A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  AFTER FINDING AN INN, Richard and his men had eaten their first hot meal in over a week. He’d then sent Arne and Baldwin to buy horses, and they’d delighted Görz’s horse traders by buying the best animals the town had to offer. Arne was then dispatched with Anselm and Morgan to seek safe conducts from the count, and while he awaited their return, Richard went to the stable to inspect Baldwin’s purchases. They were not as bad as he’d feared, although he soon concluded that Baldwin had been overcharged. When the other man glumly admitted as much, Richard found a smile, assuring Baldwin that paying too much for horses in Görz was not likely to cost him any sleep.

  “Sleep.” The word had taken on the sweetness of honey, for none of them had gotten a full night’s rest since leaving Ragusa. They were alone in the stable, the grooms having gone off for their evening meal, and so they could at last talk freely, having remained mute for most of the day, not wanting to draw attention to themselves by speaking French. Stooping to examine a roan gelding’s foreleg, Richard straightened up with an effort, feeling as if he’d aged twenty years overnight.

  “I never paid beds much mind unless one had a woman in it,” he admitted to Baldwin, “but right now the pallets back in that filthy, flea-ridden inn are looking better to me than the royal palace at Acre.”

  Baldwin nodded, and pointed toward the shadows where one of the Templars had dozed off while still standing. “We’d best have the innkeeper awaken us in the morn, or else we might well sleep past Christmas. How long dare we stay?”

  “That will depend upon how successful Morgan and Anselm are. If they cannot get in to see the count or if he balks at giving safe conducts, we’ll have to leave at first light. But if that ring buys his goodwill, I think we can risk a day or two here. God knows we all need a chance to rest up—”

  Richard checked himself, having heard footsteps in the front of the stable. Baldwin tensed, too, and reached over to awaken the Templar, who was instantly alert, his a soldier’s reflexes. The king’s admiral, Robert de Turnham, and Guillain de l’Etang were hurrying toward their stall, their faces taut and troubled, and behind them, Richard caught a glimpse of Anselm and Morgan, trailed by Arne, whose puppylike energy seemed suddenly sapped. It was obvious that Robert and Guillain already knew what had transpired at the castle, but they both stepped aside once they reached Richard, deferring to his chaplain and cousin, and he realized that he was about to receive yet more bad news.

  “Are we alone?” Anselm asked in Latin, catching himself from adding “my liege,” for it was not easy to stop using the acknowledgments of rank. “Can we talk here?”

  When Richard nodded, Anselm and Morgan exchanged glances and then the Welshman said bluntly, “Count Engelbert . . . He knows who you are. When we presented him with the ring, he said . . .” Morgan paused for breath and to recall the count’s words precisely. “He said, ‘Your master’s name is not Hugh. You serve the English king.’”

  “Christ Jesus,” Richard said, very softly. “How could he . . .” He stopped then, for that did not matter. “How did you get away?”

  “Did you lead them back here?” Baldwin’s tone was accusing, and both Morgan and Anselm bridled.

  “No!” they said in unison, speaking at once and drowning each other out as they tried to explain. Richard held up a hand for silence, pointing then at Morgan to continue. “He did not arrest us. He would not even accept the ring. He said that he respected your vow and what you’d done against Saladin.”

  Richard considered this, for once doubting his fabled luck. Could he really have found an honorable man midst Heinrich’s lackeys and lickspittles? “And he said nothing about Conrad?”

  Morgan shook his head and Anselm confirmed it. “Nary a word, sire.”

  “He did mention Ragusa, lord,” Arne interjected, “asking if we’d stopped there. I said no, of course.”

  “But he warned us that we must leave Görz straightaway,” Morgan said bleakly. “He said you were in great danger, that Heinrich has cast a wide net and men will be on the lookout for you everywhere since you could be anywhere.”

  Richard was silent for a moment, weighing his rapidly dwindling options. He could not remember ever being so tired or so disheartened. Turning toward the Templar, he told him to fetch the men who’d gone to a tavern across the street from the stable, and sent Arne back to the inn to gather up their belongings. And then he gave the command his aching body and weary brain dreaded, the command they all dreaded, saying grimly, “Saddle up.”

