A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  John had not yet moved from the window, careless of the cold, damp air he was allowing to invade his bedchamber. “If this keeps up much longer, we’ll soon be building arks.”

  Durand decided it was time to contribute to the conversation lest John think he was not listening. “I’ve heard that many of the Welsh have webbed feet.”

  Unexpectedly, this stirred a rare flicker of curiosity in Ursula. “Truly?” When the men grinned, she scowled and sought to cover her faux pas by saying scornfully, “That sounds like the sort of nonsense you’d believe, Durand.”

  “It is not as far-fetched as that, my lady,” he drawled. “Some people claim the English have long tails, but I’ve never had the opportunity to find out if there is any truth to it. Ah, wait, you were born in England, no? I daresay you’ve seen more naked Englishmen than I have. Any of them with tails?”

  “I can tell you one English tail you’ll never get to see, Durand—mine.”

  John turned from the window, clearly amused by their barbed byplay. “Now, now, children,” he said, in the pitch-perfect tone of a parent reprimanding squabbling siblings. But when a knock sounded at the door, they were forgotten and he strode swiftly over to open it. It was one of his household knights, Geoffrey Luttrell, bearing a sealed letter. John reached for it eagerly, dismissed the knight with a careless gesture, and moved toward the oil lamp to read the letter. Geoffrey lingered long enough to shoot a hostile arrow of a look in Durand’s direction. He knew the other knights resented his growing intimacy with John, had heard them grumbling about “those who got above themselves,” for Durand’s background, like his past, remained a mystery. A few days ago, he’d entered the hall just as one of them disdainfully called him “the count’s tame wolf.” They’d fallen silent when they realized he’d heard, for though they’d never admit it, there was something about Durand that other men found unsettling. But he’d laughed aloud, for he was not tamed, nor was he John’s wolf. He was Eleanor’s.

  “It is from Hugh de Nonant,” John said, casting the letter onto the table. “He’s heard nothing about Richard. So why bother to send a messenger halfway across Wales just to tell me that?”

  John seemed to be speaking the truth, but Durand would later see if he could manage to read the letter for himself, just to be sure. The Bishop of Coventry was as slippery as any eel, and while he’d so far proclaimed himself to be John’s man, Durand thought he’d jump ship if Richard suddenly turned up, alive and well and ready to avenge himself upon those who’d been so quick to believe John’s claim that he was dead.

  “Do you want to continue the game, my lord?” he asked, gesturing toward the chessboard. John glanced at the ivory chess pieces, doubtlessly assessing his chances of victory. In many ways he was unlike his brothers, the dark one in a golden family, with a history of failures and misjudgments. At seventeen, he’d launched a rash assault upon Richard’s Aquitaine, after an angry Henry had intemperately declared that Aquitaine was his if he could take it from his brother. He couldn’t. At eighteen, his first command in Ireland had been an unmitigated disaster; he’d actually managed the impossible, uniting the Irish and the Norman settlers in their outrage against his misrule. He had timed his desertion of Henry correctly, though, making a private peace with Richard and Philippe while his father still lived. And he’d shown his first flashes of political skill by bringing down Richard’s chancellor, Guillaume de Longchamp. Durand thought the chancellor had done himself in by his own arrogance and greed, but he had to admit that John had not made a misstep in his campaign to send Longchamp into exile. So far he had not displayed the same sure touch in his attempt to usurp his brother’s throne, but Durand’s months with Eleanor’s youngest had taught him not to underestimate John’s intelligence.

  He was not surprised now when John said the game could wait, for he’d been maneuvered into an untenable position and in one way John was very much like the rest of his family; he hated to lose. “Have you further need of me, my lord?” Durand asked, hoping to be able to make his escape. But it was then that another knock sounded at the door.

  Geoffrey was back, this time trailed by a travel-stained, weary messenger. “My lord, this man says he comes from the king of the French with an urgent message you must hear straightaway.” He looked disappointed when John dismissed him before he could learn what it was, while Durand was allowed to remain. The courier was kneeling at John’s feet, holding out a parchment threaded through with cord and sealed with wax that bore the imprint of Philippe’s signet. But John paid more heed to the ring on the man’s hand, an amethyst stone cut into octagonal facets, a secret sign that the message did indeed come from the French king.

