“I do not trust Henry,” Richard said. “Nor my brother John.” He shook his head. “Nor the king of France. Too many men with access to mercenaries who would readily take orders for a bit of that silver.”
“Aye,” Feronantus said quietly, and Maria glanced between Richard and his servant, wondering what conversation between the two of them she had missed.
Richard sighed, and for a moment, his shoulders slumped. “This game has to be played,” he said, adjusting his posture and setting aside his weariness. “It serves me little to depart from the emperor’s court without the ransom being paid. My detractors will only increase their incessant braying about my honor, or lack thereof. Good Christian men will begin to doubt what I accomplished in the Holy Land.” Richard shook his head again. “Too many died to ensure access to Jerusalem. I will not let their deaths be wasted. I will abide by the terms of my captivity—that is my chivalrous duty—but I cannot sit by and do nothing while others plot to disrupt my mother and wife’s efforts on my behalf.”
He flipped over his sheet of parchment and began sketching in broad strokes on the blank sheet. “They’ll follow the river, won’t they?” he said. Maria assumed he was talking to Feronantus, for she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Aye,” Feronantus said, nodding. “If the emperor convinces Queen Eleanor to part with a portion of the ransom, they’ll come by boat from London. To Walcheren and Middelburg, and then up the Rhine.”
Richard’s head bobbed up and down as he continued to work. Beneath his hands, a twisting course of a river emerged, along with a coastline that she recognized as England and the continent—France and Normandy. “How far up the river?” Richard asked. “All the way?”
“It depends on the weather,” Feronantus pointed out. “If they leave England too late, there will be ice. It will slow the boats.”
“Henry won’t like the delay,” Richard said. “He’ll take the silver off the boats and bring it over land.” Some of Richard’s marks on the page were chevrons, and Maria guessed they were indicative of mountains. “If they travel on the north side of the river, that puts them close to Saxony, and the Lion of Saxony has no love for the emperor right now. On the south side of the river, they are closer to France.”
“But not that close,” Feronantus said.
“Close enough,” Richard mused. “The jingling sound of all that silver will carry far, and I suspect the king of France will be listening very intently.”
Feronantus shrugged, as if to say that such allure was lost on him.
“If that is the case, why would Philip wait?” Maria asked. When the two men looked at her, she blushed, but continued. “If I were to steal such an amount, I would not decide to do so on a whim.”
“I would choose the time and place,” Richard said, nodding. “I like your thinking, Maria of Navarre. It is a rare and wondrous gift. No wonder Berengaria sent you to visit me without the slightest inkling of what I am supposed to do with you. A solution presents itself readily enough, though, doesn’t it?”
“What solution?” Maria inquired.
Richard finished his drawing and held it up for the pair to examine it. Just past the first major curve of the river, Richard had drawn a series of narrow hills. “Here,” he said. “This is where I would lay an ambush. Plus”—he slapped a finger against the sheet—“I would force the issue. It doesn’t need to be ice on the river; it can be anything at all. Just enough of a crisis that the captain of the silver train decides to go overland.”
“That is a rather speculative observation,” Feronantus said dryly.
“I know,” Richard laughed. “Which is why I need to depend on you two to act as my eyes.”
“Us?” Feronantus and Maria said at the same time.
Richard grinned. “And if I am correct, you will need to be more than my eyes…”
TWO
The Shield-Brethren chapter house in Mainz was located near the ruins of the old Roman castrum, which had been the first settlement in the valley where the Rhine and Main flowed together. There were a number of chapter houses scattered across Christendom, and most were little more than tiny hermitages—temporary housing for members of the order, with one or two permanent residents charged with upkeep. The one in Mainz was almost like a small keep. It had an outer stone wall and several outbuildings around a main chapel, and it comfortably held several dozen Shield-Brethren knights and various support staff. Outside of Petraathen, the mountain stronghold that was the order’s home, the chapter house in Mainz was the largest Feronantus had seen.
He identified himself at the gate, and after relinquishing his horse to a squire, he made his way to the central building to speak with the quartermaster. On his left was a large training yard, and the initiates were running through a familiar drill. That much never changed: the training master trying to teach the young and the clumsy how not to die in battle.
To think he had been one of those untrained and untested lads a few years ago. It seemed like a dream. Like someone else’s life. Before his initiation scars had even healed, he had been bloodied in battle.
As he reached the main building, he was met by an older knight and led inside to a narrow room that contained two long tables. Light streamed in from high slits in the ceiling, and a worn standard of the order’s sigil hung on the wall to Feronantus’s right. This was the communal mess hall, the chamber where the knights held their Kinyen. Seated at the table were several weathered men, and Feronantus judged them to be the chapter house’s quartermaster and his senior knights.
He bowed, hands out and open, showing the rounded scar on either forearm. “I am Feronantus,” he said, “knight initiate of the order. I joined the crusade with Frederick Barbarossa, but returned with Richard Lionheart.”
“Greetings, brother Feronantus,” said the man sitting at the near end of the table. His long gray hair was pulled back from his face, and his beard curled in thick strands as it had been plaited recently. “I am Geoffrey, quartermaster of this house, and I bid you welcome. Your name and deeds are known to us.”
