A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The baggage carts were surrounded, their drivers raising their hands in surrender. The French rearguard was scattering under the English assault. Richard spurred Fauvel on, for his quarry was not the baggage carts or these French knights. He was seeking the French king.

  As an orderly retreat disintegrated into a panicked rout, the killing became easier for Richard’s men; soldiers were at their most vulnerable in flight. Richard soon outdistanced most of his army, his household knights pushing their horses to keep up with Fauvel. He had no thoughts for his own safety now, no thoughts for anything but finding Philippe. Ahead was a crossroad. An overturned cart blocked the smaller road and a soldier standing beside it hastily raised his hands at the sight of Richard’s bloodied sword and gore-splattered hauberk. He shrank back against the wagon wheel as Richard brought Fauvel to a shuddering stop and leveled his sword at the man’s chest. “The king . . . Where is he?”

  “Ahead, my lord.” The man’s accent was Flemish, but his French was serviceable. “Far ahead,” he repeated hoarsely, pointing toward the dust clouds being kicked up in the distance. When Richard swung Fauvel around and set off in pursuit, the man sank to his knees, gulping air as he made a shaky sign of the cross. Other knights were galloping by and he watched in great relief as they rode past him, intent only upon staying with their king. He grabbed a wineskin from the cart and then took off at a trot for the shelter of the woods, for he knew his cart would be a magnet to men eager for plunder. He suspected he’d been threatened by the Lionheart himself. He smiled then, thinking that would make his story much more dramatic when he told it in years to come, and as he disappeared into the trees, it occurred to him that he’d done the French king a great service. A pity Philippe was not known for paying such debts of honor.

  WHEN HIS STALLION FINALLY began to falter, Richard reined him in and slid from the saddle. Fauvel’s gold coat was so streaked with lather that he looked white. Richard stroked his heaving side, torn between frustration that Philippe was getting away and remorse that he’d pushed this magnificent destrier beyond his endurance. “Good boy,” he said apologetically, “you did your best.” Seeing an alder tree some yards from the road, he led Fauvel toward it, knowing that water was often to be found near alders. There was indeed a small stream, and he let the stallion drink. The sun was hot upon his face, for he was wearing only an iron cap, not a full helmet. He was armed as if he were still fighting in Outremer; he’d learned to prefer a lighter hauberk during his months in the scorching heat of the Holy Land. Staring at that beckoning road, he swore with considerable feeling. So close! He’d covered so much ground that Philippe must be just ahead, riding for his life, the gutless swine.

  Dust signaled the approach of riders from the south and he watched until André and a handful of his knights came into view. Detouring from the road, they headed in his direction. After dismounting, they tended to their own exhausted horses, some of them kneeling by the stream to wash away grime and blood. André sank down next to Richard with a groan. “I am getting old,” he complained, “for every bone in my body aches.” Glancing at the younger man’s unhappy face, he said sympathetically, “I’d gladly offer Roland, but he is even more knackered than your Fauvel.”

  “I know,” Richard said morosely, for he’d already assessed the sorry shape of his friends’ horses. Reaching up to accept a wineskin from Morgan, he leaned back against the tree. Soon afterward, one of the knights called out and they saw other riders, moving fast. Richard scrambled to his feet, thinking that one of them might have a horse capable of continuing the chase.

  Reining in, Mercadier removed his helmet. “You’re a hard man to catch, my lord,” he said. “I thought we were going to have to ride halfway to Paris ere we could overtake you.”

  Richard was instantly on the alert. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing that I know of. But I figured you’d be needing a fresh mount along about now.” Mercadier gave one of his rare smiles then, which most men found even more chilling than his scowls. He gestured and one of his routiers came forward, leading a jet-black horse. Richard gave a whoop of delight, for Mercadier had brought him Scirocco, one of the two Arab stallions that al-Malik al-Adil had given him after he’d won his improbable victory at Jaffa. They’d accompanied Fauvel on the same horse transport and Richard thanked God and Mercadier now in equal measure for Scirocco’s appearance when he was most needed.

