A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  DURAND MADE A PURCHASE in the market before returning to the castle. As he entered the great hall, the knights he encountered acknowledged him coolly, for he had no friends among them, nor did he want any. He did not even get a grudging nod from Ursula. She was playing a game of draughts with her maid, and he might have been invisible for all the notice she took of him. Men who showed Durand disrespect did so at their peril. Rudeness from John’s sultry paramour merely amused him, and he deliberately annoyed her by stopping to flirt with her flustered maid.

  As he expected, he found John alone in his bedchamber, for the queen’s son, usually a man who craved company, had been solitary and brooding in the past fortnight, ever since hearing that his castle at Nottingham had surrendered to Richard.

  John was lounging on the bed, an open book upon his lap. He’d been given the same excellent education as his brothers and seemed to find a genuine pleasure in reading. He got to his feet, saying sarcastically, “I must be going deaf, for I did not hear you knock, Durand.”

  “Fortunately, you do not value me for my manners, my lord.” Durand moved to the table, picked up the flagon that John’s squire kept filled, and poured two cups, then waited for John to join him.

  John bridled a bit, but boredom finally drove him to the table, for whatever Durand’s other failings, he was usually entertaining. “I assume you have a reason for this intrusion, Durand.”

  “I brought you this, my lord.” Durand put a sack on the table and pulled out a small hourglass.

  “Is this a jest?” John said coldly. “If so, I do not find it amusing.”

  “That is understandable, my lord, for there is nothing remotely amusing about your predicament. But I thought you needed reminding that the time to make a choice is running out.”

  John scowled. The knight’s boldness was one of the reasons he enjoyed the other man’s company; few men had the ballocks to be as forthright as Durand, but it could be vexing, too. “Choice?” he echoed. “Your jokes are falling far shy of the mark today.”

  “You do have a choice, my lord. You can cling to your alliance with the French king or you can seek to make peace with your brother.”

  “Is that your idea of a choice?” John jeered. “That is like asking me where I’d prefer to live, Sodom or Gomorrah.”

  “Passing strange,” Durand drawled, “for I’d find it very easy to make that choice. In Sodom, you’d be Philippe’s puppet, mayhap even his lackey. In Gomorrah, you’d be the heir to the English throne.”

  John slammed his wine cup down on the table. “I am no man’s lackey!”

  “But that is what they’ll be calling you at the French court, even if it is done behind your back. Your value to Philippe plummeted as soon as Richard set foot again on English soil. He will still call you his ally, throw you the occasional crumbs from his table, like Évreux. But you’ll have no leverage with him, and you’d best think what that will mean. You are not a man who finds it easy to curry favor or to curb your tongue. And Philippe will demand that you do both.”

  Durand had taken a risk in speaking so bluntly. But he was sure that he was not telling John anything he did not already know. John might be many things; a fool was not amongst them. He just needed to be nudged in the right direction and to be assured that it was the only road to take.

  John confirmed this now by saying bitterly, “You think Richard would not make me grovel and fawn over him, too?”

  If you’re lucky, he would, Durand thought. Aloud, he said, “I daresay you’re right. But a bit of groveling is a cheap price to pay for a crown, my lord.” He leaned across the table, locking eyes with John. “If ever there was a man who’ll not make old bones, it is your brother. I consider it a minor miracle that he has managed to dodge Death as long as he has. Sooner or later, his luck will run out, and when it does, you need to be there to take advantage of it.”

  John’s eyes were an uncommon shade of hazel, but they looked golden now, catching the light from the candle at his elbow. “I think you’re forgetting Richard’s little Spanish bride. Suppose she gives him a son?”

  Durand shrugged. “That is the chance you take, my lord. But even if she does so, how likely is it that Richard will live long enough for his son to reach manhood? And no one wants a child king, not when they could have a man grown.”

  “You’re asking me to gamble all upon what may or may not happen, Durand.”

  “Since when are you averse to gambling, my lord? You wagered that Richard would not come back and lost. This is a gamble with better odds.”

  John stared down into his wine cup, as if seeking answers. “What if Richard refuses to forgive me? I was declared an outlaw and traitor by his Nottingham council.”

  Durand hid a smile, sure now that he’d penned his sheep. He allowed himself a moment or two of triumph, and then leaned in again, doing all he could to banish John’s misgivings, doing what his queen wanted of him.

  ELEANOR STOOD ON THE BATTLEMENTS of Portchester Castle’s high stone keep, heedless of the stinging rain and gusting wind. Portsmouth’s harbor was slate grey, churned with whitecaps, spume being flung high into the air by the waves pounding the shore. She could no longer find the sail of her son’s galley. Her eyes searched the horizon intently, but she saw only storm clouds and the angry sea.

  “Madame!” She turned to see the Countess of Aumale hurrying along the rampart walkway, her mantle billowing out behind her as she struggled against the wind. Hawisa had joined them at Portsmouth soon after their arrival on April 24, eager to accompany them to Normandy. Eleanor had welcomed her company, and she was touched that Hawisa would have ventured out onto the battlements, for the other woman had once confessed to an unease of heights. Clearly, Hawisa had heard that Richard’s galley had put out to sea in the teeth of the gale.

