“I think we are being followed,” he said, very softly. “In the corner by the ale keg, the man in the green woolen mantle and felt hat.”
Richard shifted slightly so he could see Guillain’s suspect. He looked to be in his forties, of average height, his brown hair and beard closely clipped, with a thin white scar creasing his forehead above thick brows and heavy-lidded dark eyes. He was well dressed, obviously a person of means, and he wore the sword at his hip like a man who’d feel naked without one. He’d been nursing an ale while regarding the other customers with studied disinterest, but when Richard glanced his way, he drew farther back into the shadows.
“I saw him first at the stables,” Guillain confided, pitching his voice for Richard’s ear alone. “He was entering as we were leaving. I saw him next when we were looking for an inn, loitering in the marketplace. And then he turns up here. Udine is not Paris, but it is no small village, either, and it seems odd that every time we look around, there he is.”
Richard agreed with him. After a low-voiced exchange with Guillain, he waited until Arne returned and then rose without haste, dropping coins on the table for the servingmaid. Following his lead, his companions drained the last of their ales and pushed away from the bench, trying to cloak their urgency in nonchalance. Once they were out in the street, Guillain slapped a few backs as if jovially parting from friends and disappeared into an alley that overlooked the alehouse. The others broke up into smaller groups and took different routes back to their inn.
A brisk wind had sprung up as the daylight ebbed, and the inn’s sign was creaking and swaying with each gust. Der Schwarz Löwe. The Black Lion. The beast was crudely drawn and looked grey in patches where the paint had flaked away, but it was not a sight to give them comfort, for the black lion was the emblem of the House of Hohenstaufen. The inn itself was as dilapidated as its sign, and the innkeeper had been astonished and delighted when they’d taken two rooms, for privacy was a luxury few could afford and most travelers not only shared rooms with strangers, they shared beds, too. His curiosity and his avarice aroused in equal measure, he made a pest of himself upon their return, offering wine, more candles, extra blankets, even female company if they wished, swearing he could provide them with women who were young, pretty, and free of the pox. Having been so ill-served by his merchant disguise in Görz, Richard had decided to pass as a Templar, a more plausible identity for a man whose very walk had a soldier’s swagger, and Arne finally got rid of the insistent innkeeper by telling him they were all Templar knights and sergeants, sworn to vows of chastity.
The rooms were small, and with all twenty of them crammed into one chamber, there was barely space to stand, much less sit down. They waited in a tense silence, broken only by the occasional hoarse coughing of one of the crossbowmen, and it seemed like years to them before Guillain rapped twice on the door and then slid inside. The news he brought was good, though. He’d kept vigil in the alley until the bells had chimed for Vespers, but the man in the green mantle had not stirred from the alehouse. “I suppose I was seeing shadows where there were none,” he conceded, with an abashed smile.
Now that they were able to relax, the men could admit how tired they all were, and the Templars and crossbowmen soon departed for their own room. Richard’s companions set about spreading out their blankets, taking off their boots, mail, and weapons, but planning to sleep in their clothes. Richard sat on the edge of one of the two beds, and began to study his map again, as he did whenever the opportunity arose, tilting the candle to avoid dripping wax onto the parchment. Anselm was thumbing through his psalter, Morgan was trying to patch a hole in his boot with leather cut from his belt, and Warin was grumbling as he used his knife to remove the stitches from the hem of his mantle; the money not stuffed into their saddlebags had been sewn into their clothes, but Warin had spaced the coins too close together and discovered to his dismay that he jingled when he walked. He was still bent over the mantle, awkwardly wielding a needle as the others began to snuff out their candles, lusting after sleep as they usually lusted after women. It was then that a soft knock sounded on the door.
Richard paused in the act of removing his boots and gestured to Arne. Most of the men assumed it was the meddlesome innkeeper making one last attempt to earn a few more coins, but they still sat up on their pallets, for they were learning to be as wary as stray cats. Yawning, Arne shuffled toward the door. “Wer ist das?”
