Will’s destiny had long ago entwined with that of the Angevin House. He’d loved Hal, his knightly pupil, and it had broken his heart to see all that bright promise tarnished, to see what Hal became. He’d respected Hal’s father, staying loyal to Henry until his death at Chinon Castle. He thought his own future died with the old king, for when they’d fled from Richard and the French king at Le Mans, he had publicly shamed Richard, unhorsing him to cover Henry’s escape, and Richard was not a man to forgive a humiliation like that. Yet Richard had forgiven him, saying dryly that it was not in his interest to discourage loyalty to the king. Then Richard had given him the wife Henry had only promised, Isabel de Clare. Isabel was an earl’s daughter, a king’s granddaughter, and a great heiress. Even now, after more than three years of marriage, Will still marveled at his luck, for she’d brought him more than vast estates in England, South Wales, Normandy, and Ireland; she’d brought him a happiness he’d never known. Each time she smiled at him, each time he gazed upon the two sons she’d given him, he felt grateful to the man who’d made it possible, the man who was now held in a German prison.
But his deepest loyalties had always been to the queen. The younger son of a minor baron, he’d first met Eleanor and Henry while in the service of his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury. They’d been escorting the queen along the Poitiers Road when they’d been ambushed by the de Lusignans, a notorious clan of malcontents whose meat and drink was rebellion. They’d managed to gain Eleanor time to escape, but at a high price: Will’s uncle was slain and Will taken prisoner. A penniless knight, he’d thought himself doomed—until the queen paid his ransom and took him into her household, setting him onto the path that would lead to Isabel de Clare. There was nothing he would not do for this woman. Her pain was his, her anger his, and her resolve to rescue her son his, too.
Leicester had at last exhausted his repertoire of crusader stories. Rising, he refilled their wine cups. “Do you think we’ll hear soon about the French king’s pact with your son, Madame?”
“I am sure of it. Archbishop Gautier boasts that he has an exceptionally skillful spy at the French court, and indeed he does,” Eleanor said, and then her lips curved in a slight smile. “But I have an even better one.”
Leaning back in her chair, she smiled again, warmly this time. “My son has been well served by the men who accompanied him to the Holy Land. I would ask one more thing of you, my lord earl. It is difficult to take the measure of a man without meeting him. I regret that I was denied the opportunity to meet the French king, for he sailed from Messina on the very day of my arrival. I would have thought he’d be curious to see the woman who’d been wed to his father,” she said wryly, “but apparently not. So you have the advantage of me, Lord Robert.” Her hazel eyes met his blue ones. “Tell me about Philippe Capet.”
He’d been expecting such a question and had given it some thought. “Well . . . he has not yet reached thirty, but I think he was born old. He never gambles or curses. He is bored by hunting and disapproves of tournaments. He has no interest in music and you’ll find no troubadours at the French court. I am not sure he is as craven as your son thinks, but he does have a nervous disposition and frets constantly over his health. He goes nowhere without bodyguards and he is the only man I’ve ever known who dislikes horses. He is quick to anger and whilst he may forgive, he never forgets. He is prideful, convinced that it is his divine destiny to restore the French court to greatness. And he is very cunning. We would forget that at our cost, Madame.”
She knew his use of “we” was an attempt at tact; it was Richard he meant. Her son had a lamentable tendency to hold his enemies too cheaply. “What does he look like?”
“Not as tall as King Richard, not as short as Count John. Not so handsome that he’d be remembered if he were not a king, but for certes, not ugly. He has a ruddy complexion, the high color of those with hot tempers, and he used to have a full head of thick, unruly brown hair.”
“‘Used to have’?”
Leicester grinned. “When your son and Philippe sickened with Arnaldia during the siege of Acre, they both lost their hair; the doctors thought it was due to the high fever. Most of those stricken grew their hair back within a few months. King Richard did. But I’ve been told that Philippe did not, that he is now partially bald.” He grinned again. “I have no doubt, Madame, that he blames your son for that, too. If he stubs a toe, if he awakens with a bellyache, if his horse throws a shoe, he blames King Richard.”
