The Ransomed Crown

by Wayne Grant

  William Marshall had been her strong right arm, but it was all he could do to keep the barons in the north and south of the country from throwing in their lots with John. This he did with veiled threats of what the King might do upon his return to those who proved less than loyal. But veiled threats didn’t always prevail against the very real threats that John could muster.

  And what if Richard was dead? She tried to keep that thought at bay, for in that lay the end of all of her dreams and the end of the empire she and Henry had built. John would never be able to hold it—not against Philip of France.

  The shutters creaked again and a movement on the road below caught her eye. A lone man on horseback was coming down the road from Rouen—the road down which trouble always came. The rider leaned forward, his chin almost touching his chest. She wondered if he was asleep in the saddle, but then his head rose slowly and he gazed up at the castle. She sighed and rose from her place.

  It was time to be Queen once more.

  ***

  The man who entered her meeting hall was tall, pale as a ghost and gaunt. He had the frame of a powerful man and she could tell by the breadth of his shoulders that he had not always been so painfully thin. He had the look and dress of a knight, but moved with the unsteady gait of an older man. The Captain of the Guard told her that he had to help the man dismount his horse. Her visitor removed his hat in her presence to display a bald head. There were scars there. He went down on one knee.

  “Your Grace,” he began and seemed to struggle to draw breath. “I bring you news…of the King.”

  She stiffened. The mournful look on the man’s face told its own story. Had her greatest fear come to pass? She steeled herself.

  “What is your name, sir.”

  “I am Sir Roger de Laval, your grace.”

  De Laval…ah, yes.

  “Give us your news, then, Sir Roger.”

  The tall knight nodded, but seemed to list to the right and fight to take in a breath.

  “The King…the king….” he muttered, then toppled to the floor.

  The Queen sprang up from her chair and ordered a man to fetch her physician. She moved to the fallen man’s side. His eyes were open, but when she laid a hand to his forehead it was burning hot to the touch.

  “Stay still,” she whispered, “you are ill.” But the man shook his head.

  “The King…your grace, he has been taken prisoner…in Austria. The Duke…Duke of Vienna.” The effort produced a long bout of wracking coughs.

  The physician arrived and after touching the man’s forehead murmured some of his usual nonsense. He drew forth a small bottle from his bag and forced his new patient to drink, which produced a new round of coughing. Finally the eruption ended as the man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  “Physician, see that this man lives,” she said. “He has done us a great service, and I believe there is a young woman in Cheshire who will be very put out should he die—as will I.”

  The Queen drew away, lost for the moment in furious thought. Richard was captive.

  …but he was alive!

  It was grim news, but not the news she had feared most. If Richard lived, there was still hope. But what ghastly price would they pay—would England pay—to free their King? And could they do it before her younger son seized the throne?

  ***

  It took Sir Roger two days to recover from his swoon and another to get to his feet and walk unsteadily about his room. His fever had passed, but the Queen forbade him to take his leave until he recovered more of his strength. The woman had even posted a guard on his door, figuring—rightly—that he might ignore her command.

  She’d visited him on the third day to hear his full account of the King’s capture. She had already sent a courier in all haste to fetch Walter of Coutances. This Duke Leopold of Austria may have taken her son, but he was a vassal of Henry VI, the Holy Roman Emperor, and it was to Henry that she would dispatch the Archbishop. There was no one else with the political skills and shrewdness needed to negotiate Richard’s release.

  She could see that the big knight was weak, but seemed to be recovering. At her prompting, he told her of the shipwreck, the desperate flight through the mountains and the King’s capture near Vienna.

  “It will always be my shame that I could not protect him, your grace, but he made me swear to get to you with this news. Had it not been for a goatherd in the mountains, I would have failed at that as well.”

  Eleanor shushed him.

  “You almost died up there in those mountains. You’ve done your King a great service, Sir Roger. We are in your debt.”

