by Dave Duncan
We all knew that any attempt to take the renowned Lionheart by force was certain to cost lives. I was confident that William Legier would still be lurking in the vicinity, and would come charging into any fight like a thunderstorm. And I was quite capable of setting a duke on fire if provoked.
Leopold rolled his eyes. “Then I had better come with you. I don’t want him slaughtering a squad of my knights so near to Christmas.”
We traveled on horseback, with an escort of a dozen mounted knights, one of them leading a spare horse. Aware that they were on their way to seize the most renowned warrior in Christendom, none of Leopold’s men looked happy. When I pointed out the old man’s shack, they dismounted and surrounded it. Then they waited for orders, fidgeting as if they held a wild boar at bay.
I said, “By your leave, Lord Duke, I shall inform His Grace that you have arrived.”
Remaining safely mounted, Leopold nodded and I walked into the shack. The old man was not there, but the Lionheart was, seated on a stool with his sheathed sword across his lap.
I bowed. “Duke Leopold is here, Your Grace.”
I did not know that those were to be the last words I would ever speak to him.
He nodded and rose. I saw him draw a deep breath before he walked out with head high. I remained inside, leaning against the wall where I had a view of events. The duke was still mounted, which was either a flagrant discourtesy or just cowardice. The Lionheart stared at him for a moment before speaking.
Then—“Your Grace, I crave hospitality in the name of Lord Jesus.”
“And I declare you to be under arrest upon numerous charges.” Richard raised his voice so all the riders could hear. “Then you are breaking the Truce of God, and will be damned to Hell for all eternity.”
Even Leopold flinched at those awful words. “But you are no true crusader, for you took the Devil’s bribes to let Saladin hold on to Jerusalem. Your sword, renegade!”
Richard handed up his sword, sheathed and hilt first; Leopold took it. Then he beckoned for the spare horse and told a knight, “Fetch the witch.”
I said, “Hic non sum. ” The man came in, inspected both rooms, and went back out again to report that I wasn’t there.
Richard had moved out of my sight, but I heard his mocking laugh. “Make up your mind, Lord Duke! If he was only a messenger, then you have no further business with him. If he’s a wizard, you’ll never catch him.”
Standing absolutely still is not easy, and I was afraid more men would be sent to make a more thorough search, for if anyone touched me or a draft even stirred my cloak, I would at once become visible again. I was counting on Leopold being too anxious to see his valuable prisoner secured behind bars to make a fuss over a mere flunky, and if I were the rumored sorcerer, then my magic might make him seem ridiculous. Sure enough, he told his escort to form up, and he rode off homeward with the most valuable moveable property in Christendom, the king of England.
It was the feast of St. Thomas the Apostle, December 21st.
I retrieved my purse and my silken grimoire and strolled down to the market to buy some dinner. I bought a pair of boots and a packsack to hold them, a warm cloak with a hood, and a clean shirt. That exhausted my usable money, because I could not imagine how I could change the gold into lesser coins without attracting suspicion. I still had the ruby ring that Queen Berengaria had given me, but for a ragamuffin like me to produce such a treasure would be asking to have the word ‘Thief’ placarded on my chest as I dangled in a hempen noose by the wayside.
In mid-afternoon I went down to the river. As I had expected, Leopold had withdrawn all his guards now that he had the boar in his net. I joined William on the boat.
We bedded down in a corner of the hold and conversed quietly in French. He asked about my Judas mission, and admitted that he had watched the king’s arrest from a distance. He revealed his nagging guilt by saying, “I wanted to draw my sword, take them all on singlehanded, and chop that Austrian devil duke into cutlets. I just hope he isn’t maltreating the Lionheart too badly.”
I laughed. “No, the Lionheart’s much too valuable for that! He’s sleeping now, in a warm bed, having eaten a fine dinner. The duke’s own doctor examined him and did nothing too barbaric to him. There are bars on his window and guards with drawn swords outside his cell, but that’s all—no chains or manacles. And that Austrian devil, as you so rightly call him, is currently dictating a long, gloating letter to his liege, the emperor, bugling his triumph to the skies.”
