A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  John almost cheered when Richard finally rose, saying it was growing late. Slipping his arm around Berengaria’s slender waist, he made ready to bid their guests farewell. They looked like the veritable image of marital harmony, John thought. But was he the only one to notice how little attention Richard had paid to his wife in the course of the evening? As he studied Berengaria, he thought, No, I’m not the only one.

  People were beginning to approach the dais when there was a stir at the end of the hall. A moment later, men were being ushered in, wrapped in travel-stained mantles and fur-lined hats that Richard had not seen since leaving Germany. He took a step forward, but his niece was already in motion. Lifting her skirts, Richenza flew across the hall and flung herself into the arms of one of the new arrivals. The other guests looked startled, some shocked. But even before the youth removed his hat to reveal tousled dark hair, a face reddened with cold, and a smile bright enough to illuminate the hall all on its own, Richard knew. “Good God, it is Otto!”

  Otto hastened toward the dais, his sister clinging to his arm, her eyes glistening with tears. When he started to kneel, Richard raised him up at once and embraced him warmly. He tried to kneel before his grandmother next, but Eleanor was having none of that, either, and kissed him, instead. There was such a commotion that it took a few moments before Otto could assure them that his little brother had been freed, too, by Heinrich, and had gone to join Henrik in Saxony.

  “But I came straight to you, Uncle,” he said to Richard. “I came home.”

  Richard introduced Otto to Joanna and Berengaria then, and looked around for his son, calling to Philip to come meet his cousin. It was the sort of emotional family reunion that the contentious Angevins rarely enjoyed, one that became even more jubilant when Otto told Berengaria that Heinrich had also agreed to release her brother Fernando. When it was his turn, John welcomed his nephew back with a smile and a hug. But all the while, his ears were echoing with Otto’s euphoric, revealing words. I came straight to you, Uncle. I came home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MARCH 1196

  Norman Border

  Constance knew that her Breton barons were not happy about her conference with the English king, for they were adamantly opposed to sending Arthur to the English court. She understood their fears, for she had always loathed Geoffrey’s family. She mistrusted Richard, and that prideful bitch, his mother, and did not want to see Arthur entangled in their web. And yet . . . and yet. Arthur was nine now, old enough to be educated in a noble household, and a lifelong grudge against the Angevins was being challenged by her maternal instincts. If she agreed to send Arthur to Richard’s court, that would greatly improve his chances of being named as Richard’s heir if his queen failed to give him a son. She was determined that Arthur would govern Brittany once he came of age. But it would be a great destiny to become England’s king, to rule the empire that was denied his father.

  Turning in the saddle, she glanced at the men riding at her side: André de Vitré, his brother Alain de Dinan-Vitré, Geoffroi de Chateaubriant, Guillaume de Loheac, the Bishop of Vannes. They understood that they had to obey Richard’s summons, for they owed fealty to him as Duke of Normandy. If she chose to give Richard the wardship of her son, they might grudgingly agree, but they’d not like it any. Neither would she. She shrank from the very thought—except for those days when she found herself tempted by that dangerous dream, a crown for her son. Geoffrey would have wanted it for Arthur. She did not doubt that; her husband’s ambitions had burned with a white-hot flame. But Richard already had custody of her daughter. Could she bear to give him her son, too? What would be best for Arthur? For Brittany?

  They were less than a mile from Pontorson Castle when they saw the dust clouds warning of approaching riders. The marches were often lawless and they straightened in their saddles, making sure their swords were loose in their scabbards. As the horsemen came into view, Constance felt a moment of instinctive unease at the sight of such a large band of armed men. But then she recognized the man on a bay stallion. “It is my husband,” she said, sounding as if she thought the Earl of Chester was only slightly more welcome than a Norman or Breton bandit. Her barons watched grimly as the earl and Constance exchanged the frostiest of greetings, bristling when it became apparent that Chester intended to accompany them. Constance was less than thrilled, too, but she thought they’d not be burdened with Randolph’s company for too long. His castle at St James de Beuvron was just ten miles away, and she hoped it was his likely destination.

