A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Leo had assumed a defiant stance, chin jutting out, hands clenching into fists, and Richard wondered how he’d not seen the resemblance sooner, for the boy was the veritable image of Leopold in high dudgeon. “You shamed our father,” he said accusingly. “At Acre, your men tore down his banner and you let it happen!”

  Richard did not want to criticize the duke to his own sons, but neither was he willing to lie to them. “They were acting on my orders. When I was told he’d hoisted his banner, I told them to take it down, and I make no apologies for it. The French king and I had agreed that each of us would have half of Acre, and by flying his banner, your father was staking a claim to the city and its spoils. He was in the wrong, not I.”

  This argument carried no weight with Leo. “He fought with his men to take Acre, so why should he not have a right to share in the spoils? He was your ally and you treated him as if he were some lesser lord, of no account. But he is the Duke of Austria, and now you’ll learn to your cost just what that means!” He turned on his heel and stalked out then, slamming the heavy oaken door resoundingly behind him.

  Friedrich did not follow. “I do not understand, either,” he said, but without his brother’s belligerence. “My lord father is a proud man and you shamed him needlessly. When your men snatched his banner and flung it down into a ditch, they were trampling upon his pride, his honor, Austria’s honor.”

  Richard was not happy with the unexpected turn the conversation had taken, discovering that Friedrich’s reproaches were harder to deflect than Leo’s accusations. “I did not know the banner had been thrown into a ditch.”

  “If you had known, would you have punished your men for it?”

  Richard paused for a moment to consider. “No,” he said honestly, “most likely I would not have. As I said, they were following orders.”

  “You claim my father was in the wrong for flying his banner. Even if that is so, what you did was far worse, for you forced him to leave the army and return home.”

  Richard scowled. “I most certainly did not. It was his choice to abandon the war, and a shameful one it was, for he’d sworn the same holy vow that I had, that we all had, to stay in Outremer until we’d recaptured Jerusalem from the infidels.”

  “But you made it impossible for him to stay. You truly do not see that? All of his men knew what happened, knew you’d treated the banner of Austria as if it were a worthless rag. How could he stay after being shamed and humiliated like that? His only way to save face was to depart, even though it grieved him greatly to do so. This was the second time he’d taken the cross. On his first visit to the Holy Land, he’d even been given a splinter of the True Cross by the King of Jerusalem and, as precious as it was to him, he presented it to the abbey at Heiligenkreuz, saying it belonged in a House of God. He cared for the fate of the Holy Land as much as you did, my lord. Had you only shown some concern for his honor—which he had every right to expect—he’d never have left, and you might not be here at Dürnstein this December eve.” Friedrich turned then, apparently confident he’d gotten the last word, and walked with dignity to the door.

  After they’d gone, servants brought up Richard’s supper, but he ignored it. He’d initially dismissed Leopold’s complaint as an annoyance, but when the duke sailed with the French king, he’d felt for the Austrian the same searing contempt he harbored for Philippe, unable to understand how they could so easily dishonor a vow made to Almighty God. Until tonight, he’d never tried to see Leopold’s side. As reluctant as he was to admit it, there was some truth in what Friedrich had said. It would have been hard for such a proud man to remain after being humbled by the English king.

  Lying back on the bed, he called up memories of that fateful confrontation. With all he had on his mind, Leopold’s grievance had seemed of minor importance, and he’d had no sympathy for the duke’s indignant protests. Losing patience, he’d started to turn away when Leopold had dared to grab his arm, and that fired his own temper. He remembered the other man’s face, so deeply flushed he looked sunburned, his mouth ringed in white, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He remembered, too, telling his wife, sister, and nephew about it afterward. Henri had offered to intercede with Leopold, “to smooth his ruffled feathers,” but he’d said not to bother, that Leopold “could stew in his own juices.” Henri had considerable charm when he chose to exert it; could he have placated the irate duke? If he’d not been so indifferent to Leopold’s wounded pride, might their meeting in Ertpurch have gone differently? Yes, Leopold was Heinrich’s vassal, but he was no man’s puppet, and if his son was right, he’d been very serious about taking the cross, unlike Philippe. Might he have been loath to seize a man under the protection of the Church, like Count Englebert in Görz? Would he have chosen to honor his vow to God above his fealty to the Holy Roman Emperor?