William groaned. “How do you know that? I’ve never known you just to pull prophecies out of the sky like this.”
Considering the matter, I said, “Neither have I, now that you mention it.”
With a chuckle that I knew well of old, William changed mood. “So just where are we going this time, Sage Merlin?”
“To a little place called Dürnstein. Leopold has a great castle there, where he will secure his prisoner for the present.”
“Why should we go there? To do what?”
“I have to tell him that I know how we can rescue him! I only thought of it when I was already on my way to Leopold’s shabby palace. I shall have to hurry back to England and collect the necessary enchantments, also a few helpers. And I am hoping that you can acquire some horses at Dürnstein, and that we will travel homeward together.”
“There are better horse markets here in Erdberg, surely?” he protested. Yes, there were, and we were abandoning the poor, maltreated mounts that had brought us there. They were no longer worth much, but our saddles and other tack were.
“But we should still have the problem of crossing the river, and the boat will get us to Dürnstein much faster.”
He gave up arguing at that point, because he could guess that I was foreseeing, being guided by Myrddin Wyllt.
During the night, the wind changed, as I had said it would. Downstream from Vienna the Danube is a moving lake, but upstream it is a well-behaved river, very wide, but confined within clearly defined banks. Its valley is likewise extremely broad, as you would expect. Our boat boasted a crew of six, three of them being owner-brothers. They would carry passengers as well as cargo, charging them by the day, for progress depended mostly on the wind, and also to some extent on the height of the river. At that time of year the water was low, the current slow, and the wind freezingly strong, but blowing out of the northeast. Consequently, we made very good time all the way to Dürnstein, arriving near to dusk. I spent the day strumming on my new gittern and trying to remember all the minstrel-type songs I could recall. I was seriously out of practice.
The hamlet of Dürnstein is on the northern bank, but is as close to negligible as anywhere can be. Its interest to me was the mighty fortress that stands high on the valley wall above it. The Danube bends there, giving the lookouts a fine view to both south and east. There was no real inn, but we were directed to a cottage that would take in boarders. We had to sleep on the floor, but only after being served an excellent supper. We rolled up in our blankets by the light of the fire’s last embers.
“So what do we do tomorrow, other than break into that castle?” William demanded.
“I win my way in there with my charming smile and lovable personality. You stay on here and celebrate Christmas with the inhabitants. You also buy horses for us. Four, I think, would—” For a moment I sensed the William of my youth, the monster eager to pounce. “Here? Where do I find those in a pocket-sized cesspit like this, you Saxon nitwit? I could count the houses in Dürnstein on the fingers of one foot.”
“I have no idea where,” I admitted. “That has not been revealed to me, but since the day I discovered that you could read and write Latin, I have never known you to fail me, William Legier, you old fraud. If I told you to fly, you probably would. Look after my packsack until I return, please. St. Stephen’s Day is a big celebration here, it seems, but I will rejoin you on the day after—St. John’s Day—and then we will ride off to England.”
“This is devil
s’ talk,” William growled. He rolled over and went to sleep.
The trail up to the castle gate was long and steep. There were hints of snow in the air, but exercise and my new cloak kept me warm in the bitter wind. I arrived at the gate and humbly asked if a minstrel might be allowed to brighten the festivities. My foresight had told me that I would be accepted into Dürnstein Castle, and minstrels are always welcome over Christmas. Richard would be comforted to see that his whereabouts were known to at least one friend, and my offer of an eventual rescue ought to cheer him up.
I was passed to a steward and taken to be inspected by the lady of the castle, known as Hunde. She was large, intimidating, and harassed in the midst of the kitchens, arranging for the feast to come. She frowned at my accent, and demanded to know where I was from.