“A friend.” Those whispered words sent a chill through the listening men, for they’d been spoken in French.
Richard reached for his sword, always close at hand, and nodded at Guillain, who drew his dagger from its sheath and took up position against the wall. Arne then slowly slid the latch back, looking as if he expected to find a demon on the other side. The hinges shrieked as he pulled the door open to reveal the man from the alehouse. As soon as he stepped into the room, he found himself caught in a choke hold, Guillain’s arm pressing against his throat, his dagger poised to slide up under the man’s ribs.
“I am a friend!” the man gasped. “I swear it by the Blessed Mother!”
Richard signaled for one of the candles to be brought up to light the man’s face. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice as threatening as the sword he now leveled at the intruder’s chest.
His response was a gurgle, for Guillain had inadvertently tightened his hold. When he eased the pressure, the man gulped air before telling them that his name was Roger d’Argentan.
Argentan was a town in Normandy, which explained his fluent French. “Let him go,” Richard directed. Guillain did, but kept his dagger ready as he stepped back. “So why are you here, Roger d’Argentan?” Richard asked coldly. “It is an odd hour to be calling on strangers.”
Roger did not object when Morgan reached out and relieved him of his sword. Instead, he knelt before Richard. “It is urgent that I speak with you, my lord king.”
There were a few indrawn breaths. Richard gave away nothing, staring down at the kneeling man. “Are you daft?” he jeered. “When did you ever see a king staying in a sty like this? And for Christ’s sake, get up. You’re making a fool of yourself.”
Roger stayed on his knees. “I am the sworn man of Count Meinhard. He was told that the English king might be coming his way and he dispatched me to find you, my liege, knowing I’d seen you when I’d returned to Normandy to visit my family. It was nineteen years ago, and you were just a lad of sixteen. But you’ve not changed much, sire. I knew you at once.”
Richard shook his head impatiently. “You’re either daft,” he said again, “or drunk. Do you truly think the English king would dare to venture into the lands of the Holy Roman Emperor with a handful of men? He is said to be reckless, not mad.”
Taking the cue, his knights chuckled. But Roger’s eyes were filling with tears. “What do I have to say to convince you? Why would I dare to come here like this if I did not want to help you? Once I recognized you, I had only to return to the castle and tell Count Meinhard. You’d have awakened to find the inn surrounded by his soldiers. Instead, I sought you out, risking all to warn you. As God is my witness, if you do not heed me, you are surely doomed!”
There was so much raw emotion in his voice that Richard hesitated; could any man be such a good actor? “You say you’re Count Meinhard’s sworn man. Why would you ‘risk all’ for the English king?”
“Count Meinhard is indeed my lord,” Roger said softly, “and he has been good to me. But I am Norman born and bred and you are my duke. I could not live with myself if I betrayed you.”
Richard studied the other man’s face intently. “I believe you,” he said at last, and Roger drew his first unconstricted breath since entering the chamber. He got stiffly to his feet as Richard asked why Meinhard thought the English king might be in Udine.
“He got a warning this morn from his brother, Count Engelbert of Görz.” Catching the startled looks the other men exchanged, Roger smiled. “Engelbert let you go. I knew it as soon as I hear
d, for he’d have been loath to harm a man who’d taken the cross. But that wife of his must have goaded him into protecting his arse afterward.”
“I take it your lord does not share Engelbert’s scruples,” Richard said dryly.
“Count Meinhard is a good son of the Church. But he is also a vassal of the Holy Roman Emperor.” Roger paused to cough, for his throat was still tender, and he hoped the inevitable bruises would not be too conspicuous. His huge assailant no longer regarded him as a threat, though, for he’d sheathed his dagger, and now asked how he’d found their inn, saying he was sure Roger had not followed them. “I already knew where you were staying. There are not that many inns in Udine and I’d been to all of them.”
“So what now?”
