A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “You were thinking it, though,” Richard raged. “Why else would I need this ceremony, this rite of purification? Well, you tell them this, my lord archbishop. Say that if there is any stain upon my honor, I intend to wash it away with French blood!” With that, he swung around, stalked to the door, and slammed it so resoundingly behind him that they all flinched.

  There was a long moment of silence. They’d seen the Angevin temper at full blaze before, but none had expected to be scorched by the flames themselves. Longchamp glared at the two archbishops. “Well done! If you’d bothered to include me in that meeting, I could have told you how the king would react to this ‘good idea’ of yours.”

  “It was not my idea,” Hubert said curtly.

  “They thought he would enjoy a royal ceremony. He’s always liked being the center of attention,” Geoff pointed out, his own temper kindling when Longchamp shook his head in conspicuous contempt. But before he could protest, Eleanor rose from her seat.

  “My lord archbishop,” she said icily and at once all eyes fastened upon her, for it was obvious that she was as furious as Richard. “Is what my son said true? Do men think there is something shameful about his having to do homage to Heinrich?”

  “I do not, Madame,” Hubert said stoutly. She did not doubt his sincerity, but he’d answered a question she’d not asked, and she turned toward Geoff, who was candid to a fault.

  Nor did he disappoint now. “Yes, some do,” he confirmed. “It is not that they are doubting the king’s courage—only a fool would do that. But there are those who see his act of homage as sullying English honor, even though it was not given of his free will. Captivity itself carries a certain degree of shame, and this only—”

  “God in Heaven!” Eleanor stared at him and then turned away, so angry she did not fully trust herself. How dare they judge Richard for doing what he must to save himself? False-hearted hypocrites! Men and their daft notions of honor!

  André was on his feet, too, by now. “I’d like to see any man dare to say that to the king’s face!” His eyes swept the chamber challengingly. “How many of you agree with them?”

  “I am sure I can speak for us all when I say that none of us do,” Will Marshal said in measured, deliberate tones. “The king’s homage was regrettable, but not blameworthy, for he was given no choice in the matter. Nor do I see captivity as shameful.” For a moment, his gaze rested coolly on Geoff. “Any man who says that has never been held prisoner himself.”

  Remembering that the Marshal had been held captive by the de Lusignans until Eleanor had paid his ransom, Geoff backtracked, saying earnestly, “I was not voicing my own opinion, merely repeating what some have said. I do agree with the other bishops, though, and believe that the king ought to have a crown-wearing ceremony or even a second coronation. It would be a dramatic way of putting this unfortunate incident behind him and signifying a new beginning.”

  No one answered him. No one spoke at all, for Eleanor, André, and Longchamp were still fuming, and the others were uncomfortable, regretting that the king had been so angered and that they had been caught in the line of fire. They did not even know if they should wait in case Richard meant to return.

  RICHARD HAD NOT GONE FAR. He’d come to a halt out in the inner bailey, ignoring the deferential greetings of soldiers and curious eyes of servants. The cooling night air did not dispel his rage. But he realized almost at once that he’d lashed out at the wrong target. Hubert did not deserve that. None of the men in that chamber did. He could not even blame the bishops and the others who thought he needed to submit to a cleansing ceremony. If he felt that what he’d done was shameful, how could he fault them for believing it, too? After a few moments of bleak reflection, he turned reluctantly and retraced his steps.

  They all jumped to their feet as he entered the antechamber, and he waved them back into their seats. “Whether the bishops’ suggestion is a ‘good idea’ is open to debate, but it is never a good idea to confuse the messenger with the message. I did this and I regret it.” They at once began to insist that his flare-up was of no matter and perfectly understandable, their predictable assurances washing over him unheard and unheeded. Taking a seat himself, he looked from one face to another, his gaze at last coming to rest upon Hubert Walter.

  “If you feel this warrants discussion, I am willing to hear you out. But I must say at the outset that I have no intention of having a second coronation.”

  “I totally agree with you, my liege. I see no need for a second coronation, either, nor did most of the other bishops. They were talking of something less than that, mayhap a crown-wearing ceremony. Kings used to do that several times a year, but your lord father ended the tradition, not liking the bother of it all. So it would not be an innovation, merely the revival of an old custom—a way to celebrate your return to your kingdom and your subjects.”

