A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Worse was to come, though, for when they reached London, Longchamp found the gates barred to him. The hostility of the Londoners stung all the more because he’d given those ungrateful English dolts the right to elect their own sheriffs. Listening as they hooted and jeered him from the city walls, he thought he could right gladly turn his back on this accursed isle, never to set foot on its soil again—but not until he fulfilled his mission for his lord, the king.

  HAVING LEARNED THAT QUEEN ELEANOR was meeting with the justiciars and the great council at St Albans, Longchamp headed north, girding himself for an encounter that he knew would be acrimonious. Robert glanced at his brother’s profile as the Benedictine abbey of St Albans came into view. “Is there even one here who’ll not want your head on a pike, Guillaume?”

  “Well . . . the earls of Arundel and Surrey were my friends once, so they’d likely offer up a prayer for my soul as my head was separated from my body,” Longchamp said dryly. He kept his eyes fastened upon the Norman tower, soaring well over a hundred feet into the Hertfordshire sky. “Whilst I’d not presume to call her a friend, the queen is not my enemy. She did me a great service last year.”

  Robert had not seen his brother since he’d been forced to flee England, and he welcomed this chance to learn the details of Longchamp’s failed effort to regain power. “I’d heard that she supported your attempt to return from exile. Was that because she knew King Richard trusted you?”

  “I think it was because she knew I’d tried to bribe Count John,” Longchamp said, smiling at his brother’s startled expression. “John had thought he’d be able to have his own way once I was eliminated. He was outmaneuvered by the Archbishop of Rouen, though, who produced a letter from King Richard, authorizing him as chief justiciar if I had to be removed from office. John had not bargained on that, and I hoped he might be amenable to an alliance with me rather than see Gautier de Coutances reign supreme. I was right, too. He agreed to back me if I paid him five hundred marks.”

  “But . . . but you detest and distrust Count John, Guillaume!”

  “Yes . . . it was a Devil’s deal, Rob. I convinced myself that I could better protect King Richard’s interests if I were back in England, even if it meant making noxious concessions to John. I truly believed that I was doing it for the king, but I can see now that I was also loath to relinquish the power I’d enjoyed as his chief justiciar. Queen Eleanor’s greatest fear was that John would be tempted into treason by the French king now that he’d returned from the Holy Land, and I suppose she saw me as a lesser evil than Philippe. With the queen and John on my side, I thought I could regain at least some of my authority.”

  “But . . . but John did not support your return!”

  “No, he did not. When I landed at Dover, the queen sought to persuade the council to accept my offer to appear before them and answer any charges that had been made against me. They balked and sought John’s opinion. I will say this for the man: he is remarkably honest about his dishonesty. He candidly told the council that I’d offered him five hundred marks for his support and invited them to better it. When they offered him two thousand marks, he cheerfully switched sides again. John never lets troublesome scruples get in the way of what he wants. So despite the queen’s support, I was forced to return to Normandy, whilst she stopped John from joining Philippe at the French court.”

  Longchamp drew rein unexpectedly, turning in the saddle to look his brother full in the face. “But when I said the queen did me a ‘great service,’ Rob, I did not mean her efforts to end my exile. When I was forced to flee, Archbishop Gautier seized the revenues of my diocese of Ely. I retaliated by laying my own See under Interdict, and he and I excommunicated each other. I did him one better then by also excommunicating the other justiciars and my enemies like Hugh de Nonant, though the English bishops ignored my edicts.”

  He grimaced at that, for it still rankled that his fellow bishops had been so quick to abandon him. “When Queen Eleanor made a progress into Ely, she was appalled by the suffering of the people—my people—unable to bury their dead or celebrate the Mass or administer any of the sacraments other than baptizing children and offering the viaticum to the dying. She shamed me into lifting the Interdict, making me realize that in my need to punish Gautier de Coutances, I’d punished the innocent. There was a time when I’d have known that, Rob, but I let my hatred cloud my judgment. She then got the archbishop to return the Ely revenues to me and we absolved each other of our mutual excommunications. She is an extraordinary woman,” he added, causing his brother to regard him in surprise, for Robert had never heard Longchamp speak with such admiration for one of the lesser sex.

