by David Boyle
The real story behind Blondel's song may be long beyond unravelling, but the events that really took place — if any did — happened at Christmas. The continued existence of these elements of medieval Christmas — the musician in disguise, able to reveal the hiding place of a missing king — is some evidence that this story originally had a genuine date, and may have more seeds of authenticity than is sometimes assumed.
* Diirnstein means literally 'dry rock', which conveys something of its inaccessible position. There is another castle called Diirnstein just near Friesach, where Richard came so close to arrest.
* It is indeed fitting,' went one of Raimbaut d'Aurenga's competitive verses, 'that one who is skilled in singing should sing in a good court . . . for the blind and the deaf must know that I, of the twenty of us who will be in the lodging, shall carry off the honours.'
*We even know the names of Richard's official messengers attached to the court in England. They were called Hamelin, Lucas, Walwan and Roger le Tort.
*He also says that espionage wras usually used against the English at this time, rather than by them. I find this very hard to believe.
8. Prison
'God willing, you shall learn the might of our victorious eagles and shall experience the anger of Germany: the youth of the Danube who know not how to flee, the towering Bavarian, the cunning Swabian, the fiery Burgundian, the nimble mountaineer of the Alps.'
Frederick Barbarossa's letter to Saladin on the eve of the Third Crusade, 1190
'Today a king, tomorrow a captive; today in power, tomorrow in prison; today a free man; tomorrow a slave. Be wise, therefore, ye judges of the world, come and see the words of the Lord — see a king made wretched, a proud man humbled, a rich man beggared.'
Chronicle of Melrose
The Emperor Henry VI succeeded his father, Frederick, when the latter collapsed and died while leading the German contingent to the Third Crusade so suddenly in Asia Minor. Henry was pallid, intellectual, coldly inhuman and immensely ambitious. He was known to be a brilliant chess player and he had no beard: both seemed to his contemporaries to be evidence of icy rationality. He was also in a political tangle, accused of assassinating one of his own bishops and struggling to retain the respect of the German princes despite the disastrous collapse of his invasion of Sicily. He needed Richard partly because of the ransom he might provide and partly because of the authority his capture would give him over his own vassal princes. But there was another, more historic reason why he might have been delighted to have the king of England at his mercy. This was the chance to deal with an ongoing sore in the relations between England and the empire that went back two generations and could be summed up in five words: the hand of St James.
People in the twelfth century were fascinated by relics. There was the shrine of the Magi in Cologne, the loincloth of Christ and the swaddling clothes of the infant Jesus in Aachen, and two heads of John the Baptist in Constantinople alone. The possession of relics, partly because of their aura of sanctity, partly because of their money-raising powers, was the cause of numerous squabbles, resentments and outrageous thefts. One of Longchamp's opponents, Bishop Hugh of Lincoln, was once shown the sacred arm of Mary Magdalene at the Abbey of Fecamp and horrified the monks by unwrapping it and trying to cut off a piece. When the knife was too blunt, he bit off two mouth-sized chunks, which he handed to his biographer for safe-keeping, explaining that after eating the body of Christ at the mass, the finger of Mary Magdalene was hardly worth comment. It was the spirit of the times.
The hand of St James the Apostle had been among the most precious possessions of the Holy Roman Empire — the rest of St James's arm, from which it had become detached, was in Tor-cello near Venice — and one of the most valued in the collection of crown jewels belonging to the Emperor Henry V, who had been married to Richard's grandmother Matilda. When the emperor died childless in 1125, Matilda's father, King Henry I of England, ordered her to abandon her German lands and come home (she had been his heir since 1120 and the disastrous sinking of the White Ship and the drowning of her only legitimate brother William, along with much of the royal household). Whether it was in compensation for these lands, or because she felt it was her right as widow, Matilda took possession of the imperial crown jewels and the most important relics, including the Holy Lance, which was supposed to have pierced the side of Christ.*
Somehow the Archbishop of Mainz managed to persuade her to hand back most of these, including the lance — promising to support her candidate in the imperial election — and she left them with him. But she still made her return journey to England with two imperial crowns, one of them made of solid gold and weighing so much that it had to be supported on silver rods when it was worn. Also in her baggage was the hand of St James, which was given with much ceremony to Reading Abbey, where it joined other holy items, such as the hair of the Virgin Mary, the foreskin of Christ and a bit of the rock that Moses struck, and soon became the centre of a series of miracle stories. More than a quarter of a century later, Frederick Barbarossa wrote to Matilda's son Henry II, asking for the hand to be returned. Henry's reply was a highly evasive letter that promised ambassadors were on their way to give the emperor his answer. As it turned out, they were also laden with gifts to try to disguise their negative reply.
