A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Govern your tongue, the priest had said. God knows he’d not done that, he thought ruefully, and a memory suddenly surfaced—listening as their father rebuked his brother Hal for some forgotten misdeed. Hal had been making matters worse, of course, blustering and trying to put the blame on others until Henry had interrupted, saying that when a man fell into a deep hole, it was usually a good idea to stop digging. The memory was so vivid and so unexpected that it evoked a brief smile, albeit a grim one. He would indeed do better to put his shovel aside. He knew that full well. But he knew, too, that pride was his only shield, all that he had to fend off fear and utter despair.

  BY LATE AFTERNOON, they could see castle walls in the distance. Even before Gunther pointed toward it and said, “Dürnstein,” Richard knew that he was looking at Leopold’s “impregnable stronghold.” It cast a formidable shadow over the valley, perched high on a cliff above the Danube, as rough-hewn, ominous, and impassable as the surrounding mountains. Richard would normally have assessed it with a soldier’s eye, seeking its weaknesses and weighing its strengths. Now he saw only a prison.

  DÜRNSTEIN WAS TO HOLD several surprises for Richard. The first one was waiting in the outer bailey to greet them, for he was a man Richard knew—Hadmar von Kuenring, an Austrian knight who’d accompanied Leopold to the Holy Land. Richard had shared a meal with him one hot July night before Acre fell, and he remembered swapping bawdy jokes with Hadmar, something he could not have imagined doing with Hadmar’s prickly, proper duke, Leopold the Virtuous.

  Hadmar was a ministerialis; when Richard had first heard that term, he’d assumed it meant Hadmar was a court official. He’d been astounded when Hadmar had confided over several flagons of wine that ministeriales were of the knightly class but they were unfree. They served their lords in a variety of ways just as English and French knights did, and some of them—like Hadmar—enjoyed noble status. But they could not wed without their lord’s permission, nor could they leave his service, for they were bound to him in the way that an English serf was bound to the land. Upon recognizing Hadmar, Richard’s unease intensified, for how could a ministerialis heed his own conscience?

  Hadmar seemed slightly uncomfortable and Richard wondered if he remembered that night in the siege camp at Acre, too. “My lord king,” he said, with a wry half smile. “I’d usually say ‘Welcome to Dürnstein,’ but that seems ridiculous under the circumstances. I suppose we’ll just have to muddle through this as best we can. You must be tired and hungry—”

  He broke off then, for he was close enough now to see Richard’s bonds. Drawing his dagger, he cut through the ropes, and then gave Gunther a look as sharp as his knife blade. After rubbing his wrists to restore the circulation, Richard swung from the saddle, saying, “Sir Gunther was merely following the duke’s orders, Sir Hadmar.”

  They’d been conversing in Latin, but Gunther seemed to understand that the English king had just come to his defense, for as their eyes met, he nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching in what was almost a smile. Hadmar was frowning, clearly taken aback to learn that Leopold had ordered Richard bound, but then he nodded, too, and said briskly, “Whatever needs to be said can be said inside, by a fire. Come with me.” And he turned, starting to walk toward the inner gatehouse, taking it for granted that Richard would follow.

  RICHARD’S SECOND SURPRISE WAS the room where he was to be confined, for it was a bedchamber much more comfortable than he’d have dared to expect. It had a real bed, one laden with pillows and fur-lined coverlets, a charcoal brazier heaped with smoldering coals, woven wall hangings to block out the December chill, a trestle table and two chairs, an abundance of candles and several oil lamps, even fresh floor rushes. Glancing around, he wondered who’d been evicted from this chamber for his benefit, and he wondered, too, how Leopold would react to Hadmar’s generosity.

  As he moved farther into the room, he stopped so suddenly that one of his guards bumped into him, astonished by what he saw in the corner behind the bed: a large wooden tub, with padded rims and a stool. The rest of his guards had followed him into the chamber, so he assumed he was to be kept under constant surveillance here, too. They did not interfere as he prowled the confines of his new prison, watching him with more curiosity than hostility, not objecting even when he unshuttered one of the windows. It offered a spectacular view of the mountains and the swift flowing waters of the Danube, but no chance of escape, not unless a man was desperate enough to commit self-slaughter, ending his earthly suffering, but at the cost of eternal damnation. Richard closed the shutters and was warming his hands over the brazier when a knock sounded on the door and his guards admitted servants lugging large buckets of heated water, an armful of towels, and even a bowl of liquid soap. Thinking that Hadmar von Kuenring was deserving of an English earldom, Richard began to strip off his clothes.

  Having done his best to scrub off several weeks of grime, he was still soaking in the tub, luxuriating in the feel of the hot water upon his aching, constricted muscles, when Hadmar entered. “No offense meant,” he said with a slight smile, “but I assumed you’d be in dire need of a bath by now.”

  “No offense taken, for I was.”

  “I’ll send a barber to you tomorrow to cut your hair and beard.” Hadmar beckoned to another servant, who deposited a pile of clothing upon the bed. “We’ll find you something suitable to wear, but for now these garments will have to do. You’re too tall to wear any of mine.” Looking down at the filthy tunic, shirt, braies, and torn chausses that Richard had scattered about the floor, he said, “With your permission, I’ll get rid of these. I doubt you’ll want to see them again, much less wear them.”

