Lionheart moe-4

by Stewart Binns

  Amidst very audible mutterings, the Archbishop sat down and cast a questioning glance at the Emperor. The King continued his response.

  ‘The death of Conrad of Montferrat was a tragedy. He was by far the best man to succeed as King of Jerusalem and it was my emissary, Henry of Champagne, who took him the good news. He was killed shortly afterwards by the Assassins, a lethal bunch of Muslims led by a fanatic called Hassan-i Sabbah…’

  He paused again, seeking out another group of fearsome-looking magnates in the audience.

  ‘Needless to say, Sabbah does not accept commissions from Christians.’

  The Lionheart’s caustic ending produced peals of laughter that rang around the nave and gave rise to even more discomfort for the Emperor. The King was warming to his task, and now went on the offensive.

  ‘The final accusation, my Lord Chamberlain, is the most hurtful. Unlike your Lord, the Emperor Henry, who did not take the cross, and Philip Augustus, King of the French, who did, but then returned home, I and my fellow crusaders fought with all our might to free the Holy City. But after the tragic loss of the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, and the return to Europe of most of his mighty army, our task was all but doomed from the outset.’

  He glared at the warriors in the room. Many of them must have been with Barbarossa’s army when it returned. Some of them must have been with Leopold at Acre and would have left long before the army of the Great Crusade approached Jerusalem.

  ‘Despite being heavily outnumbered, we defeated Saladin’s army at Arsuf and came close to taking Jerusalem. Indeed, I had the privilege of seeing it from less than ten miles away. But we did not have the men to take the city. More importantly, had we succeeded, who would have defended it? It is a long way from the Christian coast and isolated in a sea of Muslims.’

  The Chamberlain rose, attempting to bring the Lionheart’s tirade to an end. But the King glowered at him.

  ‘I am almost finished; this assembly must hear me out.’

  He raised his voice so that it reverberated around the sandstone walls of St Mary’s and across every realm in Europe.

  ‘I did not abandon hope. We stalked the Holy City; we threatened Egypt itself. I sent a clarion call to Europe asking for more men. So did the Sultan Saladin. But his call for reinforcements was answered in droves from all over Islam. I waited and waited, but when the reinforcements arrived from Europe, they came as a noble few, rather than the mighty host we needed.’

  Then he came to the climax of his tour de force.

  ‘And I have to say to you, my Teutonic friends, when I stood and stared at the walls of Jerusalem for the last time, knowing that I could not breach them, other than a few of your countrymen in the heroic ranks of the Templars and the Hospitallers, there were very few German faces beside me!’

  His audience was stunned and uncomfortable.

  The King delivered his coup de grâce. He had recognized a face in the audience, a Hospitaller, distinctive with his white cross and black mantle.

  ‘Lothar, Lord of Schwerin, you were with us outside Jerusalem. Tell this noble gathering if anything I have said today is untrue.’

  Lothar stood and spoke in a strong voice.

  ‘It was as you described it, my Lord King.’

  The reverse of what the Emperor had intended had happened. He was the one who was embarrassed, not the King.

  But the Lionheart was still not finished.

  ‘So I say to you all, what was I to do? Saladin is not an evil being, a creature to frighten children; he is an honourable man and a great warrior. He has a different faith, a belief that is a mystery to us – indeed, it is alien to us – and for that, he will, one day, have to answer to the one true God. However, because of the treaty we now have with Saladin, Jerusalem is an open city. Christians come and go under safe passage guaranteed by the Sultan. They are free to trade and, most importantly, are free to pray at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.’

  The King then turned towards the Archbishop and his fellow ecclesiasts and spoke to them directly. He lowered his voice and became conciliatory in tone.

  ‘My Lords, esteemed Bishops, I think you will agree it is a far better outcome than many thought possible after the sad loss of Barbarossa.’

  The gathering burst into spontaneous, animated conversation. They were shocked at what they had heard. The Lionheart’s eloquence had not only made a compelling case in his defence, but he had also concluded with a telling reminder that, if 100,000 Holy Roman men had not returned home after the death of their Emperor, the story of the Third Great Crusade might have been very different.

  Emperor Henry’s face had become thunderous. He looked around, as if in search of the culprits who had given him false accounts of what had happened in Palestine. Fortunately for his future well-being, Leopold of Austria was not there to answer the obvious questions about his version of events. Almost in a state of panic, Henry beckoned to his Chamberlain to speak.

  ‘The Archbishop and his conclave will now deliberate on the indictments and report back to the Emperor tomorrow. A feast has been prepared in the cathedral cloisters; the stewards will assist you. Please leave in an orderly fashion, the cathedral is very full.’

  I looked at the Lionheart. He was twice the man he had been an hour ago. Many of the gathering paid their respects to him before the Emperor’s men escorted him away. He had won a great victory, perhaps the most important of his life, and he had achieved it not with his sword but with his words. The Abbess Hildegard would have heartily approved.

  Accounts of his defence would soon spread around Europe like a fire across a field of stubble. His bravura had not made him a free man, but the intended humbling of a great King had been thwarted.

