A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I’d be the last one to dispute that. Where are you going with this, Guillaume?”

  “When we reach Hagenau, Heinrich will want to discuss the new terms of your release. I have no doubts whatsoever that he will not agree to free you without payment of a very large ransom. I know how hard it will be for you to agree to this, but you truly have no choice, and I need to be sure you understand that.”

  Richard was silent for so long that the chancellor began to become uneasy. “I do,” he said at last. Staring across the gardens at the red sandstone walls of the castle, he said grimly, “And that is not the worst of it. After Trifels, we know Heinrich cares naught about his own honor, which means that his word is worthless.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  APRIL 1193

  Hagenau, Germany

  As soon as he entered the great hall of the imperial palace, Richard felt all eyes upon him. There was no overt hostility, mainly curiosity, and he assumed word had spread of his exoneration in Speyer. Trailed by his guards, he started toward the dais, slowing his step so his chancellor could keep pace. Longchamp gave him a grateful, sideways glance, appreciative of these small acts of kindness that need not be acknowledged. As they approached the dais, Longchamp said a silent prayer that his king would be able to hold his temper, no matter the provocation.

  Having vowed that he’d be damned ere he knelt again to this shameless swine, Richard compromised with a brief bow. Heinrich was regarding him with a cynical smile. “It pleases us to welcome the king of the English to our court. It is our earnest hope that we will soon be able to celebrate our friendship with a treaty of amity between England and the empire.”

  Richard bared his teeth in a smile of his own. “I value that alliance fully as much as you do, my lord emperor.”

  “Yes,” Heinrich said complacently, “it is good that we are in such accord.”

  Richard turned then toward the woman seated beside Heinrich. Constance de Hauteville had married late in life, at age thirty-one, for her nephew, the King of Sicily, had been in no hurry to make a match for her. She was eleven years older than Heinrich and in the seven years they’d been wed, her womb had not quickened. Richard thought Heinrich would never put her aside as barren, though, for his claim to Sicily rested upon her slender shoulders. Joanna had told him Constance was lovely, but he thought she was too thin, the skin tightly drawn across her cheekbones, hers a mouth no longer shaped for smiles. He could see glimpses of the beauty she’d once been in the sapphire-blue eyes. Yet they were opaque, giving away nothing. She put him in mind of a castle long under siege, determined to hold out until the bitter end.

  “Madame, it is my pleasure to meet you at last,” he said, kissing her hand and getting a murmured courtesy in return. He was turning to greet Heinrich’s uncle Konrad, the Count Palatine of the Rhine, when he was accosted enthusiastically by the Bishop of Bath.

  “My liege, how it gladdens me to see you here at Hagenau!”

  “I’d have been here sooner, but the emperor wanted to show me his castle at Trifels first.”

  While Richard got no response from Heinrich, he’d not expected one. He did catch interesting reactions from the others. An expression of surprise crossed Konrad’s face. The corners of Constance’s mouth curved ever so slightly. And Savaric Fitz Geldwin hastily averted his gaze. So Konrad had not known about his sojourn in Trifels. But the bishop did. Why would Heinrich have confided in this sly, pompous schemer?

  Heinrich had leaned forward in his seat, his eyes intent upon Richard’s face. “Now that we are to be allies, I have been thinking how best to demonstrate my goodwill. And then it occurred to me. I am in a position to do you a very good turn, my lord king.”

  Richard felt the brush of his chancellor’s mantle as he edged closer. “And what is that, my lord emperor?”

  “It has been called to my attention that your archbishopric of Canterbury has been vacant for more than two years. As it happens, I have the perfect candidate at hand—my cousin, the Bishop of Bath.”

  Richard’s first reaction was not anger; it was disbelief. He stared at the other man, incredulous that even Heinrich would dare to meddle so blatantly in English affairs. “How kind of you to take such an interest in the English Church. I will give the Bishop of Bath’s candidacy all the consideration it deserves.”

