The Lost Queen

by Carol McGrath

Genres: Medieval

Synopsis

'Well researched, elegantly written, with a deft touch for both romance and historical detail. The Lost Queen is a gripping historical drama to be savoured' ANNE O'BRIEN

'An excellent read, meticulously researched, beautifully told. Berengaria is a delicious heroine, thoroughly engaging, a refreshingly unusual viewpoint for this epic tale' JANE JOHNSON

1191 and the Third Crusade is underway . . .

It is 1191 and King Richard the Lionheart is on crusade to pitch battle against Saladin and liberate the city of Jerusalem and her lands. His mother, the formidable Eleanor of Aquitaine and his promised bride, Princess Berengaria of Navarre, make a perilous journey over the Alps in midwinter. They are to rendezvous with Richard in the Sicilian port of Messina.

There are hazards along the way - vicious assassins, marauding pirates, violent storms and a shipwreck. Berengaria is as feisty as her foes and, surviving it all, she and Richard marry in Cyprus and continue to the Holy Land. England needs an heir. But first, Richard and his Queen must return home . . .

The Lost Queen is a thrilling medieval story of high adventure, survival, friendship and the enduring love of a Queen for her King.

Acclaim for Carol McGrath's ROSE trilogy:

'Powerful, gripping and beautifully told' KATE FURNIVALL on The Silken Rose
'A tour de force of gripping writing, rich historical detail and complex, fascinating characters' NICOLA CORNICK on The Stone Rose
'A beautifully narrated novel' K J MAITLAND on The Damask Rose

What readers love about Carol McGrath's novels:

'Brilliant historical fiction brought to life' ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
'Brilliant. You feel you are lost in a bygone time' ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
'Wonderfully enjoyable' ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
'Page-turning and gripping' ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐
'A feast for the senses' ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Release date: July 18, 2024

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 336

Sample

The midnight Angelus bells were ringing. I must make haste. Sprinkling fine sand over the words I had just written, I leaned back in my chair, my instructions completed.

Was my husband alive or dead? We had been married for less than a year when he had travelled to Outremer to lay claim to his father’s estate, promising to return for me. Three long years had passed, and he was presumed dead in the Holy Land. But I felt that if my William no longer walked the earth, I would be sure of it, deep in my heart.

During his absence, I was left managing our estate and there was pressure on me to remarry. His half-brother, Walter of Winchester, was my suitor. He insisted that William had died at the Battle of Hattin three years ago, when Saladin defeated the Christian army close to the port of Acre. Walter pointed out that no ransom demand had been made, as was the custom for captured knights, but I countered that there was no firm proof my husband was dead. When an opportunity presented itself, I determined to discover the truth of it and follow him to Outremer. I believed Walter had lied to me about my husband. He desired this estate.

A group of nuns from nearby Romsey Abbey were to join King Richard’s new Crusade. I decided to travel with them, and once they agreed, I scribed my will, in case . . . In case of what? In case William had indeed died and I might not return safely home either. I stared down at the stylus lying on the desk. My heart skipped a beat, and drawing in my breath, I hesitated. It was not too late to change my mind. Who knew what terrors I would meet on the journey?

I stiffened my spine. My plan was to journey east disguised as a widowed lay nun, travelling on a pilgrimage to pray at the Holy Sepulchre for my husband’s departed soul. With a third Crusade under way, we Christians assumed that the kings of France and England would wrestle Jerusalem back from the enemy, that God was on our side and He would avenge the cruelty we felt had been committed by Saladin after he had captured Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre. When the Christian army recovered Outremer’s cities, Jerusalem would be safe for our pilgrims once again.

I glanced at the two anxious faces watching me, those of my steward and my priest. My elbows planted firmly upon the desk, I lifted the document and began to read aloud.

I, Avelina FitzWilliam, give my steward, Robert de Herbert, control over my estate at Middleton until my return from God’s Kingdom of Jerusalem.

If I fail to return within five years, I grant my dower estate of Middleton into the custody of the Abbey of Romsey. This grant includes my husband William FitzWilliam’s lands beyond the sea in Outremer.

I paused and looked up. ‘This is, of course, assuming William truly is dead and not lingering in a Saracen dungeon.’

