A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  BALDWIN WAS SEATED IN the king’s command tent, listening with keen interest to Richard’s account of the stronghold’s fall, for the hero of the hour was his old friend Will Marshal.

  “When we put up the ladders, so many knights started to climb up one of them that it became overloaded and some of the rungs broke, sending men plummeting down into the ditch below.” Richard paused until Baldwin had been served wine before continuing. “One of the Flemish knights, Sir Guy de la Bruyère, was trapped on the top of it, unable to go up or down. He would not have been long for this world if Will had not rushed to his rescue.”

  “I did no more than any man would have done,” Will protested, with appealing if unconvincing modesty, for all knew he took great pride in his battlefield prowess.

  Richard ignored the interruption. “Will jumped into the ditch and clambered up the other side, then scrambled onto the ladder using the unbroken rungs, sword in hand. Truly a sight to behold,” he said, grinning over at the Marshal. “After freeing Sir Guy, he made a one-man stand atop the battlements, defending himself so fiercely that his foes were soon in retreat. It was then that the castellan, Sir William de Monceaux, reached the ramparts. When he charged forward, Will struck him so powerful a blow that his sword cut right through his helmet, separating his coif from the hauberk and piercing his head. Not surprisingly, none were eager to take Will on after that.”

  “Well done, Will!” Baldwin said, also grinning at the Marshal.

  “The story is not over yet, Baldwin. Since Will is not—how should I put it—in the first flush of youth, he was understandably weary after all this activity. The castellan had fallen at his feet, unconscious, but showed signs of stirring. So to make sure he stayed put, Will sat on him as he awaited the rest of our men. He made himself so comfortable that I am surprised he did not take a quick nap.”

  Richard raised his wine cup in a playful salute and the tent resounded to enthusiastic cries of “To the Marshal!” Glancing fondly at the other man, he said, shaking his head in mock dismay, “But it is not right for a man of such eminence and proven valor to have to exert himself like this. You ought to leave that to the young knights who still have to win their reputations, Will, for your own fame is already secure.”

  Will did not mind the teasing, for how many men of fifty would have been able to equal the feats he’d performed that day? “Well, sire, the same could be said of you, for I heard that your knights had to keep you from being the first one into the breach.”

  Richard laughed, conceding the Marshal the honors in that exchange, and when Will then offered him the castellan, who would bring a large ransom, he shook his head. “No, you well deserve this right. I appoint you his lord and warder.”

  Will smiled in return, savoring his triumph all the more because he knew there would not be that many more of them; age always won out in the end. “We took many prisoners,” he told Baldwin, “so there will be enough ransoms for all of us.”

  Will paused then, for a sudden uproar had broken out in the camp. The men were instantly on alert, but relaxed when they heard the sound of raucous cheering. “Mercadier must be back,” Richard said, telling Baldwin that he’d been out on a raiding expedition. They’d begun to discuss the ransoms when the entry flap was pulled aside and John plunged into the tent.

  All formality forgotten, John shoved his way toward his brother, his face flushed with excitement, eyes as green as any cat’s. “Richard, you’re about to get an early birthday present, mayhap your best one ever! I wish I could claim the credit, but it was Mercadier’s doing. At least I got to witness it.”

  By now the tent was abuzz with curiosity and speculation. Before John could make his dramatic revelation, though, Mercadier was there. It was not always easy to tell when he was smiling, for the corner of his mouth was contorted by that disfiguring scar. But there was no mistaking his mood now. His usual demeanor—cynical, wary, faintly mocking—was utterly gone; he looked fiercely triumphant. He was followed by several of his routiers, who shoved a prisoner into the tent, forcing him to his knees.

  Even before the man raised his head, Richard knew his identity, for there could be no other explanation for John and Mercadier’s unholy glee. The Bishop of Beauvais was chalk white, with a darkening bruise on his forehead, sweat beading his temples, dirt streaking his face, and flecks of dried blood in his beard. He made an attempt at bravado, though, saying defiantly, “Need I remind you that I am a prince of the Church?”