“He hates Richard that much?”
“Oh yes, my lady. He is rather irrational when it comes to your son. He loathed being in the Holy Land, for he’d never wanted to take the cross. He hated the hot sun, the dust, the scorpions, the alien culture of Outremer. But above all, he hated the way King Richard overshadowed him at every turn. He surely knew he could not hope to compete with our king on the battlefield, but I do not think he realized that he’d be eclipsed in the council chamber, too, that he would be diminished on a daily basis. Nor did it help that King Richard held him in contempt and . . .”
He paused and Eleanor finished the sentence for him. “. . . and did not trouble to hide it.”
He nodded. “Indeed, he did not, Madame.”
Eleanor was quiet after that, not liking what she’d heard. She’d been able to “take the measure” of the Emperor Heinrich at Lodi, had marked him as a dangerous foe, ruthless and unscrupulous. Yet what she’d just learned convinced her that the French king posed an even greater threat to her son. Heinrich wanted to humiliate Richard and to profit by it. Since his hostility held no heat, he’d be guided by self-interest. Philippe’s hostility was far more dangerous, for it was white-hot, intense, burning to the bone. Did Richard realize that, though?
LEICESTER HAD GONE OFF to bed and Will was about to ask the queen if she had further need of him, for she looked very tired. It was then that a knock sounded on the door and he crossed the chamber to open it. The man standing in the stairwell was young, tall, and dark, with black hair and grey eyes. Will did not know his name, but he knew who he was. Every royal court had men like this, shadowy figures who came and went on mysterious missions for their king—or their queen. He stepped back so Eleanor could see the identity of this new arrival and she at once beckoned him into the solar.
As he knelt before her, she leaned forward, tension etched into every line of her body. “Did you find Durand in Paris?”
“I did, Madame.” He had been dreading this moment, knowing the pain he was about to inflict. “The news I bring is not good, my lady.”
“I did not expect it would be.” Gesturing for him to rise, she said evenly, “Tell me what you learned at the French court, Justin.”
“Durand was able to give me the details of Count John’s pact with the French king. He swore fealty to Philippe for Normandy and for all of King Richard’s lands that he holds of the French Crown. He agreed to put aside his wife and wed Philippe’s sister Alys. He agreed to yield Gisors Castle and to renounce any claims to the Vexin. In return, the French king promised to do all in his power to secure the English throne for Count John and to assist him in an invasion of England.”
He’d forced himself to meet her gaze as he spoke, but once he was done, he glanced away, for he’d just delivered a damning indictment of treason against the man who was still her flesh and blood, a child of her womb.
Eleanor’s face was a queen’s court mask, revealing nothing. She thanked him before sending him down to the great hall, saying her steward would see that he had a meal and a comfortable bed for the night. She sank back in her chair then, looking so exhausted that Will’s chest tightened. For a moment his eyes caught those of the queen’s man, and a silent message flashed between them, one of anger and unease. For none who served Queen Eleanor wanted to see her hurt and none who knew Count John wanted to see him as England’s king.
Will expected to be dismissed, too, and was startled when she said in a low voice, “I would have you stay a while longer, Will.”
>
“Of course, Madame.” As the door closed quietly, he took a seat beside her. He did not know what to say, what solace to offer. He tried to imagine how he would feel if his two small sons grew to manhood and turned on each other, as surely a vision of Hell as he could conjure up. Having no words, he was relieved to see that she expected none, that she sought only the comfort of his company. And so they sat together for a time, not speaking as night came on.
AN EARLY MARCH SNOWFALL had powdered the inner bailey of Dürnstein Castle, and the noonday sun gave it a sparkling, crystalline sheen. Hadmar von Kuenring paused to watch as his two young sons pelted each other with snowballs, shrieking with excitement. Hadmar’s smile faded, though, as he continued on toward the tower where the English king was held, for he’d grown weary of being a messenger of ill tidings.
