by Wayne Grant
On the fifth day they reached Villach, a small market town in a broad valley surrounded by peaks. The summits that lay ahead were higher than those behind. The town lay in a bend of the Drava River that ran swift and deep through the entire length of the valley. The only crossing was the bridge at Villach and they made for it. They were not surprised to find it guarded. A squad of four, fronted by a fat corporal, barred the way.
“Hold! State your business.” The corporal spoke in German and his tone made this more of a request than a command. He had his duty, but these travellers looked to be both of noble rank and dangerous men. The corporal’s regard for his health trumped any other obligations.
Sir Roger deferred to Sir Baldwin, who spoke a bit of the language and was well known for his diplomacy.
“Captain of the Guard, my compliments. We are Crusaders returning to France. We wish only to tarry for a night in your city until this snow abates. Can you suggest an inn and stables?”
The corporal seemed to inflate beyond his natural stature at this verbal promotion.
“Ja, my lord. The Weissen Schwan keeps a good table and there are few guests this time of year. It’s just across the bridge on the right.”
“You are most helpful, Captain.” Baldwin leaned down and placed a coin in the man’s hand. “This should buy you and your men a round, once you are off duty,” he whispered.
The corporal looked at the coin and realized it would buy considerably more than that and slipped it quickly into his purse.
The men need not know.
“You say you are bound for France, my lord? What route are you taking from here?”
Baldwin had hoped to avoid direct questions about their planned route—the better to avoid surprises—but to refuse to answer this friendly inquiry would raise suspicions. They had decided to strike north from Villach through the mountains to Salzburg, then on to Saxony as the most direct route to safety, but he had no intention of revealing these plans to anyone. He quickly thought back to the maps he had studied on their voyage from Cypress.
“We plan to travel to Innsbruck,” he lied, “then through the Arlberg or over the passes to Munich. From there it is but a short way to our home.” This route was plausible, as it led more directly to France. From Villach, the road to Innsbruck ran due west for over a hundred miles before swinging north and over an ancient pass used long before the Romans came. It would take any pursuers far from their true path.
The corporal frowned.
“My lord, that way is finished. Winter has come early to the high mountains. I’m told that pass has been chest deep in snow for a fortnight—the same with the passes north to Salzburg.” He took off his dented helmet and scratched his bald head.
“I would advise you to turn east to Vienna. That way is difficult, but still possible. From Vienna, you can follow the Danube through the mountains then turn west for France. Or, perhaps you could go back south and find passage by sea from Venice.”
Baldwin tried to hide his distress at this news, but he could hear murmurs of concern behind him as the Templars and the King heard the mention of Vienna and Venice, both deathtraps for them.
“Ah, that is bad news, Captain, but better to hear it now than to be turned back at the passes. We will stay the night and decide our route in the morning.”
Satisfied, the corporal waved them through and they clattered over the bridge and into Villach. The inn was snug, as most were in these lands, and after filling their bellies on sausages and black bread, the King’s party gathered for a parlay in one of the two rooms they were sharing.
“You all heard the guard. Winter has come early,” the King said. “It seems the fates conspire against us, so we must choose between poor choices. East to Vienna or south to Venice—either way seems equally dangerous to me. What say you all?”
Sir Alexander Barnstoke, a Templar, spoke first.
“I passed through Venice two years ago, your grace. I can tell you that the Doge has the best spy system in Europe. A dog cannot piss on the street in that city without his knowledge. So your presence would be known in a matter of hours. There is no way we could secure a ship in any event. It is winter. The Venetians are the best sailors in the world and they do not sail in this season. I would advise against Venice, sire.”
The King nodded glumly. Sir Baldwin took up the discussion.
“I have no reason to believe the spy system in Vienna is any less efficient than the Doge’s. And may I remind your grace that, while the Doge would love to turn a profit by holding you for ransom, with Duke Leopold, the matter is personal. He will not have forgotten what happened in Acre.”
The King sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his temples. For the moment, there seemed little fight left in the mightiest warrior in Christendom. He sighed and turned to Sir Roger de Laval.
“What say you, old soldier? South to captivity and ransom—or east to humiliation, and perhaps worse?”
Sir Roger was standing by the small window that looked down upon a cobbled courtyard. In the twilight, delicate snowflakes could be seen dancing around the flickering light of a torch. He could only imagine what conditions must be like at higher elevations.
Still…
“Your grace, I would rather try our chances with the snow of the passes than to fall into the hands of your enemies. Winter has come early, so the man said, but so may spells of fairer weather. Traders and pilgrims would not take this chance, but we are desperate men and I would rather risk freezing than being taken as prisoner.”
“Have you seen the passes in winter?” asked Sir Alexander hotly. “I have. No one can cross these mountains in winter!” There were murmurs of agreement from the assembled knights.
Sir Roger’s eyes met the King’s.
“Hannibal did. And he did it with elephants. Perhaps we can do it with horses.”
For a moment, the King seemed to rally to this new challenge. He started to stand, but was seized with a fit of coughing. When that was done, his resolve seemed to have drained away. He sat back down.
“I am not Hannibal,” he managed.
