by Angus Donald
Leopold was a tall, dark, hawk-faced man, with eyes that seemed to glitter like black gems. He listened attentively to our speech, delivered in elegant Latin by Abbot Boxley, the Duke nodding and smiling occasionally, and then we all waited while a fat priest in a fur-trimmed robe translated it into German for him.
He spoke for a while in his native tongue, seemingly welcoming us to his lands, and then beside me I heard Hanno make a sharp intake of breath. The fat priest then translated.
‘My noble lords,’ said the cleric in strongly accented Latin, ‘the Duke bids you welcome to his hall and to this his fiefdom. If it pleases you, you may stay as long as you wish in the Duke’s dominions, under his protection, and rest your bones after your long journey. His Grace is pleased to have the company of such a distinguished group of pilgrims, and he feels that you will do honour to his household by your presence,’ the priest went on, ‘but …’ Here the fat man paused and gulped. ‘But his Grace fears that you are labouring under a misapprehension. His Grace has no knowledge of the King of England, and is certain that the noble Richard the Lionheart is not at this time within the confines of the town of Ochsenfurt.’
We were stunned into silence by this outright lie.
Robertsbridge began to speak, shooting little angry glances at me between phrases: ‘Your Grace, we have it on good authority’ – he turned his head and glared at me – ‘we have had some indications, rather, that King Richard may be a prisoner here within these walls, awaiting ransom by his loyal friends.’
The priest translated, and the Duke replied through him. ‘You are mistaken. The illustrious King of England is not here. I am afraid you may have been the victims of a practical joke; perhaps an amusing schoolboy’s prank. I can assure you, on my honour, that your King is not here.’
Chapter Ten
The abbots were angry, furious even, and Robertsbridge even accused me of making the whole story up, or of dreaming it in a drunken stupor. Icily I informed them that my cracked ribs were quite real, they were paining me considerably that morning, and I would stand by everything I had told them about my adventures last night. Then I demanded, through Hanno, that the Ochsenfurt men-at-arms take us to the third tower on the south-eastern corner of the town. Immediately.
Incredibly, they obeyed my orders. As we climbed the narrow spiral staircase, the whole troop of us, the four monks and the two abbots puffing and panting in my wake, I knew with a sense of gloomy certainty that the room at the top would be empty. And so it was.
It was a high, circular room with few furnishings: a narrow cot, a table and stool. Nothing else. The stout door, I had noticed on the way in, was bolted on the outside rather than from within the room. The wooden floor was slightly damp, and there was not a trace of dust anywhere. Strangely, perhaps, I was cheered by this: the room had been cleaned only this morning, and the floor had been thoroughly washed. And although I knew I had not been dreaming my encounter with Richard the night before, it was pleasing to have such proof, if you can call a damp floor proof. Someone, without a doubt our good King Richard, had been incarcerated in this high room until a few hours ago, and since then someone else had made efforts to erase all trace of his presence here.
When I explained this to the abbots, they seemed unconvinced. But they did not go so far as to call me a liar to my face. We all trooped down the stairs, and were escorted by the Ochsenfurt men-at-arms to our quarters, a large two-storey timbered townhouse opposite the church of St Michael, in the centre of town, which had been set aside for the use of high-ranking travellers.
We gathered gloomily at the long wooden table in the parlour and while the young monks bustled about bringing us bread and cheese and wine from the well-stocked pantry, I brooded on what we were to do next.
Suddenly I looked up from my cup of wine, and asked: ‘Where is Hanno?’
Nobody seemed to know. I could not remember having seen him since we had left the great hall and the audience with Duke Leopold. He had translated my demand for the Ochsenfurt men-at-arms to take us to the tower, but no one knew what had become of him after that. I was not overly concerned, however, despite the threat of the two assassins. I knew that my wily hunter friend could take care of himself. He had probably just wanted a little liberty to explore Ochsenfurt, drink some of the local ale, and talk his own language for a few hours.