He was in the stairwell when he heard the raised voices coming from Richard’s chamber. Alarmed, he quickened his pace, taking the steps two at a time. Thrusting the door open, he came to a halt at the sight meeting his eyes. Richard and Eberhard, a tow-haired, good-natured youth half a head taller than his fellow guards, were seated at the table, hands gripped as each man sought to force the other man’s arm down, while the rest were clustered around, laughing and cheering. They fell silent as soon as they saw Hadmar in the doorway and backed away from the table. Richard looked amused, but Eberhard went beet red and got to his feet so hastily that his chair toppled to the floor.
On several occasions, Hadmar had interrupted what appeared to be language lessons, with Richard pointing to various objects and his guards giving him the names in German. He hadn’t commented on that, but arm wrestling was a bit too convivial for his liking and he thought it might be best to assign Eberhard to other duties—until he remembered that he’d soon be relieved of the responsibility for the English king’s security.
Richard rose, clapping Eberhard playfully on the shoulder. The guard grinned sheepishly, but then addressed his lord, saying anxiously that he hoped he had not offended. Hadmar brushed aside the apology, regarding his prisoner with an ironic half smile. “I’ll thank you not to suborn my men.”
“We have to find some way to pass the time. They are as bored as I am by now.” Richard gestured toward his vacated chair in a mocking parody of a host welcoming a guest. “Have a seat. You may as well be comfortable whilst you give me your bad news.”
“What makes you think I bear bad news?”
“When have you ever brought me good news?”
Hadmar abruptly abandoned the bantering. “Nor is today any different. I have heard from my duke. He writes that he and Emperor Heinrich have agreed upon the terms for your surrender and he commands me to escort you to the imperial court at Speyer.”
After two months of treading water, Richard just wanted to reach the shore, for he knew it was the waiting before a battle that eroded a soldier’s confidence. It was never a good thing for men to have time to consider all that could go wrong. “Did Leopold tell you what they intend to demand of me?”
“No, he did not.” Hadmar had not realized he was going to lie until he heard the words coming out of his mouth. It was not that he didn’t believe the English king had a right to know, for he did. It was that he did not want to be the one to tell Richard what awaited him at Speyer.
RICHARD HAD EXPECTED to be taken directly to Speyer; instead, they headed for Ochsenfurt, a small town on the left bank of the River Main, where they were to await a summons from Duke Leopold. Heinrich apparently wanted to delay his appearance until his bishops and lords arrived for his Easter Court. Richard remembered reading how the Roman generals would bring their defeated foes back to Rome, and when they made their triumphant entry into the city, the captives would be dragged behind them in chains for the crowds to mock and jeer. He wondered bitterly if Heinrich knew about this ancient Roman custom; he was said to be well read.
Richard was being held in the guest hall of the Premonstratensian monastery dedicated to St Lambert, John the Baptist, and St George. He’d yet to meet the abbot, only occasionally caught a glimpse of one of the white-clad canons as they went about their duties. He did not see much of Hadmar, either, and time hung heavy on his hands. He tried to read and worked on a song he’d been composing about his captivity. Nothing he wrote satisfied him and he had to keep scraping the parchment clean and starting afresh, doubting that he’d be permitted to keep Hadmar’s books and writing materials once they reached Speyer. He’d been surprised to discover that these minor indignities mattered so much, but they did—small, stinging reminders that he had less power than the least of his subjects, as defenseless as the Christian prisoners he’d freed at Darum. They’d been on their way to the slave markets in Cairo and they’d wept with joy at their deliverance. While he’d been glad that he was able to rescue them, he had not given it much thought after it was done. Now that memory was so vivid it occasionally intruded into his dreams.
He was lying on his bed, hoping to nap, when Hadmar came around the screen that had been set up to partition the hall. He was smiling. “You have guests.”