  He was still brooding over his encounter with Leopold’s sons when Hadmar made an unexpected appearance. “I thought you should know that Duke Leopold arrived late this afternoon. He said that he will be speaking with you on the morrow.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” Richard said, and then, as the other man turned to go, he called out impulsively, “Sir Hadmar, wait. Do you blame me for removing your duke’s banner at Acre?”

  “Of course I do. By treating our banner with such disdain, you showed disdain for Duke Leopold, for our duchy, and for all Austrians.”

  Richard had not expected such an uncompromising response. “I appreciate your candor,” he said, and Hadmar nodded stiffly, then withdrew, leaving Richard to try to reconcile this glimpse of a cold, implacable anger with the respectful treatment he’d so far received in Hadmar’s care. He could only conclude that whilst Hadmar shared his duke’s resentment over the banner, he did not approve of harming a man who’d taken the cross, who’d fought for Christ in the Holy Land.

  LEOPOLD SEEMED IN NO hurry to speak, standing in the middle of the chamber, arms akimbo as his gaze moved from Richard to the guards to the furnishings of the bedchamber. “I see that Sir Hadmar has provided you with lodgings befitting your rank,” he said at last.

  Richard regarded him challengingly. “Is that likely to change?”

  “No.” Leopold fell silent again and then raised his head, squaring his shoulders. “In Vienna, your chamber was not . . . suitable for one of high birth. Whatever you have done, you are a king, God’s anointed. I was justly angered, but even so . . .” It was obvious he did not find it easy to admit this. His arms were now folded across his chest and his mouth tautly drawn, but he met Richard’s eyes unflinchingly as he spoke.

  The last thing Richard had been expecting was an almost-apology. It was a telling moment, though, revealing that the Austrian duke believed himself to be a man of honor, bound by a code of ethics that compelled him to acknowledge his mistakes, however distasteful he found that admission. “And what of my men?”

  “They have been moved to more comfortable quarters. And a doctor has tended to the boy’s injuries.”

  Richard would have choked before he’d say “Thank you.” He settled for, “I am gladdened to hear that.”

  Leopold shifted position, glancing toward a coffer as if he meant to sit, then changed his mind. “My wife, the Duchess Helena, has accompanied me to Dürnstein, as have my sons, my brother, my nephew, and several clerics, including my cousin, the Archbishop of Salzburg, and the Bishop of Gurk. Sir Hadmar has planned a feast for this afternoon in honor of our arrival.”

  Richard did not understand why Leopold was telling him this, so he said nothing, watching as Leopold began to move restlessly about the chamber, picking up and discarding items at random. “Several of them have expressed a desire to meet you,” the duke said, after yet another prolonged silence.

  Richard stared at him, incredulous. “You are asking me to dine with you?”

  A slight flush had begun to warm Leopold’s face and throat. “No, that would be . . . awkward.”

  “I daresay it would. Since you have men guarding me with drawn swords da
y and night, I rather doubt I’d be trusted with a knife. Though I suppose you could assign a servant to cut my meat?”

  Leopold ignored the sarcasm and continued doggedly on. “After the meal, my chief minstrel, Reinmar von Hagenau, will entertain us. I thought you might join us then.” He paused, swinging back to face Richard. “I realize I cannot compel you, that the choice is yours. If you do accept the invitation, I would hope that we could agree to be . . .” He paused again, searching for the right word.

  “Civil?” Richard suggested helpfully, his eyes gleaming. “By that, I assume you’d prefer that we avoid controversial topics like Cyprus, the Holy Land, and Hell.”

  Leopold was looking grim by now. “Clearly this was a mistake,” he said, and started toward the door.

  “I accept,” Richard said, stopping the duke in his tracks.

  “You do?” He sounded more suspicious than pleased, and Richard had to bite back a smile.

  “Well, I happen to be free this afternoon. . . .”

