THEY COVERED TWENTY-FIVE MILES before daring to halt at the Benedictine monastery of St Gall in Moggio. There they were accepted by the monks as pilgrims and were able at last to get a desperately needed night’s sleep in the abbey guest hall. They’d hoped to make better time on the Via Julia Augusta, the Roman road that was the main route from Aquileia to the Alps, for it was over twenty feet wide and paved with stones. They soon discovered that great stretches of it were in disrepair, though, and the weather turned nasty; they found themselves riding through snow squalls that sometimes obscured the road altogether. They were in the duchy of Carinthia now, a wild, rugged land where strangers were always regarded with mistrust, bandits roamed the heavily wooded forests, and they’d not be likely to encounter another lord with principles or a transplanted Norman with divided loyalties.
They debated making a stop in the town of Villach, but caution prevailed and they rode on, seeking shelter at another monastery, a Benedictine abbey on the north shore of a vast lake called the Ossiach. The next day, they pushed themselves and their horses to cover more than thirty miles, an impressive feat on winter roads, and as daylight was fading, they were approaching the walled town of Friesach.
The monks at St Gall had told Anselm that Friesach was one of the most prosperous towns in Carinthia, for it was the site of a rich silver mine, which had attracted men eager to seek their fortune. That would make it easier to blend in, they agreed, but they’d already realized it was nonetheless a risk they had to take, for darkness was falling and they were urgently in need of food and rest.
They stabled their horses, but delayed looking for an inn until they were sure it was safe to stay overnight in Friesach. Finding a tavern across from the parish church of St Bartholomew, they ordered a meal while Arne ventured out onto the city streets to eavesdrop, observe, and judge the public mood. They felt oddly uneasy with him gone, so dependent had they become upon him in the past week; his ability to speak German was, they all agreed, truly a Godsend.
The tavern was crowded, the conversation loud and cheerful. From what they’d seen so far of Friesach, it was indeed as the St Gall monks had described—thriving, bustling, and populous. A good place to go unnoticed, certainly safer than Görz, Udine, or Villach. They pitched into a mediocre Advent fish meal with relish, grateful to be out of the cold and out of the saddle, and encouraged to hear other tongues beside German.
Richard had taken a seat in the shadows, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He knew men thought him arrogant and he supposed he was, but he was also capable of laughing at himself, and as he began to relax and thaw out, he could see the perverse humor in it—that for the first time in his life, he was hoping not to attract attention. With a little imagination, he could hear the amused voice of his cousin André de Chauvigny echoing in his ear, You trying to seem modest and unassuming? You’d have a better chance of flying to the moon and back. He and André had fought side by side for nigh on twenty years, and he’d have given a great deal to have his cousin here in Friesach. He smiled to himself then, for he’d never admit that to André, of course. Barbed banter was the coin of their realm and heartfelt admissions of affection were rejected out of hand as counterfeit.
Warin had noticed several heavily rouged and powdered women and he leaned over to call them to the other men’s attention. His hopes were dashed, though, as they laughed at him and Fulk asked acidly if he meant to get roaring drunk and start a brawl after he’d gone whoring. He started to defend himself, only to be chided for speaking too loudly, and lapsed into a sulky silence, much to his friends’ amusement. Anselm was growing concerned by their merriment, fretting that the wine was going to their heads after so many hours without food, and he was leaning over to whisper his concern to Richard when he saw the king set down his wine cup with a thud. Following the direction of Richard’s gaze, he went rigid, too, for Arne was back, hastening across the crowded common room toward them, and he was ashen, so pale he looked bloodless.
They quickly made room for him on the bench, all their levity vanishing with their first look at Arne’s face. “A lord named Friedrich von Pettau is at the castle,” he said, so softly they had to strain to hear his voice. “He came all the way from Salzberg, bringing many knights and vowing to capture the English king. The people I spoke with said that rumors have been spreading like the pox. They thought it was a joke, saying the king must have wings for men are claiming to have seen him in dozens of places. But they said Lord Friedrich believes the stories and his men are everywhere, watching the stables, the taverns, alehouses, and, above all, the inns. They said a mouse could not gnaw through the net that has been cast over the town.”