Richard had used the solid gold crown at his own coronation, where two earls were employed to hold the weight. Now, as a prisoner, he was finally at the mercy of the Holy Roman Emperor, and almost certainly had been carrying home relics from Palestine himself. Henry was also impatient about his delayed ambitions, reviving claims that the Holy Roman Empire was overlord of the whole world and planning a second invasion of Sicily as a bridgehead for expansion around the Mediterranean. The relics and crown jewels were a critical part of his claims. He would not have lost the opportunity to demand their safe return.
There is no record that the missing relics were discussed — it may have been an embarrassing subject for public consumption for both the English and the Germans. Nor has the information survived about what relics Richard was carrying with him back from Palestine. The escort of Templar knights he had been given at every stage of his journey home implies that he may have been carrying something of importance — perhaps one of the pieces of the True Cross that he had been given just before his secondabortive march on Jerusalem.* He was definitely carrying the Great Seal of England, which had been found around the neck of the drowned seal bearer in Cyprus in 1191 and returned to him, and which he kept with him throughout his captivity. These issues were the unreported, hidden aspects of the negotiations that were to take place between Richard and Henry. In public, the emperor could not draw attention to the fact that Richard had been anointed using the regalia of the Holy Roman Empire because it might give him claims in the eyes of the German princes. Nor could he be seen to capitalize too much on the capture, because Richard was a returning crusader and ought to have had the protection of the Truce of God. The emperor had to portray his detention of the former hero of Christendom as a clear duty, given the terrible accusations against him. It was therefore necessary to put Richard on trial.
Before he could do this, he had to reach agreement with Leopold, and Leopold was clearly nervous that, once he surrendered his main asset by handing Richard over to the Germans, he was liable to lose out. He had nervously steered Richard back to Diirnstein and spent the next six weeks negotiating at a distance — negotiations that were critical to the future of Germany, England, France, Sicily and even the Byzantine empire. Leopold finally met Henry on 14 February, at Wiirzburg. Wiirzburg was the crossroads of central Europe: this was the place where the main east—west trade route met the main north—south pilgrimage route from Denmark to Rome.
Leopold and Henry agreed between them that Richard should be asked to pay 100,000 silver marks, of which the Duke of Austria would take half. This was a huge sum, somewhere around a fifth of the combined wealth of all the people and institutions of England. The wo
rd ransom was studiously avoided and the payment was disguised as a dowry for Richard's niece Eleanor of Brittany, who would be betrothed to one of Leopold's sons. They also agreed that the Cypriot tyrant Isaac Comnenus should be released from his silver chains, together with his daughter, who was now in England or Normandy. But that was not all. Richard would be given the following demand: that he must provide Henry with fifty fully armed galleys, plus ioo knights and fifty crossbowmen, and that he should come himself — together with another ioo knights and fifty crossbowmen — to help Henry invade Sicily, and should stay there until either the conquest was successful or Henry let him go. To make sure that the 'dowry' was paid in full, Richard would be forced to hand over 200 hostages, fifty of whom would be passed on to Leopold. In the meantime, 200 German hostages would be sent from Henry to Vienna to make sure he kept his side of the bargain. It was decided that Richard's trial would take place on Palm Sunday at Henry's Imperial Council in Speyer.