  When he had finished recounting his story, she told him the incredible news of Chester’s capture by William de Ferrers and its recapture by Earl Ranulf. She wanted to tell him of his daughter’s role in these dramatic events, but did not.

  Let the girl or his wife tell it as they see fit.

  The Queen rose to leave. She did not want to distress a sick man, but felt he needed to know the truth.

  “Sir Roger, after the city fell back into Ranulf’s hands last summer, my son, the Prince, sent his army of mercenaries to take it back. Chester has been cut off and besieged for four months now.” She saw the stricken look on the man’s face, but left him to digest these bad tidings.

  Sir Roger sat on his cot and tried to think clearly. The news that the city was besieged chilled him. If Chester was invested, then outlying strongpoints like Shipbrook must have been abandoned. It meant that Catherine and Millicent would be trapped in a city that had been cut off for months. The thought made him ill. He had stood atop the broken walls of Acre and looked down into that city at the end of its siege. There were piles of dead on every street. It was a nightmare vision. The next day, he returned to see the Queen. He stood straight and fought to keep from swaying as he addressed her.

  “Your Grace, I know you mean well, but I beg you to release me. If I could walk across the Alps to bring you news of your son, surely I can make it to Chester to see to my own family.”

  The Queen considered the tall bald knight carefully. He was still pale and was not fit to travel yet, but the look in the man’s eyes was desperate. She might actually need to lock him up to hold him here. A memory came to her of a meeting she’d had with Sir Roger’s wife over two years ago. She had asked the woman if she loved her husband. Catherine de Laval had made it very clear that she did and, looking at the plea in Roger de Laval’s eyes, she now understood why. Nothing was going to keep this man from his woman. She sighed.

  “Sir Roger, I understand your desire to get to Chester and see to the safety of your family. Against my better judgement, I’m letting you go, but I will not have you riding across the breadth of England in your condition. I will send word to one of my ships at Harfleur. It will take you into the Channel, around Cornwall and deliver you to the River Dee. You must find your own way from there. I’m sure you know the perils of trying to get into a city under siege, but I shan’t try to dissuade you.”

  Sir Roger bowed his head.

  “Thank you, your grace.”

  The Queen rose and stepped forward, taking the knight’s rough hands in her thin, delicate ones.

  “You go with my thanks and my prayers, Sir Roger. I believe you may have saved your King and your country.”

  ***

  The Bishop of Beauvais burst into the private parlour of the King of France waving a sheet of vellum.

  “They have him! Merciful God they have snared the beast, your grace!” Philip looked up, irritated that his cousin had disturbed him, but curious as to what had made his usually dour kinsmen so animated. He did not have long to wait.

  “It’s a message from the Holy Roman Emperor, your grace. Richard was taken captive by the Duke of Austria and is now in his custody—held captive in Oschenfurt!”

  Philip leapt from his chair so abruptly that it toppled over backwards. He could hardly believe the news his spymaster had brought him. He seized the document from the Bish
op’s hand and read through it twice before laying it on his table.

  “How could the fool have ventured anywhere near Austria?” he asked incredulously. “He must have lost his wits to put himself at the mercy of the very man he humiliated at Acre.”

  Not a man present at the capture of Acre was unaware of the insult the Duke had suffered at Richard’s hands after the battle. Philip, himself the frequent object of the English king’s scorn, could only imagine the satisfaction Leopold must have felt to have his haughty enemy fall into his hands.

  The Bishop rubbed his hands together like a boy who had been promised a treat.

  “Not a man in Europe hates Richard more than Leopold!” he said. “He may simply kill him.”

  Philip raised a hand.

  “No. He may hate Richard, though in truth no more than I do, but he will not kill him. The Emperor will forbid it. I expect even now they are haggling over ownership of this prize ape they have captured.”

  The Bishop’s eyes lit up. He saw where his master’s thoughts were heading.