  “How did you find me?” he asked, checking the stallion’s cinch and stirrups.

  “I followed the trail of bodies,” the routier said laconically, earning himself an amused look from his king. “A local farmer told us about a cross-country path that allowed us to save time and miles, so the Arab ought to be ready to run.”

  Richard’s knights had gathered around and André said they’d follow once their horses had rested. Richard was already in the saddle. “Look after Fauvel,” he said and then urged the Arab on. As the black stallion streaked toward the road, Mercadier and his routiers rode after him. André and the other men watched until they were out of sight, which did not take long.

  IT WAS DUSK BY THE TIME Richard returned to his camp at Vendôme. He’d finally abandoned his pursuit as the day’s light began to fade, forced to admit that Philippe had managed to elude him and was probably sheltered in Châteaudun Castle by now. He rode into a scene of exuberant celebration and it was only as he listened to Will Marshal that he realized the full extent of his victory. The seizure of his baggage carts would be a devastating blow to the French king; not only had he lost weapons, siege engines, tents, his own chapel accoutrements, jewels, and a vast amount of money, he’d also lost the royal archives, chest after chest filled with charters that would have to be painstakingly re-created—if possible. They’d also taken large numbers of prisoners, as well as capturing some fine horses and provisions that could now be used for Richard’s own army.

  But to Richard, the long-term significance lay in the capture of the French archives, for Philippe’s government would be crippled by such a loss, in disarray for months to come. He laughed, thinking of the dismay of Philippe’s counselors and chancery officials, thinking of Philippe’s horror when he learned that all his state secrets were now in the hands of the English king. Much to Richard’s satisfaction, these included a list of the Norman and Poitevin lords who’d disavowed allegiance to him and done homage to Philippe.

  He was going over these charters in his tent when André joined him, bearing news that he expected to ignite his cousin’s temper. One of their prisoners had information about the French king, he said, and a frightened youth was soon ushered before Richard. Shoved to his knees, he stared up mutely at the English king until André said impatiently, “Go on, tell the king what you told us.”

  It took a while to get the story out of him. Philippe had turned aside when he’d reached that crossroad, declaring he wanted to offer prayers in a nearby parish church. And whilst he hid in the church, his enemies had galloped heedlessly past, never suspecting that he was so close at hand.

  Richard’s knights watched him warily, waiting for the explosion. He surprised them all by laughing—a soured laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. “Come on,” he said to André, “let’s get some air.” The other men took that for what it was, an invitation meant only for his cousin, and none followed as Richard and André left the tent and began to walk through the camp. Richard paused often to banter with soldiers, to offer praise that they valued almost as much as the plunder they knew he’d be sharing with them. He paid a visit to the tent that was serving as a makeshift hospital, jesting with the wounded, pleased to see that there were not very many; most of the casualties that day were French. After that, he wanted to make sure that Fauvel had been cooled down, rubbed, and fed. Getting a dried apple from the groom, he fed the treat to the dun stallion, assuring Fauvel that he was much faster than Scirocco, joking to André that he did not want jealousy to fester amongst his horses.

  André was surprised by his good mood, for he’d be
en certain Richard would be furious to learn he’d come so close to capturing the French king. When he said that, Richard shrugged. “It was not a total loss. When that story of Philippe cowering in a church gets around, he’ll be a laughingstock with his own troops. I’ll have other chances to run that fox to earth, for I am going to make it my life’s mission from now on.”

  Richard hesitated, giving the other man a sidelong glance. “The truth is that I had something else to do this day, something that mattered almost as much as capturing King Cravenheart. I needed to prove to myself that I am still the same man I was, that my imprisonment left no lasting scars.”

  André frowned as he thought that over. “But surely you proved that already at the siege of Nottingham and then again at Loches. If you feared death during those assaults, you hid it very well.”