I glanced from my steward to my cleric, the sharp-faced but kindly Father Ignatius, who, like the nuns of Romsey Abbey, I had known for most of my life. I dipped my pen into the ink horn before proffering it to the priest and saying quietly, ‘Put your signature there, good Father.’

Father Ignatius inclined his head and sighed, but signed the document. When he lifted his eyes, I saw concern. ‘Do not do this, Avelina,’ he said. ‘The road to Jerusalem is fraught with dangers. It is a long way for a young woman to travel with a group of nuns and only God’s protection to ease the way.’

‘Tut,’ I said. ‘Father, I have a widow’s right to the King’s protection if any new marriage is forced upon me.’ My voice hardened. I stared from the good priest to my lawyer. ‘And it is to the King, wherever he is, that I go to fight for my estates. Note this well, I shall discover the truth of my husband’s alleged death.’

The priest said slowly, ‘Indeed, my lady. Your cause is just.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But it is dangerous.’

‘It is more dangerous to remain here, Father, to have my dower taken from me and my widow’s rights violated by my husband’s half-brother – if indeed William is dead and I am widowed. I will not wed Master Walter of Winchester, cloth merchant.’ I found myself spitting out Walter’s name at the good father.

My husband’s brother was a weaselling, mean and cruel-faced man. I had never forgotten his attempt to trap me in the screens passage on my wedding day, when, as I made my escape from his groping hands, his attack caused me to rip the hem of my rose-pink damask gown. Nor could I forgive him for kicking my beloved greyhound, Racer, away from my side when he came to Middleton, intent on our betrothal.

‘I understand, Lady Avelina,’ Father Ignatius said. I suspected he did not understand at all. Like most of the clergy, he believed a young widow was best wed again, for her own protection, or perhaps because she might tempt innocent men into her bed if left wealthy.

‘And please sign your name too, Robert.’ I passed my steward the pen.

He signed without complaint. Like the nuns, loyal Robert knew I was of a determined nature.

I rolled the manuscript into a scroll and tied it with a length of fine gold string, then lit a taper from the table candle and dripped wax onto the ribbon fastening it. When I pressed my seal ring into the puddle of soft wax, my will was securely bound with the seal’s impression, a complicated twisting of the initials A and W within an encompassing vine.

Father Ignatius took up the document, and Robert bowed to me. ‘My lady, I swear to serve you as I have your good lord, Sir William, before you, and before him, his father. Be assured, we shall do all we can to guard this manor during your absence.’

I prayed he would be able to keep Middleton safe and thanked him. With King Richard away, there were rumours that his brother, Prince John, might cause mischief. I was not entirely sure that Robert could protect Middleton, since Walter had Prince John’s patronage; he provided the King’s younger brother with expensive scarlet cloth. I hoped Walter would be distracted elsewhere with his cloth business, however, and that Prince John would remain on his estates in Anjou, where the King had sent him before his departure on crusade.

Robert’s gentle wife, Meg, had been silent throughout. Now she began to wring her hands. ‘Oh, my dear lady, I would rather you did not go.’ She touched a string of wooden prayer beads hanging from her belt. ‘We shall pray for your safety every day you are away from us.’

I smiled, for I dreaded and welcomed this journey in equal measure. I feared not just for my own safety, but for that of my little maid, Mahelt, who was waiting for me in the stable with our palfreys already saddled up. I feared, too, for the four nuns of Romsey, setting out on their own quest to bring back the withered foot of St James from a chapel in Jerusalem. His hand, decades ago carried to England from the Holy Roman Empire by our King’s grandmother, Empress Maud, was a precious relic held in Reading Abbey. Romsey’s abbess hoped that his foot would attract pilgrims to her abbey and with them coin for the abbey’s coffers.

Father Ignatius placed my will within an oaken casket and locked it with a small brass key, then tucked the casket under his arm and slipped out through a side door into the night. I knew he would keep it safely in the priest’s house, hidden away in a secret place until my brother-in-law came looking for me, or worse, set up a pursuit. By then, I would be far away. My own people were sworn to secrecy. Even so, I worried that Walter would soon enough know that a band of Romsey nuns had departed for the Holy Land and suspect my presence amongst them.

I embraced Meg. ‘Do not weep for me. If he is alive, I’ll bring Sir William home.’

Accompanied by Robert, who would escort us the five miles to Romsey Abbey, I followed the priest down the outer staircase to the courtyard. We waved Father Ignatius farewell, then, silent as the black cat that stalked through the orchard by night, made our way along the shadowy wall of the manor house to the stables.