  “They’re going to sell him! Of course! Henry is the poorest Emperor ever to wear that rusty old crown of Charlemagne. He needs the money to keep his own barons in line.”

  “Yes, cousin, they will sell him. The question is—for how much and who will be the buyer.”

  Philip casually stepped over and righted his fallen chair. He looked once more at the piece of vellum with the seal of the Holy Roman Emperor that had changed everything, then turned to the Bishop.

  “Send for Prince John. I think it’s time we talked.”

  ***

  The message from Henry VI, Holy Roman Emperor, arrived at Tancarville on the same day that Walter of Coutances disembarked at Harfleur, the port nearest the Queen’s cliff-top castle by the Seine. The Archbishop of Rouen made haste to attend the Queen, given the urgency of her summons, and could see by the look on Eleanor’s face that the news was not good.

  “He wants us to give them our kingdom in exchange for our King,” she said flatly, handing the sheet of vellum with the Emperor’s seal to her spymaster. The Archbishop read hurriedly through the short document and visibly flinched when he read the final paragraph.

  “One hundred fifty thousand marks? My God, it must be a mistake, your grace,” was all the man could manage.

  “It’s no mistake, Walter. We both know Henry’s hold over his barons is hanging by a thread. He has no prestige and so needs money to buy their support. He must have prayed for a miracle and my son has granted him one by blundering into his grasp. I doubt God had much to do with it.”

  The Archbishop found he had started to pace back and forth, so distressed was he by this calamity. It was a bad habit and one he had never revealed to his Queen. In mid-stride he caught himself and stood still.

  “Your grace, that is five times what we gather in taxes in a year! There may not be that much silver in all of England.” The man stopped for a moment, running figures in his head. “That would be…over fifty tons of silver!”

  As a Justiciar, Walter of Coutances had somehow managed to keep the government of the realm operating, even in the face of John’s pillaging of the Midlands. Resources had been scarce and revenue sparse, but he and William Marshall had somehow managed to scrape together the funds to pay the bills over the past two years. No one understood the magnitude of this blow more than the Archbishop of Rouen. Eleanor watched as the blood drained from the man’s face. She knew he was stunned, but she needed him now more than ever.

  “Walter, I want you to leave today. Go to Henry. Persuade him to lower his price. Tell him whatever you must. Promise him whatever you must, but Walter…in the end we will have to pay—somehow. I will write to the Pope. This is a gross violation of the Truce of God and I believe Celestine might threaten excommunication. His Holiness has no more love for Henry than his barons do.”

  The Archbishop bowed his head.

  “I do not think the approbation of the Pope will sway Henry, not with this much money at stake, but it could help with his bishops and Henry needs their support almost as much as the funds. I will do as you ask, but I am concerned for my work in London, your grace.

  Eleanor did not need to ask what work that was. The Archbishop controlled a growing network of agents vital to their plans. Since she’d made him her spymaster, he had shown an exceptional gift for intrigue, but those gifts were now needed elsewhere.

  “Walter, I cannot leave for England just yet. If I do, we will surely lose the Vexin and likely Gisors as well. Rouen may hold. Robert, Earl of Leicester, has returned from crusade and commands there. He can be depended upon to die before giving Philip an inch of that town, but those who command elsewhere seem to require me to stiffen their spines.”

  “They fear you more than Philip,” the Archbishop said.

  “As well they should, Walter! This is no time for half measures. And as dire as the situation may be in England, we cannot afford to lose these lands. So I must stay, but Walter…we must get Richard back. If we cannot, John will surely lose it all.”

  “I will spare no effort, your grace,” the Archbishop said and bowed his head.

  “I know I can count on you, my friend. Come back to me after you’ve rested and eaten. I cannot take up the reins in London for you, but I would hear what you and your men have been up to.”

  “They are not all men, your grace,” he replied with a sly smile. “You yourself taught me the value of women in this work.”

  “Ah, yes, you have that clever young woman you brought with you from Rouen—what was her name?”