  Leopold studied the other man intently. “Very well, then. Sir Hadmar will escort you to the great hall after Sext has rung.”

  “I am looking forward to it more than I can say,” Richard murmured, delighted to see the sudden unease in his gaoler’s eyes. This was going to be a very tense afternoon for Duke Leopold; at least he hoped so. After the duke departed, Richard startled his guards by laughing aloud. This was a God-given opportunity and he meant to make the most of it. Isolation was a danger. The more contacts he could have with the outside world, the better, especially if those contacts included princes of the Church.

  THE DUCHESS HELENA LOOKED to be a year or two younger than her husband, who was Richard’s age—thirty-five. The daughter and sister of Hungarian kings, she was the only one besides Leopold who spoke any French, flavored with an appealing Hungarian accent. But language was not an obstacle, for most of the men were able to converse in Latin and a youthful archdeacon was able to translate into German for the women. Eufemia, Hadmar’s wife, was considerably younger than her husband, and their two sons made only a brief appearance, considered too young to join the festivities. Friedrich and Leo were there, though, and when Richard acted as if this was their first meeting, Leo shot a barbed look at his brother and said Saint Friedrich’s guilty conscience had caused him to confess all to their father. Friedrich scowled at Leo and muttered something in German under his breath that did not sound flattering to Richard. Their brotherly spat reminded him of his own squabbles with Geoffrey, for at that age neither had missed any opportunities to harass the other. Yet he sensed that Leo and Friedrich were allies as often as they were rivals, and that had not been true with Geoffrey or Hal. For whatever reasons—which had never interested him in his youth but which he sometimes pondered as an adult—the Angevin House had always taken Cain and Abel as role models.

  Leopold’s younger brother Heinrich was introduced to Richard as the Duke of Mödling, a duchy he’d not even heard of, but Leopold’s teenage nephew Ulrich stirred some unpleasant memories of Friesach, for he was the Duke of Carinthia, a region Richard hoped never to have to see again. The other guests included Leopold’s cousin Adalbert, the Archbishop of Salzburg; Dietrich, the Bishop of Gurk; and the Cistercian abbots of Stift Zwettl, which had been founded by Hadmar’s father, and Stift Heiligenkreuz, which had figured in Arne’s desperate cover story. Richard had hoped that Lord Friedrich von Pettau would be part of Leopold’s entourage, for he yearned for information about the men arrested in Friesach, but their gaoler was not among those mingling in Dürnstein’s great hall.

  Richard would later look back on that afternoon as a truly bizarre experience, but one he’d enjoyed more than Leopold. The duke kept his distance, leaving it to Hadmar to act as the English king’s host, and Richard could see that Leopold was on edge, not sure how long his unpredictable prisoner would remain on his good behavior. He was indeed tempted, for he knew a public argument about Leopold’s likely descent into Hell would have mortified the duke in front of his family and friends. But that did not serve his interests, and so he set about doing all he could to charm these highborn guests. He gallantly kissed the hands of Helena and Eufemia, paying them the sort of courtly compliments he’d long ago learned in his mother’s Aquitaine. He pleased Archbishop Adalbert by respectfully kissing his ring and, remembering Friedrich’s story, he asked the abbot of Heiligenkreuz’s Holy Cross Abbey to tell him about their sacred fragment of the True Cross. This was not only an inspired topic of conversation with clerics, it put Leopold in a favorable light, and Richard hoped the listeners would take note of his generosity of spirit, praising the man who was his gaoler.

  He was not long in realizing why they’d been so eager to meet him. In part, it was natural curiosity, for he was a renowned soldier, one of the most celebrated kings in Christendom. But it was Jerusalem that was the true draw, and he soon found himself answering questions about desert battles in Outremer, the future of the Holy Land, and the man who fascinated much of Europe even if he was an infidel, Salah al-Din.

