A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  But even Sancho’s unexpected arrival would prove to be a mixed blessing. He’d assumed she’d joined Richard in England, and although he tried to hide it, he’d been taken aback to find out that she’d not yet seen her husband. It was humiliating enough for Berengaria that her household ladies and knights knew of her plight, but it was far more mortifying that her family now knew, too. Even worse was to come. Sancho had been evasive whenever she’d mentioned their father and at last he’d confessed that the elder Sancho was not well. Their father’s health had always been good, but he was sixty-two now, an age where men were vulnerable to any number of dangerous maladies. When Sancho departed for Loches, Berengaria gave him a letter for Richard, as sparing and laconic as any of his own letters had been, and then passed the endless hours praying for her ailing father and trying not to think about her missing husband.

  JOANNA FELT A LITTLE guilty about staying so long at Fontevrault, knowing how miserable Berengaria must be. But when Eleanor got a letter from her granddaughter the Countess of Perche, Joanna delayed her departure yet again, for she very much wanted to meet Richenza. The young woman did not resemble Joanna’s elder sister, for she’d inherited her father’s dark coloring, but she had her mother’s beauty and much of her charm, and she and Joanna felt an immediate empathy. Like her brothers Otto and Wilhelm, Richenza had grown up at the English royal court, forming a close bond with Eleanor and Richard that was now causing her great pain.

  She’d explained apologetically to Eleanor and Joanna that her husband really had no choice. Had he not obeyed the French king’s summons, he’d have risked losing all their French lands. If it were up to her, Richenza would have taken the gamble, for she loved her uncle. But she loved her husband and young son, too, and in any event, the decision had been Jaufre’s, not hers. Now Richard was back and Jaufre feared what was to come, so he’d willingly agreed when Richenza suggested she visit her grandmother. Jaufre hoped that Richenza could make her Angevin relatives understand why he’d deserted the English king, but he was not optimistic, for he’d heard one of the verses of the song Richard had composed in his German prison, which was being widely circulated by troubadours and trouvères:

  “My comrades whom I loved and still do love

  The lords of Perche and Cauieux

  Strange tales have reached me that are hard to prove;

  I ne’er was false to them; for evermore

  Vile would men count them, if their arms they bore

  ’Gainst me, a prisoner here.”

  Richenza had done her best, stressing Jaufre’s reluctance and his kinship to Philippe, which made it even harder to defy the French king. Eleanor’s welcome had been affectionate enough to reassure her that she was not blamed for Jaufre’s defection. Her grandmother said nothing about Jaufre, though, and she was reluctant to ask Eleanor to intercede on his behalf with Richard. Richenza adored her grandmother but she knew Eleanor was not as quick to forgive as Richenza’s mother had been.

  On the second day of her visit, while she was walking with Joanna in the gardens of Eleanor’s lodgings on the abbey grounds, she decided to risk confiding in her aunt. “It is so hard,” she said with a sigh, “for a man to serve two liege lords.” When Joanna agreed, she was encouraged to continue. “Aunt Joanna, do you think my uncle will forgive Jaufre and me?”

  “He will forgive you, Richenza.” Seeing the younger woman’s dismay, Joanna reached out and steered her niece toward a bench. “You need to understand this, Richenza. Richard is not in a mood to forgive. After he left Verneuil, he took the castle Beaumont-le-Roger from the Count of Meulan, who’d abandoned him for Philippe just as Jaufre did. Then he rode to Tours, where the citizens had been quick to open their city’s gates to the French king. He dispossessed the canons of St Martin’s, for their priory is as close to the Capetians as Fontevrault is to our family, and he demanded two thousand marks from the townspeople to regain royal favor. So you see, he is more inclined these days to punish than to pardon.”

  Richenza appreciated her aunt’s honesty, for she thought it was always better to know what she was up against. But she was not going to concede defeat so easily, at least not until she heard the bad news from Richard himself. He was just fifty miles away, besieging Loches. She would go to him at Loches and do her best to make him understand why Jaufre had joined the French king. In the event, she did not have to take such dramatic action; as she and Joanna joined Abbess Mathilde for dinner in her guest hall, the abbey was thrown into turmoil by the unexpected arrival of the English king.