  Richard was regretting his impulse, for it was not easy to bare his soul, even to André, who was likely to understand if anyone could. “There are worse fates than death,” he said at last, and André cursed himself for not having seen it sooner. When Richard had charged into those besieged castles, he’d risked a fatal wound. But by racing into the very midst of the French army, he was risking capture.

  “Well,” he said, “you need not fret, Cousin. To judge by what I saw today, it is clear that you are the same crazed lunatic on the battlefield that you always were.”

  Richard grinned. “I was hoping you’d say that.” They looked at each other and then began to laugh, sounding so triumphant that soldiers passing by smiled, glad that their king was so pleased with their victory over the French.

  WHEN THE WALLS OF Poitiers came into view, Richard could feel himself tense, for he was not looking forward to this reunion with his wife. He’d lashed out at his sister in part because he could not explain to her why he was loath to see Berenguela, why he so often felt distant and detached from his former life. Even with Joanna, there was a constraint between them that had not been there before. Women could not understand the humiliation of being utterly powerless, for few of them ever exercised power. Even his mother did not comprehend why he felt such shame for submitting to Heinrich’s demands. That was especially true for the innocent he’d wed. He’d realized early on that Berenguela saw him through a golden glow, not as he really was. He’d liked her adulation, though, liked her bedrock faith that he was so much more capable than other men, that he would always prevail. Now he did not want to see her brown eyes reflect his own deep-rooted disappointment.

  Her father’s death had cast a new shadow over his marriage, for he’d begun to feel guilty for staying away. No matter how often he told himself that he’d done what he had to do, he knew he’d not been there when she’d most needed him. That awareness made him even more reluctant to face her and angry with himself for feeling this way, so he was in an edgy mood as they approached the Pont de Rochereuil. As the gate swung open, he saw crowds gathered in the streets, already beginning to cheer. Summoning up a smile, he urged his stallion forward into Poitiers.

  THEY WERE AWAITING HIM in the palace courtyard. His wife wore the mourning black of the Spanish kingdoms and Sicily, a stark shade that accentuated her pallor, making her seem fragile and even more petite and delicate than he remembered. Dismounting, he handed the reins to Arne and crossed to Berengaria. Kissing her hand, he said, “I was grieved to learn of your father’s death. He was a good man, a good king.”

  Berengaria inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord,” she said softly, and then turned to present him to Bishop Guillaume. Richard already knew the bishop, who’d been elected to the See of Poitiers ten years ago, and their exchange was coolly civil, for they’d clashed over Church prerogatives when Richard was Count of Poitou. He turned then to Joanna, giving her a brotherly kiss on the cheek. She smiled at him, all the while hoping that the decorum of the public greeting between husband and wife was due to the presence of the bishop and the other clerics. But as she looked up searchingly into his face, she could not tell what he was thinking; his court mask was firmly in place.

  Upon getting word that Richard would be arriving on the second Saturday in July, Berengaria had insisted upon arranging a formal reception for him, inviting Bishop Guillaume, the abbess of Ste Croix, the Abbot of St Hilaire de Grand, most of the city’s clerics, the Viscount of Thouars and his brother Guy, and even their quarrelsome neighbor Hugh de Lusignan. Joanna had noticed that Richard did not seem to enjoy these elaborate public gatherings as much as he once had, and she’d tried to convince Berengaria that Richard might prefer a quiet family dinner. But Berengaria had insisted that Richard be given a ceremonial welcome befitting his rank, leaving Joanna to worry that her sister-in-law was more nervous than joyful about her long-delayed reunion with her husband.

  Trestle tables draped in white linen had been set up in Eleanor’s splendid great hall, laid with silver plate. The cooks had prepared an extravagant menu: a roasted peacock, its bones strutted, its skin and feathers then refitted to give the impression that it still lived; marrow tarts; venison stew; trout boiled in wine; sorrel soup; rice in almond milk; blancmange; Lombardy custard; salmon in jelly; red wine from Cahors and Bordeaux, and even the very costly Saint Pourçain wine from Auvergne; and then sugared subtleties shaped like dragons and war galleys and Richard’s new coat of arms, for upon his return, he’d added two more royal lions to his standard.