By the time he was done, Arne’s halting words had trailed off into a choked silence. No one spoke after that. Nor did they meet one another’s eyes. During their night at St Gall abbey, they’d come up with an emergency plan, one to fall back upon if all hope seemed gone. But none of them had ever expected to have to make use of it, and now that the moment was upon them, they were stunned.
For once, Richard was not the first into the breach. When he said nothing, Baldwin realized that it was up to him. “We know what must be done,” he said quietly, his gaze moving from one face to another and then back to Richard. “You must go now, leave the town straightaway. We will do what we can to attract as much attention as possible and keep this Lord Friedrich so busy that he will have nary a thought to spare for anyone but us.”
For Richard, this was the nadir of their ordeal. He felt as if he were sacrificing his friends, violating a commander’s paramount duty to see to the safety of his men. And though he would never have admitted it, even to himself, it was a daunting prospect to continue on into the heartland of his enemy’s empire with only young Arne and one lone knight. Getting slowly to his feet, he glanced over at Warin and forced a smile. “It looks as if you’ll be able to swive a whore or two tonight, after all.”
Warin looked stricken, mumbling something inaudible. None of them knew what to say. Richard let his hand rest on Baldwin’s shoulder for a moment. “Do not stint yourselves,” he said, striving without much success for a light tone. “All know the English king is a hopeless spendthrift, after all.” He turned away then, and headed for the door, with Arne and Guillain de l’Etang following close behind. None of them glanced back.
The silence was smothering. Anselm lowered his head to hide tears. Robert de Turnham was slowly clenching and unclenching a fist, muttering under his breath. Warin had already emptied his own cup and now reached over to drain Richard’s. The usually phlegmatic Fulk was daubing at his eyes with the corner of his sleeve, grateful that none noticed, for each man was caught up in his own misery. Morgan was gripping his eating knife so tightly that the handle was digging into his palm. Standing up suddenly, he said, “I am sorry, I cannot do this. I know we agreed that only Guillain was to go with him. But the Lady Joanna will skin me alive if I stay behind in Friesach.” Shoving his knife into its sheath, he fastened his mantle with unsteady fingers and then hurried after Richard.
Baldwin straightened his shoulders. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we’d best get on with it.” He clapped his hands and whistled to catch a servingmaid’s eye, making the universal gesture for more drinks, and then turned back to his companions, beginning to speak French in a clear, carrying voice. The others followed his example, laughing too loudly, leering at the servingmaids, and it was not long before some of the tavern customers were casting curious and speculative glances their way.
CHAPTER FIVE
DECEMBER 1192
Duchy of Austria
They could not be sure where they were, for they did not know how far they’d traveled after fleeing Friesach, and they did not know the date, either, for the days had blurred, one into the other, since their shipwreck on the Istrian coast. Drawing rein on the crest of a hill, they gazed down at the vista unfolding below them—deep woods on either side of the road, and in the distance, shimmering like a Holy Land mirag
e, the silvery sheen of a great river, curving around a partially walled town, its church spires wreathed in the smoke plumes that were spiraling up into the grey, wintry sky.
For a time, there was silence as they absorbed what they were seeing. Arne was the one to speak first, pointing toward the gleaming ribbon of water. “Is that the Danube?”
He sounded hesitant, afraid to let himself hope, for if it was the Danube, that meant the town on the river’s bank was Vienna, and they were just fifty miles from the border of Moravia and safety. It also meant they’d ridden nigh on a hundred fifty miles in the past three days and nights, a feat they’d have sworn beforehand to be impossible in the dead of winter on these mountain roads.
“It must be the Danube,” Morgan said, with all the conviction he could muster. “Look how wide it is.” Arne let out a jubilant shout, but the men were too exhausted to match his youthful exuberance, and they merely exchanged brief smiles. They decided to send Arne on ahead to confirm that this was indeed Vienna, and as soon as he and Morgan rode on, Richard and Guillain de l’Etang turned off into the woods.