  Randolph guided his stallion alongside Constance’s mare and his men dropped back, falling in behind her barons and their knights. Neither husband nor wife made any attempt at conversation, riding in silence, keeping their eyes on the road ahead. Constance was never more aware of her first husband’s sardonic spirit than when she was in the company of her second. She could almost hear Geoffrey’s voice, offering silken sympathy that she’d been yoked to a man who was so decent, so dutiful, so infernally dull—words that would never have been applied to Geoffrey himself. He would be ten years dead come August, and she still missed him, especially at night. He continued to come to her in dreams, some erotic, others unbearably painful, for even now she found it hard to accept that she’d lost him in a meaningless tournament mêlée. There was no justice in that, not even any sense.

  Constance was relieved when Chester signaled to his men as they approached the turnoff to his castle at St James de Beuvron. But then she saw that he expected her to go with them. “Whilst I thank you for your offer of hospitality,” she demurred, as politely as she could manage, “there are hours of daylight remaining. So we prefer to ride on.”

  “I must insist,” he said, and as he spoke, his men executed what looked like a military maneuver, moving to surround the Bretons. They reacted with outrage, some even starting to draw their swords despite being greatly outnumbered. When Constance commanded them to halt, they did, but with such obvious reluctance that she knew it would take little for violence to break out. She did not want bloodshed, did not want her men to die for naught. Humoring her husband was the lesser of evils, and she grudgingly agreed to talk with him at the castle.

  She was still seething at his heavy-handed assertion of his marital authority. Did the wretched man not realize that he’d just given her barons yet another gold-plated grievance? As they approached the earl’s stronghold, she assured André that they’d soon be on the road again. Overhearing their exchange, Chester said coldly, “I think not.” Constance turned to stare at him, and then she saw the men up on the castle battlements, saw the crossbows protruding from every embrasure, aiming at the Bretons.

  For the first time, Constance felt alarm as well as anger. She hid it well, exchanging a brief look with André before raising her head proudly and riding beside the earl through the castle gatehouse. Her ladies were allowed to accompany her, but when her barons attempted to follow, they were turned back. It was only then that she realized her husband meant to be her gaoler, too.

  Constance’s fury was burning so hotly that she saw her surroundings through a red haze. Glaring at the earl, she said as loudly as she could, “As little as I liked it, I always did my duty as your wife. But never again. If you hope to claim your marital rights, I will have to be bound hand and foot and gagged first!”

  Chester flushed darkly, for her defiance had been heard by all his men. “You flatter yourself, Madame. I would sooner take a badger into my bed!”

  Constance curled her lip disdainfully, her outrage sustaining her as she and her women dismounted and were escorted to a bedchamber in the castle keep. It was not Randolph’s, and she could take a shred of solace in that. It was a comfortable, well-furnished room, one suitable for a guest of her rank. But she was not a guest. She was Randolph’s prisoner.

  Juvetta and Emma fluttered around her helplessly as she strode to the window and jerked back the shutters. She could see her men milling about beyond the castle walls, stunned and demoralized by
this unexpected ambush. Her hand tightening on the latch until her knuckles had gone bone-white, she spat, “Damn them both to Hell Everlasting!”

  “Both, my lady?” Juvetta ventured, taking a hasty backward step when Constance turned away from the window, for she thought the duchess’s dark eyes were glowing like red-hot coals.

  “Yes, both! My cowardly husband and that Angevin hellspawn he serves!”

  WHEN RICHARD ARRIVED UNEXPECTEDLY at Fontevrault Abbey, Eleanor was very pleased to see the Earl of Leicester riding at his side. Despite agreeing to release the earl in the January peace treaty at Louvières, the French king had delayed doing so, even after the payment of a large ransom by the captive earl. Richard was finally forced to seek help from the Church in compelling Philippe to honor the treaty terms. Smiling now at Leicester as he kissed her hand, Eleanor expressed her pleasure that he’d finally regained his freedom.

  “I am gladdened, too, Madame,” he said, with a ready smile of his own. But he said no more than that about his lengthy confinement, and she honored his wish to keep the details of that unpleasant experience to himself; she’d learned from watching her son struggle with his own demons during the past two years.

