A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I would never do that, Richard,” she said, as steadily as she could. “Why would I plead for him?”

  “Because he is a bishop,” he said curtly, turning the words into weapons.

  She shook her head so vehemently that the veil covering her wimple swirled in the breeze. “I would not do that,” she repeated. “He is a false priest, a wicked, ungodly man who did his best to bring about your destruction.”

  Without knowing it, she’d echoed his own argument to Hubert Walter and some of his suspicion eased. “It is good that you understand that,” he said at last. “I was not sure you would, for too often you see only one side—the Church’s.”

  She thought that was unfair, but she was not about to challenge him on it now. Tilting her head so she could look into his eyes, she said, “When I heard that Beauvais was your prisoner, I was delighted, Richard.” She thought he still seemed skeptical, and she insisted, “In Outremer, I saw how he sought to subvert you at every turn, even if it meant losing the Holy Land to the infidels. Then he slandered your good name, accused you of baseless crimes, and tried to have you cast into a French dungeon. I am sure the Almighty will punish him as he deserves when it is his turn to stand before the celestial throne. But I am glad he will pay a price here on earth, too, for his evil deeds.”

  He no longer doubted her sincerity; she had no gift for subterfuge, was honest to a fault. He was surprised by how pleased he was to see this glimpse of the loyal, devoted wife he’d left behind in Outremer. Thinking it had been a long time since they were in such accord, he reached for her hand, drawing her toward the arbor bench. “Well, if you did not want to scold me for my impiety, little dove, what did you want to talk about?”

  She felt a quiver of resentment, feeling that he owed her an apology for such an unjust accusation. But then she realized that his change in tone and his use of “little dove” was his way of making amends, the most she could expect from him. She was sorely tempted to let it be; why risk this rare moment of peace between them? But she knew it had to be said.

  “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Richard.”

  “Sorry? For what, Berenguela?”

  “For what my brother has done, seizing my dower castles.” Looking up then, she caught his flicker of surprise. “I was probably the last one to know. I wish you’d told me.”

  “I did not see what good it would do, aside from causing you distress.”

  As she searched his face, she realized she believed him. He truly had been trying to protect her. Did that mean he was not as indifferent as he so often seemed? That he did not intend to use the loss of her dower castles and the Navarrese alliance as an excuse for ending their marriage? Not that he needed an excuse. She’d failed him. She’d not given him an heir in six years of marriage. That they’d been apart for much of that time, that their separations in the past three years were his doing more often than not, mattered little in the eyes of their world.

  She lowered her head, but continued to study him from the corner of her eye. How little she knew this man. How little she understood him. Could it be that he truly did not blame her for her barrenness? But that was a question she dared not ask. She was not naturally given to irony, but even she could see the irony inherent in her current predicament. Her brother’s bad behavior had undermined her position as Richard’s queen, yet Sancho had acted out of love, angry that her husband neglected her so blatantly. Whilst Richard, the cause of much of her misery, had not reproached her as so many husbands would have done. Did that mean he had no intention of putting her aside? As unsatisfactory as her life was as his sometimes wife, she did not want to end the marriage. How shamed she would be if she were sent back to Navarre in disgrace, having failed in a queen’s first duty. No, better to endure the hurt here than the humiliation there. And . . . mayhap the Almighty would take pity upon His wretched daughter, answer a prayer as heartfelt as it was humble.

  She became aware then that Richard was watching her. “Is that all you wanted to talk to me about, Berenguela?” he asked, and she thought she could detect a hint of relief in his voice. “Do not let yourself be troubled by the dower castles. Sancho and I will sort it out.”

  She gave him a grateful smile, but then they both turned at the sound of footsteps on the gravel path. One of his knights was hurrying toward them, followed by a man instantly recognizable as a courier. “Sire, an urgent message has arrived for you!”

  Berengaria saw Richard stiffen and she felt a touch of sympathy, thinking it must be wearisome and stressful, always having to be braced for bad news. Rising, Richard reached for the letter as the messenger knelt. “It is from the Count of Flanders,” he said, looking down at the unbroken seal. She was close enough to hear him mutter, “Now what?” His unease was contagious, and she watched anxiously as he scanned the contents, hoping his new alliance with the Flemish count was not unraveling already. But then he let out a triumphant shout.