“No, your grace, you are Richard Couer de Lion. Don’t let your enemies put you in a cage! They will not follow us into the passes.”
The King shook his head.
“Still no honey-coating, eh, Roger? Your plan is perhaps the wisest, old friend, but, even now, I shake with fever. I do not think I would survive the ordeal. We must take our chances and pass through the gauntlet of our enemies. Tomorrow we ride for Vienna, and may God watch over us all.” There was finality in the King’s statement. Sir Roger stepped back and bowed his head.
Better to die in a snow bank, he thought.
The next morning they gathered at the stables. The snow had stopped, and as they secured their kit to their saddles, Sir Roger noticed a sizable crowd of town folk gawking at them from the street. He nudged Sir Baldwin and tilted his head toward the onlookers.
“We attract too much attention. Sooner or later, we will come to the notice of people who mean us harm.”
Baldwin nodded.
“I lay awake in the night thinking of how we might slip through Leopold’s net. I believe smaller groups will attract less notice. I’ve advised the King that we should split the party in two and he has agreed. I will go ahead with three knights and you will ride with the King and Sir Alexander. Perhaps if there is danger, it will fall on my group first and give warning to the King.”
Sir Roger could find no fault with the strategy, though it surely placed Sir Baldwin and the lead element in the most danger. But if word had been sent ahead that a group of foreigners were traveling to Vienna, then splitting up had some merit. It made the best of a bad situation.
Sir Baldwin set out at once with his group of three while Sir Roger joined the King in the inn. The snug common room where they had dined on sausages the night before was now deserted and dark, the hearth fire having burned down to bare embers. The King chewed indifferently on a slab of black bread the
innkeeper had provided and looked morose. Sir Roger watched him in silence.
This fever has taken the fight out of the man.
King Richard turned suddenly toward him.
“I want you to make a promise to me, de Laval. If my enemies find us and it appears I am to be taken, I do not want you to defend me. There will be too many and you would sell your life for nothing. I do not want that on my conscience.”
Sir Roger rose to his feet to protest, but the King waved him back to his seat.
“I know…I know. You would defend me to the death, man, but I need your loyalty in a more practical way. Leopold may value his grudge more than money. If he takes me, I may be put away in some bottomless hole for the man’s amusement, with no one to know. It would suit my enemies’ purpose to simply make me disappear. If it comes to that, I need you to get clear. Get back to England. The Queen must know of my fate. England must know!”
Sir Roger struggled for a reply.
“Your grace… I…”
“Swear it!” the King demanded.
Sir Roger bowed his head.
“I swear it.”
***
It took more than a week to reach the approaches to Vienna. The weather was bitter cold and the roads frozen, but they were spared heavy snow. Sir Roger took care to keep a useful distance between the King and the party ahead, led by Sir Baldwin. The valleys they travelled through were not heavily populated, and though both groups were occasionally stopped by officials in the small villages, none chose to challenge these hard looking men. It was Sir Baldwin who first encountered a serious obstacle as they approached Vienna late in the day. Ten miles from the walled city, a barrier blocked the road. It was manned by a squad of ten, led by a tall knight in the livery of the Duke of Vienna. The man seemed to take his duties seriously.
“Who are you and where are you bound?” he demanded.
“I am Sir Philip de Croix. I return from Jerusalem to my home in Isle de France.”
Sir Baldwin was a native French speaker and flew his false flag with conviction. After a few minutes of probing questions as to his route and his plans for any stops in the domain of Duke Leopold, he was waved through the barrier. He saluted the guard with relief, and spurred his horse toward Vienna.
I must get word back to the King of this roadblock.
As soon as he could find a place to stop for the evening, he would send one the Templars to circle around the guards and take word to the King to find a different route. The man at the barrier had been too observant—too devoted to his duty to risk the King’s discovery. He urged his horse into a trot.
Back at the barrier, the leader of the guard patrol watched as the four knights disappeared around a bend. The man had been a foot soldier at Acre and there was no mistaking the nobleman he had just questioned—no matter what lie he told. He called one of his men forward.
“Take a message to the Captain of the Guard. Tell him Baldwin of Bethune just passed through our guard post with three Templars. They were headed for the city. Do you understand?”
“Aye, sir.”
Just that morning, the Captain had reminded all of the road patrols to be on the lookout for certain knights—Sir Baldwin among them—who were thought to be traveling with the English king. King Richard had not been in Sir Baldwin’s party, but what if the knight was simply scouting ahead for his master?
The leader of the guard post hesitated. The Captain of the Guard would no doubt consider the possibility that King Richard might be trailing his friend Baldwin. He would send mounted troops up the Villach road to search for the English king. The man rubbed his chin. He should probably wait for orders, but…if he took a squad back along the Villach road himself and bagged the English king, his fortune would be made. If he botched the capture he’d be sacked, but…. Squaring his shoulders, he barked out orders to his men. The prize was worth the risk.
They would go to catch the Lionheart.