  He got no further, for Richard had begun to laugh. “Is this what priests are wearing now to say Mass?” he jeered, gesturing toward the bishop’s mail hauberk and empty scabbard.

  Beauvais’s jaw muscles clenched, his chin jutting out. “I am a consecrated bishop, and the Holy Father in Rome will not tolerate my ill treatment.”

  Richard was still laughing. “I do not doubt that the Holy Father in Rome will accord you all the protection he gave me when I was held prisoner in Germany.”

  Beauvais started to rise, only to be stopped by Mercadier’s men. “Get your hands off me, you lowborn churls!” he blustered, but they paid him no heed, forcing him back onto his knees. Hectic splotches of color now burned across his ashen cheekbones, giving him the look of a man on fire with fever. “Name your ransom,” he said, his voice rasping, his dark eyes desperate, “and I will pay it.”

  Richard ignored him, glancing around at the other men, all of whom were grinning widely, relishing this moment almost as much as Richard did. Reaching out, he clasped Mercadier’s arm. “Thank you, my friend,” he said simply, and for just a moment, Mercadier lowered his guard to show a very human reaction—genuine pleasure. Richard exchanged smiles with John, and then turned back to Beauvais.

  “Do you remember what you said to me that night at Trifels? I do. You told me how much pleasure you’d derive to think of me ‘cold, hungry, dirty, and fettered like a common felon.’ You’ve forgotten that, have you?”

  Beauvais ran his tongue over dry lips, swallowing with a visible effort. “You would not dare! Harm me and you’ll forfeit your eternal soul!”

  Some of the men began to mutter at that, angered by his insolence, for Beauvais found no defenders even among the most devout. But Richard merely smiled, a smile that chilled the bishop to the marrow of his bones.

  “I promise you this,” he said. “I will show you the same mercy that you’d have shown me had I ended up in a Paris dungeon.”

  THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY had been given the obligatory tour of Castle Gaillard; it gave Richard great pleasure to watch his guests marvel at what he was building at Les Andelys, especially men like Hubert Walter and André, men who could understand and appreciate what a lethal weapon was now aimed at the heart of the French king’s domains. He doubted that Philippe fully comprehended it yet. But he would, and soon.

  They were back at his new palace on the Île d’Andely now; as much as Richard enjoyed his on-site supervision of the ongoing work, he and Hubert had a lot of catching up to do, for there’d been some dramatic developments on the diplomatic front in June. He’d made peace with the Bretons, agreeing to restore the lands he’d seized during last year’s rebellion, pardoning the Breton barons, offering terms generous enough to win over the powerful de Vitré family, and getting the Earl of Chester to end Constance’s captivity. In return, Constance and her lords abandoned their alliance with Philippe and did homage again to Richard. Arthur was still at the French court, but Constance pledged homage in his name, and Brittany was once more a domain of the Angevin empire—at least for now. Richard was realistic enough to know how elusive peace was in their world.

  In addition to taking homage from Constance and the Breton barons, Richard had also accepted it from knights and lords of Champagne and Flanders, had won back several of the Norman barons who’d defected to Philippe during his time in Germany, and was in secret negotiations with one of Philippe’s most powerful vassals, Renaud de Dammartin, the Count of Boulogne. Most promising of all, he told Hubert, his sp
ies at the Flemish court had reported that the unrelenting pressure he’d been putting upon the Flemish economy was finally paying off. They’d assured him that Baldwin, the young Count of Flanders, would be receptive to English overtures, and so he’d dispatched Will Marshal to meet with Baldwin, offering full restoration of trade privileges for the Flemish merchants and a “gift” of five thousand silver marks for Count Baldwin.

  “So you see,” Richard concluded with a grim smile, “the noose is tightening around Philippe’s neck.”

  Hubert was delighted, pleasing Richard with his heartfelt praise, for he respected few men as much as he did this one. But he had far less pleasant news to share and he put it off for a while, encouraging the archbishop to bring him up to date about English matters. When servants began to set up trestle tables in the hall, though, making ready for the evening meal, he realized he could delay no longer.