“I will go back to Count Meinhard and tell him the report was false. I will say I found some pilgrims returning from the Holy Land, but Richard of England was not amongst them. That will gain you a little time. I made no mention of you, my liege, when I questioned the innkeepers and stable grooms, asking only about strangers. But word is already getting out. I overheard snatches of conversation in the alehouse and your name figured in some of them. The count will likely send others out to search, too, if only to be sure I was not mistaken. I think your greatest danger at the moment is that talkative innkeeper belowstairs. He was bedazzled by your free spending and if he hears the rumors, he’ll be off to the castle in the blink of an eye.”
Several of the knights had begun to bristle at the implied criticism, and Richard raised a hand to silence them. “We needed the privacy, for it was the only way we could talk amongst ourselves.”
Roger nodded, for the grim truth was that no matter what they did, they put themselves at risk. “I looked your horses over, and they . . . Well, how can I put it?” With another faint smile. “Let’s just say I’ve seen better. I want you to take mine, my lord king. I fetched him from the castle ere I came here and he’s below in the inn courtyard, tied to their hitching post, a roan stallion with a black mane and tail. But you must go now. Get as far from Udine as you can, as fast as you can.”
The men were already pulling on their boots, buckling their scabbards. Richard sent Warin to give the bad news to their sleeping companions in the other chamber, and then turned back toward the Norman knight. “Will the count blame you for our escape?”
“He’ll be sorely disappointed, but I’ve served him loyally for twenty years and risen high enough in his favor to be given his niece as my wife. As long as he believes mine was an honest mistake, I’ll be safe enough.”
Richard hoped he was right. Reaching out, he put his hand on the Norman knight’s shoulder. “You are a brave man, Roger d’Argentan. I will not forget you.”
Roger’s sore throat tightened and he swallowed with an effort. “Go with God, my liege.”
THEY HAD TO HURRY, for the town gates would close once curfew rang. They decided to split into two groups in hopes of attracting less attention. Leading the first one, Richard and his companions forced themselves to hold their mounts to a walk when their every instinct was to urge their horses into a brisk gallop. The streets were quiet and few people were out, driven indoors by the cold and the approach of dark. Lights gleamed through the chinks in shutters and the men cast yearning glances toward them as they rode by, for those modest houses held treasures they valued more than gold on this bleak December night—blazing hearths and beds.
When they saw the north gate ahead, they felt an easing of tension, for Udine would soon be disappearing into the distance. It was then that the door of a tavern burst open and men spilled out into the street. They were loud and rowdy, brandishing wine flasks and lanterns and even a few crude torches. Richard and his knights drew rein, sensing trouble, and sent Arne on ahead to find out what was going on; he was soon back, blue eyes wide with dismay.
“They are hunting the English king,” he said anxiously, “having heard the rumors that he may be here in Udine. They think Count Meinhard will richly reward the man who finds him, and they plan to search all the inns for strangers.”
No one spoke, but the same thought was in all their minds: if not for Roger, they’d have been trapped in the Black Lion, for this drunken mob would soon have drawn men from the castle. They glanced around, but they did not know the town and they could easily lose their way in the dark maze of narrow alleys and lanes. It seemed safer to stay on the main street and bluff their way out. They rode on, hands tightening on the reins, moving their mantles for easy access to their scabbards. The crowd was blocking the street. Some started to move aside, though, accustomed to giving way to horsemen. Echoing Arne’s mumbled greeting, the knights muttered a guttural “Guten Abend,” all the while hoping fervently that these wine-soused brains would not wonder why men would be departing the city after night had fallen.
It was to be a forlorn hope. Some of the men were already staring at them, puzzlement quickly flaring into suspicion. Made bold by their numbers, several strode into the street to bar the way, hurling questions at them like weapons, and the belligerent tone made translation unnecessary. But submitting to an interrogation was not an option. They did not draw their swords, merely spurred their horses forward, and men scattered in all directions, screaming and yelling and cursing as they sought to avoid being trampled. Richard and his knights did not slow down, nor did they glance back at the chaos they left in their wake. Men were scrambling to their feet, groping for their fallen torches and lanterns as shutters up and down the street were flung open and heads popped out to see what was amiss. The guards had emerged from the gatehouse, and they, too, had to dive aside as the riders swept past them and galloped through the gate out into the night.