  METHILDIS OF ANDECHS, former Countess of Pisino and current Countess of Görz, was not happy with her husband. He’d been tossing and turning for hours, making it impossible for her to sleep. It was like sharing a bed with a river eel, and when he rolled over again, this time jabbing her in the ribs with an elbow, she’d had enough.

  Sitting up in bed, she shook his shoulder. “You may as well tell me what is troubling you, Engelbert. Neither of us will be getting any sleep this night unless you do.”

  He sat up, too, running his hand through his tousled hair. “As you wish, my dear,” he agreed, so readily that she felt a suspicion spark, wondering if he’d deliberately awakened her so they could talk; usually she had to coax him into unburdening himself. He surprised her greatly by what he did next, calling out sharply to his sleeping squire, ordering the befuddled boy to fetch a flagon of wine from the buttery. He was usually an indulgent master, sometimes too indulgent in his wife’s opinion, and the squire was obviously shocked to be torn from sleep and sent off on an errand in the middle of the night. Shivering, he dressed with haste, clutching his mantle tightly as he stumbled toward the door. As soon as they were alone, Engelbert jerked the linen hangings back, allowing the blackness of their cocooned bed to be diluted by the white-gold flames in the hearth.

  By now, Methildis was feeling stirrings of alarm. “Engelbert, what is it?” she asked, all her earlier vexation gone from her voice. “What is wrong?” She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. They’d been married for two years, time enough for her to learn he was a worrier by nature, given to conscience pangs and prone to second-guessing himself. But his next words took her breath away.

  “The English king is in Görz.”

  “What . . . here? Are you sure?”

  There was enough light now to see him nod his head. “He sent three of his men to me today, asking for safe conducts. They gave a false name, of course, claimed he was a merchant, traveling with other pilgrims on their way home from the Holy Land. I knew, though, that they lied.”

  Methildis was wide-awake now, and enthralled, already envisioning the imperial favor they’d be enjoying for capturing the emperor’s hated foe. “How did you know, Engelbert? What made you even suspect them?”

  “Two days ago a man came to me, someone who’d brought me useful bits of information in the past. He said he’d met a sailor in a dockside tavern in Aquileia, whose ship had arrived from Ragusa that past week. The sailor claimed that the English king was in Ragusa, being acclaimed by the count and townspeople as the savior of the Holy Land, and planning to build a great cathedral in their city. That seemed an unlikely story to me and I dismissed it as drunken tavern ramblings. But then these men came seeking safe conducts, and they were so obviously ill at ease that I remembered the Ragusa tale. When I mentioned Ragusa to the stripling who spoke German, he went whiter than a corpse-candle. I still had only suspicions, of course . . . until they gave me a ring as a token of their master’s goodwill—the most magnificent ruby I’ve ever seen.”

  “Really?” Methildis breathed, for she dearly loved jewelry. As eager as she was to see it, though, that could wait. “I do not understand, Engelbert. Why did that confirm your suspicions?”

  He smiled thinly. “Because no merchant, however wealthy, would ever have given up something of such value. That was a grand gesture only a king would make, a king accustomed to spending lavishly and bestowing largesse without counting the cost.”

  That made sense to Methildis. “Wha
t happened then? Did they try to deny it?” She doubted the English king was already in custody, for surely he’d have told her, told them all, if that were so. It was hard not to berate him for keeping this secret from her, but she swallowed her reproaches and asked instead if he’d forced them to reveal Richard’s whereabouts. Even if they were still balking, they’d not be able to hold out for long. Her brother had once told her that there were ways of making the bravest man talk, and with so much at stake, Engelbert could not afford to be squeamish.

  Her husband did not reply, though, instead giving her an odd look, one she could not interpret, and she had a sudden sense of unease. “Engelbert? What are you not telling me? Richard did not escape, did he?”

  “No,” he said, and she heaved a sigh of relief, until he added, “I let him go.”