Richard hastily sat up. For a moment, he thought it was Leopold, but he dismissed that at once, for Hadmar would not have announced him like that. He was getting to his feet as the Austrian lord stepped aside. Richard stared incredulously at the man standing behind Hadmar, and then a slow grin spread over his face. “I suppose you just happened to be passing by?”
Hubert Walter grinned, too. “Something like that,” he said, and started forward. Richard was already moving toward him. Hubert would have knelt, but instead found himself embraced like a brother. By the time they stepped back, they both had tears in their eyes. It was only then that Richard saw the bishop was not alone. A second man had followed him, beaming and blinking back tears of his own. William de St Mère-Eglise was well known to Richard; he’d been Henry’s trusted clerk of the chamber and soon after his coronation, Richard had named him Dean of St Martin’s le Grand in London. His appearance seemed even more amazing to Richard than Hubert Walter’s, and as soon as William knelt, he was raised up and embraced, too. By now they were all laughing and talking at once, not even noticing that Hadmar had discreetly disappeared.
“I’d gotten as far as Rome when I learned what had happened,” Hubert was saying, “and, of course, I left for Germany straightaway. William happened to be in Rome, too, and he caught up with me on the road.”
Richard felt a pang, for he was desperate for news from England and had hoped the bishop was coming from his island kingdom. His disappointment was forgotten, though, as soon as Hubert produced the letters. Snatching them up, he moved toward a wall torch and began to break the seals. There were four: one from his wife, one from his sister, one from Anna, the Damsel of Cyprus, and one from Stephen de Turnham, to whom he’d entrusted his women’s safety. He read rapidly, then went back and reread them, smiling at Joanna’s message and laughing outright at Anna’s. “The lass says she has put some vile Cypriot curse upon all my enemies, promising that they’ll be rotting away like lepers ere the year is out.” But when he glanced again at his queen’s letter, he shook his head, saying, “Berenguela’s faith in that old man on the papal throne is truly remarkable.” He’d once told his wife that her innocence was downright endearing; not so much now, though.
Putting the letters aside, he laughed again. He’d never thought he had a sentimental bone in his body and he was startled by how emotional he felt at the sight of their familiar faces. They had begun to tell him what they knew of the political ramifications of his capture, which was not much—that the Holy Father had been outraged by the news and he had an ally in the Archbishop of Cologne, who’d not only sent a warning to the Pope but had joined the rebels. Heinrich, they reported happily, was facing a serious rebellion.
Taking their cue from Hadmar, the guards were giving them some space, and when Richard asked for wine, impressing the clerics by doing it in German, it was soon fetched. Sitting at the table, they began to pepper him with
questions. He answered readily at first, telling them about his encounters with the pirates and explaining his reasoning for choosing to take only twenty men with him on the pirate galleys. He had no trouble describing the first shipwreck at Ragusa and the second in that Godforsaken marsh, or their narrow escapes in Görz and Udine. But after that, the words did not come so easily. His memories of Friesach were like festering sores. And as he started to tell them about Ertpurch, he was dismayed to find it all coming back—their utter desperation, their exhaustion and hunger and cold, that damnable fever, and then the fear and shame of his capture. Relating it was like reliving it; he could even feel his body reacting as if he were back in the alewife’s house, trapped and despairing, for his pulse had begun to race, his breath quickening, his throat constricting.
William was puzzled when Richard suddenly fell silent, but Hubert was quick to comprehend. He’d arrived at the siege of Acre nine months before Richard, and he’d often spoken to men who’d been held prisoner by the Saracens, some of them for years. What had struck him most forcefully was their uniform reluctance to speak of their ordeal and their obvious discomfort when they did. There was a great difference, he’d discovered, between the Saracen and Christian view of captivity. The first crusaders had made no effort to ransom their men, seeing a captive knight as a failure, his survival an embarrassment. Their attitude gradually changed, in part due to exposure to a culture in which it was seen as a duty to rescue one’s own. But the stigma still lingered and so did the shame. If knights and men-at-arms felt it so keenly, Hubert imagined it would be even worse for a king, especially a king like this one.
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