A King's Ransom by Sharon Kay Penman Read Free Book Online

only be a lantern or torch. Richard and his knights dropped their hands to sword hilts, watching that swaying flame. Hooded figures were visible through the trees now, cloaked in black. At first glance, they seemed spectral and ghostly, even sinister. But then they emerged onto the beach and the shipwrecked men exchanged sheepish smiles, for these otherworldly wraiths were Benedictine monks.
    Richard moved to meet them. He had no idea what language was spoken in Ragusa. Hoping that at least one of the monks had some knowledge of Latin, he said, “We are pilgrims returning from the Holy Land. Can you give us shelter?”
    He was surprised to be answered in Latin as good as his own, as several monks assured him that he and his men would be welcome guests of their abbot. He thanked them courteously and then began to laugh. The monks had rescued other shipwreck survivors and since men often reacted emotionally after coming so close to dying, they saw nothing strange in Richard’s mirthful outburst. They had no way of knowing the real reason for his amusement—that this small, secluded community of monks would be the beneficiaries of his extravagant vow to God. With one hundred thousand ducats to spend, their isolated little island would have a church to rival the spectacular cathedrals of Rome, Palermo, and Constantinople.

    R ICHARD AWOKE WITH A START, torn from a dream that had not been a pleasant one. Arne was sitting cross-legged on the floor by his straw-filled mattress. Sitting up, he glanced around, but the abbey guest hall was empty. Where were his men? “What time is it, Arne?”
    “You’re awake, sire!” Arne’s smile was bright enough to pierce the shadowed gloom of the hall. “I heard the bells ringing for None not long ago, so it is just past the ninth hour of the day.”
    Richard frowned. Three o’clock? He’d meant to rest for a brief while. How could he have slept for more than six hours? “Why did you not awaken me?”
    Arne was flustered by the sharp tone. “You . . . you did not say . . .” he stammered, “and . . . and you needed sleep?”
    That was precisely the problem—that he had needed the sleep. To Richard, it was troubling proof that he’d not fully regained his strength, that his body was still weakened more than two months after his bout with quartan fever. Cutting off Arne’s apology, he said, “Never mind, lad. Do I have anything dry to wear?”
    The boy nodded eagerly, saying they’d retrieved their coffers from the Sea-Wolf , and hurried to fetch braies, chausses, a shirt, and a tunic. All of their clothes were damp and wrinkled, smelling faintly of mildew after so long at sea, but they were still an improvement over the sodden garments Richard had peeled off before falling into bed. He rarely had the patience to allow his squires to assist him in dressing, for he could do it more quickly himself, and he waved Arne away as he pulled the braies on and then drew the shirt over his head. He was belting the tunic while Arne hovered nearby, eager to help, when the door slammed open and Baldwin and Morgan hurried into the hall.
    “My liege, the Count of Ragusa and their archbishop are in the abbot’s great hall, asking to see you!”
    Richard didn’t like the sound of that, thinking this was a rather exalted welcoming committee for ordinary pilgrims. Joanna had told him that her husband had often personally taken a hand when shipwreck survivors turned up in Sicily, and he wanted to believe this was a similar act of Christian charity. But good soldiers developed sharp survival instincts, and his were beginning to tingle. “They asked for me?” he said, trying to recall the name he’d given the abbot.
    Morgan had an expressive face, not meant for secrets, and his concern was obvious. Baldwin was more phlegmatic, rarely revealing his inner thoughts. Now, though, he looked as troubled as the Welshman. “They asked for the king of the English,” he said grimly.
    Richard