***
The barking dog was the first sign of trouble. Sir Roger eased his hand to the hilt of his sword and rose quietly from the mat on the floor that had served as a bed. The King and Sir Alexander had not stirred. There was a tiny window in the second floor loft they occupied that looked out onto the cobbled road in front of the inn. He looked down and saw that it had started to snow—hard. The dog barked again and through the swirl of white flakes he saw ten men, under arms, marching down the road from the north, from Vienna.
Perhaps it was just a passing patrol, but that seemed unlikely at this hour when most folk were abed. There was a man near the front of the squad who was not a soldier—most likely a villager, rousted out to guide the men from Vienna. As they neared the inn, the villager turned to the soldier at the head of the patrol and pointed directly at the window where he watched.
“Damn!”
Without ceremony he kicked the King and Sir Alexander awake.
“Soldiers,” he hissed. Both men immediately pulled on their boots and grabbed their weapons. Sir Roger scrambled down the ladder from the loft in time to kill the first man who burst through the door of the inn. As the man fell backwards, his startled companions froze. It was enough time for him to slam the door and brace a bench against it. It would not hold for long. Now the King and Sir Alexander joined him in the common room. They could hear orders being shouted and the sound of men moving to surround the place.
“Can’t let them trap us here,” the King said, looking around for some way out.
“Through the kitchen to the stables,” said Sir Roger. “There are only ten or so and they are not mounted. We can cut our way through a few spearmen to get to the horses.”
The King nodded and the three hurried through the kitchen to the rear of the inn and barrelled into the alley behind. Four men-at-arms turned the corner into the narrow rear passage and saw them. They lowered their spears and charged.
These Viennese spearmen were no match for the three hardened warriors and all four went down in a matter of seconds. There was a back entrance to the stables in the alley that was barred, but Sir Alexander kicked it down without trouble. Hurriedly, they saddled their horses and were mounting when a hue and cry rose up from the alley behind them. The King led the way through the front entrance of the stables and spurred his mount to the right. They would make for the road back toward Villach, if they could get clear.
They had hardly gone fifty paces along a narrow back street when another spearman leapt from an alley and barred their way. The King rose on his stirrups and knocked the man’s weapon aside. Following close behind, Sir Alexander gave the man a savage blow with his broadsword that left him screaming on the cobbles. The three men kicked their mounts into a fast canter as they neared the main road.
Almost there, Sir Roger thought, as Bucephalus gained momentum. Then, all was chaos. The King careened into a host of mounted and armed men on the main road from Vienna. Surprised, they hesitated for a moment and Richard almost bulled his way clear, but the horsemen recovered quickly and swarmed around him. Sir Alexander, who had been close behind the King, went down fighting, a mace taking him in the back of the head.
Sir Roger put the spurs to Bucephalus and leaned forward as the warhorse pinned back his ears and slammed into the men surrounding the King. Two horses went down squealing before the bulk of the huge charger, their riders thrown. But the road to the east was filled with mounted troops from Vienna and they pressed forward, seeking to claim the royal prize.
Two men on foot came at Bucephalus from behind, one received a savage kick from his massive rear hoof, but the other managed to dodge and lunge forward with his lance. Sir Roger wore no mail below the waist and the point sliced along his thigh, leaving a nasty gash. His battle fury roused, the big knight hardly noted the wound as he turned and struck the man down, but now there was a solid mass of men and horses between him and the King.
For the moment, Richard held his attackers at bay, standing in his stirrups and swinging his long broadsword two-handed at any man
who came near—but the situation was hopeless. He swivelled in his saddle, his chest heaving and for a moment locked eyes with Sir Roger, then he held out his arms to his captors and dropped his weapon. In seconds, men crowded in to seize him.
Roger de Laval did not have to ponder the King’s last silent command to him. It had already been given, but it took all of his discipline to pull his warhorse’s head around to the south. With a sick heart he gave his charger the spurs. Two horses stood between him and the open road. Bred for speed more than war, they reared in panic as Bucephalus bore down on them. One horse threw its rider and the man who managed to keep his saddle went down under Sir Roger’s sword. Behind him, all closed in around the real prize, the King of England, the renowned Lionheart. The big knight galloped free into the night with no riders following him.
Sir Roger cursed under his breath as he pushed the horse hard to put miles behind him. When no pursuit came, he slowed. Bucephalus was built for the short, violent cavalry charge, not a long chase. He would have to husband the horse’s energy for when it was needed. As he rode into the night he cursed again.
His King had been taken!
It was a disgrace that he would never live down. All that was left for him was to abide by the King’s command and get to Queen Eleanor with news of her son’s fate.
It would be bitter tidings for her and for his country.
***
Thirty miles south of Vienna, a tiny village clustered around the main road that ran on southward through the valley toward Graz, then west to Villach. It would be easy to miss the frozen track in the village that split off northwest toward mountains that loomed blackly in the predawn darkness. But Roger de Laval had been looking for this road. When he found it, he pulled his reins to the right and left the main road behind.
He would never be able to outrun the pursuit on Bucephalus, and pursuit would surely be coming. He looked up at the black crags that loomed darker than the night sky and patted the big horse’s neck. It was snowing lightly now and a thin blanket covered the road.
It will get worse. Leaning forward he spoke to Bucephalus in a quiet voice.