  Leopold’s brother and nephew and the other men present were most interested in the war; although he’d never show it and maintained a dignified silence, Richard was sure that the duke, too, yearned to hear of the march from Acre, of Ibn Ibrak and Jaffa. Had circumstances been different, he and Richard would have been fighting side by side against the Saracens, men doomed to Hell, of course, but worthy foes nonetheless. The clerics wanted to hear of the biblical holy sites and were visibly disappointed when Richard told them that he’d been one of the few not to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem after the peace treaty was made. But when he explained that he did not feel he’d earned the right, having failed in his vow to retake Jerusalem from Saladin, he could see that they approved his resolve to keep faith with the Almighty, even found it admirable. That had indeed been his reason for denying himself the spiritual joy of seeing the Holy Sepulchre, the rock upon which the body of the Lord Christ had lain, the room where the Last Supper had taken place, all the sacred sites exalted in Scriptures. But he had no scruples about using his refusal to gain himself some goodwill amongst Leopold’s bishops.

  His love of music served him well, too, when Reinmar von Hagenau came forward to entertain, for he had some knowledge of the German troubadours called minnesingers, and he was able, therefore, to request one of Reinmar’s songs by name. He graciously yielded to the women’s coaxing and joined Reinmar in performing one of his own songs, although highborn poets in Aquitaine preferred to have their compositions sung by joglars and jongleurs. He even managed to turn the afternoon’s one awkward moment to his advantage. Leo had been noticeably sulking, and taking advantage of a break in the conversation, he’d asked in a loud, carrying voice if it was true that the English king and his brothers were known as the Devil’s brood. Both Leopold and Helena were dismayed by their son’s rudeness, but Richard merely smiled and cheerfully shared his favorite family legend—Melusine, the Demon Countess of Anjou, who’d wed an Angevin count, only to reveal herself to be the Devil’s daughter. He and his brothers had often joked about Melusine, taking a perverse pride in having such a scandalous ancestress. But seeing that some of the guests were shocked and the abbots were making the sign of the cross, he quickly reassured them that such stories were nonsense, of course, tales told by their enemies to discredit the Angevin House.

  All in all, he was quite pleased with what he’d accomplished on this Tuesday in late December. Hadmar personally escorted him back to his tower chamber, with the guards much more conspicuous now that they’d left the hall. The Austrian bade Richard a polite good evening, pausing at the door to say, “You’re a clever man.”

  Richard did not pretend to misunderstand him. “I’d take that as a compliment if you did not sound so surprised,” he said dryly. “Your duke and I had no time to talk this afternoon. But we will need to talk . . . and soon.”

  Hadmar nodded. “You will,” he promised, and for the moment, Richard had to be content with that.<
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  LEOPOLD DID NOT RETURN until several hours after darkness had fallen. Richard was encouraged to see he was accompanied by a servant who placed a wine flagon and two gilded goblets upon the trestle table, pouring for both men before making a discreet departure. Leopold took a sip, keeping his eyes upon Richard all the while. “I think that went well,” he said, as close as he could come to thanking the English king.

  You mean I did not make you look like a fool in front of your family and vassals, Richard thought, reaching for his own wine cup. Leopold was showing signs of tension again, drumming his fingers absently upon the wooden table. “I regret my son’s bad manners earlier today.”

  “He is young,” Richard said with a shrug. “Besides, I like the lad. He has spirit, reminds me of my own son.”

  Leopold looked startled. “I did not know you had a son. I’d not heard that your queen was with child.”

  “Philip is not Berenguela’s,” Richard said, taking a swallow of the wine. “He is eleven, born long before my marriage.” He was not surprised to see the other man’s brows draw together, for how likely was it that one known as Leopold the Virtuous would have begotten any children outside of his marriage bed? But Leopold’s frown was puzzled, not disapproving, as his next question proved.

  “I thought your queen’s name was Berengaria.”

  “It is, but only since our marriage. Her given name is Berenguela, but that was too foreign-sounding for my subjects. I prefer it myself, though, so we agreed that she would be Berengaria in the court and Berenguela in the bedchamber.”

  A silence fell then, as they both became aware of the incongruity of this moment, speaking so casually, almost intimately, of family, the sort of conversation a man might have with friends. Richard had mentally rehearsed what might well be one of the most important discussions of his life, but now he heard himself saying something utterly unpremeditated. “I did not know that my men threw your banner into a ditch until Friedrich told me last night.”