Mahelt was waiting for us with the stable lad and our horses, both sturdy palfreys. I whispered a greeting and patted my swollen leather saddlebags. They contained the bare necessities for our journey: my inks and pens and a sheaf of parchments cut to a manageable size; hard biscuits and cheese wrapped in linen cloth, wineskins, a dozen wax candles and a tinderbox, a comb and changes of shifts, as well as a supply of monthly rags. We intended wearing outer garments that would disguise us as nuns. I checked the pack containing my bedroll, which was wrapped around a pair of stout shoes. I had insisted on a second pair for each of us.

‘All there, Mahelt. You’ve forgotten nothing, not even my best knife.’ I thrust the silver dagger, sharp as one owned by any crusader, through my belt.

She nodded and smiled her deceptively gentle smile. Mahelt could be very fierce, but tonight her eyes were laughing as she touched her own belt with a dagger attached to it and said, ‘Who will question the knives that we use at table?’

I returned her smile.

Silent as stable mice, we mounted our palfreys. Robert led us to the gate and Racer sped alongside us, his ears pinned back as if we were setting out on a hunt. We rode from my home under a gibbous moon, the night’s dim blanket folding itself about us. I breathed in the scent of September bonfires lingering on the air and wondered how long it would be before we again saw England’s ploughed fields, apple orchards and blackberry-laden hedgerows. How many seasons would pass before we would feel gentle springtime rains once more and know anew the harsh winter snows coating cottages with January white? Racer snuffled the verges, but other than the clip-clopping of our palfreys’ hooves through the lanes, the only sound was the rustle of night creatures within the hedges scurrying away from my hound’s attentions.

The abbey loomed up through hovering marsh mists. I dismounted at the gatehouse, and Sister Martha’s coal-black eyes peered out at us as she slid back the peephole slats. ‘I heard you approach, Lady Avelina,’ she said. ‘We are all ready and waiting.’

As she spoke, a tall, thin man dressed in a Templar’s tunic blazoned with a red cross on a white background opened the abbey gate for us. Holding my palfrey’s reins tightly, I guided her through. A wagon headed by two strong nags waited beside the gatehouse.

Mahelt, nimble as a young hart, slid from her horse as Sister Martha stepped forward to greet us.

‘The knight travelling with us is Sir John de Courtney,’ she said, gesturing towards the man who had opened the gate. The Templar nodded. ‘Sir John is returning to God’s Kingdom. He will guard us. Is the hound coming too?’ she added in a somewhat disapproving tone.

‘Yes, Racer will be added protection,’ I said.

‘I hope we have enough food to feed a dog as well as ourselves.’ Sister Martha gave Racer a steely glance, but she reached into the folds of her cloak for a little cake, which he gobbled up before cocking his ears as if to say, you will need me.

‘He’s a good catcher of rats,’ I said, and noted a glimmer of a smile play on the Templar’s mouth. He must like animals too, I decided when he stooped to scratch Racer’s ears. He didn’t speak, but glanced up at me with eyes that revealed no emotion at all, although that twitch of his mouth suggested he was capable of humour.

Sister Martha handed me a basket, then pointed to the open door that led into a chamber within the gatehouse. ‘You can change your clothing in the hall.’

We returned disguised as Lady Barbara, a lay sister, accompanied by a young novice called Mary, leaving our own names behind. Our adventure was about to begin. I waved farewell to Robert, who turned his mount back towards Middleton with his hand raised as he called softly, ‘Godspeed.’

The four nuns climbed into their wagon, wearing their leather scrips across their mantles and carrying linen bundles. Led by the tall Templar, the wagon slowly moved forward on well-greased wheels. Racer had perched contentedly amongst the sisters, his head resting upon Sister Martha’s lap. Mahelt and I, awkwardly trying to manage our new voluminous garb, took up the rear.