  “God bless Baldwin!”

  It took a while for Berengaria to learn what had given him such delight, for he pulled her to her feet and hugged her so exuberantly that he lifted her off the ground. Laughing as she’d not heard him laugh in a long time, he slapped his knight on the back and told the courier to rise, saying he deserved a dukedom for such news.

  Eventually his jubilant celebration eased enough for him to share his news. Philippe had sought to take advantage of his absence in Berry to punish Baldwin for what the French king saw as his disloyalty. When he approached Arras, then under siege by Baldwin, with a large army, the count retreated. Philippe pursued him until he suddenly realized that the hunter had become the hunted. The Flemish count had skillfully outmaneuvered him, burning the bridges behind the French army and cutting off their supply lines. Forced to live off the land, the French foraging parties were ambushed by the Flemings, who knew the terrain far better than the invaders. When Baldwin then burned the bridges ahead of him, too, Philippe finally had to admit he was trapped, unable to advance or retreat.

  Richard was laughing so hard that he had to stop from time to time. “Philippe then tried to weasel out of the trap, offering to give Baldwin whatever he demanded if he’d ally himself again with France. Baldwin refused, saying he meant to keep faith with me, agreeing only to arrange another peace counsel in September.

  “Philippe had no choice but to agree, and slunk back to Paris to sulk and lick his wounds,” Richard said with a grin. “It does not get much better than that, little dove!”

  He sounded blissfully happy, looked to have shed years in the time it had taken to read the Flemish count’s letter, and Berengaria, who thought she’d uprooted all sprouts of hope from her garden, now found herself wondering if things might be different if only Richard could eliminate the threat posed by the French king.

  IN SEPTEMBER, Richard and Count Baldwin met with Philippe, but nothing was resolved apart from another truce, this one to last for a year from St Hilary’s Day in January. Neither king expected it to endure, for they were locked in a bitter struggle for supremacy that could only end in victory for one and defeat for the other. And when Richard held his Christmas Court at Rouen that year, most believed that his prospects seemed far brighter than the French king’s.

  THIS WAS BERENGARIA’S BEST Christmas since the one they’d celebrated in the Holy Land, and she hoped it would blot out the dismal memories of her lonely, dreary Christmas last year at Beaufort-en-Vallée, unwilling to join Richard whilst Normandy was under Interdict, fearing that the archbishop might even excommunicate him for his defiance, and missing Joanna more than she’d have thought possible.

  Joanna was still absent, celebrating in Toulouse with her husband and baby son, but the rest of Richard’s family had gathered in Rouen, as well as vassals, lords, and churchmen, and Berengaria enjoyed this rare opportunity to play the public role of his queen. Even Eleanor’s presence did not tarnish her pleasure, nor the fact that she knew many of the guests would be measuring her slender waist with judgmental, disappointed e
yes.

  On this Monday three days before the Nativity, the castle great hall was decked in evergreen, a yule log burned in the hearth, and music echoed out onto the wet evening air. Not even a steady, cold rain could dampen the festivities. Richard was in high spirits and since the king’s mood usually set the tone, there was much laughter and merriment. Breathless from the last dance, Berengaria welcomed the chance to talk with Morgan, who’d returned that afternoon from a visit to Toulouse.

  “Tell me,” she said with a smile, “can my sister-in-law truly be as happy as she sounds in her letters?”

  Morgan returned the smile. “Even happier, my lady. And why not? Her husband dotes on her every whim and Raimondet is a robust little lad, as healthy as the most fearful mother could wish.”

  “God has indeed blessed her, but no more than she deserves.” She hesitated then, wanting to express her sympathy, yet not wanting to pry. “Your talk with the Lady Mariam . . .”

  He slowly shook his head. “We do not all get a happy ending in this life, my lady.”

  “No,” she agreed softly, “we do not.”

  She turned then as the Bishop of Lisieux approached and Morgan seized his chance to slip away. Almost at once, he ran into Guillain, who greeted him warmly before raising his eyebrows in a silent query.