They did not go far from the lightning-seared tree stump that was to serve as a landmark for Arne and Morgan, and once they felt sure they were not visible from the road, they dismounted and hitched their horses to a low-hanging branch. They settled back against the grey trunk of an ancient beech and prepared to wait. They didn’t talk, each man alone with his thoughts, and soon Richard and then Guillain dozed off. They were jolted to wakefulness some time later by the sound of approaching riders and scrambled to their feet, shocked that they could have fallen asleep like that. They were gripping the hilts of their swords, making ready to unsheathe them, when they saw Arne and Morgan coming through the trees.
Both were grinning, but Morgan deferred to Arne, letting the boy be the one to break the good news. “That is Vienna and we went into the town and found a street peddler and brought back food for you!” Sliding off his horse, he triumphantly brandished a hemp sack. “We bought hot cheese tarts and roasted chestnuts, though they are not hot anymore. Sir Morgan and I ate ours in the town, but then we were challenged by men from the castle and . . .”
Arne finally ran out of breath, and Morgan took over the narrative. “Well, we do not know they were from the castle, but they were on the lookout for strangers, so we will have to seek shelter elsewhere. Vienna is much smaller than I’d expected and we’d have no chance of escaping notice.”
That was disappointing to Richard and Guillain, for they’d hoped Vienna would be a good-sized city, large enough to provide cover. “What did you do when they confronted you?”
Morgan’s grin came back and Arne laughed outright. “Sir Morgan was so clever, sire! He answered them in Welsh and they just gaped at him, not understanding a word he said!”
“I was tempted to try out my fledgling Arabic on them,” Morgan said with a chuckle, “but decided Welsh was safer since some of them might have seen service in the Holy Land.” His smile disappearing then, he said, “They were looking for strangers who spoke French. They had no idea what I was speaking, but since it was not French, they let us go.”
It was alarming to find out that Vienna was under such close surveillance; they’d hoped the Austrians had not yet heard the rumors that the English king had been spotted in Carinthia. Richard’s shoulders slumped as he thought of the long ride ahead of them. “So why do you both look so cheerful?” he asked, more sharply than he intended. “Your news does not sound very encouraging to me.”
“Oh, but we found us a place to stay, sire! Since we have to avoid Vienna, we stopped in a village on the outskirts of the town, called . . .” Arne frowned, trying to recall the name, and Morgan supplied it.
“Ertpurch. It is not much to look at, but it has an alewife and she was agreeable to renting us a room. She’s a widow with two sons, and she leapt at the chance to earn a few coins. She says we can stay in her bedchamber and she will sleep out by the hearth with her lads.”
“And the blacksmith said we could put our horses in his stable,” Arne chimed in again, “whilst the alewife said she would cook for us if we provided the food!”
The boy sounded as pleased as if they’d been invited to stay at a royal palace. But after what they’d endured for the past three days, the alewife’s house in Ertpurch sounded good to Richard, too. “We’re lucky that we sent you and Morgan on ahead to scout for us, Arne,” he said, and the youngster grinned from ear to ear, blushing at the praise.
“Very lucky,” Morgan said, but there was something in his tone that caused Richard to tense, suddenly sure there was more to their account of their visit to Vienna than he’d so far heard.
“Even if the townspeople were not so suspicious, we’d not have dared to enter Vienna.” Morgan’s dark eyes met Richard’s grey ones steadily. “I knew that as soon as I saw the red-and-white banner flying over the castle.”
“Leopold’s,” Richard said, sounding unsurprised, and Morgan nodded.
“It is pure bad luck that the duke is here and not at one of his other residences.” Leaving unsaid the rest—that not only did Duke Leopold bear Richard a lethal grudge, he was one of the few men who would recognize Richard at once, making it impossible to dispute his identity should it come to that.