  “You have a tongue agile enough to lick honey off thorns,” Richard said wryly, quoting a Welsh proverb he’d learned from Morgan. “You sweetened the drink almost enough to disguise the taste of the hemlock—almost.” As little as he wanted to do this, mayhap it was a debt he’d owed from the moment he’d knelt before Heinrich in the great hall at Mainz. “What of the rest of you? Do you all think this is necessary, too?”

  Eleanor said simply that it was a decision only he should make. He got an emphatic “No!” from both Longchamp and André. But the other men seemed hesitant to commit themselves. Will Marshal at last said slowly, “The people would love such a ceremony, my liege.” Geoff, Hamelin, Fulk, and William Briwerre then echoed that, too, and when Hubert suggested that they could pay honor to the Scots king by asking him to take part in the ceremony, Richard knew he’d been outflanked.

  “I will think about it,” he said, even though he knew—and they did, too—that he was conceding defeat, not delaying the decision.

  The meeting ended soon thereafter. Richard walked across the bailey with André, neither one speaking until they reached the keep. André rarely made use of Richard’s given name, calling him “my liege” in public, and “cousin” in private; he did so now. “Richard, you did nothing shameful during your time in Germany, and your honor bears no stain.” The younger man’s face remained impassive, his thoughts guarded. But André coaxed a reluctant smile from him then by adding with a grin, “However, I must say that I rather fancy your idea of bathing in French blood.”

  JOHN AND HIS ALLY, the Bishop of Coventry, were ordered to appear within forty days to answer the charges of seizing castles, laying waste to lands in England and Normandy and making a treaty with the French king in violation of the fealty he’d sworn to Richard. John was declared to have forfeited any right to the kingdom or his English estates. And it was announced that Richard would celebrate Easter with the Scots King, William the Lion, and then have a formal crown-wearing ceremony at Winchester on the following Sunday.

  “SO I HAVE NO SAY in it at all?”

  Berengaria sympathized with Anna’s plight, but she still marveled that the girl would even ask such a question; at sixteen, she was old enough to know women wed whom they were told to wed. Joanna sympathized, too, while finding it easier than Berengaria to understand Anna’s rebellious streak. So rather than chiding her, she patiently explained again that the marriage was part of the terms of the pact of Worms, part of the price Richard had been forced to pay for his freedom. She’d done her best to reconcile Anna to her fate, reminding her that the Austrian duke was her kinsman and he’d shown genuine concern for her welfare, repeating all of the favorable things they’d gleaned from Morgan and from Richard and Eleanor’s letters about Leopold’s son. Anna was not yet ready to hear them, though, and they finally withdrew, giving her all they had to offer—time and privacy.

  Back in the hall, Joanna did not see Mariam and when she asked Dame Beatrix, the older woman said with a sly smile that Mariam and Morgan were out exploring Poitiers again, which they all knew meant visiting one of the city’s inns. Joanna laughed, but Berengaria
was not as amused, for she’d recently had a worrying conversation with Guillaume Tempiers, the Bishop of Poitiers, about Mariam and Morgan. Berengaria’s friendship with Bishop Guillaume had been a source of great comfort in the six months she’d spent in Poitiers, for he was widely respected for his exceptional piety and integrity and at times he seemed almost saintly to her in his determination to combat both secular sins and ecclesiastical abuses. So when he’d drawn Berengaria aside and spoken of his concern for the Lady Mariam’s soul, she’d taken that concern seriously.

  “Joanna, did Mariam tell you the bishop had admonished her about her relationship with Morgan?”

  Joanna shook her head. She hoped the bishop would not ask her to intervene, for she had genuine respect for the prelate, able to recognize a good man when she met one. But she did not think that Mariam’s sins were great enough to imperil her salvation. Mariam was a widow, after all, and she had no male kin to answer to; moreover, she and Morgan did make an attempt to be discreet. It was not their fault that even the stable grooms and kitchen scullions knew they were lovers.

  “I think,” Berengaria said, “that you ought to ask her why she and Morgan have made no plans to wed. It is obvious that they are besotted with each other, and the holy state of matrimony is surely preferable to these sinful trysts.”