  Richenza hung back, watching as Richard was greeted joyfully by his mother and sister and the prioress, Aliza de Bretagne, who showed so much excitement that the elderly abbess shot her a disapproving frown. Aliza was so obviously unrepentant that Richenza immediately liked the young nun, who looked to be her own age, twenty-two. Richard’s men were sent to eat with the monks at the priory of St Jean de l’Habit, for Fontevrault was unique in that its abbess ruled over men as well as women, and Mathilde hastily ordered servants to set places for Richard, André, Morgan, Guillain, and Master Fulk at her table. It was then that Richard glanced around and noticed his niece.

  Richenza held her breath until he smiled, and when he held out his arms, she came gratefully into them. “I’m so sorry, Uncle. . . .”

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, lass.” He bent down and kissed her cheek before saying, “Your husband does, though.”

  “I know,” she admitted, taking heart from his matter-of-fact tone. “Jaufre felt he had no choice, Uncle. If he’d defied the French king, he’d have lost his lands in Perche.”

  “Well, he has lost his lands in England now. I ordered his estates in Wiltshire and Bedfordshire forfeit to the Crown.” Sliding his fingers under her chin, he tilted her face up to his. “But not your dowry lands. They are still yours.”

  Richenza’s smile was radiant with relief, for even if the very worst happened and Jaufre lost Perche in this accursed war, her son would still have a substantial inheritance; Richard had provided very generously for her at the time that he’d arranged her marriage to Jaufre.

  “Why so surprised, Richenza? After all, you’re my favorite niece.”

  “Well, there is not much competition for that honor, Uncle Richard.”

  They grinned at each other, for this was a running joke between them; he’d not met any of his sister Leonora’s daughters in Castile and his sister-in-law Constance had done her best to poison Aenor’s mind against all of the Angevins. Richard was tempted to tell her that he intended to restore Jaufre’s English lands to him eventually. But she might confide in her husband, wanting to reassure him that he’d be forgiven in time, and Richard was determined that Jaufre lose some sleep over his fall from royal favor. He liked Jaufre and was not about to ruin his niece’s husband. There was a price to be paid, though, for failure to keep faith. “Come on, lass,” he said. “Let’s have dinner.”

  Once they’d all been seated and freshly caught fish from the abbey’s stews had been served, Eleanor leaned over to ask Richard about the siege. She knew better than most what a formidable challenge Loches Castle posed, for she’d been held there briefly after she’d been captured by her husband’s men. “I assume that your presence here means the siege is going well?”

  “Oh, it is over,” Richard said nonchalantly. “How long did it take, André? Two or three?”

  “Two and a half, I think,” André said, just as nonchalantly, reaching for a slice of bread.

  Eleanor’s eyes widened incredulously. “You took Loches in just two and a half days?”

  “No . . . two and a half hours.” Seeing the amazed looks on the faces of all the women, Richard and André burst out laughing, only too happy to answer all the questions that were at once aimed at them. Eleanor listened in silence as the queen warred with the mother. She understood more about war than the other women, and for Richard to have captured Loches in just a few hours, it must have been an extraordinarily ferocious assault
—with her son in the very thick of the fighting.

  Joanna was pleased to learn that Richard had taken over two hundred prisoners. Legally, he had the right to execute the garrison when a castle was taken by storm; John’s slaughter of the Évreux garrison had left a bad taste in her mouth. She knew Richard could be very ruthless himself when need be—she was still uncomfortable remembering the execution of the garrison at Acre—and she had worried that his war with Philippe would become a bloodbath. “Why did Berengaria’s brother not come with you?” she asked, for she wanted to meet Sancho, who was said to be over seven feet tall; she could not imagine a man towering over Richard by fully a foot.

  Richard’s smile disappeared. “Sancho left the siege ere I even got there. His men told me that he’d had to rush back to Navarre, having gotten word that his father is gravely ill and not expected to recover. When are you planning to return to Poitiers, Joanna? I think it would help Berenguela very much if you were with her.”

