The weather had remained clear for the first week, but as they approached the isle of Sicily, they could see smoke rising up into the sky. Alicia’s brother told her this was Sicily’s famous Mountain of Fire, which many claimed to be one of the portals of Hell, for it belched smoke and noxious fumes and even liquid flames that spilled over the slope and burned a path of destruction down to the sea. Arnaud and his companions had already alarmed her by relating the ancient legend of Scylla, a six-headed sea monster who lurked in a cave facing the Straits of Messina. Directly opposite her was Charybdis, a whirlpool waiting to suck ships into its maw. If ships trying to avoid Charybdis ventured too close to Scylla’s cave, she seized these unlucky vessels and feasted upon the captured sailors. Realizing belatedly that this was no story for his young sister’s ears, Arnaud had hastened to reassure her that the tale was merely folklore. She wanted to believe him, but a land that harbored fiery mountains might easily shelter sea monsters, too, and each time she eyed the distant Sicilian coastline, she surreptitiously made the sign of the cross.
The other passengers were increasingly uneasy as they drew closer to the Faro, the straits separating Sicily from the mainland. Even the sailors seemed on edge, for at its narrowest point, it was only two miles wide and the currents were notoriously turbulent, seething like a “boiling cauldron” one merchant said grimly. Like Charybdis, Alicia thought, wondering which was worse, to be drowned or devoured, and wondering, too, what other trials lay ahead.
She was not long in finding out. A darkening sky warned of a coming storm, and the ship’s master ordered that the sails be lowered as the wind rose and black, ominous clouds clustered overhead. The rain held off, but the sea soon pitched and rolled wildly, their ship sinking into troughs so deep that they were walled in by water. As the galley floundered, they were drenched by the waves breaking over the gunwales, bruised and battered against the heaving deck, tossed about like so many rag dolls. Sure that death was imminent, passengers and sailors alike offered up desperate prayers, but by now the wind was so loud they could not even hear their own words. Alicia was so petrified that her throat had closed up, and she could neither pray nor weep, waiting mutely for Scylla or Charybdis to claim the San Niccolò and end their suffering.
When the ship suddenly shuddered and stopped dead in the water, she was sure that they had been seized by Scylla’s bloody talons. But the sailors were yelling and scrambling across the deck, and after a time, she could comprehend what Arnaud was shouting into her ear. “We’ve run aground!”
Grappling for boat hooks and oars, the crew sought to push off from the shoal. But as the galley fought for its life, one of its two masts snapped in half and plunged into the sea. The ship’s master lurched toward Arnaud and the other Templars. Knowing he could not compete with the howling wind, he relied upon gestures, pointing toward the longboat tethered in the stern and then toward the knights’ scabbards. Arnaud was quick to understand. They were going to launch the longboat and try to reach the shore, less than half a mile away, and the master wanted them to maintain order, to keep the panicked passengers from mobbing the boat. Grasping Alicia by her shoulders, he pulled her to her feet, holding her tightly as they headed for the stern.
Alicia could never clearly recall her final moments upon the San Niccolò. She had only snatches of memory—the men kept at bay by the drawn swords of the Templars, the most important of the passengers scrambling into the longboat, the eerie calm of the ship’s master and the ashen-faced sailors. Once the affluent merchants, the women, an archdeacon, and several priests had climbed aboard, the master gestured for the Templars to join them. They were men who’d tested their courage against Saracen steel, and they did not hesitate now, sheathing their swords and clambering into the longboat. Alicia was too frozen with fear to move. Arnaud picked her up as if she were a feather, telling her to close her eyes as the longboat was lowered into the heaving sea.