“Picardy, my lady. I am on my way home from the Holy Land.”
“Huh! Another of those? Let me hear something.”
I unwrapped my gittern and hastily tuned it. Then I played a verse. Music is international, but my repertoire of Austrian songs was scarcely greater than my experience of pearl diving. She nodded impatiently and gave me her blessing. So I had food and shelter for the next couple of weeks, had I needed that much. My only risk now was that I might be recognized by someone from Leopold’s palace, possibly even the duke himself, accompanying Richard when he was brought to Dürnstein. Again, I gave my name as Blondel, although later I realized that I should have thought up a new nom de guerre.
The castle was huge, so I found an off-duty man-at-arms who would show me around in return for the latest tidings, for minstrels are the gossip carriers of the world. I told him that the word in Vienna was that the English king had been captured. He said that this was excellent news. When I inquired why, I learned that he had accompanied the castellan, Ministerial Hadmar von Kuenring, when he went to the Holy Land with his liege, Duke Leopold. Richard, in Dürnstein’s opinion, was an arrogant thief who deserved to rot in jail, or worse.
I was most happy to be shown a place where I could wash properly for the first time in much too long. I would sleep in the hall, of course, with the foot soldiers and unmarried knights, but I was assured that good straw pallets were available for all. I was required to play at midday dinner, but I was fed amply afterward, in the kitchen.
The ministerial himself sent for me later. His title implies a nobleman who is vassal to a duke, a rank not much different from my barony. Hadmar von Kuenring was a big, coarse-featured man with a bullying manner, but I had already learned that his men respected him. He demanded to know where I had come from.
I told him Vienna and the tale of Richard’s capture, which pleased him.
And before that? Originally from Picardy, I said, to justify my horrible accent. It is always best to stay as close to the truth as one’s interests allow, so I told him most recently from Outremer.
Europe must be swarming with men returning from the crusade, but perhaps he saw the possible connection with Richard, for he frowned suspiciously. “What building guards the harbor at Acre?”
“The Tower of Flies, my lord.” Right answer.
Later that day I met another minstrel who had found Christmas sanctuary in Dürnstein. He was much younger than me, darkly handsome and quick witted. His name was Jehan de Tours, which meant that he was a subject of Richard in his honor as duke of Touraine. That was no guarantee of his loyalty, though, for Richard as a ruler was more respected than loved and it was less than four years since he and Philip had been ravaging those lands to take them away from King Henry.
Jehan seemed somewhat puzzled when he heard my nom de guerre, and for a moment I feared that he was going to denounce me as a fraud, but he didn’t, neither then nor later. Had he ever met the real Blondel he must have known that I was too old, but perhaps he had merely seen him from a distance and had possibly heard him sing. My accent was all wrong, of course, especially because we were speaking French and I spoke Anglicized Norman French, which was like no other version, but my hair was the right color for me to be called Blondel. Whatever he thought, Jehan accepted me and we set to work planning a partnership repertoire. He was very good at romantic ballads, and also on comic jingles.
We had quite enough work to do. The castle chaplain recruited us to sing at mass, of course, and we had to rehearse for that over the next couple of days. His deacon was young and jovial, and was to double as master of the revels for the festivities.
Near dusk on Christmas Eve, Richard the Lionheart arrived in Dürnstein under guard. I stayed well back in the shadows as he was marched in. He looked haggard—understandably so after a two-day ride from Vienna, but he was warmly dressed now and held his head high. To my great relief, Duke Leopold had sent him, not brought him, and I recognized none of the escort from my time in Vienna.
Christmas Day began with mass, held in the great hall itself so that everyone could attend, not in the ice-cold little chapel. After that, Jehan and I went off to do some more rehearsing for the dinner entertainment. In addition to our singing, there would also be performances by jugglers and acrobats recruited from the younger members of the staff and guard. If Richard were present, he would see me and know that he had not been forgotten. If he were left in his cell, I would try to slip away and speak to him during the meal.