  “You did what?”

  She sounded so incredulous, so horrified, that color rose in his face. “I let him go,” he repeated, this time sounding both defensive and defiant. “It was the right thing to do, Methildis. He’d taken the cross, was under the Church’s protection. Nor had he done anything to deserve being detained. No state of war exists between England and the empire.”

  Methildis was so dumbfounded that she could only blurt out the first objection to come to mind. “How can you say he does not deserve to be detained? What about your uncle’s murder?”

  His mouth twisted down scornfully. “You did not truly believe that, did you? If there is any man in Christendom who’d do his own killing, for certes it is Richard of England. Conrad counted a day misspent if he did not make at least one new enemy, so he finally reaped what he’d sown.”

  Methildis opened her mouth, shut it again. She’d erred by mentioning Conrad. She should have known better, for he’d abandoned his first wife, Engelbert’s aunt, when the opportunity presented itself to wed the sister of the Emperor of the Greeks in Constantinople. “Do you not realize what you’ve done, Engelbert? You’ve defied the Emperor Heinrich!”

  “I had no other choice! The Holy Church’s position on this could not be clearer. Men who take the cross to fight the infidels are not to be harmed. Suppose I attempted to seize him, he resisted—as, of course, he would—and he was slain? I could be excommunicated by the Pope, could face eternal damnation!”

  “By the current Pope? That timid old man? He’d never dare to challenge Heinrich!”

  “He might not have the courage to excommunicate Heinrich, I grant you that. But me? I’d make the perfect sacrificial goat. And I am not about to jeopardize my immortal soul just to keep Heinrich happy!”

  “I cannot believe you truly think it is more dangerous to offend the Pope than Heinrich! You could not be that blind, that foolish!”

  “I am done talking about this,” he warned. “I followed the dictates of my conscience and no man can do better than that. I’ll say no more on it—and hear no more on it from you. Is that clear?”

  Methildis had a much more combustible temper than her husband; it kindled quickly and burned itself out just as quickly. Engelbert’s rare flare-ups of fury were quite different, difficult to ignite and difficult to extinguish. She saw now that she’d poked and prodded a cold hearth until the ashes and embers caught fire, for she recognized that obdurate expression on his face. She’d learned that she could only wait for his anger to cool on its own. But time was the one luxury she did not have; every hour that passed would take the English king farther from Görz. She was a proud woman, the daughter of a count and the sister of a duke, and she’d never been one to play the role of a docile, biddable wife. With so much at stake, though, she had no choice.

  Reaching out, she put her hand on his arm. “I ask your pardon, my lord husband. I was indeed in the wrong to speak to you so shrilly. Will you forgive me?”

  He half turned toward her, and she could see surprise on his face, but suspicion, too. “You are not usually so quick to make amends,” he said, sounding skeptical. He did not pull away from her touch, though, and she took encouragement from that. He was not as confident as he’d have her believe; if he was not harboring doubts, why had he been unable to sleep?

  “I know,” she conceded. “I can be a shrew, I admit it. But this is different, Engelbert. We must face this danger together, united against it. I truly do understand why you acted as you did,” she lied. “You are a far more honorable man than Heinrich. If you are unwilling to discuss this further, I will abide by your wishes—just as I will support whatever decision you make, as your wife and your countess. I entreat you, though, to answer two questions, just two. After that, I promise to hold my peace.”

  He drew back into the deeper shadows cast by the bed hangings and she could no longer see his face. “Very well,” he said, after an endless silence that had her digging her nails into her palm. “Ask your questions.”

  “Thank you,” she said, thinking that he’d owe her a huge debt for making her humble herself like this—mayhap that splendid ruby ring he’d been given; she loved rubies. “My first question is this: Do you think the English king will be able to escape capture, to make his way to safety in Hungary or Saxony?”

  “No,” he said, after another interminably long pause. “No, I do not.”

  “Nor do I,” she agreed quickly. “And when he is taken prisoner, what do you think will happen then?”

  “How would I know that?”

