The Archer's Gold: Medieval Military fiction: A Novel about Wars, Knights, Pirates, and Crusaders in The Years of the Feudal Middle Ages of William Marshall ... (The Company of English Archers Book 7) (14 page)

       The Marines rarely miss at this range.  Even so, all the arrows constantly flying makes walking on the deck dangerous, doesn't it? 

       Indeed it's a wonder no one's been hit when the men walk back to use the shite plank hanging out over the stern next to the crew castle where the sailors and sergeants live - probably because if a Marine misses the target and loses an arrow into the water he'll get laughed at and jeered by all the others and have to personally make or buy a replacement.

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       I've been grumpy towards Peter all day and I don't know why.  He's a good bloke and a dear friend so I make an effort to be more friendly by saying something about the weather to get a conversation going.

       "It's a good thing the wind is favorable because it's unseasonably warm.  At least I don't remember it being this warm the last time I was here.  Perhaps it's because we're arriving a few days later than usual because of Oakhampton.  What do you think?"

       "I think you're right.  And that means Thomas and Peter ought to be reaching Rome about now to pay the pope."

       Then we both smile at each other - we must have been thinking the same thing.  Long voyages can strain relationships and cause strange things to happen. That's for sure. 

       For example, just two days ago one of our Marines disappeared without anyone seeing him go - he either jumped into the sea or got thrown off by an enemy or he let loose of the lines and fell off the shite board in the dark.  We'll never know.

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       We're now only a few hours away from the mouth of the Tiber and, as always when sailing to Rome, it's a good thing we're in a galley - it's relatively shallow draft means we'll be able to row up the heavily silted river and anchor at the old wharves along the city's huge crumbling wall that runs along the river.

       Rolf has made the trip with me for the past three years.  He knows where I want him to tie up.  It's a rundown area with a narrow band of decaying warehouses and starving squatters along the city wall, a place of robbers, prostitutes, and taverns selling watered wine. 

       In other words, it's a perfect place for a galley loaded with horny sailors and Marines.  It's also within walking distance of the Pope's splendid residence and the great church where he prays and works.

      A few hours later the hot sun is even hotter and our rowers are drenched in sweat as we finally reach our destination next to the city wall and swing around in the river so we are pointing downstream - the way we'll undoubtedly want to go if we have to leave in a hurry.  We're arrived. 

       I wonder why it is always so much warmer here than on the ocean.  It's the same sun isn't it?

       Peter and I step off as soon as the galley ties up to the side of the river.  We've been dressed and ready to go for almost an hour.  Hopefully Peter and I can find a horse cart or a barrow man to carry us to the Pope.  My robes are already too damn warm and I'm carrying my miter instead of wearing it. 

       In the background as we walk away from the galley I can hear Rolf loudly giving his orders to the men who are being given their liberty to go ashore.

       "Never more than six hundred paces away from the galley and only during the hours of daylight and you come back running if you hear the horn.  You may carry a knife ashore but not your swords and shields.  And try to stay away from the girls who are poxed." 

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       Several barrow men and a number of beggars approach us with loud cries and outstretched hands as we climb off.  We quickly select a skinny barefoot barrow man wearing a loin cloth and leather sandals from those on offer. 

       Peter and I squeeze in together on his barrow's narrow seat, he jumps between the two handles and picks them up, and off we go to the Pope's residence. 

       This is Peter's first ride on a barrow cart and at first he holds on for dear life as we weave around people and carts and wagons going in all directions in the narrow streets.  Our puller trots and digs in his heels to slow us down when we are rolling down hill and labors with a determined walk when it's uphill. 

       After a while Peter relaxes a bit and I point out the sights as we go by them, at least the few I know about.  Peter's never been here before and marvels at the old statues and the ruins. 

        It's uncomfortably warm and the noisy and narrow streets are filled with carts full of things to buy and with priests and pilgrims and beggars and shite.  Men and women constantly cry out to us with their wares and pleas for assistance as we pass.

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       Getting past the guards at the gate to the Pope's great residence is becoming routine after all these years.  I'm even recognized by one of the priests, the man in charge of the priests and monks who do the searching to protect the pope.

       "Hello Your Excellency, welcome back to Rome.  Seeing the Holy Father are you?"

       "Ah Father Francisco, it's good to see you again.  And, yes, I'm newly arrived this very day and here to make my annual report to the Holy Father if he has time for me.  This is my friend, Peter Sergeant.  Please mark him well for I'm sure you'll be seeing him again."

       Then I explain for I do indeed want Peter to be known here. 

       "Peter is a very senior lieutenant of the commander of the Order of the Poor Landless Sailors.  He's with me so he'll know where to come to give the Order's annual report to the Pope if I am unable to do so." 

      
Report, my arse; I'm here to keep the Pope sweet with a few of the prayer coins we got off last year's pilgrims and refugees.

     "Ah, is he indeed? the priest responds.  "Well, welcome to Rome, Lieutenant.  I am Father Francisco, a most minor member of the Holy Father's household."

      
Report, my arse; they're here to keep us sweet with a few of the prayer coins they got off last year's pilgrims and refugees.

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      I'd explained the process to pay the pope in great detail to Peter during our voyage. So he was not surprised at all when all I told Father Francisco is that I was there to make my annual report on the activities of my order and did not mention delivering the coins. 

       He was also not surprised when Father Francisco asked us to raise our arms so that we could be thoroughly searched for weapons.

       And, of course, we have no problem about being searched; neither of us is carrying a sword and I am not wearing the wrist knives and chain mail I usually wear under my tunic when I am ashore.