  Morgan found it easier to confide in his friend than in the queen, and he led the other man toward a nearby window-seat. “We had a candid talk,” he said, “one we ought to have had months ago. At least I know now why she refuses to wed me. Children are the barrier. She fears that she might not be able to give me any since she had none with her first husband. I told her that is always in God’s hands, but she is also convinced that no child of hers would be welcome in the Angevin domains. She says that only in Sicily could a child of mixed blood find true acceptance.”

  Guillain considered that, reluctantly concluding that he agreed with Mariam. “You could never do that, Morgan.”

  “I know,” Morgan said bleakly. “I’d sooner take Lucifer as my liege lord than Heinrich. But I am not sure I could do it even if Tancred still ruled over Sicily. My parents are elderly and I’d likely never see them again if I were to settle in Sicily. Moreover, I doubt that Mariam could bring herself to leave Joanna, and I . . .”

  Morgan paused before smiling, somewhat ruefully. “You know I was squire to Richard’s brother Geoffrey and then a knight in his household. After that, I served the old king till his death. I did not know Richard well at all, and the bad blood between him and his sire and brothers did give me pause. That seems so long ago. Before Outremer. Before . . .”

  “Before Germany,” Guillain said, and Morgan nodded, both of their eyes shifting across the hall toward the dais, where Richard was holding court. “I had my own misgivings at first about him,” Guillain admitted, “for I’d been one of the household knights of his brother the young king, and it is only natural that we’d be loyal to the memories of our lords, may God assoil them both. Now, though, I cannot imagine serving anyone but our king.”

  “Nor can I,” Morgan agreed, and for a moment, they were silent, remembering what they’d shared with Richard on the way home from the Holy Land, having forged a bond beyond breaking.

  It was then that the messenger arrived from the Archbishop of Cologne.

  RICHARD FOUND HIMSELF HESITATING before opening the letter. Exchanging glances with his mother, he saw that the same thought was in her mind—that they were about to learn how Heinrich had punished Constance for the part she’d played in the conspiracy against him. Richard also dreaded hearing that Heinrich had left for the Holy Land. He’d rather that Jerusalem remain under Saracen control than to have it retaken by the German emperor, and if that was a sin, it was not one he could honestly repent.

  Eleanor watched tensely as he broke the seal and began to read. His sudden intake of breath caused her own breathing to quicken. When he glanced up from the letter, he seemed so stunned that she closed her eyes. God pity Constance. Harry had never forgiven her, yet he’d not treated her as harshly as he could have, as their world felt he had the right to do. But what did Heinrich von Hohenstaufen know of mercy?

  Richard had raised his hand to quiet the hall, getting to his feet. “The Emperor Heinrich is dead!” There was a shocked silence, and then pandemonium.

  THE UPROAR HAD STILL not subsided by the next day. As guests continued to arrive at the royal court, they were met with the astounding news of the German emperor’s death, and they then hastened into the great hall to ask the king if it was true. Richard had lost count of the times he’d had to assure these newcomers that it was indeed so, and then had to share with them what little he knew so far of Heinrich’s unexpected demise at age thirty-two.

  John was in a very good mood that Christmas, for Richard had wanted him to swear to uphold the terms of the treaty signed with the Count of Flanders, and he took that to mean he was once again in serious consideration as his brother’s heir. He was also enjoying the excitement stirred up by the news about Heinrich, for he was drawn to intrigue like a shark to blood in the water. Snatching a wine cup from a passing servant, he presented it to Richard with a flourish. “Are you not weary by now of repeating the same story?”

  Richard drank and then smiled. “I could never tire of saying, ‘Heinrich is dead.’ Rarely have my ears heard sweeter music than those three words.”

  “You’d best make ready to say it again, Uncle,” Otto chimed in, and John thought that if anyone could get drunk on good news, their nephew was well on the way.

  Richard followed Otto’s gesture and sat up in surprise, for he’d not expected André and Denise to attend the Christmas Court this year. André’s pilgrimage to Rome had proved inconclusive, with Pope Celestine dithering as usual, accepting the Bishop of Bourges’s charge that André had behaved in a “tyrannical manner” but putting off a final decision. Richard knew how bitter the Pope’s inaction had been for his cousin and his wife. But for now, at least, they were aglow with elated astonishment, and André barely restrained himself long enough to make a formal greeting suitable for such a public forum.