  “I would like to see them wed, too, Berengaria. But it is not as simple as that. Morgan is a knight, not a lord with lands of his own. He will eventually inherit some of his father’s properties. Most likely Ranulf will bequeath his Welsh lands to his elder son and his English manors to Morgan, for the Welsh do not leave everything to the firstborn as they do in England. But that could be years from now, and until then, Morgan is not in a position to support a wife. Why do you think so many knights never wed?”

  Berengaria had never considered that. Richard had sometimes teased her that she was almost as sheltered as a Cistercian nun, and she supposed that was so, for her life had been a privileged one as the well-loved daughter of a king. She would find a way for Mariam and Morgan to wed, she decided. Richard was celebrated for his generosity, one of the most important attributes of a great lord. If she asked Richard, surely he would be willing to reward Morgan for his steadfast loyalty.

  She was about to tell Joanna of her plan when the other woman jumped to her feet, crying out, “Sir Guilhem!” As Guilhem de Préaux was escorted into the hall, he was soon surrounded by women, for he was a great favorite; Joanna and Berengaria were eternally grateful to him for sacrificing his own freedom to save Richard from capture in the Holy Land. When he produced letters from England, Berengaria took hers out into the garden to read and Joanna retreated to a window-seat with hers.

  When Joanna rejoined the others after reading her letters, Guilhem was mesmerizing her women and household knights with an account of Richard’s crown-wearing ceremony at Winchester Cathedral. It was a sight to behold, he said, with the King of Scotland and the earls of Chester and Surrey carrying the three ceremonial swords of state. The king had looked regal in his royal robes furred with ermine, wearing the jeweled crown that the Archbishop of Canterbury had placed on his head prior to his entering the church, and a special dais had been set up in the north transept for the queen and her ladies, giving them an unobstructed view of the procession. Afterward, there had been a splendid feast in the cathedral refectory, with numerous courses, a fountain that flowed wine, and musicians, harpists, and jugglers for entertainment, whilst a huge crowd gathered out in the street, hoping for a glimpse of their king, the queen, and the highborn guests.

  His audience listened raptly, and even Joanna felt a touch of envy, for she’d have dearly loved to have been there with her brother and mother. It was then that she saw Berengaria had returned to the hall and was standing inconspicuously on the edge of the circle. Joanna started to thread her way toward her, but just then Morgan and Mariam returned and greeted Guilhem with delight; Morgan and Guilhem had become friends in the Holy Land. By the time Joanna was able to extricate herself, her sister-in-law was gone.

  Joanna had to play the role of hostess then, seeing that a meal, a bed, and bath were made ready for Guilhem. As soon as she could, she slipped away and climbed the stairs to Berengaria’s bedchamber. The younger woman had dismissed her own attendants, and although she opened the door to admit Joanna, she seemed distant, retreating into the Spanish reserve that was a sure sign of distress. Joanna decided a frontal attack was the best approach and asked forthrightly if she was troubled by something in Richard’s letter.

  Berengaria shook her head, but Joanna outwaited her, and after a strained silence, she said, very low, “There is never anything troubling in Richard’s letters. He is always perfectly polite, asking after my health and expressing a hope that I am comfortable here in Poitiers. He says nothing personal, nothing intimate, nothing a husband would tell a wife. In this letter, he did not even mention the crown-wearing, telling me only about the siege and that he has appealed to the Pope, demanding that the Holy Father use the authority of the Church to get his hostages and ransom returned.”

  “That sounds like Richard,” Joanna said, as cheerfully as she could. “He is like most men, dearest, without a romantic bone in his entire body. And twelve years of marriage to William taught me that it is well-nigh impossible to change a man. Luckily the Almighty has given women the patience of Job, enabling us to put up with their . . .” Her voice trailed off then, for Berengaria was regarding her with sorrowful brown eyes that held the hint of tears.

  “Joanna, what have I done to displease him?”

  “Nothing! Why would you ask that, Berengaria? Remember what he said when we parted from him in Acre, that if Philippe took four months to get home from the Holy Land, he could damned well do it in three, promising that he’d return in time to celebrate Christmas with you. Does that sound like a man who was displeased with you?”