  29. Purgatory

  After the King was taken away from the nave of St Mary’s, I did not see him again for several days. It was a very fraught interlude. Although it seemed unlikely that the Emperor would harm him after what had happened in the cathedral, the King was a long way from home and in the grip of a very angry and humiliated man.

  Perhaps an ‘accident’ would be arranged, or a sudden ‘illness’. Neither Charles nor Clovis could get anyone to divulge anything regarding the Lionheart’s whereabouts; we were restricted to our billet and closely watched. My anxiety grew with every day that passed.

  Then, early on the fourth morning, our door was thrown open and, accompanied by a posse of warriors, a sergeant ordered us to be ready to leave within the half-hour. To my horror, by the end of that day, we were back in the castellated ossuary of Trifels. This time, I was spared the oubliette that I had suffered before, but was instead given the comparative luxury of a small room high up in the north-west tower. At least it had a garderobe, a window and a palliasse to sleep on. Clovis and Charles were nearby, but the Lionheart was nowhere to be seen.

  I wrestled with the conundrum. Did our return to Trifels mean the King was safe, or doomed? I decided that it must be good news. If he had come to an unfortunate end, there would be no reason to keep us alive, so he must still be amongst the living. However, as soon as I had come to a positive conclusion, I changed my mind. If they had murdered the King, it would look much more suspicious if we also died. Thus, we would be spared to add credibility to his ‘accidental’ death. Perhaps the deed would be done at Trifels at the hands of the odious Castellan.

  My mind spun with the possibilities.

  Two days later, all three of us were taken to a higher level in the tower.

  In a simple room, but one that was a little more refined than mine, looking quite relaxed and humming a tune, was the King. This time, his greeting was reminiscent of the Lionheart I remembered. He jumped to his feet and embraced me warmly.

  ‘Good to see you, Ranulf, if not in the most auspicious of circumstances.’

  ‘It is good to see you, sire.’

  ‘What did you think about Speyer; wasn’t it splendid?’

  ‘Indeed it was, my Lord. How did the Emperor get himself off the hook you
put him on with your performance?’

  ‘Very cleverly. The next day, the Archbishop gave his judgement; but the Emperor would not allow it to be announced in public. I was exonerated of all charges.’

  ‘So, does that mean you are free to go, sire?’

  The King smiled, and I realized immediately how naive my question had been.

  ‘My dear Ranulf, you have been around the halls of power long enough to know nothing is as simple as that. The Emperor summoned me to see him in private. Only his Chamberlain and the Archbishop of Worms were there. He was furious with me, but took great satisfaction in outlining his devilish scheme.’

  The King turned to the two abbots.

  ‘You are to return to England tomorrow; listen well, you must take this news to Queen Eleanor. The Emperor is now saying that, as the charges against me have been repudiated and Leopold of Austria is now the villain of the piece, he has done the noble thing by acting as guarantor of the ransom demanded by Leopold.’

  Abbot Charles saw through the ruse straight away.

  ‘But, sire, that’s tantamount to the same position as before.’

  ‘Of course, but it gets the Emperor off the charge of being my cruel jailor and passes the opprobrium to Leopold.’

  ‘So, my Lord, if Henry is guaranteeing the ransom, then you can go?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s much more diabolical than that, good Abbot. The Emperor is also saying that Leopold will only accept his guarantee when the geld is delivered. And as no one other than Queen Eleanor can produce such a sum in the immediate future, I have to stay in Germany until she has arrived with a convoy of cartloads carrying enough ingots to cover Henry’s pledge.’

  We all looked bewildered.

  ‘Yes, it’s a semantic trick. My plight is exactly as it was before, and any man with the intelligence of a stoat can see through it. But, on the surface, it saves the Emperor’s face. It’s stunningly clever in its simplicity.’

  The King strode to his window and looked out across the valley below and, beyond it, to the Rhine.

  ‘So, gentlemen, make haste to Westminster and tell the Queen to stoke the furnaces and melt barrels of coins into silver ingots as fast as the smiths can toil. In the meantime, Ranulf and I will play chess and watch the summer bloom in Swabia.’

  I looked at the King; all my anxieties for his future returned. Trifels was a purgatory for him and would not be eased when he discovered that I had never played chess.

  As the two abbots rose to leave, the King stopped them.

  ‘I have a scroll for you. It is for Blondel; it’s a new chanson I have written for him. Songs help me with the loneliness. A few weeks ago, I heard of the treachery of two companions who were with us in the Holy Land, Geoffrey of Perche and William of Caïeux. Their lands are on the border with King Philip’s French realm, and they have declared for him. This brute of a Castellan here made sure I was given the news when it arrived from Paris. So, I have written a little lament; it’s rather melancholy, I’m afraid, but it reflected my mood at the time and comforted me. It’s called “No Man Who’s Jailed”.’

  He then sat in his chair and started to sing in a melodious voice with a timbre as fine as any troubadour.

  Feeble the words and faltering the tongue

  Wherewith a prisoner moans his doleful plight;

  Yet for his comfort he may make a song.

  Friends have I many, but their gifts are slight;

  Shame to them if unransomed I, poor wight,

  My winters languish here.