Her memory went blank at that point, and the next thing she remembered, the current had thrust their little craft onto the Sicilian shoreline. The oarsmen leaped out into the water and began to drag the boat up onto the beach, and soon the passengers were jumping to safety, falling to their knees and thanking the Almighty for their deliverance. People seemed to have appeared from nowhere, helping the shipwreck survivors away from the crashing waves. An elderly man speaking a tongue that was utterly incomprehensible to Alicia jerked off his own mantle and wrapped her in it. She tried to thank him, but her teeth were chattering too much for speech. Someone else was offering a wineskin and she obeyed unthinkingly, gasping as the liquid burned its way down her throat. But where was Arnaud?
When she saw her brother standing by the beached longboat, she stumbled toward him, crying out in horror as she realized what was happening. Several of the sailors had balked, but the others were going back for the doomed passengers and their shipmates, and the Templars were going with them.
Arnaud turned as she screamed his name. He was saying that they were needed to help man the oars, saying there were Christian pilgrims still on the ship and it was his duty to rescue them, that it would shame him to stay on shore whilst the sailors braved the sea again. Alicia didn’t understand, didn’t even hear his words. Sobbing, she clung to him with all her feeble strength, begging him not to go, and he finally had to tear himself away, kissing her upon the forehead before he shoved her back onto the sand. “God will protect me,” he insisted, with a grimace that he meant as a smile, and then scrambled into the longboat as they launched it out onto the churning waves.
By the time Alicia got to her feet, her brother was gone. Others had joined her at the water’s edge, watching as the longboat fought the storm. It had almost reached the trapped ship when it was slammed by a monster wave. Alicia began to scream even before the longboat disappeared into its roiling depths. Hands were gripping her now, pulling her away, but she paid them no heed. Her eyes frantically searching the raging sea, she continued to scream for her brother.
THE MALE SURVIVORS of the San Niccolò wreck were given shelter at the monastery of San Salvatore dei Greci overlooking the harbor, and the injured women had been taken to the convent of Santa Maria della Valle, just west of Messina. Having strangers in their midst was always disruptive for the nuns, but it was the arrival of William de Hauteville and his entourage that created the real excitement, especially among the novices, for not even nuns were immune to his potent appeal of beauty, high birth, and gallant good manners.
“We were expecting a visit from you, my lord,” the mother abbess said with a fond smile, for she’d known William for most of his thirty-six years. “You’ve always been very generous to those poor souls shipwrecked in your domains, and I was sure you’d be no less openhanded with the survivors of the San Niccolò.”
“I do but follow the teachings of Our Lord Christ,” William said, with becoming modesty and a dazzling smile. “‘Be ye therefore merciful, as Your Father also is merciful.’” They were walking in the gardens, lush with summer blooms, for Sicily had been blessed with a mild climate. William paused to pluck a fragrant flower and presented it to the elderly abbess with a flourish. “Have your hosteller speak with my steward, my lady abbess, and he will reimburse your abbey for the expenses you’ve incurred in caring for these castaways. I’ve given orders that men should search the beaches for the dead, but I doubt that their bodies will be recovered. It is a sad fate to be denied a Christian burial, especially for the Knights of God. They deserved better than that.”
Abbess Blanche was in full agreement; she shared William’s admiration for the Templars. Their deaths seemed all the more tragic because their sacrifice had been needless. The galley had not gone down as quickly as all feared, and once the storm passed, the local people rowed out in small boats and ferried the stranded survivors to shore, charging exorbitant fees for that service. Only then did the San Niccolò break up and sink quietly beneath the waves.
“Our costs have been minimal, my lord, for only three of the
women passengers were injured. One broke her arm when she was flung against the tiller, and the second sprained her ankle when she jumped out of the longboat. But the third . . .” The abbess shook her head and sighed. “We know very little about her, for the other passengers say she kept to herself. They could tell me only her name—Alicia de Sezanne—and that she is the sister of one of the drowned Templars. She is just a child and I fear that she is all alone in the world now, may Our Blessed Mother pity her plight.”
“She has no family?” William frowned. “Poor little lass. If her brother was a Templar, she must be gently born. Surely she has kin somewhere? What did she tell you?”
