A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  As he expected, Richard had far too much pride for that, and he and his companions were soon astride horses fitted with halters and leads instead of bridles and reins. Richard still found himself surrounded by riders with drawn swords, for Leopold was taking no chances with his prize prisoner. As they rode out of Ertpurch, the villagers clustered in the road to watch them go, astonished that such high drama had occurred in their peaceful little hamlet. Els was already the target of jokes about her boarder, the king of the English, but they were good-natured jests; her neighbors were thankful that she was not being punished for the inadvertent role she’d played in aiding their duke’s great enemy. She said what was expected of her, expressed shock and dismay that she’d had such wicked men under her roof. But all the while, she could feel the money pouch hidden between her breasts, for Morgan had managed to slip it to her while gallantly kissing her hand in farewell. She did not doubt that Duke Leopold was a good man, a good ruler. She meant to pray, though, for the safety of the prisoners, a secret she’d share only with God. And she would pray, too, she decided, for the soul of her duke, for surely he would burn in Hell for what he’d done this day.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DECEMBER 1192

  Vienna, Austria

  The chamber was little bigger than a cell, containing only a pallet, a chamber pot, and a wooden stool. There was a small, shuttered window, though, and several torches smoldered in wall sconces. For all of his bravado, Richard felt relief; at least he’d not been cast into the suffocating blackness of a frigid, underground dungeon. As spartan as his new surroundings were, they were no worse than what he’d endured in the eleven days since their shipwreck. All he wanted now was time alone, time to come to terms with this shocking spin of Fortune’s wheel. But he soon saw that his guards did not intend to leave, that he was to be kept under constant surveillance by men with drawn swords. Under other circumstances, he might have seen the twisted humor in it; what did Leopold fear, that he could walk through walls or fly to safety like an eagle? Now he felt only a dulled throb of anger and despair. It did not bother him that he’d be watched even as he used the chamber pot; soldiers had no false modesty. But with so many eyes upon him, he could not let down his guard for even a heartbeat; he was determined that his enemies never know how deeply shaken he was by his capture.

  There was no heat in the chamber and he was soon shivering. He was thirsty, too, for his mouth had gone so dry he had not even enough saliva to spit. But he’d be damned to eternal hellfire ere he’d ask them for anything. He’d not give Leopold that satisfaction. Unable to sit, he began to pace, and the guards kept bumping into one another as they sought to keep him at arm’s length. They reminded him of the crowds flocking to a bear baiting, at once fascinated by and fearful of the chained bear. He did not doubt the bear would prefer to die fighting, lashing out at the hounds tormenting him as long as he had strength in those massive paws.

  They’d come so close—just fifty miles from the Moravian border! If not for his accursed fever, they’d be safe now. How could his body have betrayed him like that? How could this be the Almighty’s Will? He’d failed to take Jerusalem; he could not deny that. But he’d tried, Christ Jesus, how he’d tried, sabotaged time and time again by those French miscreants. And he’d stayed, he’d honored his vow even after learning that Philippe and Johnny were plotting to usurp his throne. He’d not given up and gone home as Philippe and Leopold had. What had he done to deserve this?

  Minutes seemed to drag by like hours, hours like days. He thought he heard bells chiming in the town; calling parishioners to Vespers? Compline? When the door opened suddenly, he spun around, expecting that Leopold had come to gloat. But he found himself facing a grey-haired priest, flanked by two servants. As they moved into the chamber, Richard saw that they carried a tray of food and a pile of blankets. “I am Father Otto, the duke’s chaplain,” the priest said in quite good Latin, giving Richard one of those chained-bear glances and then looking quickly away. “I thought you might be hungry, my lord.”

  “What of my men? Have they been fed?”

  “I . . . I am not sure. But I will look into it,” the chaplain promised. He’d yet to meet Richard’s eyes and Richard wondered if his unease could be due to embarrassment. Who would know better than a man of God the gravity of Leopold’s transgression?