  “No . . . but the man I left at Acre does not seem like the man who writes these letters. In the Holy Land, he went to great pains to have me with him whenever he could, bringing us from the palace at Acre to his army camp at Jaffa, having us join him at Latrun. Now . . . now he does not seem to care if we are ever reunited.”

  “Berengaria, that is surely not so!”

  Berengaria did not seem to hear Joanna’s protest. “I listened to Guilhem tell us about the crown-wearing at Winchester and all I could think was that I should have been there to witness it. I ought to have been seated in the north transept with his mother, not hundreds of miles away, having to hear about it secondhand.”

  “There was not time to send for you, dearest. It seems to have happened very quickly, barely a fortnight after he took Nottingham Castle.”

  “There would have been time had I been awaiting him in London, Joanna. Or if I’d accompanied him to Nottingham as his mother did.” She saw Joanna’s dismay and smiled sadly, realizing her sister-in-law had been trying to protect her again. “Bishop Guillaume was telling me about a letter he’d gotten from the Bishop of London, and he assumed I knew Queen Eleanor had witnessed the siege.”

  Joanna did not know what to say. She did not understand her brother’s behavior any more than his wife did, but she was sure that the sooner they were reunited, the better. She smiled then, for an idea had just come to her. “My mother said that they planned to sail from Portsmouth, so that means they’ll be landing at Barfleur. We can be there to meet them, Berengaria!”

  “No.”

  Joanna blinked. “Why not?”

  “I will not chase after him, Joanna. When he sends for me, I will come. Until then, I will wait here.”

  Joanna did her best to convince Berengaria that she ought to come to Barfleur. But her sister-in-law remained adamant. She knew most people thought Berengaria was the ideal wife, soft-spoken and devoted and deferential. They did not realize how stubborn she could be. Or how proud. Joanna decided to try again later, but if Berengaria insisted upon remaining in Poitiers, she would go herself to Barfleur. She needed to se
e her mother. She needed to see her brother. And she needed, too, to find out why he seemed so indifferent to a reunion with his young queen.

  AFTER CAPTURING ÉVREUX, the French king turned it over to his ally, and John was lodged at the castle on this rainy afternoon in early May. As Durand hastened down a narrow street already deep in mud, the knight cursed as the wind blew his hood back and then swore again at an aggressive beggar who blocked his way. It took him a while to find the small, shabby tavern, hidden away in an alley close by the river. It was poorly lit by smoking wall rushlights; he paused in the doorway until his eyes adjusted to the dimness and he saw the man awaiting him at a shadowed corner table.

  Sliding onto the bench beside Justin de Quincy, Durand signaled to the servingmaid for wine. “A charming hovel you picked for this tryst. What . . . you could not find a pigsty?”

  “I did look for one,” Justin said, “for I wanted you to feel at home.”

  They traded smiles that were colder than the rain drenching Évreux. They were very unlike; Justin was much younger, dark, intense, and guarded, while Durand was in his thirties, with the swagger and high coloring of a Viking. They’d loathed each other from their first meeting, but they’d often had to work together, for they were both the queen’s men and the one attribute they shared was loyalty, absolute and unquestioned, to Eleanor.

  Justin’s message was a coded verbal one, for it was too dangerous to commit anything to writing. “What are your chances of bringing the lost sheep back into the fold?” he said, pitching his voice even lower than usual.

  “This particular sheep is one for wandering off on his own. I’ll do my best to track him down, though. Once I find him, where should I bring him?”

  “To the market in Lisieux.”

  Durand nodded, then pushed the bench back, having heard all he needed to know. He did not bother to bid Justin farewell, nor did he bother to pay for his wine. Justin dropped a few coins on the warped wood table, watching the other man saunter out the door, shoving aside two customers just entering. They started to object, but after a closer look at Durand, they decided to let it go. Justin was not surprised by their wariness; he’d once heard Durand described as “a man born to drink with the Devil.” Eleanor’s tame wolf thrived on danger and courted confrontation, but Justin could deny neither his courage nor his quick wit. He needed both to have survived so long in his dual role, for if John ever discovered he’d been played for such a fool, Justin thought even Durand would be deserving of pity.