  “Tell me it is true,” he entreated, “even if you lie! Give me those few moments of utter joy.”

  Richard laughed. “No need to lie. Heinrich died at Messina on the twenty-eighth of September as he made ready to depart for the Holy Land.” Anticipating the next question, he said, “Of a fever, or so it is said. Adolf wrote that there was talk of a tertian fever and that is certainly common enough in Sicily. But he says there has also been talk of poison, since it happened so quickly—and since half of Christendom would have thanked God fasting to see that whoreson breathe his last. I do not much care how he died, just as long as it was painful.”

  After a moment, Richard laughed again. “It seems Celestine has discovered it is easier to defy a dead man, for he has forbidden Heinrich to receive a Christian burial until my ransom is repaid. I doubt I’ll see so much as a single pfennig, but I’ll consider the debt paid in full if Heinrich is truly left to rot or is buried in unhallowed ground.”

  “What of the empress?” Denise interjected, for André had told her of Constance’s peril.

  “We can safely say she shed no tears,” Richard said with a grin. “Nor did she waste any time. Heinrich had named Markward von Annweiler as regent for his son, but Constance was having none of that. No sooner was Heinrich dead than she seized control of the government, rallied the Sicilians, and had all of the Germans expelled from the kingdom.”

  He got no further, for it was happening again—new arrivals in a state of obvious excitement. This time they were kin, his niece Richenza and her husband, the Count of Perche. Leaving Jaufre to follow at a more sedate pace, Richenza all but flew across the hall toward the dais.

  “Uncle, is it so? That fiend is dead? How good God is!”

  Once Richard had assured Richenza that what she’d heard was gospel, not gossip, she embraced her brother jubilantly, she and Otto agreeing it was indeed sad tha
t their father had not lived to see this day. But she was Eleanor’s granddaughter and political considerations were never far from her thoughts. “What will happen now? Will the Germans elect Heinrich’s son in his stead?”

  “I doubt it. Constance does not care a whit for the imperial crown, cares only that Friedrich be crowned as King of Sicily. Since that imperial crown does not pass by blood, there will be no shortage of candidates for the honor.”

  “The archbishop seems to fancy the idea of your uncle becoming the next emperor,” John said and Richenza gave a delighted, undignified squeal before she saw that Richard was shaking his head.

  “As much as I’d love to think of Heinrich watching from Hell as his crown was placed upon my head, I have no interest in becoming the next Holy Roman Emperor. As you well know, Johnny.”

  “I know you keep saying that,” John conceded, “although for the life of me, I cannot understand why anyone would refuse a crown.”

  “I already have one and I am quite content to be England’s king, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou. I ask only for the chance to meet Philippe on the battlefield so I can then fulfill my vow to return to the Holy Land and recover Jerusalem for Christendom. That is a sacred oath, one I made not only to the Almighty but to my nephew Henri, and nothing matters more to me than honoring it.” Richard gave his brother another look, this one sardonic. “And when I am able to do that, you will be accompanying me, Johnny. I think a sojourn in the Holy Land would do wonders for your spiritual health.”

  John smiled sourly, for he was no more enthusiastic about taking the cross than their father had been. He was glad when Richenza deflected attention away from him by asking who was likely to be chosen by the Germans, then.

  “Tell her your idea, Uncle,” Otto urged, and Richard obliged, saying that he thought their elder brother, Henrik, would be a fine choice. Richenza did, too, and she and Otto embraced again. Only half listening, John was watching his nephew, thinking it a great pity that Otto was not Henrik’s elder brother, for he’d no longer be a rival for the English crown if the imperial crown was in the offing. Richard was telling his audience that Henrik had left for the Holy Land ahead of Heinrich and much would depend upon what Heinrich’s only surviving brother, Philip, did. According to the archbishop, he’d declared his support for his young nephew Friedrich, but all men were familiar with the warning from Scriptures, Woe unto thee, O land, when thy king is a child, and Philip would likely find himself urged to make a claim for himself.