  Leaving Leicester, Guillain, and Morgan to entertain Eleanor’s ladies, Richard drew Eleanor aside for a private conversation. As they settled into a window-seat, she studied him with a mother’s discerning eye. He looked tired, and little wonder, for he’d all but lived in the saddle since his return from Germany. Even if he’d been besotted with Berengaria, she doubted that he’d have been able to find much time to spare for her. Her husband had been a restless soul, too, always on the move, but at least he’d had periods of peace during his reign. Richard did not have that luxury. Knowing better than to comment upon his appearance or to question him about his sleeping or eating habits, she smiled instead. “This is a pleasant surprise, Richard. I’d not expected to see you for another fortnight, not till your Easter Court.”

  “There will be no Easter Court, Maman. Last month the Earl of Chester abducted Constance as she was on the way to meet me in Normandy. And, of course, the Bretons are blaming me, sure he did it at my behest.”

  “Did he?”

  “No.” He leaned back in the seat, stretching out long, booted legs. “I’d have considered taking her hostage had I thought the Bretons would have been willing to trade her for Arthur. But I knew they’d never do that. Nor had I given up hope of convincing Constance to yield the boy of her own accord. I doubt there was a mother ever born who did not want a crown for her son. And I’d not have gone about it in such a clumsy way had it been my doing. Treaties are made to be broken, but safe conducts need to be honored.”

  “What do you intend to do, Richard?”

  “Well, first I have to quell a rebellion in the making. Some of the more disgruntled Bretons have even dared to raid Normandy. And then I am going to try again to secure Arthur’s wardship ere Constance’s barons attempt to send him to the French court. Even sheep know better than to seek safety in a wolf’s den, but not those fools.” He frowned, shaking his head in exasperation. “Philippe would like nothing better than an excuse to meddle in Brittany. If he controlled the duchy, he’d be able to disrupt the sea routes between England and Aquitaine and use it as a base to launch attacks upon Normandy and Anjou. I’ll be damned ere I let that happen!”

  Catching her concern, he attempted then to reassure her, saying he expected that a show of force would be enough to make the Breton barons see reason and it would not come to serious bloodshed. Eleanor did not believe him and after he departed, she went for a solitary walk in the gardens, accompanied only by her greyhound.

  She wondered if a time would ever come when she did not fear for her son’s safety whenever he ventured into enemy territory. She’d not worried as much about Harry’s safety. But Harry had never been as reckless as Richard. For certes, he would not have challenged the entire line of the Saracen army to combat. Sitting down on a wooden bench, she sighed as she began to ruffle her dog’s soft fur. Somewhat to her surprise, she felt a twinge of reluctant sympathy for Constance. As little as she liked the woman, Constance’s abduction by her husband cut too close to the bone. Even after more than twenty years, she still remembered her despair on the day of her own capture, still remembered the sinister sound of the key turning in the lock of her bedchamber at Loches Castle. Had it sounded like that to Constance?

  RICHARD’S CAMPAIGN IN BRITTANY was brief but bloody; a French chronicler noted in pious disapproval that he continued to fight even on Good Friday. Although the Bretons were no match for him in the field, he failed to secure custody of his nephew; André de Vitré managed to keep Arthur hidden. He did succeed, however, in reminding the Bretons of the high price they’d pay for rebellion, and upon his return to Normandy, they sent envoys to negotiate terms for peace and for Constance’s release.

  DESPITE THE AUGUST HEAT, the garden of the palace at Le Mans was a scene of exuberant activity. Anna was playing a game of jeu de paume with Berengaria’s brother Fernando, batting the ball back and forth with great zest. Seated in the shade of a medlar tree, Berengaria watched her brother with a smile as Joanna watched her. She was glad that her sister-in-law was enjoying Fernando’s visit, glad that he’d thought to seek out his sister on his way home to Navarre, for it had not been a happy year so far for Berengaria.

