I said a silent prayer to thank God that it was spring, because it must have been even more depressing in the depths of winter.
The villagers confirmed that Trifels did, indeed, hold an important foreign king. But they warned us that the Castellan was a brute of a man. They also said that his garrison was an unpleasant crew of thugs, who caused trouble in the surrounding area whenever they ventured out in search of amusement.
After negotiating the steep and rutted track to the castle’s barbican – so steep that our pack horses found the ascent exhausting – we found the drawbridge up and the portcullis closed. There were no sentries to be seen on duty. We had no option other than to shout loudly to announce our arrival.
We got no response for almost an hour, after which time a sergeant appeared at one of the barbican’s arrow slits and told us, in no uncertain terms, to go away. Despite our protestations, he just walked away without any further comment.
The hour was late and there was little point in going back down to the village, so we found a comfortable place in the nearby forest and made camp for the night.
We were woken early the next morning by the sound of the drawbridge being lowered and the portcullis being raised. Shortly afterwards, half a dozen men rode out to confront us. At their head was a very large man, who looked like he had once been a formidable warrior, now gone to fat. His manners matched his unwholesome appearance.
‘What business brings you to Trifels?’
‘I am Ranulf of Lancaster, and my companions are Clovis, Abbot of Boxley, and Charles, Abbot of Robertsbridge. We are from England, the realm of King Richard, and are sent by his mother, Eleanor, Dowager Queen of England, Duchess of Aquitaine, Countess of Poitiers.’
‘That is an impressive list of titles, but they mean nothing here. I am Rudolph of Landau, Castellan of Trifels. This is the domain of Henry, Emperor of the Germans, and his brother, my Lord, Conrad, Duke of Swabia. Be gone with you, Hospitaller.’
‘We are emissaries from a mother to her son. She would like to know if he is well.’
‘He is well.’
‘We would like to see him.’
‘This is the Emperor’s repository for his coronation regalia and his crown jewels; no visitors are allowed.’
‘We pose no threat. I am a one-armed man, and my companions are men of God.’
He circled me on his mount, a prodigious black stallion big enough to carry a man of his significant proportions.
‘Listen, my friend, you would not be a threat if you were three of the greatest warriors in Christendom; this fortress is impregnable, its garrison a match for anyone. Leave, before you are taken inside to join your King.’
‘I will not leave; I’m sure your Emperor would not be happy if he knew you had denied access to an emissary of a Dowager Queen, sent to ascertain the well-being of her son.’
I could see the Castellan vacillate at the mention of the Emperor’s name, but his hesitation did not last long.
‘This is your last warning. Your King is kept in our largest chamber, almost as big as mine, but there are real dungeons at lower levels. They will become your resting place if you don’t leave now.’
I had a decision to make and, with few options available to me, I made it quickly. I grabbed the bridle of the Castellan’s horse and yanked it hard, making the stallion rear wildly. The move caught the big Swabian by surprise and he tumbled out of his saddle, hitting the ground hard. I seized the moment, put my foot on his chest and my sword to his throat.
‘My companions are going back to the village and will wait for word from me. You can lock me away with my King, but let these men of God go, so that they can take words of comfort back to his mother.’
Rudolph of Landau squirmed and grimaced, but he knew that the tip of my sword was pressed hard against his Adam’s apple. He hissed at me.
‘You’re a dead man, either now or very soon.’
I hissed back.
‘I don’t think so; if you kill me as an emissary from a queen to a king held for ransom, your Emperor will not have a friend in Europe. He will have you skinned alive.’
The Castellan knew I had a point. After a moment’s thought, and a deep breath, he relented.
‘Agreed. The monks can go to the village – but no further, until I hear from my Lord, the Duke. You must surrender yourself to me.’
I gestured to the two abbots to make a hasty return down the hill, handed my sword to one of the Castellan’s henchmen and began to walk across the drawbridge. Rudolph of Landau was helped to his feet, which he managed with some difficulty, and then followed me into the castle.