The imperial entourage consisted of anything up to a thousand people, and it moved weekly and sometimes daily around the empire. Different emperors had tended to favour different palaces, such as the one at Aachen, near the octagonal church where they were traditionally crowned, or at Hagenau, with its classical library, or at Worms, with its spectacular Romanesque cathedral. Speyer also had a massive and recently finished Romanesque cathedral; it was here that Henry's mother, sister and forebears were buried, and an empty space in the vault marked the spot where his father's body would have rested had it not disintegrated in the searing Turkish heat.
It was in Speyer on 20 March that Richard came face to face with the emperor for the second time. With the imminent arrival of princes from all over his empire, Henry once again became nervy and impulsive. Exactly what passed between them has not been recorded, but it seems clear that, among other things, Richard refused the terms of the ransom and that Henry threatened his life. Richard did not succumb to the pressure, but he must have known that his life was not in danger. There was no way that Henry would sacrifice his most valuable pawn. It was at least possible that the conversation was about relics. If it was, Richard refused these demands too, though the coronation regalia was returned later to Germany, which implies they were discussed at some stage. The disputed hand stayed where it was, however. In fact a mummified hand was found in an old iron chest by workmen digging at Reading Abbey in 1786 and is now in St Peter's Church in Marlow.
The following day, everything was ready for the trial. The great hall was decked out with the finest tapestries, as the princes and their entourages took their places according to precedence.* Conrad of Montferrat's brother Boniface, convinced of Richard's guilt, was among the princes and barons crowding into the room, but there were those on Richard's side too. There was his dark and thick-set brother-in-law, the ageing rebel Henry the Lion of Saxony, as well as other members of his more immediate entourage: Savaric, Bishop of Bath, the abbots of Boxley and Robertsbridge, the Norman chaplain William of St Mary 'Église, the tall, handsome figure of Hubert Walter and, next to him, the short, misshapen William Longchamp. Also there was Richard's nephew Otto of Brunswick, sent expressly by Eleanor to the congress to be with her favourite son.
It was critically important for both Henry and Richard that they should make a good impression. Henry had to demonstrate his largesse, his fairness and his power. He may have been emperor, but this was not a hereditary position. Although the same family tended to fill the role, the barons and bishops in the hall were also electors who voted emperors on to their thrones. Thanks to the affair of the assassination of the Bishop of Liege, Henry was awarethat he was fighting for his own title.* The trial was among other things an opportunity to demonstrate in front of his vassals his ability to have the former hero of Christendom in his power and to humiliate him. But it was an even more critical occasion for Richard. It was his first chance to reply to his critics and answer the accusations that had been filtering across Europe. He must have relished the moment also because he knew that a show trial like this, before the flower of German chivaliy, suited his particular talents precisely — his love of show, rhetoric and performance. For all his contradictions, his pride and his occasional cruelty, Richard's qualities were never so apparent as during the early weeks of his imprisonment. The chroniclers consistently mention his calmness, optimism and humour in the face of ruin, and the trial at Speyer was in some ways his finest moment.
An expectant silence fell on the illustrious company as the charges were put directly to Richard. He had betrayed the Holy Land by making peace with Saladin. He had plotted to kill Conrad on the eve of his coronation as king of Jerusalem. He had treacherously demolished the defences of Ascalon. He had also broken agreements with the emperor, which probably referred to the alliance with Tancred of Sicily. But Richard, handling his own defence, rose to the occasion bravely, brilliantly and convincingly. 'I know nothing that ought to have brought on me this ill-humour,' he said, rising to reply with reasons for Philip's anger, 'except for my having been more successful than he.' He told the assembly the full story of the crusade, from the attack on Messina to the final agreement with Saladin and the reasons for his return. The murder of Conrad of Montferrat 'is foreign to my character,' he said. 'I have not hitherto evinced such a dread of my enemies as men should believe me capable of attacking their lives otherwise than sword in hand.'
