A King's Ransom by Sharon Kay Penman Page A

the ways of carnal lust. Ordering more wine, he did his best, assuring Arne that there was no hurry, no need to rush into sin. His own body would tell him when he was ready, and whilst it was natural for a man to be somewhat nervous his first time, a naked woman did wonders to dispel any anxieties or qualms. And although the Church did indeed preach that fornication was a mortal sin, many men—King Richard amongst them—felt that it was a venial sin at worst, for certes not as serious as adultery or breaking a holy vow of chastity. Arne cheered up to hear that Richard thought fornication to be a minor matter, for he was convinced that the English king’s most casual comment was to be taken as Gospel. He was further reassured when Morgan reminded him that the point of confession was to wipe a slate clean.
    “Most soldiers I know admit they are sinners, find a confessor to lay light penances, and make sure that they are shriven ere they go into battle—or set foot on a ship like the Sea-Wolf . You could do worse than to follow in their footsteps, Arne.” Adding with a grin, “And if Warin and the others tease you about abstaining tonight, just tell them you’d heard a rumor that the Ragusan whores were poxed. That will shut them up!”
    Arne laughed and was soon chattering happily as they finished a second flagon. Morgan drank his wine, listened, and marveled at the vagaries of fate—that a Welsh knight and an Austrian stripling should be sharing wine and confidences in this shabby, wharf-side tavern, far from home and all they held dear. The ways of the Almighty truly were beyond the understanding of mortal men. So many crusaders had left their homes and families for God and glory, only to find lonely graves in foreign lands. He fervently hoped it was the Almighty’s Will that they’d be luckier than the thousands who’d been stricken by pestilence, struck down by Saracen swords. He was convinced that Richard had God’s favor. How else explain why he was still alive, as reckless as he was with his own safety? He would get them home if any man could. But as Morgan signaled for another round of drinks, Wales had never seemed as far away as it did on this early December eve in Ragusa.

    T HE RIVALRY BETWEEN R AGUSA’S count and archbishop had become even more intense now that they had a genuine prize to compete for—the favor of a king. Richard had taken a liking to Archbishop Bernard, who was enthralled by his stories of the campaign against Saladin. The portly prelate had a keen sense of humor, too, laughing heartily when Richard joked that he was remarkably bloodthirsty for a man of God. Count Raphael’s company was less enjoyable, for he tended to be pompous and long-winded. It was politic to keep his goodwill, though, so Richard did his best to divide his time between the two men, although he complained to his friends, only half in jest, that he’d begun to feel like a bone caught between two hungry dogs. The tension would ignite at a lavish feast given in Richard’s honor on his last day in Ragusa. But when it happened, Archbishop Bernard and Count Raphael would be unlikely allies, united against the abbot of the Benedictine monastery on La Croma.
    Richard was seated on the dais with the count, archbishop, members of the city’s great council, and their wives. He’d insisted that Abbot Stephanus be seated at the high table, too, while his own men were scattered at the lower tables, all enjoying the rich fare, so different from the rations they could expect once they were back at sea. They were savoring the latest dish—roast swan—when raised voices attracted their attention. The count was on his feet, red-faced, pointing an accusing finger at the black-robed abbot. The latter pushed his chair back and rose, too, apparently giving as good as he got. Morgan and Warin did not have enough Latin to follow the argument, but they watched with interest as the abbey’s prior and monks moved from their lesser