  “I knew you would appreciate my interest. But surely there is no need for consideration. My cousin is well qualified, after all. I will be pleased to provide you with my own scribe so that you may write to your justiciars in England, informing them of your wishes in this matter.”

  Longchamp surreptitiously touched his king’s arm, hoping to convey a wordless warning. But one was already echoing in Richard’s ears. Do whatever it takes to keep Heinrich from selling you to the French. “If it pleases my new ally, then it pleases me,” he said tonelessly.

  Heinrich nodded, with another of those hinted smiles. “It is good that we understand each other, my lord king. That bodes well for our future endeavors.”

  “Sire, how can I ever thank you?” Dropping dramatically to his knees before Richard, Savaric Fitz Geldwin gazed up euphorically at the king. “Such a great honor! I promise you that you will have no regrets. I will be loyal to you until my last mortal breath.”

  Richard looked down at Savaric’s flushed, thrilled face, his own face expressionless. “You need not fear, my lord bishop. I know exactly what your loyalty is worth.”

  THE FOLLOWING TWO HOURS were very unpleasant ones for Richard. Many of those in attendance upon the emperor were eager to meet him or to renew acquaintances struck in Speyer, and he found himself having to smile and make small talk and act as if nothing were amiss. His new friends were primarily churchmen and he assumed they were grateful that they would not have to choose between allegiance to their emperor and their Pope now that he and Heinrich were supposedly reconciled. He did the best he could, but when he developed a pounding headache, he told Longchamp that he needed to end this farce straightaway.

  Longchamp marveled that Richard had held out as long as this. “I will inform Heinrich that you are ready to depart,” he promised, and limped off toward the dais. Despite his tactful phrasing, Richard knew what he was really saying—that they could go nowhere without Heinrich’s permission—and that was just one more bitter drop in an already rancid drink. But as he waited for Longchamp to return, he noticed the empress standing a few feet away, conversing with the Bishop of Worms. As soon as the bishop moved off, Richard ended his own conversation with several archdeacons and crossed to Constance.

  “Madame, may I have a word with you?”

  “Of course, my lord king.” Correctly interpreting the glance he gave her women, Constance added, “My ladies speak no French, so I rarely get a chance to make use of my native tongue.”

  Richard appreciated the subtlety of her assurance that they could speak freely. “My chancellor told me that you interceded on my behalf, getting him an audience with the emperor. If not for your kindness, I might still be enjoying the dubious comforts of Trifels. I wanted to tell you that you have a king in your debt—and I always pay my debts.”

  To anyone watching, Constance’s smile was polite, impersonal, and as devoid of warmth as her husband’s own smiles. But Richard thought he caught a spark in those extraordinary sapphire eyes. “You owe me no debt,” she said softly, “for what I did, I did not do for the English king. I did it for Joanna’s brother.”

  RICHARD’S CUTTHROAT TRIFELS GUARDS had been replaced immediately upon his arrival at Hagenau with men who were much more polite and personable. They’d made themselves as inconspicuous as possible during his time in the great hall and were escorting him now to his new quarters, which Markward von Annweiler had blithely assured him would be “more to your liking.”

  As they walked, Longchamp glanced at Richard from time to time. The other man was staring straight ahead, his face utterly blank. The chancellor knew he was still seething, though. “I am sorry, my liege. I ne
ver expected you to be ambushed like that.” He got no response, but he was too troubled to keep silent. “Sire . . . is there any chance those Christchurch monks might actually elect Savaric?”

  “No.” After several more moments of silence, Richard said, “Heinrich provided me with a scribe at Speyer, too, but what he does not know is that I chose to write one letter myself, which William de St Mère-Eglise carried to London, in which I told my mother that I wanted Hubert Walter to be the next archbishop.”

  Longchamp felt an involuntary pang for the death of a dream, even though he understood now how unrealistic it had been. The Christchurch monks might well have elected him, for he’d been on excellent terms with them, but the English would never have accepted him. “I am relieved to hear that,” he confessed, “for Savaric’s accession to the archbishopric would surely be one of the signs of the coming Apocalypse.”