  Richard almost asked if Leopold would like them as keepsakes, like a wolf pelt or the antlers of a slain stag, but he caught himself before he reached for the shovel and suggested that Hadmar’s almoner could find a use for them. The Austrian was clearly trying to make the best of a difficult situation, forced into the dual role of host and gaoler, and so when he turned to go after saying a meal would be sent up soon, Richard gave him what he would never have offered Leopold—courtesy. “Thank you,” he said, as if he were a guest expressing his appreciation for Hadmar’s hospitality, and the other man smiled, looking pleased and relieved that they’d been able to evade the first pitfall in a road strewn with them.

  RICHARD WAS KEPT ISOLATED from the members of Hadmar’s household, seeing only the guards who watched him day and night and Hadmar himself, who paid brief visits to make sure his needs were being met. He was provided with the best meals he’d eaten since leaving Ragusa, clothing, even a few books and a lute, for Hadmar had remembered that the English king was a musician. While he was appreciative of these amenities, they were ointments offered for a bleeding internal wound. He could not imagine how his mother had endured sixteen years of confinement with her wits intact. After just a week, his nerves were fraying like well-worn hemp. Not knowing what his future held was intolerable. He did not try to interrogate Hadmar about Leopold’s intentions, feeling that would be a poor way to repay the older man’s small kindnesses. Even if Hadmar knew what Leopold had in mind, he’d hardly confide in his prisoner, so such a conversation would only embarrass him.

  Richard had not realized Christmas had arrived until he was served a dish of roast goose, signifying Advent was past. When he asked to attend Christmas Mass in the castle chapel, Hadmar had reluctantly refused, obviously following Leopold’s orders, not his own inclinations, for on his next visit, he brought a set of Paternoster beads. Richard dutifully recited fifty Ave Marias each evening, but prayers could not drown out the insidious inner voice whispering that God had turned His face away, deaf to his pleas.

  He passed most of his days thinking about his tomorrows. Surely Leopold must mean to ransom him? Leopold could not keep him confined indefinitely, no matter how great his grievance, and word of his plight would get out; too many people knew about the hunt for the English king. Nor did he believe the Austrian duke would dare to put him
on trial for his alleged crimes in the Holy Land. Heinrich might, though—a chilling thought. And Philippe would not even bother with the farce of a trial. If he was turned over to the French king, he’d never see the sun again.

  On the Monday after Christmas, Richard was struggling with a new enemy—boredom. He was accustomed to constant activity, physical and mental, and this enforced solitude was in itself a form of torture. He flipped at random through one of Hadmar’s books, unable to concentrate, and finally sprawled on the bed to play a plaintive melody on the lute. After a time, he began to try different chords, creating his own song, one that expressed all he could not put into words. He was so intent upon the music that he did not hear the steps approaching the door and was taken by surprise when it opened suddenly, for Hadmar rarely visited him in the evening.

  The guards were startled, too, staring at the two youths poised in the doorway. Richard sat up, interested in this unexpected development. The boys looked so similar that he guessed they were brothers or cousins; he put their ages at about sixteen or seventeen. He assumed that the Austrians and Germans followed the same practices of England and France, sending highborn youngsters to apprentice as squires in noble households. But as he watched them argue with the flustered guards, he decided they might well be Hadmar’s own sons, for they had the easy assurance of those favored from birth. When the nervous guards continued to protest, one of the boys moved closer and Richard heard the clink of coins as pfennigs were exchanged. That did the trick; the guards stepped back, and the youths approached the bed.

  They seemed wary and he thought again of that chained bear. But their eyes were shining with excitement. “I am Leo,” one said, in schoolboy but understandable Latin, “and this is my brother, Friedrich. We wish to talk with you.”

  Friedrich seemed to think his brother had been too brash, for he added quickly, in better Latin, “Will you speak with us, lord king?”

  In his present mood, Richard would have welcomed any diversion. “Why not?”

  They needed no further encouragement, pulled a coffer closer to the bed and perched on it, putting Richard in mind of birds about to take flight. Setting the lute aside, he said, “What do you want to talk about?”

  “About the war in the Holy Land,” Leo said promptly, and his brother nodded in agreement. “We would hear about Jaffa and the march to Acre. We’ve heard stories from soldiers coming home, but we know soldiers like to boast, to make small skirmishes sound like great battles, so we were not sure how much to believe.”

  “How do you know I’ll not boast, too?”

  Friedrich seemed perplexed by the question, but Leo flashed an impudent smile. “Men already call you Lionheart,” he said, “so why would you need to boast?”

  Richard was amused by the lad’s cockiness. “What would you hear first?”

  “About Jaffa,” they said in unison and listened raptly as he told them. After concluding that Jerusalem could not be taken, their army had withdrawn to Acre. He’d been planning an assault upon Beirut, the only port still in Saladin’s hands, when word had reached them of a Saracen surprise attack upon Jaffa. The French had refused to help, even though there were wounded French soldiers recuperating at Jaffa, so Richard sent his nephew, Henri of Champagne, south with their army whilst he sailed down the coast. But they’d been becalmed and could not reach Jaffa for three days. They’d anchored their galleys offshore, waiting for dawn to see if the town and castle still held out. And as the dark retreated, they saw the saffron banners of Saladin streaming in the wind.