  You know, she thought, you are just loath to admit it. She carefully kept any anger or resentment from her voice, though. “Once he is in the emperor’s power, it will all come out. How you could have seized him in Görz and did not. When Heinrich learns that you let him go, do you think he will forgive you for that?” That was three questions, but she was sure he was no longer counting, for that third question went to the heart of the matter, was likely the one that had been robbing him of sleep.

  He was quiet for so long that she feared he would try to avoid answering. But he finally said, very low, “No, I know he will not.”

  Methildis shut her eyes in a silent prayer of thankfulness that he’d regained his senses. “You followed your conscience and gave the English king a chance to escape. But now you must protect yourself, Engelbert. You did your duty as a Christian. Now you must do it as the emperor’s liegeman. On the morrow you must send word to your brother, Meinhard, that Richard of England was reportedly seen in Görz. If he is captured elsewhere, it is not your doing and not your fault. He is in God’s hands, as are we all.”

  She held her breath then, waiting for him to argue, to protest. When he did not, she felt such relief that she sank back, exhausted, against the pillows, feeling as if she’d staved off disaster by a hairsbreadth. Reaching for his hand, she gave it a squeeze. “You will send a messenger to Meinhard?”

  “I will.” It was little more than a whisper, but it was enough for her. It was quiet after that, and as his breathing steadied and slowed, she could tell that he was drifting toward sleep. She’d given him this peace of mind, she thought, a way to reconcile his conflicting loyalties. She was growing drowsy, too. But then she remembered.

  “Engelbert. The ruby ring . . . Where is it?”

  “Wha . . .” he mumbled, yawning. “I gave it back to them. . . .” He slid easily into sleep then, never hearing his wife’s quick intake of breath, as sharp as any blade.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DECEMBER 1192

  Udine, Friuli

  After fleeing Görz, Richard and his men took shelter that night in a charcoal burner’s hut. The man and his family were terrified by the sudden appearance of these armed foreigners, and not comforted by Arne’s attempts at reassurance. None of them drew an easy breath until the men rode on in the morning, and then they could only marvel at their good fortune, for the knights had left a generous sum for their reluctant hospitality, more coins than they’d ever seen. Laughing and hugging one another, they vowed to pray for these mysterious strangers, beseeching Saint Christopher, who was said to protect travelers, to keep them safe as they faced the perils of the mo
untain roads.

  THE ALEHOUSE WAS SMALL and shabby, its trampled floor rushes reeking of spilt ale and mouse droppings, its dingy walls yellowed by smoke and streaked with dirt. It was very crowded, for the day had been a cold one, the leaden skies threatening snow, and Richard and his men had trouble finding seats. The food was not any better than the surroundings, but they ate it without complaint, for hunger was a good sauce and this was their first meal since they’d left Görz.

  During their brief stay with the charcoal burner, they’d concluded the danger was so great that Hungary was now beyond their reach, and they’d have to head north toward Moravia, ruled by the brother of Duke Ottokar of Bohemia, where they hoped to receive a friendly welcome. On their arrival in the town of Udine, they avoided the castle, not willing to risk another safe-conduct fiasco. After arranging to stable their horses, they took rooms in a nearby inn, and then went in search of a tavern or alehouse that served meals. As they scooped up the beans and salted herring with stale bread, they tried not to remember the four-course dinner thrown for them by Archbishop Bernard and Count Raphael; it was less than a fortnight since they’d sailed from Ragusa, but already it seemed a distant part of their past.

  All around them swirled familiar sounds: laughter and good-natured squabbling and shouts for more ale to the harried servingmaids, who were kept as busy fending off groping hands as they were pouring ale. They could have been back in any alehouse or tavern in their own homelands if the language had not been German, occasionally interspersed with Italian dialects. They ate in silence themselves, not wanting to attract attention by speaking French, small, gloomy islands in a cheerful, boisterous sea of ale-soaked camaraderie. Arne had just gone to find the privy when Guillain de l’Etang rose and took the seat he vacated, settling onto the bench next to Richard.