  “It would never have happened,” Richard said flatly, “even if I’d not already sent that letter choosing Hubert Walter. My mother knows me too well. She’d have realized that any letter written in support of Savaric Fitz Geldwin would have been done under duress.”

  The chancellor gnawed his lower lip, understanding that Richard had never expected to do anything “under duress.” “I think you handled that outrageous demand as well as could be done,” he said, after another lengthy silence. “As long as we win the war, it does not matter if we lose a battle or two.”

  Richard came to an abrupt halt, turning upon Longchamp such a burning look that he could not help flinching, even though he realized the king’s rage was not directed at him. “Good God, man, of course it matters!”

  HUBERT WALTER AND WILLIAM de St Mère-Eglise traveled so swiftly that they reached London in just twenty days. They’d set such a fast pace that they’d arrived before the abbots of Boxley and Robertsbridge even though the latter had departed Speyer two days earlier, and so they had the pleasure of being the ones to bring the queen mother the news of her son’s bravura performance before the Imperial Diet. Now they were dining with Eleanor in the great hall of her quarters in the Tower. Freed of the constraints of Lent, Eleanor’s cooks had prepared an elaborate meal. As the season for roebuck had begun at Easter, the queen’s table was graced with roast venison, as well as lamb stew, capon pie, sorrel soup with figs and dates, and Lombardy custard. The guests were serenaded with harp music and a sound Eleanor’s household had not often heard in the past few months—her laughter.

  “Had it not been his destiny to rule, your son would have made a superb lawyer,” Hubert said with a smile, “for he addressed each and every charge against him and rendered them invalid, exposing them for the falsehoods they were. You’d have been very proud of him, Madame, for it was truly one of his finest hours.”

  “He must have put on a spectacular defense, indeed, if he forced Heinrich to back down,” Eleanor said, with a smile of her own. “You and Dean William have brought me a precious gift this day, my lord bishop—hope.” She devoted herself to the capon on her trencher then, but her mind was ranging far afield, weighing all that the bishop and the dean had shared with her in the course of the afternoon.

  William Briwerre, the only one of the justiciars then in the city, began to tell Hubert Walter and William de St Mère-Eglise that John’s rebellion had not gone as he’d hoped. His invasion with hired Flemish ships had not materialized, for Eleanor had called out the levies in the southeast. “The Count of Mortain then landed on his own, hired Welsh routiers to garrison the castles he’d seized last year, and dared to come to London, where he demanded that the justiciars swear fealty to him, claiming King Richard was dead. Of course, we refused, and he retreated to Windsor Castle, which is now under siege by William Marshal and the Archbishop of Rouen, whilst the Bishop of Durham is besieging his castle at Tickhill.”

  Eleanor was only half listening to Briwerre. The capon was perfectly seasoned, the pastry shell moist and flaky, but she was not fully aware of what she ate. Setting her knife down, she said pensively, “Heinrich is not a man to surrender his prey so easily and Richard’s triumph does not change the fact that he remains in the emperor’s power. I do not believe Heinrich will be satisfied with military aid for his Sicily campaign, no matter what he is saying now. I think we must assume that a goodly ransom will still be demanded ere he frees my son.”

  Glancing around the high table, she saw that the bishop and dean and William Briwerre were all nodding in agreement. “This means,” she said, “that we need to make a truce with John.”

  William Briwerre turned so abruptly in his seat that some of his wine splattered onto the tablecloth. “But, Madame, we’re on the verge of taking Windsor!”

  “We cannot continue to expend large sums on besieging Windsor and Tickhill if we need to raise money for a ransom. And if the amount demanded is so large that we must impose a tax upon the people, how can we do that if the realm is in turmoil? No funds can be collected unless the kingdom is at peace—even if it is only a temporary peace.”

  Briwerre looked at her in dismay, for he was convinced that with enough time, they could capture both Windsor and Tickhill, and he wondered if a mother’s protective instincts had impaired the queen’s judgment; John was her son, too, after all. He would never dare to make such a suggestion, though, and he glanced toward the clerics, hoping that the bishop was willing to say what he could not. He was to be disappointed.