       We have no appointment so Peter and I have to wait for some time because of the Holy Father's busy schedule.  We wait patiently and we finally do get in to see the Holy Father despite not having a specific appointment. 

      
The Pope sees me quickly every time I come to Rome.  I think he probably does not want me waiting about idly in Rome where I might embarrass him by mentioning the real purpose of my visit - to buy his goodwill and protection for another year.  And, as it turns out, this year he also has another reason for wanting to meet with me as soon as possible.

      
Thomas and I bow and grovel profusely and, as you might imagine, we go down on our knees and bow our heads while we kiss the Pontiff's ring.  Then, at his nod, we stand and I discretely place the purse on a nearby table as is the custom
.

       Thomas did his groveling and ring kissing quite well.  I'm glad I practiced him.

      "It is good to see you alive and well, Bishop Thomas.  God is most merciful is he not?"

      "Oh yes, Your Holiness, God certainly is." 
Unless, of course, I think to myself, you're being tortured or killed by one his priests. 

       Your Holiness may I present my friend and a devoted believer in the true faith, Peter Sergeant, a high official in the Order of the Poor Landless Sailors.  Peter is the commander's personal assistant and the deputy commander of your order. 

       I brought Peter with me, Your Holiness, so that you would know him if ever he comes to you to make our annual report instead of me - or need to know who you can trust if ever I'm not available and you need any services we might provide."

       "I'm glad to know that, Bishop Thomas, for it happens that such a service is now needed by the church.  I have written an important letter to the crusaders and once again I need your assistance in seeing that it is delivered as soon as possible." 

       "It goes to Cardinal Capua and the crusaders now at Zara - will you and the members of your order help one of my priests deliver it by carrying him there in your galley just as you once carried Cardinal Bertoli?"

       "Of course, Your Holiness.  We would be greatly honored to be of service to you
."  What else can I do but agree?  Peter can deliver the priest and the Pope's letter on his way to Cyprus.

       "Excellent.  God will bless you and so shall I.  I will have my messenger and his guards at your galleys on the river before the sun goes down."  And with that he motioned to us to kneel to receive his personal blessing.

              Chapter Eighteen

       Peter and I have an intense discussion and make our plans as a horse cart carries us from the Pope's residence back to the galleys on the Tiber.  There is no question about it, the Pope's unexpected commission changes everything. 

       The initial plan was for me to return to Cornwall on Rolf's galley and for Peter to go to Cyprus and the Holy Land on Galen's to meet William and take over the command of our operations in the Holy Land from Henry so that both William and Henry could return and make a major raid on the Moors en route back.  No longer.

       After thinking about it and discussing the matter with Peter, I decide that both of our galleys should go to Zara before Peter and I separate to go our own ways. 
It's a rare pirate who will challenge an English galley and to my knowledge none has ever challenged two.

     
We returned to the galleys and began to prepare for a quick departure while we wait for the arrival of the Pope's messenger.  The recall horn was frequently blown and sergeants quickly sent out to the nearby taverns and whorehouses to bring in any of our liberty men who might have missed it. 

       Less than an hour later the Pope's messenger arrives accompanied by half a dozen Papal Guards.  It's someone we know - Father Francisco. 
I wonder why he didn't travel by land?

       
"Father Francisco, how is it that you are traveling with us by sea all the way from Rome instead of riding across Italy and making a relatively short voyage from Pescara or Chieti?"

       "The Holy Father wants to be sure his letter is delivered.  He is also sending a messenger with a copy overland to Pescara." 

      
Hmm.  Papal guards and two messengers?  It must be important.  I wonder if there is anything in it that could benefit us.

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       We cast off our mooring lines and begin rowing down the Tiber as soon as Father Francisco and his papal guards climb aboard.  The sergeant in charge of Father Francisco's guards immediately gets upset with the sleeping arrangements because he does not want to be separated from the Pope's messenger. 

       There is no getting around it - Father Francisco will squeeze in with Peter, Rolf, and me at the front of the galley in the forecastle while he and his guards will replace the galley's sailors and share the much bigger castle in the stern with the galley's sergeants.  The grumbling sailors evicted by the arrival of the papal guards will have to make do with a temporary location under a deck tent next to the rudder men.

       Our trip down the Tiber to its mouth goes quickly because Rolf has two men at every oar and rowing hard all the way.  He wants to clear the river before it gets too dark to see, and rightly so.  It is either leave immediately and row hard to reach the Mediterranean, Rolf explains to us at least three times, or we must wait until morning. 

       "We can't go at night - we might run aground or have a collision with an anchored ship or barge in the crowded and twisting river."

       We stand with Rolf and Father Francisco on the roof of the stern castle and talk as we watch the shoreline pass and listen to Rolf shout a constant stream of orders to his rudder men and rowers.  The river twists and turns and Rolf is anxious as we constantly have to move this way and that to avoid other boats traveling on the river or anchored in it. 

       We're moving about as fast as I've ever gone what with the hard rowing and the river current and all.

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       We reach the mouth of the Tiber and we can hear the sighs of relief from the rowers on the benches below us as the order is given to raise the sail and for the rowers to put down their oars. 

       It's actually quite nice out on the Mediterranean now that the sun is down.  Peter remarks about it to me and I tell him he's certainly right.  It's a beautiful night.

       Not everyone agrees about how nice it is.  This is the first sea trip Father Francisco and his guards have ever taken.  The weather is modest but that doesn't stop them from immediately becoming violently seasick.