  Bishop Guillaume did not approve of such excess, although he politely said nothing, reminding himself that the English queen would make sure that her almoner distributed the leftover food to the poor. He could not resist chastising the English king, though, for having turned out the monks of St Martin’s at Tours, for he considered that a typical Angevin provocation. He thought Henry had been the worst offender, having the blood of the martyred Thomas of Canterbury on his hands, but Richard did not always show the proper respect for the Holy Church, either, and his harassment of the Tours monks was shameful in the bishop’s eyes—as was the presence amongst good Christians of Richard’s cutthroat captain, Mercadier, who was calmly enjoying his dinner at one of the side tables.

  Richard felt that he’d been quite justified in punishing the monks for welcoming the French king. He meant to return their property once they’d learned a lesson in loyalty, but he had no intention of sharing that with Bishop Guillaume. He heard the bishop out with icy courtesy, though, for Berengaria was watching him imploringly, dark eyes filled with distress. He supposed he should have expected her to become the bishop’s devoted disciple, for her piety inclined her to give the benefit of every doubt to the Church. As likely as not, she’d even defend that inept fool on the papal throne.

  He was determined to be on his good behavior and did his best to keep the conversation going, telling them that the Archbishop of Rouen was back from his stint as a hostage in Germany, news that pleased them all, especially the clerics. He revealed that his chancellor, Longchamp, was meeting with French envoys to discuss a truce, a reluctant but realistic acknowledgment that Normandy needed time to recover from the war that had been ravaging it for over a year, and this, too, was well received by his audience. And he entertained them by relating the story of a “fat fish” that had been stranded on the manor of the canons of St Paul’s. Whales were considered the property of the Crown, but Hubert Walter had ruled that this one belonged to the dean and chapter of St Paul’s, and Richard amused them by grumbling good-naturedly that his justiciar now owed him a whale, a debt that would not be easy to pay. He and André and his knights were the only ones who’d actually seen a whale and after they described the one they’d encountered as they sailed to Sicily, a lively discussion ensued about whether the “great fish” that swallowed Jonah in Scriptures had been a whale.

  Berengaria began to relax once she was sure Richard was not going to quarrel with Bishop Guillaume, and she was grateful that he’d introduced a topic their clerical guests found so interesting. She’d feared that he might seem like a stranger after more than twenty-one months apart, but he seemed reass
uringly familiar—the way he cocked a brow or tilted his head to the side when he was considering a question, the curve of his mouth when he was suppressing a smile, the sound of his laugh, how he gestured with his hands when he talked. This was the husband she remembered, the man who’d always treated her kindly even though she knew kindness was not an essential aspect of his nature. The other man was the stranger, the one who’d written her such impersonal, unrevealing letters and made excuses to keep them apart.

  She was still hurt that he had not come to her as soon as he’d learned of her father’s death, but Joanna had almost convinced her that he could not interrupt a war and even Bishop Guillaume had not criticized him for that. She was pleased now when he began to talk about her father, saying how much he’d respected Sancho and reminding their guests that the Navarrese king had been known as Sancho el Sabio, Sancho the Wise. Richard caught the sheen of unshed tears behind Berengaria’s lashes and reached over to take her hand, saying again how very sorry he’d been to learn of Sancho’s death.

  This was their first truly intimate moment since his arrival, and she smiled, speaking so softly that he alone could hear. “It is a comfort that he is with my mother now,” she confided. “And my brother finally admitted he’d been in pain for months, so I am thankful he is no longer suffering. I am sure that Sancho will be a fine king, and that helps, too. I just wish my brother Fernando will not have to hear such sorrowful news when he is so far from home, away from family and friends—”