  “Mary Cullen, your grace. She has been instructed to keep you informed by weekly courier of any news our agents glean whilst I am away. You may count on her.”

  “Good. But what of your suspicions that we have a spy in our midst? This would be the worst of times to have our plans compromised.”

  “As you know from my last dispatch, I strongly suspect that one of the men close to Earl Marshall is a traitor, but which one I cannot say. Marshall is certain they are all innocent, your grace, but you know that the man has a trusting nature, whereas, I do not.”

  “Nor do I, Walter. How do you plan to catch this spy?”

  The Archbishop looked sheepish.

  “There again, I have followed your advice concerning the suitability of women for this work. With his agreement, I’ve placed an agent near to Marshall, a young woman with a keen eye and sharp wits—a girl not unfamiliar to you.”

  The Queen looked at him quizzically. Then it struck her.

  “The de Laval girl?”

  “Aye, your grace, Millicent de Laval. I sent for her just before Chester was cut off. She has been watching the men that surround Earl William since August, but has not ferreted out the traitor yet. I’ve urged her to be patient. Our spy is no doubt skilled in covering his tracks.”

  Eleanor raised her eyes to the ceiling. She was relieved that the girl’s father had taken ship the day before—though she would have certainly kept this information from him. She had no doubt that blunt fighting man would have bulled his way right into Marshall’s home, looking to haul off his daughter.

  “She’s a talented girl, Walter. I hope she lives to see her family once this is over.

  “I hope that for all of us, your grace, and until then, may God have mercy on England.”

  Eleanor frowned.

  “If He does, it will be the first time He has in years! But I should not blaspheme so.”

  The Archbishop gave her a wan smile.

  “Do not fear, your grace. The Lord loves a sinner!”

  ***

  The day was bitter cold and the feeble sun that shone through the overcast sky offered no relief to the men who rode through the thick woods south of Paris. In the centre of his escort of heavily armed riders, Prince John eased a hand from his reins and pulled the heavy ermine robe tight about his neck, but the icy wind still found a way in. He steeled himself against the cold and tried to prepare himself for this meet
ing—a meeting that could decide his fate and that of England.

  The summons from Philip and the news it contained had been stunning. His brother, the mighty warrior, the invincible knight, had been captured trying to sneak back home from his failed Crusade by a second rate nobleman!

  He had placed spies at every port in England and France watching for Richard’s return. But as the battered remains of the English army dribbled into Portsmouth and Southampton through December, there had been no sign or news of the King. He had begun to believe that his fervent wish might be granted—that Richard was dead, lost at sea perhaps. Now came this news of his capture and the urgent summons from Philip.

  By midmorning they arrived at Fontainebleau, the fortified hunting lodge of the Capetian kings. Word of the Prince’s approach had preceded him and a trumpeter blew a fanfare atop the gate tower as the troop thundered across the drawbridge and into the courtyard. John had hardly dismounted when Philip of France appeared at the top of the stone steps that led up to the great arched doorway of the keep.

  John hurried up the steps and when he neared the French king he went down on one knee. He looked up into the face of the man who had sworn his hatred of the Plantagenets since childhood.

  “Your majesty,” he said. “I come to do you homage.”

  ***

  Philip wasted no time in getting down to business.

  “Will the Queen pay the ransom?”

  John grimaced.

  “My mother will move heaven and earth to get Richard back,” he said flatly. “If she can raise the funds, she will pay. She could have me on the throne for free, but there is no love in that dried-up breast for John—only for her precious Richard!”

  Philip arched an eyebrow. John’s jealousy of Richard was not news to him. He had studied this family for years and knew their weaknesses. He had seduced John’s late brother, Henry the Young King, into rebelling against his father, Henry II. He’d aided Richard himself when he had risen against the King. These rebellions had all failed, but they had weakened the bonds that held this warlike family together. And Philip meant to exploit that weakness to the fullest.