  “I will leave on the morrow,” she promised, and when he said that he’d give her a letter for Berenguela, she hesitated. “She will want to know when you’ll be there. What shall I tell her?”

  Although Joanna had taken care to keep her tone neutral, Richard still found himself on the defensive. “Tell her I’ll come as soon as I can,” he said tersely. When she nodded, he frowned, faulting her for what he was sure she was thinking. Did she expect Philippe to courteously cease hostilities whilst he was visiting his wife in Poitou? That craven weasel would be quick to raid the hen roost once he learned the guard dog was gone. The only way to end this war was to track down that Judas and force him to fight.

  As he studied his sister, he doubted that she truly comprehended what a daunting challenge he faced to regain all that had been lost during his captivity. Setting his wine cup down, he turned toward Joanna and sought to educate her about the harsh reality of warfare. Philippe controlled much of Normandy east of the River Seine, including the ports of Dieppe and Tréport. He now held castles that put him within striking distance of Rouen itself. Moreover, his acquisition of Artois from Flanders gave him more resources than French kings had in the past. But while Joanna listened attentively, Richard sensed that she still did not understand. Nor would his wife. Well, so be it. His duties as king had to come first, and Berenguela would have to accept that.

  After dinner, Eleanor asked Richard about Philippe’s siege of Fontaines; that had alarmed her, for the castle was just four miles from Rouen. Richard and André were unconcerned, though, mocking the French king for taking four days to capture such a small, poorly defended stronghold and making Prioress Aliza laugh by swearing she and her nuns could have taken it faster than Philippe. Now Eleanor was not surprised when Richard said he would have to return to his army on the morrow; she knew he’d been practically living in the saddle in recent weeks and that was not likely to change anytime soon. She was about to ask him if he’d heard how Heinrich’s invasion of Sicily was going when a courier was ushered into the hall.

  He’d been sent by the seneschal of Normandy and his disheveled state alerted Richard that his message was urgent. Snatching up the letter, he broke the seal and read rapidly. “Christ on the Cross!” The color draining from his face, he glanced up, his eyes seeking André. “Leicester has been captured by the French!”

  There was an immediate outcry from his audience, for the women were as horrified as his men. “How did it happen?” Eleanor asked her son, who’d gone back to reading the letter.

  “Once the French were retreating after razing Fontaines, he ventured out from Rouen to harass them, but with only twenty knights.” Richard shook his head angrily. “How could he be so reckless?” That caused some astonished eye rolling among his friends, sister, and mother, but he did not notice. Crumpling the parchment in his fist, he flung it to the floor. “He has been sent under guard to Étampes Castle.”

  They knew what that meant—rescue was not an option. “Philippe is holding his unwanted wife, Ingeborg, at Étampes,” Eleanor said acidly. “Mayhap he can save money by penning them up together.”

  Abbess Mathilde was surprised that the king seemed so shaken, for she’d assumed he was hardened to the vicissitudes and cruelties of war. Nor did she understand why he and the other men looked so grim, for the Earl of Leicester had earned renown throughout Christendom for his feats in the Holy Land. Surely a prisoner who was so highborn and so celebrated would be well treated. But when she quietly said as much to Eleanor, the queen merely looked at her, saying nothing, and there was something in those hazel eyes that gave the elderly abbess a chill. She would pray for the earl, she decided, for it was becoming clear to her that the king and his mother felt Leicester was in need of prayers.

  IN EARLY JULY, Philippe invaded Touraine. He’d gotten as far as Lisle when his scouts warned him that the English king’s army was awaiting him at Vendôme, blocking the road into the Loire Valley. Philippe hastily withdrew a few miles to Fréteval, and conferred with his battle commanders.

  VENDÔME WAS A SMALL TOWN north of Tours. It had no defensive walls, and its citizens were understandably alarmed at the possibility of a great battle being fought in their vicinity. The Count of Vendôme was nowhere to be found, but the abbot of Holy Trinity bravely entered the English king’s camp to demand royal protection for his abbey and its holy relic, the Sacred Teardrop, which was said to have been shed by the Lord Christ at the tomb of Lazarus. Richard had some of his father’s anticlerical bias and he was fast losing his temper. The abbot was forgotten, though, when a herald arrived from the French king.