  She’d been very disappointed by Richard’s cancellation of his Easter Court, for that was a rare opportunity for her to act in public as his queen, and she’d been distressed to learn that he’d shed blood on one of the holiest days of the Church calendar. Joanna knew Berengaria was even more troubled by Richard’s intensifying quarrel with the Archbishop of Rouen over Andely, an island in the Seine owned by the archdiocese of Rouen, for this clash of wills had the potential to flare up into a full-blown crisis with the Church.

  Andely was highly profitable for the archbishop, allowing him to collect tolls from passing river traffic. But the island’s location also gave it great strategic importance and Richard wanted to build a castle there. He’d offered several manors and the prosperous port city of Dieppe in exchange for Andely, and when Archbishop Gautier continued to balk, he simply seized Andely and began construction, much to the archbishop’s fury. Berengaria believed that to defy the Church was to defy God, and she’d sought to convince her husband of that on one of his infrequent, brief visits. Joanna had been an uncomfortable witness. Richard had seemed willing to humor Berengaria when she took him to task for his Good Friday fighting, but as soon as she broached the subject of Andely and his dispute with the archbishop, his temper had quickly kindled. They’d continued their argument in private, but the coolness between them when Richard departed told Joanna that they’d not resolved their differences.

  The game had ended, for it was too hot even for youthful enthusiasm. Fernando was now pushing Anna in a garden swing, and she shrieked with laughter as she soared higher and higher. Joanna half expected such behavior to offend Berengaria’s Spanish sensibilities, but she continued to watch with a smile, happy enough to overlook minor breaches of decorum. “Fernando says he was well treated at the imperial court,” she confided to Joanna. “I almost think he enjoyed his time in Germany.”

  Joanna thought he might have, indeed, for he was young, handsome, and charming, and she suspected he’d not often slept alone. Berengaria was continuing to speak about Fernando, saying he was very surprised to hear of Sancho’s marriage. Joanna had been surprised, too, by the Navarrese king’s recent wedding to the fifteen-year-old daughter of Raimond de St Gilles, for there had long been bad blood between Toulouse and Navarre. She was about to tease Berengaria about having Raimond as a family member when she caught movement from the corner of her eye and turned to see her Welsh cousin coming up the path. Mariam was not with him, and the expression on Morgan’s face told Joanna that their visit had not gone well. When she beckoned, he hesitated, but then joined them, gallantly kissing her hand, bowing to Berengaria, and
smiling at Dame Beatrix; Morgan’s manners were always beyond reproach.

  “You did not get Mariam to change her mind about marriage?” Joanna said sympathetically, and he shook his head in frustration.

  “She is so stubborn!” He muttered something in Welsh that they did not understand, but it sounded like an obscenity. “I am at my wit’s end,” he confessed, “for she refuses to listen to reason. She respects your opinion, my lady. Can you not get her to see that her refusal makes no sense?”

  “Ah, Morgan . . . I am on your side in this, but I do not want to meddle—” Joanna got no further, as Dame Beatrix was laughing outright and Berengaria was smiling, while Morgan chivalrously but unsuccessfully attempted to keep a straight face. Joanna couldn’t help smiling herself. “Well, I may have been known to meddle occasionally,” she admitted. “But in truth, Morgan, I have already urged Mariam to accept your offer of marriage, to no avail.”

  Morgan’s shoulders slumped, for Joanna had been his last hope. “I will be leaving on the morrow,” he said, thanking them again for their hospitality. He half expected them to urge him to stay longer, but they were nodding understandingly.

  “I expect that you need to get back to the siege at Aumale,” Joanna said, to his surprise.

  “You heard about the siege?”

  She nodded. “Well, only that the French king had arrived at the castle with an army. I just assumed that Richard will race to the rescue and Philippe will flee the way he always does, like a rabbit with hounds on his heels.”

  Morgan was quiet for a moment, deciding how much to tell them. He finally decided upon the truth, for it was best that they know Aumale would be a very sensitive subject with Richard for the foreseeable future. “Actually, the king already attempted to raise the siege and failed,” he said, and almost smiled at their expressions of stunned disbelief. Not that he blamed them; he could not remember himself the last time Richard had suffered a military defeat.