They had little time to savor their escape, though. They’d not gone far before they heard a new uproar behind them. Alarmed, for they’d not expected pursuit to be organized so fast, they reined in to look back at the town, and it was only then that they realized what was happening. The rest of their group had ridden right into the maelstrom and found themselves surrounded by an angry crowd.
Richard swore and started to swing Roger’s stallion around. His men stared at him, horrified, but Morgan was the one to act. “No!” he cried, spurring his own horse into Richard’s path. The roan swerved and it took Richard a few moments to get him under control.
“Have you lost your mind?” he snarled. Morgan had never borne the brunt of his cousin’s royal rage before, and his mouth went dry. Before he could respond, Baldwin moved his own mount to block Richard’s way.
“Morgan remembered Ibn Ibrak,” he said, meeting Richard’s eyes unflinchingly.
There was no need to say more, for they all knew what had happened at Ibn Ibrak. Squires foraging for firewood and their Templar guards had been ambushed by Saracens. Richard had been just two miles away, and when he’d learned of the attack, he’d sent the Earl of Leicester to the rescue while he hurried to arm himself. Upon his arrival at the battle, he’d found that it had been a trap and the crusaders were surrounded by a much larger force. His men had pleaded with him to retreat, arguing that he could not save the doomed knights. He’d retorted angrily that he’d sent those men out there, promising to follow with aid, and if they died without him, he did not deserve to be called a king. He’d then spurred his stallion into the fray, rallied his men, and managed a safe withdrawal from the field. His bravura actions at Ibn Ibrak had contributed to the growing legend of the Lionheart, but the memory only instilled fear in his knights outside the walls of Udine.
Richard’s jaw muscles clenched. “I saved the men at Ibn Ibrak.”
“Yes, you did,” Baldwin agreed. “But that is not possible now. If you go back there, you will be killed or captured. Think, sire! The Templars could have slipped away when they saw what was happening. They could even have gone back to the inn, for they’d be safe enough with you gone. Instead, they acted to draw the mob’s attention onto themselves and you know why—to give you the time you need to escape. You must honor their choice, my l
ord. You owe them that.”
Richard wanted to argue. But when Baldwin urged them on, he gave in and turned Roger’s roan stallion away from Udine and followed the Fleming. Once they were sure that they were not being pursued, they slackened their pace, sparing their weary horses as best they could. The day’s clouds had begun to disperse and their way was dimly lit by the emergence of the moon and a scattering of distant stars. They felt the cold more after so many months in the Holy Land and their hands and faces were soon reddened and windburned. The jagged silhouettes of the alpine peaks that rose up on either side of the road only contributed to their claustrophobic sense of being hemmed in, surrounded by dangers, enemies, and hidden perils.
Richard had not spoken for hours and, knowing that they had no comfort to offer, his companions left him alone with thoughts as dark as the December night. Of all he had endured since being shipwrecked on the Istrian coast—the hunger, the cold, the lack of sleep, the indignity of being hunted as if he were a fox with hounds baying on his trail—nothing had shaken him as deeply as the capture of the Templars and crossbowmen, forcing him to admit just how powerless he was, how vulnerable. Fulk had accused him of being unable to conceive of defeat, and the Poitevin clerk was right; he did always expect to prevail over other men, confident of his own abilities and dismissive of his foes. But now he found himself assailed by rare doubts. How many more men would they lose? How could they hope to evade capture if the entire countryside was on the lookout for suspicious strangers? And if he was taken, what then? For the first time, he seriously considered the fate that would await him if he fell into Heinrich’s hands, utterly at the mercy of a man who had none. England’s king, God’s anointed, cast into a German dungeon whilst his lands in Normandy were ravaged by that craven whoreson on the French throne and Johnny claimed his crown. If his misgivings were unfamiliar, so, too, was the emotion that now rode with him on this icy mountain road—fear.
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