A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  They both looked surprised. “Sinning?” Morgan blurted out, sounding so dubious that Richard grinned.

  “No, listening to churchmen.” They laughed, and Hugh, by then at the door of the great hall, glanced over his shoulder with another smile, untroubled by their levity. He well knew that it was no easy task to uproot sin in a royal garden, but he was a patient gardener.

  ELEANOR REGARDED HER SON pensively, trying to decide if she should broach the subject of his marriage, as Joanna had been urging. He’d just told her he was leaving Chinon for another quick trip to his newly fortified stronghold at Pont de l’Arche, where he was having great success in penning up the French garrison at Vaudreuil Castle, part of the war of attrition he was waging against Philippe, their truce notwithstanding. In mid-March, he was meeting the Duchess of Brittany at Angers in an effort—probably in vain, he conceded—to reconcile her with her husband, the Earl of Chester, for he hoped Randolph might convince Constance to let her son Arthur be raised at his court. After that, he would be holding his Easter Court at Le Mans. Since Le Mans was just fifty miles from Beaufort-en-Vallée, where Berengaria and Joanna were currently residing, that made up Eleanor’s mind.

  “Do you intend to celebrate Easter with Berengaria?”

  She’d taken him by surprise, as his evasive answer made clear. “I have not given my Easter Court much thought yet, Maman. It is only January, after all.”

  “Richard . . . even if she no longer pleases you, you cannot consider ending the marriage. The alliance with Navarre is too valuable to lose.”

  “I am well aware of that,” he said, scowling. “Nor has Berenguela done anything to displease me.”

  Eleanor rose and sat down beside him in the window-seat. “Then why are you suddenly so loath to spend any time with her, dearest?”

  With anyone else, he’d have flared up, using anger to ward off this intrusion into his heart and mind. He could feel heat rising in his face, for he had no answer to her question. He did not understand himself why he was no longer comfortable with his wife, why her very presence reminded him of all he’d lost since leaving the Holy Land. “I am fighting a war,” he said curtly. “Right now I can think only about defending my lands and retaking what the French king seized whilst I was a prisoner. There will be time enough for my wife once our empire is no longer in such danger.”

  Eleanor had rarely felt so helpless. He was hurting and she’d have given anything to heal that hurt, but there was nothing she could do. “You are right, Richard,” she said, for at least she could stop probing this painful wound. “You must give priority to the threat posed by the French.” He did not reply, merely nodding, but she sensed his relief, and she made haste to find a safer topic of conversation. “What is this I hear about your confrontation with a priest, Fulk de Neuilly?”

  “Oh, that,” he said, and when he smiled, she knew she’d made the right choice. “He is one of those vexing preachers who enjoy making foreboding prophesies and claiming divine powers. This Fulk de Neuilly contends that the Almighty has blessed him with the ability to cure the blind, the lame, and the dumb. He also insists he can drive out demons and get harlots and usurers to see the error of their ways, and for all I know, he thinks he can walk on water, too. In other words, the sort of sanctimonious, prideful fool that any sensible person would take good care to avoid. After predicting that Philippe or I would meet an ‘unfortunate death’ if we do not end our hostilities, he made a dramatic appearance in Rouen, taking me to task for my sins.”

  “He accused you of having three daughters?” Eleanor asked, even though she knew exactly what had transpired between Richard and the self-professed holy man, for her son’s riposte had quickly been repeated with zest, taking no time at all to spill from Normandy into Anjou.

  “Three shameless daughters, he declared, warning that I must marry them off as soon as possible lest evil befall me. Of course I said he lied, that I had no daughters. And he replied that my three daughters were pride, avarice, and lust. So I told him that I would give my pride to the Knights Templar, my avarice to the Cistercian monks, and my lust to the prelates of the Church.”

  It had been a deft rejoinder, showing that Richard could identify a foe’s weaknesses on and off the battlefield, and Eleanor laughed. “I could so easily hear Harry saying that,” she confided, “for you are more like him than either of you were willing to admit.”