We did not need Hanno for our discussions. Indeed, there seemed little to discuss; we found ourselves completely at a loss as to how to proceed. Robertsbridge was all for returning to the Duke and threatening him with excommunication if he did not reveal Richard’s whereabouts. Boxley, I believe, just wanted to go home. For myself, the prospect of returning to Queen Eleanor with the news that I had sung merrily with her son but had not been allowed to speak to him and had been turned away with an obvious lie was unthinkable. I argued that, since his two hired killers were in the vicinity of Ochsenfurt, it was fair to assume that Prince John was in touch with Duke Leopold over the matter of Richard’s ransom. This was bad news, as was the Duke’s refusal to acknowledge that Richard was in his custody. We could only assume that Leopold planned to hand over our King, either to Prince John or to King Philip of France. Helpless to prevent this from happening, our best hope was to remain in Ochsenfurt until the Duke tried to move Richard, at which point it might prove easier to establish contact with him.
The abbots and I were still sitting despondently in the parlour, sipping wine and racking our brains while the day quietly slipped away, when the door crashed open and Hanno came staggering into the room. He was very drunk.
‘I fin’ ’im,’ slurred my Bavarian bodyguard, a thick waft of strong ale billowing out with his breath.
‘You are inebriated, man,’ snapped Robertsbridge. ‘Go to bed and trouble us no more. We have important matters to attend to here.’
‘I find King Richard,’ Hanno said, making an effort to speak our language more clearly. ‘I find your lost lord. Come, I take you to him.’
We hurried out into the street where Hanno introduced us to Peter, a burly man-at-arms in the Ochsenfurt surcoat, who beamed at us with a face as red as the ox device on his chest. He was even drunker than Hanno. He was also, we soon discovered, King Richard’s gaoler.
As we walked towards the southern side of the town, I noticed that there seemed to be some event, a grand arrival of some sort, with trumpets sounding and bells ringing, monks chanting, taking place at the barbican gate, but we were too excited and preoccupied to investigate further. As we walked, Hanno related to us what he had been up to the past six hours, apart from imbibing vast quantities of the local ale. While we went off with the men-at-arms to inspect the third tower, he had slipped away, leaving the town and circling its outer walls until he came to the spot beneath the tower where I had played my vielle the night before. Had we but looked out of the small window in Richard’s cell we would have seen him below us. At this point Hanno interrupted his narrative to hand me my misericorde, and I gratefully sheathed it in my boot. He had found my dagger, along with the marks of the fight, on the ground. He had even found the remains of the vielle and the bow, both sadly beyond repair. Then he had tracked the footsteps of two men, one with long narrow feet, the other with huge round ones, into the wood and had discovered the site of their bivouac. Approaching with caution, Hanno had found the place deserted, but the warm ashes of the cooking fire told him that it had only recently been occupied. According to Hanno’s almost supernatural fieldcraft, the two men had left their camp about dawn and made their way north towards the River Main, possibly planning to escape by boat. As Hanno related his tale, he seemed to grow more sober with every passing moment.
Rather than attempting to track them further, my cunning friend had returned to Ochsenfurt and made for the nearest soldiers’ tavern. There he had set about ingratiating himself with a man-at-arms, buying him several pots of ale. Hanno’s new friend had then taken him to another tavern, and another, in search of the beaming brick-faced idiot who now
stood before us: Richard’s gaoler. Hanno, as well as plying the fellow with drink, had promised him a purse of silver if he would allow us to speak with his special prisoner for quarter of an hour. Apparently the buffoon had not been told who his prisoner was, only that he was to guard him well.
As we hurried through the streets, Hanno told us that Richard had been hooded and bound, then moved from the tower at dawn and unceremoniously locked in an earth-walled root cellar under a grand house near the southern wall of Ochsenfurt. The house was empty and the only guards, four of them, were under the command of this Peter, evidently a habitual drunk, who was now shambling along beside us, alternately grinning and tugging his greasy forelock at the abbots.