“Nothing, my lord. She has not spoken a word for a fortnight. Indeed, I am not even sure if she hears what we say to her, and if the passengers had not told me otherwise, I’d think she was a deaf-mute. It has been a struggle to get her to eat even a few swallows of soup. She just lies there.... I do not know what will become of the child, truly I do not. What if her grief has driven her mad?”
She paused then, hoping that William would come up with a solution, and he did not disappoint her. “Suppose I ask my wife to come and see the lass?” he said thoughtfully. “She may be able to break through the girl’s shell. She is very good at that, you know.”
“What a wonderful idea, my lord! Do you think the Lady Joanna would be willing?”
His smile was both indulgent and affectionate. “My wife has never been able to resist a bird with a broken wing.”
JOANNA PAUSED in the doorway of the infirmary, beset by sudden doubts. What was she to say to the child? What comfort could she offer? “How old did you say she was, Sister Heloise?”
“We cannot be sure, Madame, but we think she looks to be about ten years or so, mayhap eleven.”
Too young to understand why God had taken her brother, Joanna thought, and then smiled, without any humor. She was nigh on twenty-four, and she did not understand, either. “Take me to her,” she said, and followed the young nun across the chamber toward a corner bed. She was touched by her first sight of that small, forlorn figure, lying so still that it was a relief to see the faint rise and fall of her chest. The girl seemed pathetically fragile and frail, her face turned toward the wall, and when Joanna spoke her name, she did not respond. Signaling for Sister Heloise to bring a chair over, Joanna sat beside the bed and pondered what to say.
“I am so very sorry for your brother’s death, Alicia. You can be proud of his courage, and . . . and it must be some comfort to know that he is in the Almighty’s Embrace. My confessor assured me that one of God’s Knights would be spared Purgatory, that Heaven’s Gates would be opened wide to him. . . .” There was no indication that Alicia had even heard her, and Joanna’s words trailed off. How could she expect the lass to find consolation in theology? All Alicia knew was that her brother was dead and she was abandoned and alone.
“I would not presume to say I know what you are feeling, Alicia. I can tell you this, though, that I know what it is like to lose a brother. I have grieved for three of mine, and for a sister, too. . . .” Despite herself, her voice wavered at the last, for the death of her sister was still a raw wound. “I wish I could tell you that the pain will eventually heal. But that would be a lie. This is a sorrow you will take to your grave. In time, though, you’ll learn to live with it, and that is all we can hope for.”
She waited then, to no avail. Trying a new tack, she said quietly, “The world must be a very frightening place to you now. I cannot begin to imagine how alone you must feel. But you are not as alone as you think, Alicia. I promise you that.”
Again her words were swallowed up in silence. She was usually good with children. Of course she’d never dealt with one so damaged before. “We share something else in common, lass. I was your age when I first came to Sicily, just eleven years old. I remember the journey all too well, for I had never been so wretched.” She was following her instincts now, speaking in the soothing tones she’d have used to calm a nervous filly. “I was so sick, Alicia, feeding the fish day and night. Were you seasick, too? It got so bad for me that we had to put into port at Naples and continue our journey on land. For years I had dreadful dreams about that trip and my husband had great difficulty in coaxing me to set foot on a ship again. I remember arguing with him that the Almighty had not intended man to fly, or else he’d have given us wings, and since we did not have gills like fish, clearly we were not meant to venture out onto the sea, either. He just laughed, but then he’s never been seasick a day in his life. . . .”
She continued on in that vein for a while, speaking lightly of inconsequential matters in the hope of forging a connection, however tenuous, with this mute, motionless little girl. At last she had to concede defeat, and after exchanging regretful looks with Sister Heloise, she started to rise from the chair. It was then that Alicia spoke. Her words were mumbled, inaudible, but they were words, the first anyone had heard her utter since her brother drowned.
Trying to hide her excitement, Joanna said as calmly as she could, “I am sorry, Alicia. I could not hear you. Can you repeat yourself?”