It was a bravura performance, explaining in detail his restraint in refusing to take Jerusalem without the means to consolidate that success. He also defended the gifts he had exchanged with Saladin. 'The king of France received some as well as myself. These are civilities which brave men during war perform towards one another without ill consequences,' he said. 'It is said I have not taken Jerusalem. I should have taken it, if time had been given me; this is the fault of my enemies, not mine, and I believe no just man could blame me for having deferred an enterprise (which can always be undertaken) in order to afford my people a succour which they could no longer wait for. There, Sire, these are my crimes.'
'When Richard replied,' wrote Philip's court poet, William the Breton, 'he spoke so eloquently and regally, in so lionhearted a manner, that it was as though he had forgotten where he was and the undignified circumstances in which he had been captured, and imagined himself to be seated on the throne of his ancestors at Lincoln or at Caen.'
Richard wrought a minor miracle at Speyer. At the start of his trial, he was the villain — the renegade hero who had abandoned Jerusalem to Saladin and murdered his political opponents. But while he was on his feet, articulating his defence and his hopes and plans for Palestine, it became clear that the mood of the German princes listening had shifted decisively in his favour. This was not what Henry had intended, and he was achingly aware he could not ignore their sympathy. He also seems to have been moved himself.
Richard was making the most of his chivalric training in Poitiers all those years ago, and he ended his speech by walking towards the emperor's throne and kneeling before him. It was an agonizing moment for Henry, quite different from the scene he had imagined, aware that the barons in the room were now overwhelmingly sympathetic to Richard and his plight. But he really had no choice. With tears streaming down his face, Henry rose from the throne, went over to Richard's kneeling figure, lifted him up and gave him the kiss of peace. It was in effect the dismissal of the accusations. Many of the audience wept.
The following day, Leopold formally handed over his prisoner to the emperor, and the terms of the proposed ransom that was not a ransom were revealed. This time, it was couched not as a dowry but as a payment for bringing about a reconciliation between the emperor and Richard's brother-in-law Henry the Lion of Saxony. The demand was set at 100,000 marks, plus a loan of fifty galleys and 200 knights for a year. Once again, the terms carried a clear implication that the king of England was somehow a vassal of the emperor, but Richard had no option but to accept. He believed that he would be released as soon as the first hostages arrived from Eng
land, and the ransom terms were sent straight home via William of St Mary I'Église. He sent another flurry of letters about the arrangements via Hubert Walter and the two abbots, and another letter to the Prior of Canterbury, asking him to borrow the entire ransom from the cathedral's treasury.
Richard was being optimistic, and not just about the overstretched resources of Canterbury Cathedral. Once the German princes had returned home, satisfied that their sympathy with Richard was now shared by the emperor, Henry began to reconsider. He remembered that he had been requested urgently by Philip Augustus not to do anything with the prisoner until they had consulted. It was reasonable to assume that the French would be willing to pay a considerable sum to keep Richard in prison, and it made sense to find out how much. He was also worried that his prisoner had too many sympathizers at the court in Speyer. So instead of allowing him to prepare for his return to England, Henry sent Richard under close guard to Trifels Castle, high in the mountains to the west of the city, and put him in solitary confinement.
Trifels was a fearsome place, towering above the small town of Annweiler and surrounded by forests in the heart of the ancestral lands of Henry's Hohenstaufen family. It was a region of bogs and marshes, where bandits and wild men lived on roots and berries. Trifels was designed to hold prisoners who were considered traitors against the empire. Imprisoning Richard there was not just unpleasant and uncomfortable, it also implied that he was a betrayerand that the accusations stood after all. So did the constant presence of soldiers with drawn swords, which were a deliberate insult to Richard's integrity. As the most secure fortress in the empire, Trifels was also the place where the imperial crown jewels were kept — or what remained of them after Matilda's return to England. The irony would have escaped neither prisoner nor jailer that the man who had inherited some of the most precious heirlooms the empire possessed was now locked up in the very place where they ought to have been.