It took but a few moments to reach the house, and while the oafish gaoler fumbled with a key, I congratulated Hanno on his resourcefulness, handing him the purse from my belt with which to reward Peter. ‘Ach, it is nothing,’ said Hanno modestly. He seemed to have thrown off the effects of the ale almost entirely. ‘This is a very small town, everybody knows everybody’s business here. I grow up in a small town just like this one. You can never keep a secret in these little places …’
‘You did it perfectly,’ I said, knowing that it would please him. He grinned and nodded happily.
The gaoler threw open the door and bowed low, ushering us into the dank, earthy space. While Hanno remained outside to keep watch, the two abbots and I ducked our heads and made our way cautiously into the dim cellar. I had my hand on my sword, unsure what to expect, and when something moved with a clink in the far corner, I half-drew my weapon.
There was barely enough light to see, but as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness I could make out the form of a man, a tall man, lying in the corner. He was chained by the ankle to an iron stake driven deep into the floor; his face was hidden by a bag made from a dark cloth of some kind and his arms were tightly bound by the elbows behind him. Suddenly I was extremely angry. This man was a king, and a hero of a righteous war against the enemies of Christ, not some common felon awaiting a shameful execution. I cut through his bonds with my sword and pulled the bag off his head. I could do nothing about his iron fetter.
‘Sire,’ I said gently as King Richard rubbed his arms to bring back the circulation. ‘Sire, we are here. All will be well now that we are here to help you.’
King Richard blinked and stared at me in the dim light of the cellar. ‘Blondel,’ he said, almost whispering my nickname. ‘Blondel – I knew I was not dreaming. It was you singing last night, not some foul trick of my ears or a night demon. I knew it.’
‘Sire …’ Abbot Boxley took a step towards the King. ‘We come here with the full authority of your mother the Queen to negotiate for your release. England stands ready to buy your freedom. And we shall not leave your side until your liberty is accomplished.’
King Richard sat up. He seemed to be recovering swiftly from his ordeal. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the abbot standing before him in his pristine white robes.
‘Ah, it is my lord Abbot Robertsbridge, if I am not mistaken. Good to see you, man. Very good to see you.’
Boxley recoiled just a shade at the King’s words. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I have the honour to be the Abbot of Boxley. My lord Robertsbridge is over there by the door.’
‘Of course he is, of course,’ said the King. ‘And you are both very welcome in my sight. It’s, ah, John, isn’t it?’
The Abbot of Robertsbridge replied from the doorway: ‘We both bear that Christian name, sire. But, if I may make so bold, we have little time for such pleasantries and much to discuss concerning your ransom – and certain events in your kingdom that have occurred in your absence. Your brother, Prince John …’
Leaving the abbots and my King crouched on the dirty earth floor of the root cellar in earnest discussion, I drifted outside to the fading light of the day. Hanno was talking in Bavarian and laughing with Peter the gaoler by the main door of the house, and I wandered over to them as casually as I could. The red-faced man smiled at me and nodded ingratiatingly, and as I approached he seemed about to say something. What he was intending to say, I will never know.
My left arm flashed out and I grabbed him roughly by the throat, squeezing his windpipe with a powerful grip and slamming him back into the wall of the house. My misericorde was in my right hand, and I placed its needle tip under his left eye. Hanno growled at him from over my shoulder.
‘Listen to me, you rancid turd,’ I said, speaking slowly and harshly in English, my eyes boring into his frightened face. ‘That prisoner is a king – the King of England, no less – and you will treat him with the respect he deserves while he is in your care. I want food and wine and clean linen brought to him, and water for washing. And I want it done now.’
I was truly angry. My right hand, the one that held the dagger poised to plunge into his eye, was shaking slightly in my rage. And, as Hanno translated, I glared at Peter, giving him the full force of my righteous ire.
‘Know this,’ I grated, ‘if you mistreat him, if you do not show him the courtesy that is his due, I will take your eyes. And your nose and your lips.’ I tapped him on the mouth with the tip of the misericorde.