As the portcullis fell and the drawbridge rose, I stood in the centre of the bailey and feared the worst. My dread reminded me of my tribulations at Wolvesey at the hands of Earl Harold’s chilling inquisitor, Máedóc.
I was right to make the comparison. Within the blink of an eye, I felt a sickening blow to the back of my neck, and then – nothing.
The next sensation I felt was the chill of the unyielding surface of a cold, dank stone floor. My neck was so sore and stiff, I could not move it; my hook and arm had been removed, as had my cape, mantle, weapons and armour. I was left wearing just my chemise and braies and was chilled to the bone. My head throbbed, as it had done at Wolvesey, and I felt the same sense of desperation. In many ways, my situation was worse; I was considerably older and had only one good arm with which to defend myself.
Several days passed, during which my only contact with the outside world was a daily bowl of thin stew that was passed through a small door at the top of my cell and placed on a high ledge. There was no light, and it was impossible to see even a glimmer of anything around me, but my good hand soon calculated the dimensions of my space. It was a tall, thin rectangle, the length of a man and a little wider than the span of a pair of shoulders. In height, the shelf was about as far as I could reach; I guessed the door in the ceiling to be a little higher.
I counted my blessings; at least I could lie down, and it was possible to turn round. But that was the best of it. Moments of panic came often and were hard to suppress; to all intents and purposes, I was in a tomb.
It was also totally silent, the air putrid, mainly from the stench of my own waste, and the walls and floor dank. The fact that I could not feel mortar joints between the stones of a man-made oubliette, led me to assume that I was entombed deep in the bowels of the castle in a chamber carved from solid rock. My nightmarish ordeal at the hands of Máedóc at Wolvesey, almost twenty years ago, had come back to haunt me.
The worst parts of my torment were the bitter cold – even though it was spring outside, the icy rock knew nothing of the seasons – and the sense of total isolation. This was particularly hard to deal with, so severe that it seemed like Hell on earth. At Wolvesey, at least, I had known that I was being put to the test and could cling to that knowledge to help save my sanity. This time, I was at the mercy of a brute just like Máedóc, but one who had no particular reason to keep me alive.
I lost track of the days; I was in a state of utter terror most of the time, not far short of losing my mind. I think I had been there for about ten days, but it could have been more, when relief finally came.
The small door above me suddenly opened, which allowed in an unbearable shaft of light. A ladder was lowered, on to which I was able to clamber, and I was helped to a room much higher up in the castle. It was hardly a lord’s chamber, but at least it had a window and a bed. A half-butt of warm water was produced, in which I could cleanse myself, and my clothes, weapons and armour were returned to me, as were my hook and arm. I felt whole again. I was given reasonable food and my chamber even had a garderobe, so that I no longer had to live with my own shit.
Gradually, a sense of normality returned and my terrors began to subside.
About a week later, Rudolph the Castellan appeared, looking just as menacing as he had before. He was accompanied by my erstwhile companions, the Abbots Clovis and Charles.
&
nbsp; ‘You are a fortunate man, Ranulf of Lancaster. The Emperor has summoned the King to his court on the Rhine. You and the two abbots are to accompany him. An escort has been arranged for early tomorrow morning. Be ready at dawn.’
He then turned and left, slamming the door behind him. As the two abbots began to examine me for any ill effects from my confinement, I shot questions at them.
‘Have you seen the King?’
Clovis did most of the talking.
‘Yes, this morning; we were escorted up from the village.’
‘How is he?’
‘Thin, pale and melancholy. He has not been harmed, and he is not being held in a dungeon. But his room is small and the food is barely enough to keep a child alive, let alone a man of his proportions. He sends his greetings.’
‘When can I see him?’
‘In the morning; the Castellan won’t allow us to see him again until we leave.’
‘Where are the things we brought from England?’
‘Either confiscated or destroyed.’
‘Even the letters from Eleanor and Bérengère?’
‘Even those.’
‘That Castellan is an evil bastard. How long have I been here?’