  As he studied the priest, Richard realized that his pride had led him astray. By not protesting his treatment, he was making it easier for them. They’d dared to capture a king, so by God, he’d act like one. “What of the lad, Arne? Leopold admitted he’d been tortured to get him to speak. I want him seen by a doctor straightaway. He is under the Church’s protection no less than my knights, for we all took holy vows. Tell Leopold for me that he is putting his immortal soul in peril for what he has done this day. Better yet, tell him yourself. You are his confessor, are you not? Then do not shirk your duty, priest. Speak up whilst there is still time for your lord to repent.”

  The chaplain ducked his head, his distress so evident now that it was obvious he was not happy with his duke’s actions. Those who served both the Almighty and secular lords did their best to follow Jesus’s teachings and render unto Caesar the things which were Caesar’s, and unto God the things that were God’s, all the while praying they’d never have to choose between the two. Richard had learned to read other men as a priest read his psalter and he doubted that Father Otto would have the inner strength to defy his duke. Would Leopold’s bishops have more courage? But even if they spoke up, would he heed them?

  “I will do what I can, my lord,” Father Otto replied, still staring down at his shoes. Richard watched as he made a hasty retreat, hoping that the priest would at least intercede on behalf of his knights and Arne. He gave the food only a cursory glance; it was plain fare, a fish pottage not likely to be served at Leopold’s table, but there was an ample helping of it, as well as a loaf of fresh-baked bread, and a cup of ale. He had no appetite, though. Picking up the ale, he crossed to the window, and his guards became agitated when he began to unfasten the shutters. A sharp word from their sergeant quieted them, and Richard understood why as he pulled the shutters back, for the window was almost as narrow as an arrow slit, offering no chance of escape. A blast of icy air struck him in the face, taking his breath, but he stayed by the window for a while, gazing up at the darkening sky. It looked like a black sea adrift with stars, far removed from the earthly troubles of mortal men.

  MORGAN AND GUILLAIN HAD been separated from Richard so swiftly that there had been no time for farewells. They tensed when they were taken into a stairwell, fearing that it led down to the dungeons. When their guards escorted them into a chamber lit by a single oil lamp, they were heartened at the sight of that flickering flame, for they knew dungeons were blacker than the pits of Hell. The door slammed behind them and they began cautiously to explore their new abode. It was large and windowless, with kegs lining the walls, and they soon concluded that they’d been locked in a cellar storeroom. The lamp cast only a small pool of light, the rest of the chamber swallowed up in darkness. They could hear scrabbling noises in the shadows and exchanged glances, hoping it was mice and not rats.

  But then Morgan caught another sound, one that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He stood very still, listening intently, and when it came again, he moved in that direction. A moment later, he was kneeling between two of the storage kegs. A body was crumpled on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. He seemed oblivious to Morgan’s presence, but he groaned when the Welshman touched his shoulder, raising his hand as if to ward off a blow. “Arne?” At the sound of his name, he whimpered again and tried to shrink farther back into the shadows. Morgan turned toward Guillain, but the knight was already moving to the wall recess that held the lamp. A moment later, he was back, and as he raised the lamp, both men braced themselves for what they would see.

  The wavering light was feeble, but it was also merciless, revealing to them a face whiter than death, eyes swollen
to bruised slits, nose crusted with dried blood, with red welts on forehead and throat, the burns so raw and blistered that they flinched from the sight. They’d seen wounds before, seen men gutted by sword thrusts, run through by lances, seen heads split open by axes. But nothing had horrified or outraged them so much as what they now saw in this Viennese storeroom, looking upon what had been done to Arne.

  “Do not be afraid, lad. It’s me,” Morgan said gently. “You’re safe now, amongst friends.” He had no way of knowing if that was true or not, but it was what the boy needed to hear. Arne squinted up at him, unable to see the face but recognizing the voice, and began to weep. They could make out little of his speech at first, broken bursts of German, interspersed with sobs. When he finally was able to recover some of his French, they heard only one word, mumbled over and over: “Sorry . . . sorry. . . .”

  Morgan had never known a fury like this, the killing kind. Guillain, a man of few words, now found them in abundance, and he began bitterly to curse Arne’s abusers, then Duke Leopold, Emperor Heinrich, King Philippe, and the Austrians, Germans, and French who served them. Morgan gathered the boy to him, and held Arne as he wept, murmuring words of comfort that he doubted Arne even heard.