  “I’ll take your word for that, Maman,” Richard said, before painting a vivid verbal picture of the discomfited prophet slinking away to much laughter from the audience of earls and barons. They were interrupted by a servant bringing in wine and wafers, and by the time they’d eaten, Richard was in better spirits. “I suppose you heard that your friend the Countess of Aumale is now a widow, and probably a merry one since she loved William de Forz not.”

  “Yes, I did hear of the count’s death. Sudden chest pains, I believe. And you are right about Hawisa. She saw his death as deliverance.”

  “She will not be pleased, then, when she learns that I intend for her to marry again.”

  Eleanor was not surprised, for great heiresses were valuable assets, used by kings to reward loyal vassals and to forge alliances. She felt some sympathy, knowing Hawisa would have no say in the matter, but she’d learned years ago to pick her battles and this was the price Hawisa must pay for her good fortune in being highborn and wealthy. “Whom do you have in mind for her, Richard?”

  “A good man,” he said, although that had not been his reason for choosing Hawisa’s next husband. “When he gets back from Austria, I mean to give her to Baldwin de Bethune. I owe him an heiress, for my father had promised him Denise de Déols and I gave her, instead, to André.”

  “Baldwin is a good man,” Eleanor agreed, “and since he was often at your father’s court, I am sure Hawisa knows him. That may make it easier for her.”

  Richard was not particularly interested in Hawisa of Aumale’s opinion of her marriage; he saw her as a pawn to be moved around on the marital chessboard however he saw fit. “Tell her that I will give them a lavish wedding and I will pay for it myself. That might reconcile her to her fate.”

  Richard had sent word to Eleanor as soon as he’d learned of Leopold of Austria’s death, knowing she’d find it as gratifying as he did. He’d not disclosed the entire contents of the archbishop’s letter, though, and he made ready to do so now, knowing she’d be troubled by what he had to say. “On his deathbed, Leopold gave orders for Wilhelm to be sent to the Hungarian king’s court, trusting that he’d restore the boy to his father in Saxony. But Heinrich got wind of it and demanded that Wilhelm be sent to him, instead. So he’ll have both Otto and Wilhelm as hostages now—as leverage.”

  “Richard, do you know how Otto is being treated?”

  “I did my best to persuade Heinrich to take Otto with him when he invaded Sicily, for I thought the lad would be better off with the army than sequestered away in some Godforsaken German castle. Heinrich refused, of course, being Heinrich, but I was told by friends in Germany that he has since ‘eased’ the conditions of Otto’s confinement.”

  That sounded as ominous to Eleanor as it had to Richard. They looked at each other in silence for a few moments, frustrated that they could do so little for Tilda’s children. “There is more,” Richard said, “both good and bad. The good is that the Empress Constance was delivered of a son in December; I know that will give Joanna great joy. The bad is that four days after his coronation as King of Sicily, Heinrich claimed that a plot had been discovered against him and he arrested Tancred’s widow, her children, and the leading Sicilian lords. He sent Sybilla and her daughters to a German convent and her small son to a German monastery. Admiral Margaritis and the Archbishop of Salerno were imprisoned at Trifels Castle, which will be their tomb.”

  Eleanor suddenly felt very cold, thinking of the horrors hidden away behind the walls of Trifels Castle, thinking that the fate of these Sicilian lords could have been her son’s fate, too. “God help t
hem,” she said bleakly, “for no one else can.”

  RICHARD’S MEETING WITH CONSTANCE at Angers Castle was more cordial than he’d expected, for she was so thankful that her daughter was on her way home from Austria that she was less hostile than usual. Her face had always been the mirror to her soul, and her distaste at the thought of reconciling with Randolph was obvious to every witness in the great hall. But she realized that Richard’s interest in having her son raised at his court could be the first step toward naming his nephew as his heir if his queen did not give him a son. So she agreed to discuss his proposal with her barons and even to make Randolph welcome in Brittany if they consented. Richard realized this was the best he could hope for, and he could only marvel that his brother Geoffrey had been so happy with this woman, for he found her as prickly as any hedgehog.