‘Thirteen days in the oubliette, and eight days in here. You’re a little thin; but otherwise you seem to be in good condition, given what you’ve been through, and for a man of your age.’
The Abbot’s supplementary point gave me a jolt; I was forty-two years old, and time was moving on. It made me think.
With an escort of two dozen men, we left the godforsaken castle of Trifels just after dawn the next day. It was impossible to speak to the Lionheart, although I did catch a brief glimpse of him; he was confined in a covered cart, which was like a cell on wheels, and we were kept well away from him. One of his wrists was manacled to the cart and he was dressed like a peasant. He could have been a common criminal being taken to the gallows.
Clovis had been right; he was thin and pale, and the appetite for life had gone from his face. I turned to the Abbot.
‘Is he tied all the time?’
‘Only when he’s being moved. Apparently, he escaped three times on the way from Vienna, so they chained him. His right wrist is very raw, but I’ve persuaded them to chain his other hand.’
Our destination was the City of Spires, Speyer on the Rhine, only a few miles north of Trifels, where the Emperor was to hold his Easter Court. It was here that I was eventually allowed to talk to the King.
The Lionheart was given rooms in the royal apartments in Speyer Palace, while the abbots and I were billeted with the Emperor’s garrison. I was taken aback when I saw him.
His once distinctive mane of hair had thinned and was streaked with grey. He looked drawn to the point of frailty, and he had lost a considerable amount of weight. More disconcertingly, the notorious fire that used to burn so brightly in his eyes was no longer there. He was slumped in a chair when I arrived; when I greeted him, he barely lifted his head to acknowledge me.
‘Welcome to my new abode, Ranulf.’
‘A royal apartment, sire, and one fit for a King.’
‘Indeed, a considerable improvement on that hole at Trifels. But I fear I may be sent back there after this little tête-à-tête with Henry.’
‘My Lord, I’m sure the abbots have told you, the ransom is being collected. It will soon be complete, and then you can go home.’
‘This is not about a ransom; it is about vengeance and humiliation. They mean to make me grovel. The price is set so high in order to punish me. It’s not intended to make them rich; they’re rich already.’
‘My Lord, we will get you home, worry not.’
‘Ranulf, I will only be released when they have had their revenge.’
Two days later, on Palm Sunday, Richard, King of England, was brought before Henry VI, Holy Roman Emperor, Lord of the Germans, in the nave of St Mary’s, the huge Cathedral of Speyer.
The Lionheart was dressed neatly and cleanly, but only in the plain mantle and cloak of a lowly knight. He was denied any weapons or regalia, despite the fact that he was the legitimate ruler of a realm at least on a par with Henry’s domain.
In contrast with the Lionheart’s drab brown cloak, the cathedral was a blaze of colour. Its bright red sandstone columns provided a perfect canvas for the gleaming silks and rich furs of the guests. Henry had summoned his aristocratic and ecclesiastical nobility from far and wide. They were so many that they filled the floor of the entire nave in serried ranks of bejewelled necks, ermine-clad shoulders and coroneted heads. The cathedral rang with the cacophony of thousands of voices, in many different languages, their volume rising as they competed with one another to be heard.
Only a few paces from Henry’s imperial dais, a clear space had been left for the King to stand in. As if in a Roman arena, he resembled an exotic animal, captured and put on display for the amusement of the crowd.
The Emperor’s Chamberlain rose and the entire gathering fell silent within moments, leaving just distant echoes reverberating around the walls.
It was soon obvious that this was not an audience with the Emperor; it was a public trial in front of the entire Holy Roman Empire. Indeed, if the Lionheart’s judgement had been accurate, it was to be a public humiliation.
Henry looked imperious, as was his right; the crowd of princes, dukes, lords and their ladies looked contemptuous, as was not their right; the King, the only man on his feet, stood in the centre of the only open space in the vast cathedral, looking forlorn. I wanted to rush to his side, but we were ten yards away and under guard.
The Chamberlain’s voice rose.