  He’d gotten other messages from Philippe, but never one accompanied by Philippe’s own ring. Sending the courier away, he broke the seal. Durand watched intently as John read the letter, and when he heard John’s sharp, indrawn breath, he could not hold his tongue. “Well?” he asked. “Is it good news or bad?”

  John was studying the letter as if he could not believe what he’d just read. When he glanced up, his guard was down for the first time that Durand could remember, making him look suddenly younger than his twenty-six years. “It is good news for me,” he said, “but bad news for my brother. It seems that Richard has managed to get himself captured by the Holy Roman Emperor.”

  Bleeding Christ! That would be a dagger through his queen’s heart. Durand smiled, saying laconically, “How careless of him.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” John agreed. He had his mother’s hazel eyes; they were glowing now with light. “This changes everything!”

  Even Ursula seemed interested in the news, for she’d risen from the bed, draping the fur coverlet strategically to cover her nudity. “What will happen now? Will the emperor kill your brother?”

  “Not likely. Richard is worth far too much money to Heinrich.” John laughed suddenly. “Although Richard has a rare talent for provoking otherwise sensible men into deranged rages. Philippe all but froths at the mouth when anyone even mentions the English king!”

  Durand yearned to snatch the letter from John’s hand, but he would have to be patient; unless John decided to burn it, he’d find a way to read it for himself later. With a surge of satisfaction, he realized that his services had become invaluable to the queen, for John had gone from being a minor threat to the peace of Richard’s realm to a major one. Ursula had crossed to John’s side, trailing her fur coverlet behind her, and he thought she was reassessing her own position, too, suddenly realizing she might soon be bedding a king.

  “I do not see how this benefits you all that much, my lord,” she said, “at least not in the long run. Yes, you’ll gain valuable time to raise troops whilst the English king is being held prisoner in Germany. But sooner or later, the ransom will be paid and Richard will return to England to reclaim all he has lost, will he not?”

  Durand thought that was a surprisingly astute observation from the apathetic Ursula, and he waited with interest to see how John would respond.

  “Oh, I do not doubt that my lady mother will drain England’s coffers to raise the ransom for her beloved Lionheart,” John said, the corner of his mouth twisting down. “She’d see famine stalk the land and people begging in the streets without even blinking if that meant Richard’s freedom. But what she does not yet know is that she’ll not be the only player in this game. However much she is willing to pay to set Richard free, Philippe is willing to pay even more to see Richard rot in a dungeon for the rest of his born days.”

  Ursula had slipped her arm through John’s. “Do you hate your brother so much, then?”

  Durand was astonished that she’d dare to ask something like that. When John looked surprised but not offended, Durand decided his indulgence was proof that the woman must be even better in bed than he’d imagined. John actually seemed to be considering the question. “No,” he said, after a pensive pause. “I would not say that I hate Richard.”

  Mayhap not, Durand thought, wit
h a silent sneer, but you’re so bloody jealous of him that you’re like to choke on it.

  Ursula was watching John with more curiosity than Durand had ever seen her show. “If you do not hate him, my lord, why do you want to see him ‘rot in a dungeon for the rest of his born days’?”

  John had turned away, opening a coffer and rooting around for parchment, quill pens, and ink. He had no scribe with him and did not trust the castle chaplain to inscribe the message he meant to send to Philippe, so he’d have to write it himself. But he straightened up at her question, regarding her quizzically. “Why would you even need to ask, woman? Because there is a crown in the offing, of course.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  FEBRUARY 1193

  Oxford Castle, England

  Eleanor was seated upon the dais in the great hall beside England’s chief justiciar, Gautier de Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen. The members of the great council were finding seats on the wooden benches and she watched them closely, wondering how many of them would remain loyal to her son. The men in the first row were the other justiciars: Hugh Bardolf, William Briwerre, Geoffrey Fitz Peter, and William Marshal.

