Archers and Crusaders: Historical fiction: Novel of Medieval Warfare by Marines, Navy sailors, and Templar knights in the Middle Ages during England's ... (The English Archers Saga Book 6) by Martin Archer Page A
Authors: Martin Archer
Tags: Historical fiction
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responsible. Wait till they hear about the Pope’s letter and find out that the crusaders will not be able to pay them.
Sure enough. Some Venetian officials arrive and shout out to us from the dock. They want us to come ashore so they can talk to us. We wave our hands to acknowledge their request, nod our heads in agreement, and stay on board. I may be stupid but I’m not that stupid.
Several merchants also shout out to us. Jeffrey recognizes them as men he’s dealt with previously for supplies. They want to know if we would like to buy any supplies. They have, they say, just received some particularly tender young sheep. Their inquiry is normal and they make it openly in front of the crowd – Venice is a city of merchants and money comes before everything else around here every time.
We order flour, firewood, water, one hundred chickens, and twenty sheep to be delivered first thing in the morning via dinghies and lighters.
After a while the Venetian officials who hailed us earlier are joined by several others. The new arrivals come with a little force of guards, huddle with the men who initially hailed us, and then hail us themselves. The new arrivals seem to be senior to the first batch. They seem quite sure of themselves and shout out very specific orders – they want us to come ashore so they can talk to us about the missing galleys.
“Pigs will fly before I’ll go back to the dock except to pick up the cardinal.”
Jeffrery says it quietly to me out of the side of his mouth as we stand side by side nodding our agreement to the officials on the dock and lifting our hands to acknowledge our acceptance of their order.
“I wonder how they found out?” is my response.
“Maybe one of our prizes was retaken or had to put in somewhere for repairs or supplies while we were in Pula. Who knows? What counts now is that they think we’re responsible for their missing galleys.”
“Or maybe they know their galleys were supposed to intercept us – and now they’ve all disappeared and we’re here even though the weather’s been good. It doesn’t take much of a carpenter to put those two facts together.”
“Well they’re seriously pissed about their missing galleys and that’s a fact,” is my reply. Then I turn to Jeffrey and add with a wry smile and a joking tone to my voice. “And if you think they’re pissed now, just wait until they find out what’s in the Pope’s letter and discover the crusaders aren’t going to pay them.”
What we’re mostly doing while we wait for the cardinal to return is staying just out of rock throwing range and watching the growing and increasingly noisy and threatening crowd. A few rocks are thrown but we’re too far off the dock so they splash harmlessly into the water. Even so, Jeffrey has his crew on high alert and our deck is crowded with men holding their longbows.
Almost everyone not on the deck is sitting or napping on a rowing bench with his weapons at hand – ready to row or fight as his sergeants order. The only exceptions are the men who periodically hang their dingles and arses out over the rear of the galley to piss or shite into the harbor. They inevitably wave to acknowledge the jeers and what are obviously ribald shouts from the nearby crowd as they do.
@@@@@
We stay awake and alert all night long, but nothing happens and there is no message from Cardinal Bertoli. The mob that had spent the previous afternoon jeering and shouting at us is long gone by the time the sun comes up.
At the moment everything is rather quiet and serene except for squawking seagulls and a few men walking about on the dock. Jeffrey and I are breaking our night of fasting by munching on some of the hot bread one of the Marine cooks just
Sure enough. Some Venetian officials arrive and shout out to us from the dock. They want us to come ashore so they can talk to us. We wave our hands to acknowledge their request, nod our heads in agreement, and stay on board. I may be stupid but I’m not that stupid.
Several merchants also shout out to us. Jeffrey recognizes them as men he’s dealt with previously for supplies. They want to know if we would like to buy any supplies. They have, they say, just received some particularly tender young sheep. Their inquiry is normal and they make it openly in front of the crowd – Venice is a city of merchants and money comes before everything else around here every time.
We order flour, firewood, water, one hundred chickens, and twenty sheep to be delivered first thing in the morning via dinghies and lighters.
After a while the Venetian officials who hailed us earlier are joined by several others. The new arrivals come with a little force of guards, huddle with the men who initially hailed us, and then hail us themselves. The new arrivals seem to be senior to the first batch. They seem quite sure of themselves and shout out very specific orders – they want us to come ashore so they can talk to us about the missing galleys.
“Pigs will fly before I’ll go back to the dock except to pick up the cardinal.”
Jeffrery says it quietly to me out of the side of his mouth as we stand side by side nodding our agreement to the officials on the dock and lifting our hands to acknowledge our acceptance of their order.
“I wonder how they found out?” is my response.
“Maybe one of our prizes was retaken or had to put in somewhere for repairs or supplies while we were in Pula. Who knows? What counts now is that they think we’re responsible for their missing galleys.”
“Or maybe they know their galleys were supposed to intercept us – and now they’ve all disappeared and we’re here even though the weather’s been good. It doesn’t take much of a carpenter to put those two facts together.”
“Well they’re seriously pissed about their missing galleys and that’s a fact,” is my reply. Then I turn to Jeffrey and add with a wry smile and a joking tone to my voice. “And if you think they’re pissed now, just wait until they find out what’s in the Pope’s letter and discover the crusaders aren’t going to pay them.”
What we’re mostly doing while we wait for the cardinal to return is staying just out of rock throwing range and watching the growing and increasingly noisy and threatening crowd. A few rocks are thrown but we’re too far off the dock so they splash harmlessly into the water. Even so, Jeffrey has his crew on high alert and our deck is crowded with men holding their longbows.
Almost everyone not on the deck is sitting or napping on a rowing bench with his weapons at hand – ready to row or fight as his sergeants order. The only exceptions are the men who periodically hang their dingles and arses out over the rear of the galley to piss or shite into the harbor. They inevitably wave to acknowledge the jeers and what are obviously ribald shouts from the nearby crowd as they do.
@@@@@
We stay awake and alert all night long, but nothing happens and there is no message from Cardinal Bertoli. The mob that had spent the previous afternoon jeering and shouting at us is long gone by the time the sun comes up.
At the moment everything is rather quiet and serene except for squawking seagulls and a few men walking about on the dock. Jeffrey and I are breaking our night of fasting by munching on some of the hot bread one of the Marine cooks just
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