  They had no way of judging time, leaping to their feet when the door opened and men entered with torches and drawn swords. The guards were followed by a priest and servants bringing food, blankets, a chamber pot, and another sputtering oil lamp. The priest seemed polite, even sympathetic, but they did not have enough Latin to follow what he was saying. Handing Morgan a glass phial of dark liquid and a clay pot that smelled of goose grease, he gestured toward Arne, and they understood that he was offering something for the boy’s pain and burns. As his lantern’s light fell across Arne’s face, he averted his eyes and made the sign of the cross. When he turned to go, Morgan called out, “König Richard?” The priest paused, gazed at him sadly, and then slowly shook his head.

  Once they were gone, Morgan and Guillain did their best for Arne, smearing the salve upon his burns and coaxing him into swallowing some of the liquid. He refused to eat any of the food, though, and continued to shiver even after they’d swaddled him in blankets. “Will . . . will he ever forgive me?” he whispered, his hand tightening on Morgan’s arm.

  “Forgive you, lad? Richard will most likely knight you!”

  Arne’s bloodied lower lip began to quiver. “He’ll not hate me?” They assured him that Richard admired courage above all other virtues, that he’d not be blamed for breaking under torture, that he had nothing to reproach himself for, and for the first time since he’d been caught in the marketplace, Arne felt the faintest flicker of hope. “What will happen to him?” he asked softly, and they assured him again that Leopold would not dare to harm the King of England, the man who’d defeated Saladin at Acre and Jaffa. They could not tell if he believed that. But they did not know if they believed that, either.

  RICHARD HAD NOT EXPECTED to be able to sleep, but physical exhaustion prevailed over emotional angst. The next thing he knew, Father Otto was bending over his pallet, apologetically explaining that he’d been summoned by the duke, giving Richard another hard lesson in life as a prisoner—at the beck and call of a man he’d disdained. He was grateful to see that the chaplain had brought a washing basin and a towel, so at least he could clean his face and hands. He suspected that Leopold had it in mind to display him before his barons and bishops, bedraggled and dirty and, as Leopold had gleefully put it, “not at all kingly.” Such an ordeal would lacerate his pride, but he vowed silently that none of them would ever know it and splashed cold water onto his face before breaking his fast with a few swallows of bread and cheese. Only then did he turn to the nervously fidgeting priest and say coolly, “Let’s go.”

  But as soon as he emerged from the keep, he saw that he’d misread Leopold’s intentions. It was very early, too early for a gathering of Austrian nobles; stars still glimmered overhead and only a faint glow along the eastern horizon hinted that dawn was nigh. As he followed the chaplain and guards out into the bailey, he glanced around and then came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the riders coming from the stables. Yawning and blinking, they were clad in mail, armed with swords, lances, and shields. Knights ready for war—or to escort a highborn prisoner.

  Leopold was standing several yards away, giving instructions to a man who looked as if he’d spent most of his life soldiering; he had the sharp-eyed, dispassionate gaze of one who missed little and was beyond surprising. Seeing Richard then, the duke gestured for a waiting groom to bring up a bay gelding and then strode toward the English king.

  “I am sending you to one of our most impregnable strongholds—Dürnstein,” he announced in lieu of greetings.

  Richard was thankful that he’d long ago mastered one of a king’s most useful skills—the ability to camouflage his emotions. “Better Dürnstein than Hell,” he said, and had the fleeting satisfaction of seeing Leopold’s mouth tighten and a muscle twitch under his eye.

  The other man did not lash out, though, regarding Richard with the deliberation of one who’d resolved beforehand not to lose his temper. “Dürnstein is fifty miles from Vienna. If you give me your sworn word that you’ll not try to escape, you need not be bound. Do you agree?”

  Richard was tempted to point out the inconsistency in Leopold’s position. How could he be willing to trust in the honor of a man he’d accused of betraying Christendom? “I do not agree. I’ll not aid and abet you in this abduction or make it seem less than what it is—as much a crime as any ambush by roadside bandits.”

  Leopold’s jaw jutted out, but he said only, “Your pride will be your undoing, Lionheart.”