  Ahead of them loomed the great Norman gateway of the abbey and Longchamp reined in his horse again. “I feel,” he confided wryly, “like Daniel entering the lion’s den.” But then he urged his mount forward, politely requesting admittance when once he’d have demanded it, and his brother began to wonder if he was that rarity—a man truly changed by his misfortunes, able to learn from his past mistakes.

  LONGCHAMP’S APPEARANCE SET the council into an uproar. From the dais, where he was seated beside the queen and Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Rouen recoiled as ostentatiously as a man who’d just found a snake in his bedchamber. The justiciars showed a bit more restraint, but their body language made it abundantly clear that Longchamp was an unwelcome intruder. His nemesis, the Bishop of Coventry, was already on his feet, as was the Archbishop of York. Bristling with outrage, Geoff stalked over to intercept Longchamp before he could approach the dais. As tall as his half brother Richard, and as hot-tempered, he towered over the undersized chancellor as he angrily challenged Longchamp’s right to be there, saying scornfully, “I marvel that you’d dare to show your face again in England!”

  “Run into any more lusty fishermen, Longchamp?” Hugh de Nonant said with a smirk, unleashing a wave of raucous laughter.

  Longchamp flushed but stood his ground. Brushing past Geoff as if he were one of the stone pillars of the guest hall, he limped toward the dais. “Madame,” he said, bowing deeply to the queen, who acknowledged him with a nod. Straightening up, he met Gautier de Coutances’s cold stare without flinching.

  “I come before you,” he said, “neither as justiciar nor papal legate nor chancellor, but as a simple bishop and a messenger from our lord the king.”

  If he’d hoped to disarm his enemies with humility, he was to be disappointed, for his declaration was met with ridicule, his foes expressing disbelief that the king would ever trust him again. Normally it would have been for the chief justiciar to assert control, but it was obvious that Gautier de Coutances had no intention of coming to the aid of the man who’d once called him “the Pilate of Rouen.” It was Eleanor who put a halt to the mockery, merely by raising her hand. “You’ve seen my son?”

  “I have, my lady. I found the king at Trifels Castle—” He got no further, for there were exclamations from all corners of the hall, from those who knew the sinister significance of that German mountain citadel. Eleanor paled noticeably and Hubert Walter gave an audible gasp. Taking advantage of the sudden stillness, Longchamp quickly assured Eleanor—for he was speaking only to the queen now—that Richard was no longer being held at Trifels, explaining that he’d been able to persuade Emperor Heinrich to return the king to the imperial court. There was some scoffing at that, but he did not care if they thought he was boasting; he was prouder of freeing Richard from Trifels than he was of anything else he’d ever done.

  “I bring letters, Madame,” he said, stepping forward to hand them to her. There was a private one from her son, meant for her eyes alone; one in Latin, meant for his justiciars and council; and then one from the Emperor Heinrich, sealed with the golden chrysobull used by the Holy Roman Emperors, claiming he and Richard were now “upon terms of concord and lasting peace,” and pledging that he “shall look upon injuries done to King Richard as offered to ourselves and our imperial crown.” And as Eleanor passed the public le
tters to the archbishop to be read aloud, Longchamp felt a savage satisfaction that these men who’d mocked him so mercilessly would soon hear their king describe him as “our most dearly beloved chancellor” and give him full credit for the escape from Trifels.

  THE REST OF THE COUNCIL MEETING was not as contentious. When Longchamp relayed Richard’s instructions for selecting the needed hostages, the Bishop of Coventry started to make a sarcastic comment about trusting him with other men’s sons, only to be sharply silenced by Hubert Walter. Now that they knew a huge ransom would indeed be required to gain the king’s freedom, they wasted no time. It was determined that a tithe would be assessed against laymen and clergy alike, a quarter of their income for the year, that each knight’s fee would be charged twenty shillings, that the churches would have to contribute their gold and silver, and the Cistercians, who were forbidden by their order to possess costly chalices, must give their wool clip for the year. The money collected was to be stored in chests in St Paul’s Cathedral, placed in the custody of Hubert Walter, the Bishop of London, and the earls of Arundel and Surrey, under the seals of the queen and the Archbishop of Rouen. It would be a mammoth undertaking, imposing a great burden upon a kingdom already drained by the Saladin tithe, but Longchamp did not doubt the money would be raised—the queen would see to it. As he watched Eleanor coolly discussing what must be done to free her son, his private letter unopened on her lap until the council was ended, he thought that King Richard had been blessed by the Almighty in many ways, but above all in the woman who’d given him life.

