A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Eleanor’s relief was inexpressible. Her easy acceptance of John’s guilt had been prompted as much by fear as by her son’s dismal record of broken faith and betrayals, the fear that she had misjudged him, after all, that he was not the pragmatist she’d thought him to be. Had he indeed been plotting again with Philippe, that would mean his judgment was fatally and unforgivably flawed, flawed enough to taint any claim to the crown. It was a conclusion she shrank from, for it would signify the end of all her hopes for an Angevin dynasty, and that was the dream that had sustained her even in the worst of times, just as it had sustained her husband.

  She sat down abruptly in a cushioned chair. “Thank God,” she said simply, with enough feeling to soothe John’s sense of injury.

  “But of course I accept your apology, Mother,” he said, very dryly. Righteous indignation was not an emotion indigenous to his temperamental terrain; he had too much irony in his makeup to be able to cultivate moral outrage, and now that he no longer feared being called to account for a sin that truly was not his, he was beginning to see the perverse humor in his predicament. “Be not righteous over much,” he quoted, and grinned. “But how can I help it? After all, how often have I been able to expose my conscience to your exacting eye . . . and live to tell the tale?”

  Eleanor could not help herself, had to smile, too. “By what strange alchemy do you manage to make your vices sound so much like virtues?” She shook her head, gestured toward the table. “Fetch me pen and parchment. You’ll need to face Richard yourself, assure him that you are innocent—this time. But it will help if he knows I believe you.”

  After he left, she leaned back in the chair, rubbing her fingers against her temples, for her head was throbbing. Richard would never get a son from Berengaria. Nor did he seem willing to put her aside. So John was all they had.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MARCH 1199

  Chinon Castle, Touraine

  There was a chill in the air, the threat of winter lingering beyond its time. Lacking the patience to summon a servant, Richard crossed to the hearth and reached for the fire tongs, prodding the flames back into life. Returning to his seat then, he resumed the story of his January council with the French king, a meeting arranged by the new papal legate, Pietro di Capua.

  “I’d taken a boat upriver from Castle Gaillard, but Philippe refused to join me on board. Apparently his bath in the Epte has made him leery of rivers, for he stayed on horseback and we shouted back and forth across the water. An utter waste of time and breath.”

  “You did agree on a five-year truce, though,” Eleanor reminded him, and he shook his head wearily.

  “And we know how much such truces mean—counterfeit coin, not worth a copper farthing. But the new Pope is bound and determined to make peace, so his legate came up with another proposal, suggesting that Philippe’s son wed one of my nieces.”

  “Arthur’s sister?”

  “No, one of Leonora’s daughters. I told them I’d consider these new terms once I return from Limousin.”

  He’d already told Eleanor about his coming campaign. The Count of Angoulême and his half brother, the Viscount of Limoges, were conniving again with the French king, and he meant to teach them that there was a high price to be paid for such treachery. A lifetime of dealing with these rebellious southern barons had taught Eleanor that such lessons lasted as long as hoarfrost, and she was sure Richard knew it, too. But kings did what they must.

  “I hear that the papal legate set your temper ablaze?”

  “He did, by God. The lack-wit dared to demand that I set Beauvais free, insisting he is under the protection of the Church.”

  “Is it true that you threatened him with castration, Richard?”

  “Is that what he is claiming? Whilst I think society could benefit if some churchmen were gelded—keeping them from breeding, if nothing else—I did not actually threaten to turn him into a capon, merely reminded him that his papal legateship was all that was saving him from my righteous wrath. But he went scurrying back to Paris so fast that he might well have feared for his meager family jewels.”

  Richard’s sarcasm did not disguise the depths of his anger, as he proved now by launching a diatribe against the papacy. “The Church did nothing for me whilst I was held prisoner in Germany and my lands were being overrun by the French king and Johnny. Yet now their hearts bleed for that Devil’s whelp Beauvais? Well, he will never see the light of day again, not as long as I draw breath.”