  Beside them sat Richard’s half brother Geoff. Eleanor knew he bore no love for Richard, but he loathed John far more, for he’d been fiercely loyal to the man who’d sired him, and had seen John’s betrayal as Henry’s death blow. Richard had honored Henry’s dying wish and saw to it that Geoff was elected Archbishop of York, a post for which he was spectacularly ill-suited. Henry’s insistence upon seeking for Geoff a career in the Church was, Eleanor thought sadly, further proof of how little he’d understood any of his sons, however much he’d claimed to love them. Geoff’s brief tenure as archbishop had so far been a turbulent one, for he had inherited the Angevin fiery temper and had no qualms about excommunicating those who offended him.

  One of those he’d excommunicated was sitting in the next row: Hugh de Puiset, Bishop of Durham. Hugh was one of those worldly prelates who saw the Church as a career, not a vocation. He was highborn, handsome, and affable. He was also luxury-loving, arrogant, quarrelsome, and indifferent to scandal; he had four illegitimate sons and a longtime mistress he’d never attempted to hide. He’d accumulated great wealth and when Richard was raising as much money as he could for the crusade, Hugh had purchased the earldom of Northumberland for two thousand marks, prompting Richard to jest that he’d made a new earl out of an old bishop. Eleanor could not have imagined turning to Hugh for spiritual guidance, but his political skills might be useful in the coming struggle to free her son. Could he be trusted, though?

  Close by were two other bishops who shared the same name. Hugh de Nonant, Bishop of Coventry, was believed to be hand in glove with John. Self-interest was his true religion and Eleanor thought he’d abandon John if it seemed likely that Richard would be returning to claim his kingdom. Yet if Hugh de Puiset and Hugh de Nonant were cynical wheeler-dealers, the third Hugh was that rarity, a powerful prelate who exuded a genuine odor of sanctity. Hugh d’Avalon’s bishopric of Lincoln was a wealthy one, and he was no innocent Lamb of God midst the court wolves. He was not afraid to speak up in defense of his diocese or his Church, even if that meant facing down an angry Angevin king. But he was living proof that charm could be its own shield, for his boldness was tempered with humor, his candor infused with his innate understanding of human nature. Henry had become so fond of his vexingly independent bishop that gossip turned Hugh into another of the king’s bastard sons. It was not so—Hugh was only seven years Henry’s junior—but both men had been amused by the rumors and Eleanor suspected that her husband had half wished they were true. Whatever doubts she harbored about his fellow bishops, Eleanor had none about Hugh of Lincoln.

  Her appraising gaze moved then from the princes of the Church to the barons of the realm. Hamelin de Warenne was Richard’s uncle, one of Geoffrey of Anjou’s by-blows. Henry had done well by his half brother, wedding him to a wealthy heiress who brought him an earldom, and Eleanor thought his loyalty to Richard was steadfast. She’d never been impressed by William d’Aubigny; although the earldom of Arundel was an important one, the man himself seemed to leave few footprints. Randolph de Blundeville was the grandson of a woman who’d been one of her closest friends, Maud, Countess of Chester, and therefore a cousin to Richard. He was also the husband of Eleanor’s former daughter-in-law, Constance of Brittany, theirs a marriage of Henry’s making, and one of mutual loathing if gossip was to be believed. He was young—only twenty-three—and so far he’d played no active role in the governance of the realm, neither taking the cross with Richard nor taking part in the downfall of Richard’s chancellor, Guillaume de Longchamp. But his extensive holdings on both sides of the channel made him a great magnate and, therefore, a man to be watched.

  Her eyes lingered for a moment upon the baron sitting to Chester’s right. Like Randolph, he was young and of small stature. But Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester, had nothing to prove, for he’d been one of her son’s closest companions in the Holy Land, and only Richard and André de Chauvigny had won greater fame for their crusading exploits. She’d had difficulty convincing him that he could best serve Richard by defending his domains, for he’d been as eager as André to set out for Germany. While he seemed composed now, there was a smoldering intensity about his calm that she found endearing, for she, too, yearned to rage and fume and curse the despicable, shameless men who’d dared to imprison her son.