  “I’ve heard from my friend, the Archbishop of Cologne,” he said abruptly. “You’ll not like what I’m about to tell you, Hubert. No man of honor would. Heinrich has been spilling enough Sicilian blood to flood the entire kingdom. He had Tancred’s brother-in-law, the Count of Acerra, dragged through the city behind a horse, then hung upside down. It took him two days to die. He had others flung into the sea or flayed alive. And then he exacted vengeance upon the men he’d imprisoned at Trifels Castle after his coronation. He had Admiral Margaritis and the brother of the Archbishop of Salerno blinded and the counts of Marsico and Carinola put to death.”

  Hubert frowned. “That is very unjust, for they could have played no role in the rebellion; they’ve been his prisoners for nigh on three years.”

  “You’ve not heard the worst of it yet. He ordered Tancred’s young son blinded and castrated, and the boy—who was about seven—died as a result of it.”

  Hubert shook his head slowly and then made the sign of the cross. “The Devil truly walks amongst us.”

  Richard was gazing broodingly into the depths of his wine cup. “There were times during my German captivity when I wondered if Heinrich was mad. But instead of terrifying the Sicilians into submission, Heinrich’s brutal measures incited them against him and a new conspiracy was formed this spring. Heinrich was to be ambushed whilst out hunting and slain. But he was warned in time and fled to Messina. The rebels were defeated in the field and Catania was taken by assault. Heinrich then took a bloody revenge upon the conspirators, having many of them executed in extremely painful ways. The most gruesome fate he saved for Jordan Lapin, the Count of Bouvino, who was killed by having a crown nailed to his head.”

  Hubert had met some of these men during their stay in Sicily, and even if he did not consider them friends, he did not think they deserved this. “A man who could devise such a barbaric punishment is one who enjoys inflicting pain. You were lucky, Richard, all things considered.”

  “The story is not done yet, Hubert. Adolf says that Constance was involved with the conspirators.”

  The archbishop’s jaw dropped. “Blessed Mother of God! Can that be true?”

  Richard shrugged. “According to Adolf, she and Heinrich quarreled bitterly after he executed the Count of Acerra and so many others, then mutilated Tancred’s son. Few women would not have been horrified by that. And at least one of the men killed was kin to her. Adolf even claims that the Pope knew of the conspiracy and approved, or at least gave tacit approval by his silence. As for Constance, whether her involvement is true or not, Heinrich apparently believed it. He forced her to attend the execution of Jordan Lapin, who was also her kinsman, and to watch as the crown was nailed to his head.”

  “Jesu!” Hubert was a worldly churchman, a politician, a seasoned soldier, and he was not easily shaken by evidence of mankind’s capacity for cruelty. But he was appalled by what he’d just learned of life in the once-peaceful kingdom of Sicily. “Does Lady Joanna know of this? I remember how fond she was of the empress.”

  “I have not told her yet. Her baby is due this month and I thought it best to wait, for she’d be bound to fear for Constance’s future. Heinrich has his heir now, so he no longer needs Constance to legitimize his claim to the Sicilian throne. He could rule through Friedrich, who is not yet three.”

  Richard lapsed into another brooding silence, thinking of his sister’s distress when she learned of Constance’s peril, thinking of Tancred and his doomed little lad, remembering Heinrich’s smug smile when he’d had to kneel in the great hall at Mainz and do homage to the German emperor. “What I do not understand,” he said, with some bitterness, “is why the Church does not do more to rein this man in. He was implicated in the murder of the Bishop of Liege. He has held the Archbishop of Salerno prisoner at Trifels for nigh on three years. The Bishop of Catania was one of those he ordered blinded. Why does the Church not defend its own?”

  Hubert had no answer for him, not one that did not compromise his rank as the head of the English Church. Celestine was too fearful to challenge the German emperor openly, remembering when Heinrich’s father had sent troops into Rome, forcing a Pope into French exile. But Hubert did not think it seemly for a prelate to speak disrespectfully of the Holy Father, however lacking he might be. Reminding himself that his first loyalty must now be to the Church, not the English king, he offered a perfunctory defense of the elderly Pope. “He has protested those outrages in the strongest language possible. But he is an old man, past ninety. . . .”