  Eleanor was conflicted about the Bishop of Beauvais’s fate. The queen saw his continuing imprisonment as a source of discord with the new Pope, never a good thing, but the mother had not a drop of pity to spare for the captive prelate. She voiced no opinion, though, for she knew it would not be welcome; the Archangel Gabriel could appear to argue for Beauvais’s release and Richard would have paid no heed. Instead, she seized upon his mention of his younger brother.

  “Speaking of John . . . Did he seek you out as he promised me he would?”

  “He did, on the day after Epiphany, swearing upon all he holds most sacred—which in Johnny’s case is to be found below the belt—that he had not been plotting against me. It must have been quite a novelty—for once actually being innocent of the charges made against him. With his usual flair for the dramatic, he dispatched two knights to the French court to formally deny the accusation, and none were willing to accept his challenge.”

  Richard interrupted himself to pour wine for them both. Regarding his mother with a sardonic smile, he said, “Do you know where he is now? Off to pay a visit to our nephew in Brittany.”

  Eleanor’s eyebrows shot upward. “Whatever for?”

  “He reminded me that he’d never met Arthur, and now that the lad has returned from Paris, he decided it was as good a time as any to take Arthur’s measure. Knowing Johnny, I daresay he is also amusing himself by putting the cat amongst the pigeons. Think how Constance and her Bretons will react to his unexpected arrival. They’ll be sure he is up to no good, but what? I’d wager none of them get a full night’s sleep until he departs.”

  “John is very good at banishing sleep,” Eleanor said dryly. “Richard . . . I had a troubling letter recently from the Bishop of Agen. He says the Count of Toulouse has not been very successful in dealing with some of his rebellious vassals, that he tends to be too forgiving and Joanna has been urging him to take a harder stance. Raimond was away when the lord of St Felix rebelled and instead of waiting for her husband’s return, Joanna chose to lead an armed force herself and lay siege to his castle at Les Casses.”

  She sounded so disapproving that Richard hastily brought his wine cup up to conceal a smile. “Say what you will of our lass; she does not lack for spirit.”

  “Too much spirit. She was not that long out of childbed, and as it turned out, she found herself in real danger. Several of Raimond’s knights had been bought off by the rebels and they set fire to her siege camp. She barely escaped with her life.”

  Richard scowled. “I hope St Gilles saw to it that those shameless curs paid in blood for their treachery.”

  “The bishop did not say how Raimond reacted. I doubt that he was happy about Joanna taking such a risk, though. How could he be?”

  “Well, I never had much luck reining Joanna in, so I doubt that Raimond will, either. She is your daughter, after all. But I agree that we need to talk to her. Once I get back from dealing with that Judas in Limoges, I’ll invite Joanna and Raimond to my court. Mayhap between the three of us, we can convince her that besieging castles is not an ideal female pastime.”

  Eleanor hoped so. A brother might be proud of a strong-willed sister’s boldness, but how many husbands would be so indulgent? Marriages were far more fragile than most people realized, even the good ones, and if she could stop her daughter from making some of her own mistakes, she meant to do so.

  “Do not tarry too long in Limousin, Richard.”

  He smiled. “From your lips to God’s Ear, Maman.”

>   CHLUS-CHABROL WAS PERCHED ON the summit of a low hill above the River Tardoire, although it could more properly be called a stream, just as its village was more properly a hamlet. It was one of the castles that Viscount Aimar relied upon to guard the Limoges–Périgord road, but it did not look very imposing, a small citadel with a round stone keep and ten houses enclosed by a double bailey. It was being held for the viscount by the Lord of Montbrun, Peire Brun, and a captured peddler insisted there were no more than forty people within its walls. Richard’s men did not expect it to present much of a challenge. It was only the first target of many, for Richard had vowed to raze all of the viscount’s strongholds, leaving Aimar with nothing but charred ruins, ashes, rubble, and regrets. This was the fifth rebellion launched by the viscount and Richard was determined that it would be the last.

  IT HAD BEEN AN uncommonly warm day for March, even in the Limousin, and Richard’s crossbowmen had shed their mantles as they shot up at Châlus’s ramparts, protecting the sappers who’d been undermining its walls for the past three days. Morgan did not think the siege would last much longer. They’d already offered to surrender if they were guaranteed their lives, limbs, and weapons, an offer Richard had spurned.