I knew which I expected, though, for I had foreseen his presence at the banquet ages ago, and Myrddin had never let me down yet. Either Ministerial Hadmar or Fraulein Kuenring— or possibly both—had been unable to resist the temptation to entertain a king at their table. Quite possibly Richard had given them his parole, but there he was, up at the high table between them, being charming as no other deadly killer could be. To my practiced healer’s eye, he still looked feverish, but I thought he was close to enjoying himself. After the last couple of weeks, food, warmth, and rest were great medications.
The enormous Yule log blazed on the hearth, and the hall was garlanded with greenery, especially holly with its brilliant red berries.
When my first turn to perform solo came along, I chose a song I had been taught by its composer, L’amours dont sui espris.
About the third line, I saw Richard’s head swing around, so I did not look at him any more. When I had finished, the applause was scanty, for very few present would have understood the words or appreciated the subtle melody, but I knew I had passed my message, even if I had butchered the song.
I went back to the performers’ table, where the jugglers were getting ready to perform and Jehan was busily chewing roast boar. He gave me a quizzical glance.
“That’s a new one to me. Who wrote it, do you know?”
“Blondel de . . . I mean, I did. God’s legs!”
He grinned.
“Listen!” I whispered. “All those stories about Richard are false! They’re lies spread by the king of France, who broke his oath and sailed away. They are not true!”
“And the sorcerer with the limp, Durwin of Pipewell? He’s not Merlin Redux?”
“If he is, I’ll turn you into a slug!”
Jehan grinned again and reached for the beer. “My father fought under Richard. He would certainly agree with you.”
“What’s your father’s name? I’ll ask Richard about him if I get a chance.”
I had known for days that I would make my way to Richard’s cell that night to tell him that I could rescue him, but not right away. I even knew how he was going to react—first with disapproval because flight would give his enemies an excuse to kill him, then with reluctant agreement, because Philip and John must still be conspiring to steal his empire. I also knew that this visit was going to be dangerous, but Myrddin Wyllt had never let me down yet.
At last the host and hostess left the hall, together with their royal guest and his armed escort. Servants began snuffing candles and handing out sleeping pallets. I took one and spread it close by one of the doors, where constant streams of men were passing by on their way to or from the privies. I joined in and on the way back, deliberately
took a wrong turning.
My tour of the castle had given me a fairly good idea of places where a noble prisoner would be held, and the most likely was the north tower, certainly not in one of the dungeons. I had not been shown inside that tower, but my hunch was confirmed when I heard guttural von Kuenring himself, stumping and grumbling his way down a spiral staircase that I was about to climb. I stepped into a shady corner, facing inward, and whispered Hic non sum. He and his companions went by without seeing me, growling in their version of German.
Now I had the problem of climbing that same staircase in the dark. The spiral wound to my right, which is customary in castles, so that an intruding swordsman, if right-handed, is at a disadvantage compared to a right-handed defender above him. I was no swordsman, but I had an iron lift on my right foot, so I had to go slowly and move with care. There was no banister, just a rope dangling around the newel axis to provide a questionable handhold. But that rope probably saved my life. As I ran my grip up it, preparatory to taking another step, I felt a sudden chill and pulled my hand down again fast. It tingled madly with pins-and-needles.
Cautious exploration told me that there was a horizontal warding across the shaft, like an invisible trap door. I do not know what would have happened had I penetrated that plane with my head, but even a mild surprise could easily have caused me to lose my balance and fall.
Or it might have just killed me outright. There must be a password, but I did not know it and I lacked a spell to disable the ward. So Duke Leopold employed sorcerers, too? I should not have been surprised.
I turned around, and went down, finding my way back to the hall without further trouble. My ambition to rescue my king would require further thought and probably much more magical ammunition. In the event, I never even tried, because he was moved from place to place so often during his captivity that it would have been impossible to plan the operation.