  ABBOT WARIN TOLD LONGCHAMP that the abbey’s guest house and lodgings were already filled and he must seek shelter elsewhere. The chancellor supposed it might be true, for St Albans was overflowing with highborn guests summoned for the council. But he could not help remembering how differently he’d been treated when the king had visited St Albans the week after his coronation, how lavish the entertainment, how bountiful the abbot’s hospitality. He made no protest, though, and sent his men to find rooms in the town. They eventually were able to rent a chamber in a private house, not up to Longchamp’s usual standards of comfort. He was too exhausted to quibble and was making ready for bed when he received a message from the queen, summoning him back to the abbey.

  LONGCHAMP WAS ESCORTED INTO Abbot Warin’s parlor, where he found the queen attended by Hubert Walter, William Marshal, and her grandson Otto, the fifteen-year-old son of her deceased daughter, Tilda, the Duchess of Saxony. They greeted him with courtesy, if no warmth, and after a word from Eleanor, Otto offered his chair to the chancellor, sprawling then in a window-seat with the boneless abandon of the very young.

  “My son told me in some detail how you convinced Heinrich that he should not be kept at Trifels. He was rather vague when it came to his own experiences there, though. I hope you will be more forthright, my lord bishop. I want you to tell me how bad it was for him.”

  Longchamp was relieved that Richard had not thought to swear him to silence, for there was no way he could have refused this tense, resolute woman; he’d never seen eyes as penetrating as hers, could almost believe she was able to see into the inner recesses of his soul. “It was very bad, Madame,” he said, and then proceeded to tell her exactly how bad. When he described how he’d found Richard, chained up and ailing, Hubert Walter and William Marshal expressed outrage and Otto’s eyes widened in shock. But Eleanor neither flinched nor spoke, keeping her gaze unblinkingly upon Longchamp until he was done, until they knew the worst.

  There was silence after he’d stopped speaking. He’d been telling himself that freeing the king was all that mattered, but he realized now that he needed them to acknowledge what a truly remarkable accomplishment his was. And he did get what he sought—from Eleanor’s young grandson. “The Almighty must have sent you to Trifels,” Otto exclaimed, “knowing how great my uncle’s need was!”

  Hubert and Will exchanged glances and they, too, then echoed the boy’s praise; almost as if they were shamed into it, Longchamp thought sourly. Eleanor merely offered a simple “Thank you, my lord chancellor,” but he was quite satisfied with her response. He’d argued that only King Richard could strip him of his office, yet he’d still been compelled to surrender the royal seal and his enemies insisted he was no longer England’s chancellor. So to hear his title spoken now by the queen was to him a vindication of sorts, and he returned to his lodgings in much better spirits. Let the jackals nip at his heels. He had what they could only envy—the utter trust of his lord the king and the wholehearted gratitude of the queen mother.

  THE OTHER MEN HAD not lingered after Longchamp’s departure, for they’d been badly shaken to learn of Richard’s ill treatment at Trifels. Will was highly indignant that a king should be cast in irons as if he were a common felon and Hubert was appalled by Heinrich’s treachery, wincing to think how cheerfully he’d parted from Richard at Speyer, convinced that his release was ensured. Eleanor’s grandson insisted upon escorting her back to the queen’s hall built for royal visitors. Smiling, she rested her hand upon his arm as if he were a man grown. They did not have far to go, but as they approached the door, Otto’s steps slowed.

  “Granddame, I am quite willing to be a hostage for Uncle Richard. I’d do anything to help win his freedom. And I do not want you to worry about my little brother when we are sent to Germany. I will take good care of Wilhelm, and will do my best to keep him out of trouble, too,” he promised, with the gravity that set so surprisingly on such young shoulders. He had inherited his father’s dark coloring, but he was going to be taller than his sire, even as tall as Richard in time. Like his sister, he’d been blessed with a share of his mother’s beauty, and his sudden, sweet smile never failed to remind her of her daughter, who’d died after a brief illness, only thirty-three.