  “A pity popes do not retire,” Richard said caustically. “Whilst I was in Germany, the Archbishop of Cologne did just that, believing himself too old and enfeebled to fulfill his duties, thus opening the door for his nephew Adolf to take his place. But popes cling to power the way barnacles cling to a ship’s hull, so I suppose we can only hope that the Almighty calls that spineless old man home soon.” It had occurred to him that the indecisive Celestine might take the easy way and find against André and Denise rather than overrule one of his own archbishops.

  “The Pope did find in your favor, though, in your case against the Archbishop of Rouen,” Hubert said mildly. This talk of the papacy had reminded him of an unpleasant duty that lay ahead of him, and he reluctantly asked if he could see the king in private.

  “YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS?” Richard stared at the archbishop in disbelief. “You are defending that treacherous, foul hellhound? If Beauvais is a pious son of the Church, then I’m bidding fair to reach sainthood!”

  “I am not defending him,” Hubert said hastily. “I am simply saying that we cannot ignore the fact that he is a prelate of the Holy Church, however little we may like it. I had a letter from Pietro of Capua, the papal legate. He is on his way to the French court and he is expressing outrage that you’ve imprisoned a bishop, is threatening to lay Normandy under Interdict—”

  “What are you asking, that I release him? Not even for the surety of my own soul!”

  “No, I am not asking that, Richard. But Beauvais’s continuing captivity could cause a strain between England and the papacy. You need to bear that in mind.”

  “And I have so much reason to be grateful to the papacy! I owe my mother and my vassals and subjects for buying my freedom. I owe the Pope nothing!”

  Richard was so angry that Hubert no longer argued, seeing it would be to no avail. But his silence did nothing to quench the king’s temper. His face flushed, mouth set, he glared at his old friend as if he were the enemy. “Beauvais is the man responsible for the time I spent at Trifels in chains. He urged Heinrich to treat me harshly in order to break my spirit. He came to mock my misery, took joy in dwelling upon all that I’d never experience again, telling me that I’d never see the sun or feel the rain on my face, that I’d never swive a woman or ride a horse or hear music, that I’d be left to rot alone in the dark—”

  Richard stopped suddenly, cutting off his words in midsentence. Had Beauvais truly taunted him like that? Or was he borrowing from the harrowing, dreaded dreams that still haunted his nights even now? He found those dreams so troubling because they seemed so ut
terly and mercilessly real. But never before had they spilled over into the daylight like this, and he was shaken to realize what a blurred line separated the present from the past. Turning his back on Hubert, he moved to the open window, staring up at the dark silhouette starkly outlined against the reddening sky, the castle created solely by his will, each chiseled stone proof of the power he still exercised over other men, the vagaries of war, and his own fate.

  Hubert said nothing, silenced by the raw emotion in Richard’s voice as he’d railed against the Bishop of Beauvais. When he moved away from the window, his anger still smoldered but was no longer in full flame. “Beauvais slandered me the width and breadth of Christendom. At Speyer, I found myself entrapped in a web of his lies, and when I was able to free myself, he did all he could to make sure I would die in a French oubliette. I will never forgive him. Never.”

  “Nor would I ask you to,” Hubert said quietly. “It is my understanding that you have agreed to ransom Sir Guillaume de Mello and the other knights taken captive that day by Mercadier, but not Beauvais. I heard that you turned down a ransom offer of ten thousand marks. Is that true?”

  “It is. I will never set him free.”

  “I understand,” Hubert said, “I do. I ask only that you ease the conditions of his imprisonment. As long as he is being held in such harsh confinement, the controversy about his captivity will continue. Not for his sake, but for the pallium he has the right to wear.”

  Richard was not moved by the appeal. “Mercadier did not burst into a church and drag him away from the altar, Hubert. He was taken on the battlefield, leading an armed force to raise the siege at Milly-sur-Thérain. He is a false priest, a godless man who knows no more of piety than a wild boar.”

  “I’ll not argue that point,” Hubert said with a faint smile. “I ask only that you think upon what I’ve said.”