  “I think you are right, Madame,” Hubert said. “We need to give priority to securing King Richard’s freedom, and if that means we must make deals we find distasteful, so be it.”

  Eleanor was relieved by Hubert’s response, for she knew not all of the justiciars and council would agree with her, and it would help greatly to have the Bishop of Salisbury—soon to be the Archbishop of Canterbury—on her side. “What was Richard’s reaction when you and the abbots told him of John’s plotting with the French king?”

  Hubert grinned. “He said, ‘My brother John is not the man to conquer a kingdom if there is anyone to offer the least resistance.’”

  A ripple of laughter swept the high table. Eleanor’s eyes held an amused green glitter. “I think his response should be widely circulated,” she said, with a cool smile that reassured William Briwerre somewhat; he still did not agree with her, but he no longer worried that maternal sentiment might lead her astray.

  After servers brought in the last course, honey-drizzled wafers and sugared comfits, Eleanor gave her guests time to enjoy them before breaking the bad news. “I wish I could tell you that the French king has been no more successful than John. Alas, I cannot. Philippe has advanced deep into Normandy, accompanied by the Count of Flanders. He has gained control of the Vexin and he now holds Gisors and Neaufles.”

  Both clerics exclaimed at that, wanting to know how Philippe could have taken Gisors, one of the strongest of Richard’s Norman castles. Eleanor’s answer was a chilling one, for it raised the dangerous specter of treachery. “I am sorry to say,” she said grimly, “that the castellan of Gisors, Gilbert de Vacoeil, betrayed the trust my son had placed in him, and surrendered Gisors and Neaufles to Philippe without offering any resistance whatsoever.”

  Hubert was a soldier as well as a churchman, and uttered a blistering profanity that would have done Richard proud. Unlike Richard, he at once apologized for such intemperate language. “What could be more dishonorable than abandoning his liege lord whilst knowing the king is a prisoner in Germany? There is surely a special circle of Hell reserved for such a foul self-server.”

  “And the loss of Gisors has disheartened men who might otherwise have shown more backbone. Several other lords then agreed to give Philippe’s army passage across their lands, including three who fought with my son in the Holy Land.” Eleanor’s mouth set in a hard line. “And one of them was Jaufre, the Count of Perche, husband to my granddaughter Richenza.”

  Hubert and William de St Mère-Eglise exchanged glances. As troubling as this news was, it was not utterly unexpected, for these lo
rds were vassals of both the Duke of Normandy and the King of France. Forced to choose between irreconcilable loyalties, they were likely to do whatever was necessary to safeguard their ancestral estates. Their actions would not be as harshly judged as the treachery of the castellan of Gisors, who’d not been protecting his own lands when he’d yielded the castles he’d been entrusted with by his king. Still, though, these were men of influence, and their defection might well inspire others to follow their example.

  “This will greatly grieve the king when he hears of it,” Hubert said somberly. “I know he thinks highly of Jaufre of Perche.”

  Eleanor did not want to imagine what it would be like for her son, a captive in a foreign land, learning that men he’d trusted had betrayed him. “I received a distraught letter from my granddaughter,” she said quietly. “She was heartsick, but she said her husband had no choice, for Philippe is his king. Whilst there is truth in what she said, that will not make it any easier for my son to accept.”

  A pall had settled over the hall, threatening to smother their celebration of the good news brought by the bishop and dean. Eleanor was not willing to surrender hope so quickly, though. “We must remember that whatever my son loses in Normandy, he will regain upon his return. And he will be proud of the loyalty displayed by his English subjects, as well as the steadfastness of his ally, the Scots king. John attempted to lure King William into a war against Richard, doubtless remembering how eagerly he’d joined in the rebellion against my late husband twenty years ago. In the past, the Scots have never failed to take advantage of English turmoil and unrest. Not this time, though. Not only did the Scots king reject John’s overtures, he sent us word that if Richard must pay a ransom to regain his freedom, the Scots will be willing to contribute to that ransom.”