  “Is it true?” Hawisa sounded breathless, and avoided glancing down into the bailey below. “Has the king really sailed on his own?”

  Eleanor nodded. “He grew more and more restless as each day passed, and today he lost all patience. This morning he gave the town of Portsmouth its first royal charter, and this afternoon he declared that he would wait no longer. As you can see,” she said, gesturing toward the hundred ships riding at anchor in the harbor, “the masters of his fleet balked at sailing in such a storm. But Richard paid them no heed and the Sea-Cleaver headed out to sea soon after None rang.”

  Hawisa shivered, clutching her mantle as tightly as she could. She could not imagine any rational person choosing to sail in such fearful weather and she was deeply grateful that she was not out on that dark, surging sea with Richard.

  Richard’s insanity was all too familiar to Eleanor, for it was a madness he’d shared with his father. Henry had often pitted his will against nature’s fury, sailing in weather even worse than this May squall. When they’d journeyed to England for their coronation, he’d insisted upon braving a wild November gale, and for years afterward, the mere memory of that harrowing Channel crossing could make Eleanor feel queasy. She still remembered her frustration and her fury when he’d taken her back to England as his prisoner, unable to protest when he refused to wait till a savage storm abated, unable to stop him from taking nine-year-old Joanna and eight-year-old John with them. At least Richard had put out to sea alone; Henry always insisted that his fleet sail with him, even when his sailors were pleading that he stay in port. Eleanor had not understood it then, nor did she now. And as she gazed across Portsmouth’s storm-whipped harbor, she was torn between anger at her son’s reckless lunacy and fear for his safety. Surely he could not have survived so much only to drown because of his own stubbornness? But all she could do was to pray to the Almighty to save him from his own folly.

  RICHARD’S GALLEY WAS so battered by the storm that it was blown backward by the wind and they had to take shelter in a cove on the Isle of Wight. Much to his frustration and somewhat to his embarrassment, the winds continued to be so contrary the next day that he had no choice but to return to Portsmouth.
There he ran into a force no less powerful than the weather—his furious mother. Eleanor told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to sail again until the winds were favorable, and he reluctantly agreed to wait. So it was not until May 12 that his fleet left Portsmouth behind in the distance, landing that same day at Barfleur. Neither Richard nor Eleanor would ever see England again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MAY 1194

  Barfleur, Normandy

  Richard’s galley was able to dock at the quay, but most of the ships in his fleet would have to anchor out in the harbor and send their passengers ashore in small boats. A large crowd had gathered and now began to cheer at the first sight of his red-and-gold lion banner. Richard was pleased by their enthusiastic welcome, for he saw only smiles on their faces, no recriminations for what he’d yielded at the German court. As soon as he strode down the gangplank, he was surrounded by local lords and clerics, who’d preempted the space closest to the quay, forcing all the others out into the street. One youngster was not willing to wait, and he began to push his way through the throng, heedless of the scowls and curses from the men whose toes had been stepped upon. Squeezing past an indignant archdeacon, who swatted at him and missed, he dropped to his knees in the muddy street, suddenly afraid that Richard would not recognize him.

  He need not have worried. He’d left childhood behind in the four years that his father had been fighting in the Holy Land and then held prisoner in Germany. But as Richard gazed down at the eager, upturned face and tousled coppery hair, he knew. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You grew up, Philip.” When he pulled the boy to his feet and they embraced, those watching had no idea why the king was so happy to see this pushy stripling, but they applauded anyway.

  It was too noisy to hear, so Philip pointed to draw Richard’s attention to the men standing across the street. Recognizing Morgan and Guilhem de Préaux, Richard began to make his way toward them, his son following closely in his wake as the crowd parted to let them pass. It was not until he reached them that he saw the woman they were sheltering from the press of people. When she flung herself into his arms, that set off another wave of cheering.

  “Anna insisted upon coming with us,” Joanna said once she’d gotten her breath back, “but I made her wait at our lodgings, for I knew how chaotic it would be here at the harbor.”

  “And Berenguela?”

  She shook her head. Another burst of cheering drowned out whatever she meant to say about Berengaria’s absence, and she and Richard turned to see that Eleanor had just stepped onto the quay. “Go on, lass,” Richard said and, with Morgan and Guilhem clearing a path for her, Joanna hastened toward her mother. She paused, though, to glance over her shoulder at Richard and Philip. They were watching her, smiling, and she was touched to see that Richard still had his arm around his son’s shoulders. But she also felt a prick of unease, for it seemed to her that when she’d told him his wife was not at Barfleur, she’d caught a fleeting look of relief on her brother’s face.

  FROM BARFLEUR, THEY TRAVELED to Bayeux and then Caen. In each village and town they passed through, people turned out in huge numbers to welcome their duke, for Richard’s Norman title mattered more to most of them than his English one.

  Joanna had been able to have several long talks with her mother for they were sharing a bedchamber; there were so many in Richard’s entourage that accommodations were limited even at Caen’s royal castle. But so far she’d had no opportunity for a private conversation with her brother; he was never alone.