  Morgan shook his head as he remembered that, thinking the fools ought to have known that Richard always insisted upon unconditional surrender from rebels; only then would he show mercy. So it had been at Darum in the Holy Land, at Tickhill, Nottingham, Loches, and the dozens of castles he’d taken from the French king’s castellans and vassals. Morgan tried and failed to think of a castle siege where Richard had not demanded unconditional surrender; there were so many sieges that he could not recall them all. Five years of incessant warfare, constant and unrelenting. Glancing up at a kestrel gliding on the wind far above his head, he wondered what he’d do if a true peace was ever forged between England and France, if Richard no longer had such need of his sword.

  He supposed he could settle upon his estates in Normandy, take a wife, and sire some children. He’d turned thirty-five in February, after all, and he’d finally given up hope of changing Mariam’s mind. He’d found himself thinking more and more of family in the past few weeks, and why not? He’d lost his Welsh family, so surely it was natural to want to start a family of his own. How likely was it, though, that the dove of peace would ever alight on this side of the Narrow Sea? Yet more likely than it had been, for the French king was hard-pressed on two fronts nowadays, both on the battlefield and in the diplomatic chambers. Philippe might be many things, but a fool he was not. He must know the time was drawing nigh for him to cut his losses, all the more so now that the Pope was threatening to place France under Interdict for his continuing maltreatment of the unhappy Ingeborg.

  Richard’s command tent lay just ahead, and Morgan quickened his step. But he found only Arne, diligently rubbing goose grease into a pair of Richard’s leather boots. “You just missed the king, my lord,” he said with a shy smile. “After supper, he took his crossbow and went out to see what progress the sappers are making.”

  Seeing Richard’s hauberk draped over a coffer, Morgan grimaced. “He did at least take his shield?”

  Arne ducked his head, as if his king’s recklessness were somehow his fault. “I reminded him about his mail, my lord, but . . .”

  “But you might as well bid the sun to stop rising in the east,” Morgan said wryly.

  “He did wear his helmet.” Arne put the boots down, giving the Welshman a searching look. He was not of good birth, an orphan of little education or prospects. He ought to have lived and died in his small Austrian village, never getting farther than twenty miles from his home. But God had decreed otherwise, sending him to the Holy Land, sending him into the service of a great king. Morgan was a lord; royal blood ran in his veins. Yet Arne had shared with Richard and Morgan and Guillain what no other men in Christendom had—they’d been to Heinrich von Hohenstaufen’s Hell and battled their way back. He still bore the scars—on his throat, his face, and his memory—and that gave him the confidence now to speak freely to the king’s cousin.

  “The king told me that you’d gotten a letter at Chinon from your brother, telling you that your parents are dead. My lord, I am so very sorry.”

  Even after a fortnight, Morgan still struggled with disbelief. He realized that made no sense, for his father had lived to a truly vast age—eighty winters—and his mother had also been blessed with a long life. That ought to have been a comfort, and he hoped in time it would be. God had smiled upon them both, and He’d shown divine mercy, too, sparing them the separation and the grieving that was the inevitable fate of those brave enough to love. Ranulf had died in his sleep, and within the week, his ailing wife had followed him to eternal glory, for Morgan was sure they’d spend little, if any, time in Purgatory.

  “Thank you, Arne. At first I grieved that I’d not been there, that I’d not had the chance to say farewell. They died in Epiphany week yet I did not know. So for two months, I thought they still breathed and smiled and prayed and felt the Welsh sun on their faces; despite what men claim, the sun does shine in Wales from time to time. Were they any less alive to me during those two months because I did not know? We live on in memories and deeds and prayers, lad; above all, in those we love.”

  Arne was not sure he understood, but he murmured a dutiful “May God assoil them,” and vowed to add the names of Ranulf Fitz Roy and Rhiannon ferch Rhodri to the list of those for whom he offered up nightly prayers. For he did understand that there was power in prayer, even for ones such as he.