ERTPURCH WAS AS UNPREPOSSESSING as Morgan had described, a cluster of single-story cottages with thatched roofs, a church, a smithy, a baker’s oven, a handful of shops, a cemetery, and fields that were covered now in snow. Beyond was the camp of men come to trade and sell horses; Arne explained that foreigners were not permitted to sell goods in Vienna and so did their business outside the town’s walls. Now that he was back in his homeland, he was chattering nonstop, proud that he could tell them so much about Vienna and the duke. He’d never been to Vienna until today, he confided, and had always imagined it was a goodly city, but it seemed downright meager after he’d seen Acre and Jerusalem. He was eager to share with them all the gossip he’d heard about Leopold, evoking amusement when he revealed that the duke was known as “The Virtuous,” but by then, they were approaching the alewife’s cottage and he had to save the rest of his stories for later, for they dared speak French only behind closed doors.
The alewife, a thin, fair-haired woman named Els, welcomed them warmly, and they understood why as soon as they entered her modest dwelling; it was obvious that the widow needed the money. Her young sons watched, wide-eyed, as she escorted the men into the house’s bedchamber. It was small and sparsely furnished, for she’d moved her bed out by the hearth, apologizing that she had so little bedding to spare. But it was the best shelter they’d had since escaping from Friesach and they had no complaints. She bustled about, finding a few blankets for them, a chamber pot, and several tallow candles, and then shared the leftovers from her family’s meal: boiled cabbage, barley bread, and a pottage of turnip greens, beets, and onions, washed down with some of her excellent ale.
They were grateful for her generosity, and Morgan played the gallant to great effect, kissing her hand and murmuring Welsh compliments that made her laugh even though she understood not a word of it. It was a huge relief, though, when she finally retreated, leaving them alone in the shabby bedchamber. Apart from the cheese tarts Arne had purchased in Vienna, they’d had nothing to eat for three days, and they fell upon the simple fare ravenously. Guillain cut trenchers from the loaf of bread and Arne ladled the pottage onto them, but when he turned to offer the first serving to the king, he got no response. Richard had stretched out on his blanket, wrapping himself in his mantle, not even bothering to take his boots off. When Arne bent over to set the food on the floor beside him, he was taken aback to see that the older man was already asleep.
“He’s not hungry?” he asked, looking to the others for guidance. “Should we wake him up to eat? It’s been so long. . . .”
“Let him sleep, lad.” But they all kept casting glances toward Richard as they ate, and when they were done, Morgan rose and leaned over the sleeping man,
putting his hand on his cousin’s forehead. He did not stir at the touch, and Morgan sank back on his haunches, nodding in response to Guillain’s silent query. “He’s feverish,” he said, confirming what they’d both suspected and feared for several days.
Arne gasped in dismay. “What will we do? We cannot seek out a doctor!”
“No, we cannot,” Morgan agreed grimly. “On the morrow, lad, you must go into Vienna, find an apothecary, and buy aqua vitae; I’ve always heard it is good for fevers. Buy blankets, too, for we’re like to freeze in here without them. Chicken is the best food for the sick, but no vendor will sell it during Advent, so get eggs and bread and garlic.”
“I will,” Arne promised solemnly. “Is there anything else I can do?”
Morgan glanced again toward Richard. “He’s more stubborn than any mule, and not only will he not admit he’s ill, he’ll insist upon getting on his horse tomorrow if we let him. But we cannot continue on until he is stronger, for another bout of the quartan fever could well-nigh kill him. So yes, there is something else you can do, Arne. When you go into Vienna, find a church and offer up a prayer for his quick recovery.”
ARNE WAS GRATEFUL TO Morgan for keeping the secret of his real age. But he had another secret that he did not share with his companions, for he felt vaguely guilty about it. How could he be enjoying himself so much when he knew they were suffering? Oh, there had been some scary moments—especially on shipboard and when they had to fight their way out of Udine—but most of the time, his excitement was stronger than his discomfort or anxiety. He felt very honored to be trusted by the English king, to be treated like an ally by these renowned knights, and he sensed that he was taking part in history, for surely men would be talking of King Richard’s bold escape for many years to come.
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