  “Keeping Wilhelm out of trouble will have you occupied night and day, Otto,” she pointed out, and he grinned, kissing her on the cheek before he headed off toward the abbey guest hall. She stood by the door, watching him go. She’d become very fond of Otto, more like her daughter than his spirited sister Richenza and his mischievous nine-year-old brother. All three of them had been raised at the English court, arriving with their parents when Heinrich der Löwe and Tilda had been banished after falling out of favor with the Holy Roman Emperor, and remaining even after Der Löwe and Tilda and their eldest son, Henrik, had been permitted to return to Saxony three years later. Wilhelm, who’d been born at Winchester during his mother’s exile, and Otto, who’d only been five when they’d left Saxony, spoke French rather than German as their native tongue, and when they reached Germany, they’d be strangers in a foreign land. Eleanor would have given a great deal to spare them that, but she knew she could not; Heinrich von Hohenstaufen was insistent that they be included, for their father and elder brother were among the rebels threatening his throne.

  By now the sky was darker than midnight, stars glimmering like distant campfires in an alien world. Eleanor gazed up at those pinpoint white lights, hoping that her son was able to look upon them, too, on this tranquil spring evening. When she thought of his time at Trifels, shut away from the sun and sky and untainted air, she felt a tightness in her chest, a heaviness that would be with her until the day he regained his freedom. And if he did not . . . ?

  Her ladies sensed her mood and remained subdued. She was sure she would not be able to sleep. Not knowing what else to do, she let them get her ready for bed. But as she feared, once the candles had been snuffed out and the bed hangings drawn, her control began to crumble and hot tears stung her eyes. She’d been living with fear for so long, from the day that Richard sailed from Sicily for the Holy Land. Many of his subjects had doubted that he’d ever come back, and there were dark nights when she’d shared their doubts. He’d somehow survived it all, though—the savage storms in the Greek Sea, the pestilent fevers, the bloody battles, even his own reckless need to be in the thick of the fighting—only to discover that he faced greater dangers on his way home than any in Ou
tremer. Once again she’d found herself holding a death vigil. Learning that he was a prisoner had kindled enough rage to keep the fear at bay—except at night. But then Hubert Walter had brought her news of Richard’s triumph at Speyer and the fear finally retreated, shrinking away from this blazing, bright infusion of hope. She’d let herself believe that the worst was over, that her son would soon be home. So her defenses were down when she most needed them, blown apart by the mere mention of Trifels Castle.

  No matter how she sought to summon sleep, she was at the mercy of her own memories. Her fears for her grown son were hopelessly entwined with mental images of the boy he’d once been. As she tossed and turned, she could see him at age twelve, coaxing his older brother, Hal, into letting him try the quintain and being knocked from his horse into the mud, only to bounce back up laughing, eager to try it again. She smiled through tears as she remembered the time he and Geoffrey had smuggled a snake into her bed. Closing her eyes, she could hear his voice, asking her to listen as he performed the first song he’d composed, insisting that she tell him the brutal truth, adding with a grin, Unless you do not like it, Maman, then lie to me!

  She’d sometimes thought this was a curse peculiar to mothers, being condemned to grieve twice over—until Harry had confided that whenever he dreamed of their dead son Hal, he was always heartbreakingly young. They’d buried too many of their children, she and Harry. The loss of their firstborn had been the hardest to endure, for she’d had to watch helplessly as the little boy cried in pain and fought for breath, dying after a week of suffering, just two months from his third birthday. She’d not known when Hal was stricken with the bloody flux, not until he was dead. Geoffrey’s tournament death had come as a shock, too. In the morning, she’d awakened thinking he was alive and well; by nightfall, he was gone, erased from her life if not her heart. She’d had no warning when a fever had claimed Tilda, either, not learning of her loss until six weeks after her daughter had breathed her last. Time had not blurred the sharp edges of that memory, nor the memory of having to tell Tilda’s children. Richenza, newly wed to Jaufre of Perche, had been able to cry in her husband’s arms, but it had been left to her to comfort Otto and little Wilhelm, too young to comprehend the awful finality of death.