabic?” Abu Amid looked
surprised.
“Only a little,” Alain admitted. “Father
Ambrose has tried to teach Piers and me, but I fear we have been
indifferent students.”
“
Father
Ambrose.” Abu Amid regarded the
priest with glowing eyes. “This information makes you even
more interesting. May I hope that you have come to Sicily for
further study?” As he spoke, Abu Amid signaled with one hand, and
within the blink of an eye two servants awaited his bidding just
inside the chamber door. One of these servants was dispatched with
a message for George of Antioch, informing him of the arrival of
the three Englishmen, while the other servant was sent to collect
the two small bags that had been left on the ship, all the
belongings the travelers possessed. Before the day had ended Alain,
Piers, and Father Ambrose were housed in sumptuous apartments in
the home of George of Antioch, chief minister of the realm, second
only to King Roger in power and influence.
“If this is not a palace,” said Piers,
looking from the open windows with their wide view of the harbor
and the sea to the silk-draped walls, his glance then moving on to
contemplate more furniture than he had ever seen in one room
before, “then, in heaven’s name, in what kind of place lives the
king of this land? How can any man be richer than this?”
“I believe it would be possible for you to
earn similar wealth,” Ambrose told him. “Other men have done so.
King Roger is said to be generous to those who serve him
loyally.”