Feronantus dipped his head once more. “They are but minor tales,” he said, slightly embarrassed by the elder knight’s words. “Hardly worth recounting.”
“Aye, that may be true,” the older man said with a tiny grin, “but that does not diminish them.” He signaled to the man who had accompanied Feronantus to the room. “Come and sit,” he said to Feronantus. “Share your story with us.”
Feronantus nodded. He had timed his arrival at the chapter house to coincide with the midday meal, anticipating that his arrival would precipitate some discourse before he could get to the real reason for his visit. Of the Shield-Brethren who had accompanied King Richard on his return from the Holy Land, he was the only one who had stayed with the king. When he was surrounded by the duke of Austria’s men near the stable in Erdberg, he had not identified himself, and he and Richard had been taken to Dürnstein castle, a cold and remote stronghold where he had watched over the feverish king. Once Richard recovered, he had simply insisted that Feronantus—as a trusty manservant—remain with him, and that had been that. It had only been after the Holy Roman Emperor had brought both of them to the imperial court that he had managed to send word to the Electi at Petraathen, informing them that he still lived.
Why he stayed with the captive king, playing the role of the unassuming servant, was a decision neither he nor Richard ever discussed. It just felt like where he was supposed to be.
He had had many months to reflect on his intuition. His oplo—the order training master at Petraathen—had taught the initiates about the idea of Vor, the heightened awareness each Shield-Brethren knight sought to perfect in battle. While in the Holy Land, he had felt something that might be construed as the Vor during the Battle of Arsuf, where Richard finally bested Saladin and the Muslim armies.
The third time he had felt the strange fluttering feeling had been several days ago when he had met Maria, the handmaiden of Queen Bereng
aria.
Maria returned to the inn shortly before the evening slipped entirely from the sky. Torches had already been lit along the winding street in a vague attempt to keep the winter shadows at bay. From the street, she could hear the raucous noise coming from the inn, and she braced herself for the sweltering heat and cacophony of a room filled with drunks. She had chosen this inn partially for its steady business—it was easier to remain anonymous in a crowded room—but that did not mean she relished braving the noisy and sweaty mass.
Keeping one hand clasped about the base of her hood, she slipped through the open door in the wake of a lumbering merchant, who stopped abruptly on the inside of the threshold and threw his arms up in the air as if he meant to embrace the entire room. Perhaps he did, for it seemed as if everyone turned and shouted a greeting to the rotund man at the same time. The noise was deafening, and the weight of the shouts shoved Maria against the inner wall. Gasping for breath, she forced her way through the press of bodies, trying to reach the narrow stairs that led to the sparse rooms upstairs.
The noise lessened once she reached the second floor, though she could feel the timbers quaking beneath her feet. How long would they drink and sing and pound their tankards on the tables? she wondered as she went to the last door on the left.
She knew the answer. Germans would go all night, given the opportunity; during her foray into the market, she had heard about a recent festival the city had celebrated. For some, the festivities hadn’t ended.
She tried the door at the end of the hall and, finding it unbarred, opened it, slipping into the dark room. She leaned against the door as she shut it behind her, taking a moment to catch her breath. She did not care much for crowds, even when they were useful in obscuring her.
“It is quite a celebration downstairs,” a voice said in the darkness.
She let out a tiny shriek and then composed herself as she recognized the voice. “Why are you sitting there in the dark?” she demanded, her tone made harsher by her apprehension.
“I was listening,” Feronantus said. He moved slightly, and the stool he was sitting on creaked, letting her know he was on the other side of the narrow cot that split the room in half.
“You forgot to bring a candle up, didn’t you?” she realized.
“Aye,” he said, “I did. Wait a few moments. Your eyes will adjust to the gloom.”
“I don’t need to see anything,” she retorted, still slightly peeved that he had startled her. “Nor do you,” she pointed out as she fumbled for the latch, sliding it across the frame so no one could open the door from the outside.
“What did the Shield-Brethren say?” she asked as she felt for the edge of the cot. While what she had said about candlelight was true, she would have preferred some light in the room, and she realized she was just as guilty as he for neglecting to bring up a stub of wax with a tiny flame.
“Very little,” Feronantus replied. “Mostly, they listened.”
“Will they give you aid?”
“Of course,” he said. “They are my brothers.”
“Will it be enough?”
“It depends on the size of the imperial guard, and how many French come to ambush them, and how many men the emperor sends to ambush the ambushers.” He made a noise in his throat that she took to be a short laugh. “You never have enough,” he explained. “You always wish for a few more.”
Having found the cot, she crawled onto it and fussed with the ragged blanket provided by the innkeeper. The lodgings weren’t much, but she had slept in worse conditions. Any night with a roof overhead was a night to be treasured, and she suspected there would be a number of them coming up where she would be sleeping in much less comfort. “I asked about freemen,” she said as she tried to get comfortable. “We are too far north. We have to go south if we are to find men who would be amenable to our cause.”
“It will take too long,” he replied. “You should just find crossbowmen.”
“I know,” she sighed.