  English and Normans, men of Aquitaine,

  Well know they all who owe homage to me

  That not my lowliest comrade in campaign

  Should pine thus, had I gold to set him free;

  To none of them would I reproachful be

  Yet – I am a prisoner here!

  This have I learned, here thus unransomed left,

  That he whom death or prison hides from sight,

  Of kinsmen and of friends is clean bereft;

  Woe’s me! But greater woe on these will light,

  Yes, sad and full of shame will be their plight

  If long I languish here.

  No marvel is it that my heart is sore

  While my lord tramples down the land I trow;

  Were he but mindful of the oath he swore

  Each to the other, surely I do know

  That thus in duress I should long ago

  Have ceased to languish here.

  My comrades whom I loved and still do love

  The lords of Perche and of Caïeux

  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.

  And they, my knights of Anjou and Touraine

  Well know they, who now sit at home at ease,

  That I, their lord, in far-off Allemaine

  Am captive. They should help to my release;

  But now their swords are sheathed and rust in peace,

  While I am prisoner here.

  There were tears in my eyes by the time the King had finished, as there were in his. I knew that Blondel would sing it beautifully and it would soon be heard in every hall and village in the Lionheart’s Empire.

  Later, as the two abbots carried the King’s lyrics with them to England, I wondered whether the noble Lionheart would not only be remembered as a great warrior, but also as one who could charm a hostile audience with the power of his rhetoric and write songs of great charm and poignancy.

  The King had been right, his release did not come quickly. Summer blossomed, which at least brought the modest comfort of warm air to temper the frigid stone walls of Trifels, but then its fruits perished with the nip of autumn. I was allowed to visit the King every afternoon, from twelve until the beginning of the Dog Watch, at four. We were also allowed to walk around Trifels’ keep every morning for an hour, the only exercise we were granted. We were closely watched by several guards, who maintained their surly demeanour week after week.

  Our food was plain but had improved from our first visit, and the King regained some weight and colour. After much patient tutoring from the King, I did learn to play chess. We carved the pieces ourselves from fallen twigs we found in the bailey and scratched a board into the King’s table. We gave names to all the pieces from the King’s family and entourage; he took particular pride in naming his king William the Conqueror, while I named mine Harold of England. Perhaps that is why I always lost.

  Eventually, the game proved to be a source of frustration rather than comfort, because I was never able to offer a serious challenge. If I took my time to try to find the right move, the Lionheart became impatient. And if I moved without sufficient thought, it led to a stupid mistake, which made him even more irritated.

  We rarely saw Rudolph the Castellan, who seemed content to stay on the top floor of the keep, getting fatter and fatter. Once a week, a girl – and sometimes more than one – was brought from the local village so that he could indulge himself. These visits made our plight even more unbearable – especially when we could hear his grunting and the girls’ squeals of pleasure, no matter how contrived they might have been. We sometimes played a little game in which we vied to decide whether their yelps were genuine or not. Either way, the thought of the fat Swabian pleasuring the local girls for a couple of pieces of silver was an image that did little for our peace of mind.

  Eventually, the King did ask about Bérengère and whether she had become pregnant after their time together in Acre. He had hesitated to pose the question, fearing that he already knew the answer.

  ‘I suppose you would have given me the news when you arrived, had the Queen produced a child?’

  ‘I would have, of course, sire. Queen Eleanor thought that you should know that the Queen Bérengère miscarried the child she had conceived in the Holy Land.’

  The Lion
heart immediately turned and walked to the window to hide his distress. He leaned his head on its wooden jamb and stared northwards.

  ‘Will I ever have an heir? It has been too long.’

  ‘But she’s not barren, my Lord; many women miscarry with their first child.’

  I decided not to tell him about the other miscarriages; his mood was dark enough as it was.

  ‘If we never get out of here, that imbecile of a brother will inherit the throne! I must get back to England.’

  ‘We will be home soon, sire. The smiths are melting silver every day, and your mother is in charge; you know it will be done. We will be home by Christmas, I’m sure.’

  ‘You know nothing about it! Don’t patronize me, I’m not a bloody fool. We could rot in here until the end of my days. I would not be the first.’

  Flashes of anger like that became more and more frequent as autumn’s onset bit hard. Confinement was the one thing that could tame the lion in him, and he became more and more morose.

  He tried to compose new chansons, but without much success, until it became another source of frustration. Eventually, he abandoned them all and just dwelt on his one chanson for Blondel, which he began to call his ‘Song of Despair’. It was a thing of great charm and, although it had always been a lament, he had sung it with a sense of hope. But now he started to sing it with despair in his voice, until it became unbearable to listen to.

  Once again, he became the broken man I had found at Trifels.

  He began to bellow challenges to the guards and the Castellan, driving himself into incoherent rages. My daily visits offered little comfort. Although they began politely, with the usual pleasantries, they soon descended into tirades during which he would vent his spleen at me.

  It became hard to bear, and I began to dread my visits.

  The King’s appearance deteriorated. He stopped trimming his beard and washing himself; he began to throw his food around his room and out of his window.