Hanno repeated my message in Bavarian. Then I continued: ‘Though it might cost me my life, I will blind you, torture you, and kill you very, very slowly. Then I will come to your house, and kill all your family, and burn it to the ground. And if a cowardly rat such as yourself has any friends, I will kill them all and burn their houses too. Do I make myself clear?’
Even before Hanno had translated my words I could see that Peter understood me. He gibbered something at me, and then Hanno leant forward, his face a stone mask, and shoved the little purse of silver in the man’s mouth, silencing his sobbing words.
Disgusted, I released him and turned away, heading back to the dank cellar to see how my spiritual lords were faring. Behind me the gaoler was shouting for his comrades, and issuing a stream of orders, telling them, I assumed, to bring food and wine immediately.
Unbidden, Robin suddenly came into my mind, his handsome face smiling cruelly at me as he enquired, So, Alan, are you now using fear to bend weaker men to your will? You become more like me every day. I shook my head to rid myself of the sound of Robin’s mocking laughter, and saw that the abbots Boxley and Robertsbridge were emerging from the cellar, looking grave yet satisfied. The gaoler was by now bobbing around me, chattering in Bavarian and offering God knows what services, but I did not deign to look at him. A second man-at-arms had appeared and was in the act of shutting the cellar door when, from within, Richard cried out: ‘Hold! Wait a moment!’ And I put a hand on the man’s arm to halt him.
King Richard stared out at me from his dank and miserable cellar, with the door half-closed, looking directly at me through the gap. He said nothing for a few moments – and then he spoke these words:
A lord has one obligation
Greater than love itself
Which is to reward most generously
The knight who serves him well.
My heart was full of wild emotions – anger and love and shame – as the cellar door banged shut on my sovereign lord. And as I turned to join Hanno and the abbots, now impatient to confront Duke Leopold, I thought, I am your loyal soldier, Lionhearted Richard, I am your vassal to command; I swear it now, silently, before no mortal man but before God Almighty himself. I swear it. Till death, I shall always be the King’s man.
We marched straight to the great hall in a tight phalanx of outrage, determined that our encounter with the King should not be denied. The abbots to the fore, we demanded that Leopold’s men-at-arms admit us immediately to the Duke’s presence. Somewhat surprisingly, they offered no resistance but opened the heavy doors. We walked straight into the middle of a lavish celebration.
The hall fell silent as we entered, the feasting stopped, a juggler who had been performing dropped one of his silver balls, letting his jaw hang open. In a ringing voice, my lord Robertsbridge be
gan to inform Duke Leopold in crisp Latin that he had just ended a conference with King Richard in which he had found our lord in chains and lying in his own filth. He was halfway through his demand that our King should be treated with the respect that was his due as a Christian monarch when his voice faltered and came to a halt. I could see why. Robertsbridge had been addressing Duke Leopold, but whereas earlier that morning the Duke had been seated in the position of highest honour that place had now been taken by another man. And though I had never before laid eyes on him, I knew immediately that I was looking at Henry the Sixth of that name, the King of Germany, lord of much of Italy, overlord of Duke Leopold of Austria, God’s anointed representative on Earth, the Holy Roman Emperor himself.
The greatest prince in Christendom was a slight man in his late twenties, medium height, with a bush of curly brown hair beneath a golden crown, and a wispy beard a little lighter in colour perched above a narrow line of a mouth. He looked amused rather than angry at Robertsbridge’s passionate tirade, and when the abbot stuttered to a halt, he raised a pale hand and addressed our party in clear and fluent Latin.
‘My lord abbot, calm yourself, do please compose your spirit,’ the Emperor commanded in a warm tone, but with an edge of cold steel to it. ‘There has been some regrettable misunderstanding, it seems. Certainly King Richard is here in Ochsenfurt, we know that now, and I have just given orders that he should be housed in apartments fitting to his exalted station.’