  “Come, Arne.” Morgan smiled, determined to lighten the mood. “Let’s go find that errant king of ours. There is no use in lugging his hauberk along, but at least we can remind him that even lions get wet when it rains.”

  THE SKY ALONG THE HORIZON was glowing like the embers of a dying fire as this last Friday in March ebbed away. There was still enough daylight remaining for Richard to assess Châlus’s weaknesses, though. His sappers, shielded by a wheeled wooden cat, were working industriously to tunnel under the castle walls. Once they’d excavated far enough, they’d shore up the cavity with timber, then fill it with combustible fuel and set it aflame; when the timbers burned, the wall above would collapse with it. But that would take time Richard was not willing to spare. The sooner he could take Châlus, the sooner his army could move on to Aimar’s strongholds at Nontron and Montagut. So he and Mercadier were reconnoitering the castle’s defenses to see how feasible it would be to take Châlus by storm.

  One of Richard’s sergeants had set up his large rectangular shield, and he and Mercadier were standing behind it as they debated where the castle seemed most vulnerable to an assault. They were soon joined by William de Braose. He held the barony of Bramber and extensive lands in Wales, where he’d earned himself a reputation among the Welsh as a man of no honor. But he was as capable as he was ruthless and he’d served Richard well as sheriff of Herefordshire and as a royal justice, proving to be an effective bulwark against the ever-restless Welsh. Glancing at Richard’s crossbow, he said, “You’ll get few chances to make use of that, sire. Our crossbowmen have kept the castle defenders off the walls for much of the day, aside from one lunatic by the gatehouse.”

  Richard arched a brow. “Why call him a lunatic, Will?”

  “See for yourself, my liege.” The Marcher lord gestured and Richard squinted until he located the lone man on the castle battlements. When he did, he burst out laughing, for this enemy crossbowman was using a large frying pan as a shield, deflecting the bolts coming his way with surprising dexterity. De Braose and Mercadier were not surprised by his reaction, for they’d known this was just the sort of mad gallantry to appeal to Richard. But because chivalry was as alien a tongue to them as the languages spoken in Cathay, they saw the knave wielding a frying pan as nothing more than a nuisance to be eliminated, sooner rather than later.

  When the crossbowman used his makeshift shield to turn aside another bolt, Richard gave him a playful, mockin
g salute. He was still laughing when the crossbowman aimed at him and he was slow, therefore, in ducking for cover behind his shield. The bolt struck him in the left shoulder, just above his collarbone. The impact was great enough to stagger him, although he managed to keep his balance, grabbing the edge of the shield to steady himself. There was no pain, not yet, but he’d suffered enough wounds to know that would not last. His first coherent thought was relief that dusk was fast falling, for when he glanced around hastily, it was clear that none of his men had seen him hit. Only de Braose and Mercadier had been close enough to see what had happened, and while their dismay was obvious even in the fading light, he knew they were too battlewise to cry out, to let others know that their king had just been shot.

  “Come with me,” he said in a low voice, remembering in time to call out to his sergeant, “Odo, leave my shield there for now.” He was grateful that his voice sounded so natural, as if nothing were amiss, and he was grateful, too, that he’d not ridden out to inspect the castle defenses, for he knew he’d never have been able to get up into the saddle without help. Mercadier and de Braose fell in step beside him, using their own bodies to shield him from any prying eyes. He was able to set a measured pace, but by the time they reached his tent, his legs were feeling weak and his arm had gone numb.

  Arne was not within and the tent was dark. De Braose had a lantern, though, and he used its candle to light an oil lamp. Richard sank down on the bed as they closed the tent flaps. Mercadier had already drawn his dagger. Leaning over, he began carefully to cut Richard’s tunic away from that protruding bolt. With a few deft slashes, Richard’s linen shirt soon followed. Straightening up, Mercadier paused to take a deep breath. He’d removed arrows and bolts from injured men in the past, but only when there was no other alternative, for such wounds were best left to surgeons. It was then, though, that Richard reached for the shaft and yanked.