  When the soldiers approached him with ropes, Richard held out his wrists, for that would be less painful than having his hands tied behind his back—and he’d not be quite so helpless. They began fumbling with the ropes, but they had so much trouble with the knots that the sharp-eyed soldier shook his head impatiently, waved them off, and completed the task himself.

  The groom was waiting with Richard’s horse, but an awkward silence fell as they belatedly realized he would have difficulty mounting now. It was the same knight who stepped forward again, leading the gelding over to a mounting block and then helping to boost Richard up into the saddle. Richard found it profoundly humiliating, and although he kept his face impassive, he could not keep hot color from burning across his cheekbones.

  As soon as Richard was mounted, Leopold turned away, heading toward the great hall. But Father Otto lingered, saying quietly, “You need not fear for your men, my lord. They’ll not be maltreated, for they have done nothing wrong.”

  “Then why are they being held? There is no legal justification for not freeing them at once, and with the money that was taken from me in Ertpurch. Or does your duke plan to add theft to his growing list of sins?”

  The priest winced. “If I may speak plainly, my lord? I understand your anger. But you must learn to govern your tongue.”

  “Must I, indeed?”

  “Yes, sire,” the older man insisted earnestly, “for your own sake, you must.”

  Richard did not reply, but the chaplain still remained out in the bailey, watching until the English king and his guards rode through the gateway and disappeared from view.

  AFTER CROSSING THE DANUBE, they headed west along the river. They encountered few other travelers, for most people preferred to detour off the road when they spotted a large band of armed men in the distance. The knights were commanded by the man with the detached demeanor and cynical eyes; by now, Richard had learned his name was Gunther. He spoke neither French nor Latin, but he managed to communicate with Richard when need be, using the universal language of soldiers—gestures, sardonic smiles, and the instinctive understanding of men who’d shared the same experiences, albeit on different battlefields.

  They set a fast pace and by sunset, they’d covered more than thirty miles. Richard never knew the name of the small town where they passe
d the night, taking over a ramshackle inn that reminded him of the Black Lion in Udine. Once they were settled in, Gunther directed men to take turns guarding Richard and then removed the ropes. They grumbled among themselves; Richard guessed that they were complaining they’d not have to keep watch if he was kept tied up, but none of them protested to Gunther. Richard ate little of the meal provided by the innkeeper, and slept even less, lying awake as most of the knights snored loudly and his guards watched him with the intensity of cats at a mouse hole. Had he spoken any German, he could have told them that they were worrying for naught. He was well aware that escape was an impossibility, although that did not stop him from occupying those long, wakeful hours by considering each and every one of those impossible escapes. Better to do that than to think about what awaited him at Dürnstein, or the men he’d lost since their shipwreck, or how the news of his capture would affect those who mattered the most to him: his mother, sister, wife, his cousin André, his young son back in Poitiers.

  The next morning, Gunther paused, holding out the ropes and raising an eyebrow questioningly. Richard understood what was being asked and very much wanted to agree; it had not taken long for him to regret spurning Leopold’s offer. But pride would not let him retreat from his defiant stand and he shook his head. Gunther shrugged and lashed his wrists together, although Richard thought he could detect a reluctant gleam of respect in the knight’s eyes, the sort of admiration men reserved for behavior that was stubborn, brave, and foolhardy.

  Clouds were gathering as they continued on the next day, and the air had the feel of coming snow. As the temperature plunged, so did Richard’s spirits. He’d begun to fear that his fever was spiking again, that he might be vulnerable to another attack of quartan fever. He could not imagine anything worse than to be gravely ill and helpless in the hands of his enemies; he’d always found it difficult enough to be ill amongst his friends. And if he did sicken again, God help him if he was thrown into a Dürnstein dungeon, for he’d not last long in a cold, dark, and damp cell. He’d been unable to forget Father Otto’s somber warning, replaying in his mind his two tense encounters with Leopold. For certes, he’d not given the Austrian duke any reason to think kindly of him. Would Leopold seek to take revenge now that he was away from public view? Had he been treated harshly in Vienna, word would have gotten out, and Leopold was already on very precarious ground with the Church. But who would know what happened behind the stone walls of a remote, inaccessible fortress like Dürnstein?