  By the seventeenth of March, he’d reached the Earl of Chester’s castle at St James de Beuvron, where he discovered that the earl was just as stubborn as Constance. When a man wed a woman of higher rank, he expected to share that rank, to be entitled to the possession, use, and income of his wife’s lands. But Constance and her barons had never recognized Randolph’s authority as Duke of Brittany, which was a long-festering grievance with him. Richard had to spend several days assuring him that if he returned to Brittany, he would be able to exercise his full rights as duke jure uxoris.

  After securing Randolph’s cooperation, Richard intended to meet the Lord of Fougères on the twenty-fourth of the month. Raoul de Fougères had been one of the most notorious of the Breton barons, a man who’d been constantly in rebellion against his Angevin overlords, but he’d died in the past year and Richard hoped his brother would prove to be more tractable. He decided to take a day for himself first, as the hawking season was coming to an end, and before departing for Fougères, he and Randolph and his household knights rode out to try their falcons against cranes along the rushes of the River Beuvron.

  They had an unanticipated addition to their hawking party, for his brother John had made an unexpected appearance at the castle, in what he claimed was a visit to Earl Randolph, expressing surprised pleasure to find Richard there, too. Richard was not deceived; he knew full well that John had heard of his meeting with Constance at Angers, and he was desperate to find out if Arthur was now the favorite in the royal heir race. But he said nothing and hid his amusement at the Earl of Chester’s bafflement when he found himself acclaimed by John as a dear friend of long standing.

  They had an enjoyable afternoon. Richard’s white gyrfalcon distinguished itself by bringing down a huge crane, diving upon the larger bird like a lethal streak of lightning, and Randolph’s and André’s birds also stooped to the kill. Their handlers released the greyhounds and while the men waited for the prey to be collected and the falcons recalled, Richard and André intrigued the others by telling them how the Saracens used leather hoods as a means of controlling their hawks. Once they were returning to his castle, the Earl of Chester took the opportunity to ask Richard if it was true that he’d brought back some Saracen archers from the Holy Land. He was amazed when Richard confirmed it, for he’d been sure this was just another wild rumor started by the French. Richard laughed at his consternation, saying they were brave soldiers with a rare talent. He was explaining how Saracens could shoot arrows from horseback, a skill no Christians had been able to master, when they encountered the old man.

  He appeared without warning from the woods, his long, unkempt hair and straggly beard making them think he was a hermit, one of those recluses who shunned contact with other men, living in isolation but dependent upon the charity of their neighbors, who often admired them for their piety and simple, godly way of life. But he was leaning upon a pilgrim’s staff, so he might have been on a pilgrimage to the holy shrine at Mont St Michel.

  Their horses did not like this stranger’s rank smell and shied away as he hobbled forward. “Give him alms, André,” Richard directed. When his cousin raised an eyebrow, he grinned. “You know kings do not carry money.” He watched as André opened his scrip and tossed some coins at the man’s feet. “Surely I’d be more generous than that?” With an exaggerated sigh, André fished out a few more deniers. But instead of reaching for the offering, the hermit moved closer, staring up intently into their faces. His gaze moved slowly from man to man before coming to rest upon Richard.

  “Heed me, O Lord!” He had a surprisingly deep and resonant voice, and in that moment he looked more like one of the prophets of the Old Testament than a ragged hermit or beggar. “Be thou mindful of the destruction of Sodom, and abstain from what is unlawful. For if thou dost not, a vengeance worthy of God shall overtake thee.”

  They looked down at him in astonishment, but several of the men then surreptitiously made the sign of the cross. Richard merely laughed. Turning in the saddle, he glanced toward his brother, saying, “The hermit has to be talking to you, Johnny, since your sins are much more spectacular than mine.”

  John laughed, too. “I would hope so, for I’ve always believed that anything worth doing is worth doing to excess.”

  André and their household knights joined in the laughter, although the Earl of Chester; Richard’s vice-chancellor, Eustace; and a few others were still watching the hermit uneasily.