‘Richard, King of the English, you are brought here to St Mary’s, the Cathedral of Speyer, in the presence of his Imperial Highness, Henry, Emperor of the Romans, to answer to God for the sins you have committed in His name…’
He paused to look at the Emperor, who nodded, impatient for his Chamberlain to continue.
‘You are required to answer to the following heinous crimes. First: that you betrayed the trust and confidence of Henry’s vassal, Leopold, Duke of Austria, and disgraced him by tearing down his Imperial Standard from the walls of Acre in the Holy Land. Second: that you connived and plotted in the brutal murder of the noble Lord, Conrad of Montferrat, King of Jerusalem. Third: that you dishonoured Christ our Redeemer and the whole of Christendom, by failing in your duty to reclaim the Holy City, and that you did compound this by then treating with the heathen Saladin and granting him sovereignty of God’s Holy Places.
‘The Emperor has asked Henry of Maastricht, Archbishop of Worms, to preside over a conclave of the Bishops of the Empire to pass judgement on these charges. What say you to these charges?’
With a smug expression on his face, the Chamberlain then sat down.
The King, who had kept his head bowed as the indictments were read, was impassive, his chin on his chest, his shoulders stooped. He looked like a broken man, unable to respond.
But then he raised his chin and began to look around. He fixed his eyes on sections of his audience and stared at them intently. If his lonely isolation at Trifels had cowed him, this huge crowd awakened him. I could see anger rise in him; the fire began to glow in his eyes once more. The Emperor had made a mistake by making a public declaration of the King’s so-called ‘crimes’ and had compounded his error by taunting the wounded beast.
The Lionheart took a stride forwards, towards the Emperor; his prodigious height was suddenly more apparent, his warrior’s frame more intimidating. Dignified once again, he looked towards the Chamberlain and smiled at him.
‘My Lord Chamberlain, I am grateful to you for explaining to me why I have been held in captivity these last months. It is one thing to be held for a crime; it is quite another to be held without reason or charge. So now I know; I am grateful to you. You say that I am held on three counts, so let me respond to them.’
The Emperor looked ill at ease. He had clearly calculated that the highlig
ht of his Easter Court would be the public humbling of a broken man. But the Lionheart’s sudden transformation was not part of the plan. The King turned his back on the Emperor and looked at men in the audience who appeared to have fought many a battle.
‘First of all, the taking of Acre. I make no apology that my standard was raised on the Citadel of Acre, and mine alone. The city had been besieged for many months by Leopold of Austria and Conrad of Montferrat, but my strategy and my army won the day and made the city ours. What man among you would not raise his standard in those circumstances?’
He paused to let his question sink in.
‘Duke Leopold had fought with me, and he shared a portion of the spoils to reflect the size of his contingent. But it was my victory.’
He turned, fixing his stare at another group of Teutonic warrior lords.
‘As every man here knows, a flag of victory is but one symbol of the courage of many, and so it was at Acre. The King of France’s standard flew on one of the towers of the city walls, over an area that became the French Quarter, as did the gonfalon of the King of Jerusalem.’
Then he smiled; he had the audience in his thrall now, like a Greek orator in the Agora of Athens. He turned to the Emperor and lowered his voice to add emphasis.
‘We raised the Imperial Standard of the Holy Roman Empire above the barbican of Acre. But Leopold was not happy with that. He wanted it on the Citadel. We met together to discuss his claim, all four of us: Leopold and Conrad; Philip Augustus, King of the French; and myself. All three of us rejected Leopold’s request – it was not my decision alone – and agreed that the status quo should remain. Leopold was annoyed and withdrew his forces from the city, so I had his Imperial Standard removed and returned to him.’
The Archbishop of Worms then stood and bowed to the Emperor before addressing the Lionheart.
‘My Lord King, can you verify your account?’
‘Of course, ask any man who was there. I see some in this nave. The Imperial Standard was not torn down, it was removed respectfully, with full military ceremony, and sent to the Duke’s camp, where he was preparing to leave for Europe.’
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