A rosy dawn had broken with streaks of pink and grey. By midday we would be in Southampton, and this evening we would board St Christopher the Traveller, the clinker-built vessel that was to carry us to the port of Wissant in Flanders, a journey of a night and a day, depending on sea winds. Indeed, we arrived in Southampton just as the sun reached its zenith. The hustle and bustle of the port, a calm sea and the noise of sailors calling to each other added to a feeling of anticipation. We broke our fast at a harbour inn. Everyone we spoke to seemed to know the vessel we sought. Later that afternoon our wagon and horses were loaded onto St Christopher the Traveller and we made our way along the gangplank, our dark habits flapping in the breeze. On a lead, kept close by my side, Racer momentarily barked a sharp protest. I reached down, patted his silken head and gentled him. Our adventure was about to begin.

As the afternoon shadows lengthened, a sudden breeze swept leaves across the palace courtyard. Climbing a staircase to the upper-level colonnade, Princess Berengaria enjoyed crunching them beneath the heels of her boots, listening to their crackle and fancying they held the last whispers of summer. Her mood was joyful. She was to marry the handsomest prince in all of Christendom, Richard of England, Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine. She swept along the arcade as Ursula, her lady, tried to keep up, twisting through a series of marble pillars leading to the hall where she was to greet Dowager Queen Eleanor of England, Richard’s mother. Pausing her journey for a moment, she stamped upon a pile of gold and red leaves, laughing with happiness.

This was the most thrilling day in all of Berengaria’s twenty years, and for this significant occasion she was dressed in her favourite gown of pink sarsenet, its flowing sleeves trimmed with pearls and gold embroidery. Her lustrous black hair was contained within a fine net, covered with a short silk veil held in place by a thin golden headband.

A murmur of voices speaking in French drifted up from the courtyard below. Berengaria seized Ursula’s hand, dragging her along to peer over the wall. She glimpsed two men, foreign courtiers by the looks of them, hovering by a pillar close to an arched doorway. She noted a cloak lined with expensive crimson silk. Its wearer was tall and dark, with a pointed black beard. The other mantle was white. She could not see clearly, but surely it belonged to a Cistercian priest. They were known as the white monks.

‘I wonder if they are of Queen Eleanor’s party?’ she whispered, drawing Ursula behind a stone griffin. ‘I want to hear what they are saying. Quick! Have you the ear horn?’ It was an old game the two women often enjoyed playing, that of secretly listening to the conversations of others. They had discovered many secrets through eavesdropping in this way. To justify their spying, Berengaria would say, ‘Men rarely share their business with women, so we must discover their intent by devious means or not at all.’

Ursula drew a small coral trumpet from her cloak bag and handed it to her mistress. Berengaria placed the horn to her ear and pressed it against the wall. She spoke Occitan and Latin better than she did French, so she struggled to translate the men’s words.

One was saying, ‘My master will never forgive this deceit when he discovers it.’

‘Treacherous indeed,’ said the other. ‘But if the opportunity arises . . .’

‘You are travelling to Italy with the Dowager?’

‘I am in her train. Expert with a crossbow.’

‘Useful.’

The voices faded as they moved away from the pillar.

Berengaria thought the men sounded conspiratorial, though perhaps all they were discussing was the guarding of Queen Eleanor. But treachery? She shook her head and told Ursula what she had heard.

‘My lady, they are discussing our journey. Maybe there will be danger from wolves in the mountains.’ Ursula folded her arms over her black-ribboned bodice. ‘I for one am glad we are to be guarded.’

‘But why do they speak in French? The Dowager would not have French courtiers?’

‘The kings of France and England are united in their Crusade, and firm friends. There is nothing to fear from the French. Queen Eleanor may well have French diplomats and priests in her service. Come, my lady, she will be waiting.’

Berengaria remained uneasy as they approached the hall. She had good reason. Would the French King, Philip Augustus, be angry that King Richard had decided to marry her instead of wedding Princess Alice, King Philip’s half-sister? Her engagement to Richard had been a closely guarded secret. She knew about the rumours concerning Alice and Richard’s betrothal, whispered in low cadences when others thought she was not listening. She had also heard that Alice of France had been despoiled by Richard’s father. Yet she knew of another reason why Richard wanted her as his wife. Her father, Don Sancho, had told her that the English King hoped that her dowry castles, positioned on Aquitaine’s borders with Navarre, would safeguard Gascony from the Count of Toulouse’s designs on Richard’s territory there.

As for Richard himself, she sighed with longing when thinking of him. She had met him five years previously at Najac in Gascony, when Richard, then Count of Poitou, was busily forging another southern alliance with Alfonso of Aragon. He was handsome, cultured and courageous, a true chivalrous knight and a great prince, and Berengaria had fallen completely in love with him. She was thrilled at the idea of marrying him when her father suggested it, and overjoyed when Richard agreed. She was not so happy when their proposed union remained a closely guarded secret.