  That had been one of the worst moments of Richard’s life. Losing himself in the retelling, he could feel again his anguished rage. Jaffa held over four thousand men, women, and children, who were now dead or doomed for the slave markets in Damascus, all because the wind had dropped, keeping him from getting there in time. He’d lingered offshore, listening to the taunts of the jubilant Saracen soldiers, sick at heart. But then a priest had jumped from the castle wall and swum out to his galley.

  “The castle had not yet fallen,” he told the boys, “so we still had a chance.” When his red galley, the Sea-Cleaver, headed for the beach, the Saracens watched in astonishment, unable to believe their greatly outnumbered foes would dare to land. Richard had been the first one ashore, a sword in one hand, his crossbow in the other, his knights loyally splashing after him even though they all expected to die there in the shallows. “But our crossbowmen cleared the beach, and I knew a back way into the town. There we finally encountered serious resistance and there was fierce fighting in the streets—until the castle garrison raced out to join us. Caught between my men and the garrison, the Saracens either died or surrendered.”

  The expression on their faces was a familiar one. He’d often seen youngsters look like that, enthralled and eager to experience the glory and gore of battle, although they thought more of the former than the latter. “So you do not think I am boasting,” he said with a hinted smile, “I must tell you that Saladin had lost control of his men, that many of them were more interested in looting than fighting, which is why we were able to prevail despite being so outnumbered. Soldiers expect to gain booty in war, whether they be Muslim or Christian, and Saladin’s men had grown war-weary after years of conflict.” But they were not interested in the unromantic realities of war, only the bloody splendor of it, and they urged him now to tell them of the second battle of Jaffa four days later.

  He did and, for a brief time, his words intoxicated all three of them. The cold December night gave way to the searing heat of Outremer. The boys could feel the blazing white sun on their skin, see the harsh grandeur of the land under a copper sky, and they hung on Richard’s every word. “Jaffa stank like a charnel house, for towns taken by storm are shown no mercy. We’d pitched our tents outside the crumbling walls, and when Saladin learned that our army had been halted at Caesarea, he decided to strike, sure that if I was killed or captured, his war would be won. And if not for a Genoese crossbowman who’d risen early to take a piss, we’d have been caught sleeping. But he saw the sun reflecting off their shields. I had only fifty-four knights, four hundred crossbowmen, two thousand men-at-arms, and just eleven horses, whilst we later learned that Saladin’s army numbered over seven thousand. There was no time to retreat into Jaffa, and even if we had, it was too damaged to hold off an assault. So I had our men anchor their spears in the ground and kneel, with our crossbowmen standing behind them, sheltered by their shields. As soon as one arbalester shot, he’d be handed another spanned crossbow, so the firing would be continuous. I assured our men that the Saracens’ horses would not charge into a barricade of spears, and I was right. Again and again, they veered off at the last moment. We held fast for more than six hours, and when their repeated, failed charges had them bone-weary and frustrated, my knights and I charged and swept them from the field.”

  “How did you think of such a tactic? That was truly inspired!”

  “It was not original, Friedrich. I borrowed the tactic from the Saracens, for I’ve never been too proud to learn from an enemy.”

  Leo leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. “Tell us about the march from Acre,” he said, and Richard did. They’d moved the coffer closer to the bed as he’d talked, wanting to know if it was true men died from the scorching heat of the sun—it was—and if the Holy Land had poisonous stinging vermin called scorpions—it did—and if he’d been wounded by a crossbow bolt in the days leading up to the battle at Arsuf—he had.

  They’d all lost track of time, the boys enthralled by these stories of combat with infidels on the sacred ground where the Lord Christ once walked, Richard grateful for the chance to escape the stone walls of Dürnstein, if only in his imagination. When one of the guards cleared his throat meaningfully, that broke the spell, reminding them that it was growing late. “We must go ere we are missed,” Friedrich said reluctantly. “Just one more question. We were told that at Jaffa you rode up and down alone in front of the Saracen army and not one of them
dared to accept your challenge to combat. Surely that cannot be true? It would be quite mad!”

  Richard grinned. “I daresay it was, Friedrich. But it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  They stared at him and then burst out laughing. Their laughter stopped abruptly, though, as if they’d realized they’d let their guard down too far, been bedazzled into forgetting that this man was the enemy. Leo jumped to his feet, glaring at Richard with sudden hostility. “I do not understand you,” he said, his voice rising. “You are a great warrior, as brave as Roland, and you were willing to die for Our Saviour. So how could you treat our father so shamefully?”

  Richard blinked in surprise. “I had no quarrel with Had—” He broke off then, belatedly realizing the truth. “Are you the sons of Duke Leopold?”

  Friedrich was on his feet now, saying proudly, “We have that honor. I am Friedrich von Babenberg, my lord father’s firstborn, heir to the duchies of Austria and Styria, and this is my brother, Leopold.”