  She was not surprised, therefore, to enter the great hall and find Richard encircled by an animated, eager audience. She’d noticed that Richard seemed comfortable talking about his time in the Holy Land and his misadventures on his way home, making light of his two shipwrecks and the flight into enemy territory; he’d even appeared willing to talk about his three months as Leopold’s prisoner, although he’d been very sparing with details. But as soon as anyone mentioned his experiences in Germany, he shut down; that was the only way Joanna could describe it. The stiffness of his posture and the guarded look on his face told her now that he was being asked questions he did not want to answer. Just as it occurred to her that he might welcome an interruption, Richard saw her and stood up.

  “We’ll have to continue this discussion later,” he announced, and held out his arm to Joanna, who happily took it and followed him from the hall. Once they were in his bedchamber, he sent Arne down to the buttery for wine and sprawled on the settle, confiding, “It is passing strange, irlanda. There were times in the past year when I craved company the way a drunkard craves wine. But now . . . now I find myself yearning for a bit of solitude, some quiet time for myself—as if a king ever gets that.”

  Joanna sat beside him, warmed to be called irlanda again. She’d been the favorite of her three older brothers, who’d enjoyed teasing her with affectionate pet names. She’d been “imp” to Hal, “kitten” to Geoffrey, and “swallow” or “little bird” to Richard, always in the lenga romana of their mother’s homeland. Hal and Geoffrey’s voices had been silenced for years, but Richard had been restored to his family and his kingdom and for that, she would be eternally grateful to the Almighty.

  She’d taken care not to stare at Arne’s scars, but once he departed the chamber, she said, “Morgan told me what happened to Arne. That was very brave of him.”

  Richard nodded. “He was just fourteen. Many men grown would not have shown his courage.”

  She waited to see if he would say more and when he did not, she honored his choice by asking no questions. She wanted to ask him about the marriages of Aenor and Anna to Leopold’s sons, but he’d shown a marked reluctance to discuss the hostages and she knew he’d rebuffed Anna when the girl had rashly entreated him to reject the marriage plans—as if he could. Joanna had always felt free to speak her mind with Richard and she found it disconcerting to have to weigh her words like this.

  “Maman says that she hopes Johnny will be at Évreux to seek your pardon for his treachery. I was very fond of Johnny when we were children, but I do not care much for the man he has become. I am not sure he deserves forgiveness.”

  “Neither am I,” he admitted. “It will be easier to pardon him than to forgive him.”

  She studied him intently. “Why pardon him at all? Because Maman asks it of you?”

  “What better reason could I have than pleasing our mother?” he said lightly. “And I do understand why she wants it done. Until I can sire an heir of my own, we are stuck with my brother or my nephew. Neither Johnny nor Arthur inspires much confidence, but Maman sees Johnny as the lesser of evils and I suppose I do, too.”

  “I cannot argue with that. Not only is Arthur just seven, he would be Philippe’s puppet for certes. But whenever you think of Johnny as next in line for the throne, you must be powerfully motivated to get Berengaria with child.” She’d deliberately brought Berengaria’s name into the conversation, but he merely smiled, not taking the bait.

  “There is another reason for making peace with Johnny,” he said. “It gets him away from Philippe’s baleful influence. Saladin’s brother taught me an Arabic proverb that I rather fancied. The Saracens say it is better to have a camel inside the tent, pissing out, than outside the tent, pissing in.” When Joanna smiled, he added playfully, “No regrets that you turned him down, irlanda?”

  She shook her head in feigned disapproval. “You are so lucky the French never learned of your scheme to marry me off to al-Adil. Imagine what they’d have made of that at your trial in Germany!” She felt safe in saying that because he’d spoken freely of his trial, which had been a spectacular triumph for him, after all.

  He confirmed the soundness of her instincts by laughing. “Very true, Joanna. If Saladin were my brother by marriage, it might have made my denials of a conspiracy with the Saracens less convincing. Not that any of them really believed that ludicrous accusation, not even Philippe’s pet rat, Beauvais.” His face momentarily shadowed at the though
t of his hated enemy and Joanna said quickly, “I know you respected al-Adil. But when you start husband-hunting for me again, I hope you’ll remember that I would prefer he be a Christian.”

  He grinned and assured her he’d keep that in mind. “So no Saracens, Jews, or heretics. Any other requirements I should know about?”

  His joking mention of heretics had stirred up an unwelcome memory; it vexed Joanna the way Raimond de St Gilles hovered in the corners of her consciousness, awaiting his chance to lay claim to her thoughts. “Well, a crown would be good,” she said, matching Richard’s bantering tone, and he promised to add “king” to the list of qualifications, warning her that she risked never finding another husband if she was going to be so demanding.

  Joanna was delighted that they were so at ease with each other, as if the past twenty months had never been. She felt comfortable enough now to acknowledge the ghost in the chamber. “Richard, we need to talk about Berengaria.”

  If he’d shut down whenever mention was made of Heinrich, now it was as if she were looking at a castle under siege, drawbridge pulled up, portcullis in place, doors barred. “You assured me she was well,” he said, making that simple statement somehow sound accusatory. “Were you lying about that?”