  He was riding under a flag of truce but his tone was bellicose. Reining in before Richard, he delivered his lord’s message with a bravado that would have pleased Philippe, declaring that the French king would do battle on the morrow.

  Richard was not impressed. “Tell your king that if he does not appear on the morrow, I will be calling on him.” André and Will Marshal and Guillain de l’Etang had moved to Richard’s side and they all watched as the herald rode out of camp to a chorus of jeers and catcalls.

  “You think he will fight on the morrow, sire?” Guillain asked, surprised by Philippe’s defiance, for pitched battles were very rare.

  “We’ll see it snow in Hell ere that coward faces me on the field.” Richard beckoned to Warin Fitz Gerald. “Send scouts into the woods to keep watch on the French camp.” Turning back to the other men, he said, “I want us to be ready to march at first light. There will be a battle on the morrow, but it will be my doing, not Philippe’s.”

  RICHARD AWOKE SEVERAL HOURS before dawn. While he did not remember it, he knew the dream had been an unpleasant one, for he’d been having them more often since he’d learned of the Earl of Leicester’s capture. It infuriated him that he could not exercise better control over his own brain. Why must he keep dwelling upon what was done and over with? He was trying to get the Church involved on Leicester’s behalf, but so far Philippe had rebuffed all offers of ransom. Well, if the day went as he hoped, the French king would soon be a prisoner himself.

  The English camp was stirring, men yawning as they broke their fast with biscuits and ale; it was a poorly kept secret that soldiers often relied upon liquid courage to ease their prebattle jitters. Most men passed their whole lives without experiencing a pitched battle, for sieges and the raiding known as chevauchées were the normal means of conducting war. But Richard’s army was more battle- seasoned than most, for many of the men had fought with him in the Holy Land, and Mercadier’s routiers were natural killers; Mercadier did not recruit any other kind.

  Richard had just given Will Marshal the command of the reserve. Younger knights often balked at that, fearing they’d be cheated of the glory they all sought. Will was just three years from his fifth decade and he knew an army without men held in reserve was at the mercy of fate, exposed to enemy counterattacks, so he pleased Richard by accepting the charge for the honor it was meant to be. Their battle commanders were gathering around them when s
houting turned all heads toward the north. A man on a rangy bay was racing into the camp, one of the scouts Richard had sent to spy upon the French.

  “They are in retreat, my lord, fleeing north!”

  Richard was not going to be deprived of his prey, though. He’d anticipated just such a move by the French king, and his men were ready. When he gave the command to mount up, they ran eagerly for their horses.

  RICHARD WAS RIDING FAUVEL, and he was well ahead of his men by the time they burst from the woods into the deserted French camp. A few fires still smoldered, not fully quenched by hastily flung buckets of water. Some tents had been left behind, sacks of flour, kegs of wine—all that could be easily replaced. Richard laughed at this proof of the urgency of the evacuation. Giving Fauvel his head, he thought that Philippe was about to get a very unpleasant surprise.

  A retreating army was easy to follow and within a few miles, they could see the French rearguard and baggage carts in the distance. Richard unsheathed his sword. He did not have to prick Fauvel with his spurs; the stallion was already lengthening stride. There was considerable confusion in the French ranks as they realized they were being pursued. Drivers were whipping the cart horses mercilessly, cursing and shouting as the wagons swayed perilously from side to side. That the baggage train was so well guarded told Richard that it carried items precious to Philippe. A knight was riding toward him, sword at the ready. Richard took the strike on his shield and counterthrust. The rider reeled back in the saddle, but Richard did not wait to see if he fell, for another foe was just ahead. He swung and missed; Richard didn’t. Maddened by the scent of blood, Fauvel veered toward a man on a roan stallion, screaming defiance. His teeth raked the other destrier’s neck and as the horse stumbled, Richard decapitated his rider. All around him, his household knights were engaging the enemy, all around him was the familiar chaos of battle, and he set about punishing these French soldiers for each and every time that he’d not been able to hit back in the past year.