  Angered by their laughter, he raised his staff, pointing it skyward as if he were calling down a celestial thunderbolt upon these unrepentant sinners. “‘Be not deceived, for God is not mocked!’”

  By now Richard was losing patience. “We are not mocking God, old man. We are mocking you.” And raising his hand, he signaled for the hawking party to ride on, leaving the hermit behind in the middle of the road, shouting after them that whatsoever a man soweth, so shall he reap. By then, they were out of earshot.

  ALTHOUGH JOHN WOULD NEVER have admitted it, he felt diminished in Richard’s presence, for his brother was all that he was not. But he knew that if he hoped to be restored to royal favor, it must be done one slow step at a time. And so one of those steps had led him to Richard’s Easter Court at Le Mans, where he discovered that he had more to fear from ghosts than jealousy.

  It was at Le Mans that he’d seen his father for the last time. As the army led by the French king and Richard closed in on the city, Henry had sent him to safety. Although he’d feigned reluctance, he’d been glad to go, for by then he knew that his father was dying and it was time to strike a deal with Richard and Philippe. He’d found it easy enough to convince himself that he had no choice, that he was doing what any sensible man would have done: abandoning a sinking ship. And at first he’d been confident that he’d made the right decision. Richard had scorned those who’d deserted his father in his final days, honoring, instead, the men who’d stayed loyal, like Will Marshal and Baldwin de Bethune. But he’d made an exception for his brother, bestowing upon John six English counties and a princely income of four thousand pounds a year. John had soon learned, though, that other men did not respect him. Oh, they were deferential to him as the king’s brother and heir, but he could see it in their eyes; they thought it despicable that he had betrayed his dying father. And it was then that Henry began to invade his dreams. Never shouting or ranting or berating him. Far worse. He was a silent spirit, watching his son with sad eyes, fading away whenever John tried to defend himself, to explain why he’d fled Le Mans and made a private peace with Richard and the French king.

  So even though he’d been given a seat at the high table in the great hall, John was not enjoying himself on this Monday in Holy Week. Will Marshal and his countess, Isabel de Clare, had arrived that afternoon and while Isabel caught up with André’s wife, Denise de Déols, the men were telling Will about the latest offer by the French king—that disputes be settled by a contest of champions, five on each side. But after Richard insisted that he and Philippe be two of the champions, the French lost all interest in the idea. Will and those who’d not heard this before burst into laughter. John smiled, too; although he was bone-weary of hearing Richard extolled as
a cross between Roland and the pagan god of war, Mars, he took considerable pleasure in the thought of Philippe’s discomfort. Yet he was still relieved when the meal was finally done and he could retreat to his own chamber, away from all prying eyes.

  Since he was bored and had not been able to bring Ursula to Le Mans, he sent Durand into the town to find him a whore and then settled down on the bed with a flagon of wine. But he soon received a surprise summons from his brother.

  He found Richard in the palace solar with Will Marshal and André. They were trading memories of the siege of Le Mans, laughing as though they’d not been on opposite sides. John already knew Will had unhorsed Richard when he’d set out in pursuit of Henry, who’d been forced to flee after the French fought their way into the city. The story had become famous, and Will had been sure he’d ruined himself by that public humiliation of a man not known for his forgiving nature. But to his amazement, he’d been restored to royal favor and given Isabel de Clare as his bride. John had not known that Will had also nearly captured André that same day. While he’d managed to get away from Will, he’d broken his arm in the escape, and Richard was teasing him about a similar incident in the Holy Land, when he’d somehow been injured by a Saracen he’d fatally wounded. John listened with a fixed smile, for he did not understand the enjoyment that men took in reliving memories of near-death experiences. In that, he was more their father’s son than Richard, for Henry had not liked war, and although when he fought, he fought well, he’d never gloried in it as Richard did.

  John was shifting restlessly in his seat, wondering if Durand had come back yet with his harlot, when Richard finally turned to him. “I have good news for you, Johnny. I am going to restore your forfeit estates.”