  Once all of the men were seated, they opened the council with a prayer, entreating the Almighty to keep the king safe and return him soon to his own realm. The Archbishop of Rouen then rose to his feet. “I regret to report that we have had no further news of our lord king, neither of his whereabouts nor his welfare. I can tell you, though, what we’ve learned of the Count of Mortain’s actions. He apparently heard of the king’s captivity about the same time that we did, for he soon sailed from Wales. Landing at Barfleur, he sought out William Fitz Ralph, the seneschal of Normandy, and other Norman lords.” He glanced toward the Earl of Leicester. “You were present at that meeting, my lord. Will you tell the council what you told the queen and me?”

  The young earl rose, nodding first to Eleanor and then the archbishop. “Count John claimed that King Richard is dead and demanded that we acknowledge John as the rightful heir to the English throne. We refused, of course, and he became very irate, warning us that he would not protect us against the French king unless we did as he bade.” Leicester did not sound as if he’d been intimidated by John’s threats, but Eleanor knew not all men would be as intrepid. Many would be loath to antagonize one who was likely to become their king if Richard died or remained a prisoner.

  “We know,” the archbishop resumed, “that Count John then rode straight for the court of the French king in Paris. He and Philippe apparently made some sort of pact. We have not yet learned the details of their Devil’s deal, but we can safely assume that it will be to the detriment of our king.”

  Eleanor did not rise, but she raised a hand to draw attention to herself. “I have heard from my daughter, the Queen of Sicily,” she said, pitching her voice so that all in the hall could hear. “She wrote that the Bishop of Salisbury was in Rome when word reached the Holy See of the king’s plight. Bishop Hubert left for Germany at once. The Bishop of Bath was also in Rome and he paid a visit to my daughter and my son’s queen, assuring them that he would leave straightaway for the imperial court to speak on the king’s behalf. His mother is Heinrich’s cousin and he seemed to think his kinship would gain him the emperor’s ear.” She knew she’d not been able to keep the skepticism from her voice, but she had little faith in Savaric Fitz Geldwin, another of those self-seekers with agendas of their own.

  Godfrey de Lucy, Bishop of Winchester, was the next to speak. “Madame, my lord archbishop. Has there been any word from the Holy Father?”

  Gautier de Coutances seemed to sigh. “No, my lord bishop, not yet.”

  The silence that followed his terse reply was
fraught with all that none dared say. After a few moments, the archbishop began to speak of the need to defend Richard’s kingdom in his absence. It was agreed that oaths of fidelity to Richard would be demanded throughout the realm and measures taken to protect the ports. They moved on then to the question of the king’s ransom, although the discussion was tentative since they could not be sure a ransom would be demanded. Finally, they chose two men to travel to Germany and find their king, the abbots of the Cistercian abbeys of Boxley and Robertsbridge.

  Eleanor did not know either man, but they seemed honored rather than daunted by the Herculean task that they had been given, and she took heart from that. It was heartening, too, to feel the outrage in the hall. She did not doubt that public opinion throughout Christendom would be on Richard’s side, possibly even in France and Germany. Nor did she doubt that public opinion meant absolutely nothing to Heinrich von Hohenstaufen.

  THE SOLAR WAS FILLING with shadows, save for a subdued spill of light cast by floating wicks in oil lamps and a brazier of glowing coals that did little to ease the chill of the chamber. William Marshal felt the cold more as he aged; he was in his forty-seventh year now, his youth long gone. He drew his mantle tighter, taking another swallow of wine as he watched his queen and the Earl of Leicester. They’d been talking for hours—or rather the earl was talking and the queen was listening. Will himself listened with half an ear, having heard Leicester’s stories already. Eleanor was rapt, though, for he was telling her of Richard’s time in the Holy Land, sharing with her the man a mother could not know—the battle commander, the soldier, the Lionheart. Will thought it only natural that Eleanor would be curious. But as he observed how engrossed she was in Leicester’s words, it occurred to him that she was storing up memories of her son, memories to hold fast if he did not return from his German captivity. And he found that to be unutterably sad.