When King Henry of England had died, her chivalrous prince was crowned king. To her relief, his mother, Queen Eleanor, had now come to escort her to Richard in Sicily, where they would marry and then sail to free Jerusalem from Saladin, the warring Saracen sultan. Berengaria was eager to wed her king and ready to embark on the great adventure of a Christian Crusade. She had already selected the ladies who would travel with her, including devoted Ursula, who swore she would never leave her mistress’s side.

Wearing their best gowns, her other ladies were seated on a bench in the reception hall as Berengaria entered. She swept a deep curtsy to the smiling woman waiting on the dais. Queen Eleanor was the most gracious lady she had ever met. The Dowager Queen of England had an oval face and an intelligent brow, now framed by a crisp white wimple. Her gown of burgundy velvet flowed elegantly over her still slim figure. Age had lined her eyes, but these were lively and almond-shaped, brown flecked with gold. Her hands were long-fingered, beautifully manicured and adorned with jewels. They did not look like the hands of an old woman. In these first moments of their meeting, Berengaria realised that Queen Eleanor was ageless, even though she had near enough seventy years of life behind her. She was flanked by two severe-looking attendants.

The Dowager greeted her in a clear, musical voice. ‘My child, we have much to discuss. Your father assures me you are content to travel with me to your wedding in Sicily.’

‘Indeed, your Grace, I am blessed and honoured that King Richard has sent for me.’

‘With my encouragement, my dear. You are cultured and most sensible, I hear it said, so you will be well suited. Your mother gave birth to sons, and I am sure you will too.’ In a tone laced with pride she added, ‘As did I. Five sons and three daughters.’

Berengaria’s father smiled benevolently upon her as Queen Eleanor spoke. Don Sancho was younger than the Dowager by near enough two decades, but his face was more weathered and lined.

He stood to offer Eleanor his arm. ‘Come, your Grace, we shall enjoy a private supper. As we dine, we can discuss further arrangements for your journey. My son, Sancho, has agreed to accompany you.’ His voice was heavy with serious intent as he offered Berengaria his other arm. ‘This, daughter, is a very special occasion. Sancho has seen to everything. Come. We have minstrels from Provence, unsurpassed troubadours, and much to speak about before your departure.’

Berengaria’s ladies, led by Ursula, rose to their feet, as did a great number of Queen Eleanor’s attendants, and they processed behind the royal party into a colonnaded chamber that lay beyond the great hall.

Berengaria’s handsome brother, Sancho, greeted Eleanor with a deep obeisance. A steward indicated where everyone was to sit, at a long table already laden with cold meats, salads, pasties, little savoury dishes and a collection of colourful jellies. The Dowager sank gracefully into an oaken chair to the right of Don Sancho at the head of the table, whilst Berengaria and her brother sat on lesser chairs.

Food tasters sampled every dish before offering Queen Eleanor the best of everything, placing small morsels on her plate when she inclined her head in assent. Don Sancho never took any chances in case a dish was spoiled – or worse, might contain poison. Only once the Dowager and Don Sancho were served was Berengaria able to make selections for her own plate. As she ate, carefully making sure not to appear greedy, she noticed that Queen Eleanor had a hearty appetite, sampling everything and complimenting Don Sancho on his well-presented feast. Lifting a goblet to her mouth and sipping daintily, she praised the Gascon wine served in her honour.

Over custard tarts, a speciality of the palace pastry cooks, the Dowager broached plans for their journey. They would travel to the kingdom of Provence, through many deep valleys, and over Mount Genèvre into Italy.

‘If we depart soon, we should be through the Alps before winter sets in,’ she said. She tapped the table with an impatient gesture. ‘Don Sancho, may I assume Berengaria will be ready by this week’s end with her baggage mules packed? She will need suitable clothing for travel to Sicily, along with her confessor and her ladies.’

‘Indeed. We shall provide a well-armed guard under Sancho’s command for the first part of your journey,’ Don Sancho said. ‘Berengaria and her ladies will ride. They are all of them fine horsewomen.’