“I am twelve,” Alicia said, softly but distinctly, “not eleven.”
Joanna almost laughed, remembering how affronted she’d been to be taken for younger than she was, a mortal insult for most children. “Mea culpa,” she said. “But in my defense, it is not easy to tell how old you are when you will not look at me.” She waited, then, holding her breath, until the bed creaked and Alicia slowly turned away from the wall. Joanna could see why the nuns had mistaken her age. She had round cheeks, a rosebud mouth, and freckles sprinkled over an upturned nose, a child’s face, innocent and open to hurt. Joanna doubted that she’d begun her flux yet, for her lean and angular little body showed no signs of approaching womanhood.
“I am Joanna,” she said, for she’d found that with children, the simplest approach was often the best. “I am here to help you.”
Alicia had to squint, for she’d not looked into direct light for days and sun was flooding into the chamber, enveloping Joanna in a golden glow. She was the most beautiful woman Alicia had ever seen, and the most glamorous, with flawless, fair skin, copper-color hair covered by an embroidered silk veil, emerald-green eyes, and graceful white fingers adorned with jewels. Alicia was dumbfounded, not sure if this glorious vision was a figment of her fevered imagination. “Are you real?” she blurted out, and the vision laughed, revealing a deep dimple that flashed like a shooting star, and assured her she was very much a flesh-and-blood woman.
The flesh-and-blood women in Alicia’s world did not look like this one. “May I . . . may I ask you a question? Did you truly lose three brothers?”
“I spoke the truth, Alicia. My eldest brother died ere I was even born, but my other brothers had reached manhood when death claimed them. Hal was stricken with the bloody flux, and Geoffrey was killed in a French tournament. And this summer my elder sister Tilda died of a fever. Indeed, I only learned of her death a few weeks ago.” Joanna bit her lip, for the shock of Tilda’s death had yet to abate; her sister had been just thirty-three.
Alicia regarded her solemnly. “You said the hurt never goes away. Will I grieve for Arnaud to the end of my days?” She was reassured when Joanna gave her the same straightforward answer, telling her the truth rather than what she wanted to hear. “Did you love your brothers?”
“Very much, Alicia. They were all older than me, except for my brother Johnny, and they spoiled me outrageously, as I imagine Arnaud did with you.”
“No . . .” Alicia hesitated, but with gentle encouragement, she continued and eventually Joanna learned the history of this woebegone orphan. She came from Champagne, where her father had served as steward for one of the count’s vassals. He’d died that past spring, leaving Alicia and two older brothers, Odo, his eldest and heir, and Arnaud, who’d been long gone from their lives, serving God in distant lands. Odo had not wanted to be burdened with her, she confided to Joanna, and he and his wife
had arranged to marry her off to a neighbor, a widower who was willing to overlook her lack of a marriage portion. She had not wanted to wed him, for his breath reeked and he was very old, “even older than my papa! And I did not think I was ready to be a wife. Odo and Yvette paid me no heed, though, and were making ready to post the banns when Arnaud arrived from Paris.”
Arnaud had been outraged by the match, and he quarreled bitterly with Odo, demanding that he provide a marriage portion so they could find her a suitable husband when she was of a proper age to wed. But Odo had turned a deaf ear. Arnaud knew Odo would wed her to the neighbor as soon as he was gone, and so he took her with him. “I think he had a nunnery in mind. He promised, though, to look after me, to make sure that I was always safe. . . .”
Tears had begun to well in Alicia’s eyes, the first she’d shed since that awful day on the beach. Joanna gathered the child into her arms and held Alicia as she wept. But she had a practical streak, too, and glancing over Alicia’s heaving shoulder, she caught the nun’s eye and mouthed a silent command to fetch food from the abbey kitchen. Sister Heloise gladly obeyed, first hastening to find the abbess and give her the good news that the Lady Joanna had succeeded where everyone else had failed. She’d coaxed this unhappy child from the shadows back into the light.