They had been avoiding the topic for several days. As they had traveled north from the imperial court, they had been listening to the gossip along the river. The emperor’s ambassadors had gone down the Rhine two months ago, in a fleet of a half dozen boats, several of which had been filled with armed men.
If the French intended to successfully ambush this party on its return, Feronantus estimated the ambushers would need at least twice the number of German soldiers. Making a difference in that battle meant gathering no small force in very little time. Feronantus, being a member of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, could call upon his order for assistance, but the question remained: How many knights could he assemble?
And if they couldn’t field Shield-Brethren, who else were they going to find?
English longbowmen had been Richard’s suggestion, not crossbowmen, when Maria had intimated a lack of understanding the distinction.
The trouble was finding such men within the Holy Roman Empire.
For months, the agents of the Scaccarium Redemptionis, the exchequer of ransom, had been delivering silver to the crypt beneath St. Paul’s Cathedral, in the heart of London. Hubert Walter, the Bishop of Salisbury, was in charge of raising the ransom for King Richard, and his men—hand-picked for their devotion to the Crown—weighed and marked the incoming silver, filling casks and crates with coin and ingots.
On a daily basis, Hubert delivered a report to Queen Eleanor, detailing the previous day’s receipts and updating his projections as to how long it would take England to raise the ransom. Recently, his news had not been good, and when the emperor’s ambassadors arrived in London, Hubert and Eleanor pled the case for a partial delivery of the ransom. One hundred thousand silver marks was not an amount that could be raised quickly—as was evidenced by the difficulties the exchequer of ransom was having—and more important, the sheer weight and bulk of such an amount was cause for concern.
The imperial ambassadors, being prudent men who had no desire to be the object of every bandit and rogue nobleman across Christendom, agreed with the queen’s suggestion. Hubert immediately ordered the chests of silver beneath St. Paul’s to be emptied into smaller containers for transport. Each barrel required four men to lift it onto the bed of a wagon, and each wagon required double the team to pull it through the streets of London to the docks at Queenhithe. There, a half dozen ships waited to receive the thousands of pounds of silver.
Hubert personally oversaw the transport of the silver from St. Paul’s, riding beside the lead wagon. The carts moved slowly through London, the wheels grinding against the stones of the streets. Even though Hubert had tried to maintain a level of secrecy over the course of the wagons, it was impossible to disguise the armed escort that accompanied the caravan. They had barely left the square near St. Paul’s before the streets became choked with Londoners who wanted to watch the historic procession.
Hubert couldn’t blame them. The exchequer of ransom had levied a tax of more than a quarter of the total wealth of every individual in England. They felt they had a right to see where that money was going.
He was more than a little relieved when the wagons reached Queenhithe. King Richard was a charismatic man—well loved by his subjects, for no reason other than the stories told by wandering minstrels were always entertaining and patriotic—but it had been many years since he had been back to England. Walter had wondered—to himself, but never to anyone else, especially the queen—if Londoners were going to realize they were paying many times over to get Richard back as they had paid to have him leave in the first place. Was he really worth that much to England?
The leader of the imperial ambassadors was a reedy man named Willehalm Zenthffeer. He made little effort to disguise his derision in regard to English efficiency, and Hubert was looking forward to handing over the silver and wishing the imperial ambassador Godspeed and all the luck in the world in getting the weight of silver to Speyer in a timely fashion.
Hubert was, in fact, looking forward to bei
ng done with this whole business of taxing the citizens of the English crown. He wished, not for the first time, that Richard had listened to him in Acre. That the king had come back with his army, instead of sneaking off like he had. That he had listened more readily to those around him during the campaigns in the Holy Land. That he weren’t as stubborn and arrogant as he was brilliant and manipulative. In a tiny corner of his heart, Hubert hated Richard, but he also knew he would always serve his king. Unreservedly and without complaint. Just as he knew Richard would reward such devotion and service.
Get me out of here and you can name your position, Richard had told him the last time Hubert had seen him in Speyer, eight months ago.
I am a bishop already, Hubert had argued, and I have gone on crusade with you. What else is there?
It had been a foolish question, the answer to which both he and Richard already knew: archbishop of Canterbury.
All he had to do was bring the king home.
As the wagons rattled to a stop behind Hubert, Willehalm limped out of the cluster of imperial soldiers ranged across the docks. “Is this all there is?” the imperial ambassador sneered, idly glancing at the line of wagons.
“It is,” Hubert sighed. Nearly ten thousand pounds of silver, he thought.
THREE
Feronantus was met at the gate of the Shield-Brethren chapter house by Rutger, one of the initiates he had met yesterday. Rutger clasped his forearm in the traditional greeting of the order; both men could feel the hardened edges of the initiation scars on the forearm of the other man.
“Were we at Petraathen together?” he asked Feronantus as they walked across the yard toward the main house.
Feronantus shook his head. “I don’t recall,” he said. Rutger appeared to be a few years younger, and those few years made quite a difference at the stage when the initiates were training for their trial.
Foreworld Saga 01 SideQuest Adventures No. 1 The lion in chains, the beast of Calarrava, the shield maiden Page 2