‘We will need stout covered wagons and apothecaries in case of illness, though I expect none,’ the Dowager responded. Berengaria wondered if Queen Eleanor had ever been in need of apothecaries in her whole life, other than for childbirth. Suddenly she grew nervous at the thought that the arrangements they had made for her wedding in Sicily might not be good enough.

Don Sancho nodded in assent, then added, ‘All is ready, including priests and two bishops who will travel with your train as far as Rome.’ He gave Eleanor a broad smile.

Berengaria looked at her father with a confidence she did not feel. ‘So my brother and his knights will escort us through French territories?’ she asked.

‘Not France, but the county of Toulouse. And indeed, my daughter, Sancho will ride with you as far as Les Baux. Arrangements have been made. Travel passes have been granted.’

Her brother nodded. ‘My dear sister, I have business in Aragon, but I intend guarding you to the very borders of the German Empire.’

Berengaria loved her bear-like brother. ‘I am glad of your escort, dear Sancho.’

She looked over to see Eleanor’s reaction, but the Dowager simply thanked Sancho for his care of them. Her expression remained composed as she added, ‘We hope to have Philip of Flanders as our escort through the Alps and on to Sicily. The Count is intent on joining the Crusade.’

Berengaria sensed Queen Eleanor’s eagle-eyed assessment of her and wondered how well she would get on with this formidable woman who gave nothing away. They would be travelling companions for months. She concealed her sense of foreboding, a fear that the Dowager did not think any princess good enough for her favourite son.

She spoke quietly to her father. ‘Papa, I am leaving one great ruler to join my life to another noble and gentle prince, and I am honoured.’ She turned her face to Queen Eleanor and said politely, ‘I thank you, your Grace, for escorting me to my wedding. May God and the Madonna bless our travels.’

Eleanor smiled back, but the smile did not reach her eyes. Clearly the Dowager rarely showed emotion. She touched a jewelled crucifix hanging on her breast and murmured, ‘God protect us all.’

A heartbeat later, three musicians struck up a ballad. Berengaria relaxed enough to glance further along the table. As she did, she grew aware that two men were watching Queen Eleanor closely. She stared at them for a moment, but quickly drew back. The man wearing a dark mantle lined with scarlet had been speaking to the same companion of earlier. This second man was tonsured. He was for certain a Cistercian priest. She pretended to adjust her veil and turned her head away. Surely, with all the excitement of that day, she was imagining danger where none lay?

For a time, she lost herself within the troubadours’ songs of romance. Queen Eleanor was listening intently, and her eyes were dreamy. It seemed the Dowager had a liking for music and song. Musing on that reassuring thought, Berengaria came to the conclusion that her prospective mother-in-law might not be so fearsome after all.

A stiff breeze snatched at our veils as we clutched a tight hold of the ship’s rails. There were constructions like miniature castles fore and aft on our vessel, and we had a small cabin where we could take our rest. At the other end, below decks, cargo was stored and our horses were corralled. When a bitterly cold spray threatened to soak us, the stately Sister Martha ordered, ‘Get over there by the castle, my sisters, and pray. Pray to St Christopher that we are not to end this voyage as food for fishes.’ Meekly, Sisters Philomena, Elizabeth and Anne obeyed.

I held on to Mahelt’s hand and, looking back towards England, refused to budge. I wanted to watch the land shrink and buildings along Southampton’s wharf grow tiny as we sped further over the waves. I remembered how I had enjoyed travelling by ship to Normandy as a child with my parents to visit my mother’s Norman estates. I felt a tug on my heart at that memory. Now a male cousin held my mother’s land near Bayeux and our small estate in Somerset had been sold to cover debts after William and I had married. I shook off my moment of melancholy and determined not to think of loss. Life held sadness for us all, but there was joy too, and being of an optimistic nature, I would always choose enjoyment over sorrow.

‘Mistress.’ Mahelt’s small voice spoke up from my side. ‘Will our horses be safe?’

‘As safe as they can be in a ship’s hold.’

Racer tugged on his lead and gave a loud yelp as I pulled him back from the rail. I bent down to pat his silky head and fondle his ears. Rising, I caught sight of the Templar from the corner of my eye. He was watching us from further along the deck, and as our eyes met, he nodded. I put him at around thirty years of age. His skin was tanned – from the Outremer sun, I assumed – and his hair fell over his collar, curling and black. He was a man of few words, but I thought . . .