A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  John studied his nephew, wondering how Otto could be so happy for his brother without wanting the crown for himself. But it behooved him to stay in Richard’s good graces, whoever ended up on the German throne, and so he said loudly, “We’ve been drinking since last night to Heinrich’s death, but we ought to be drinking to my lord brother’s legendary luck. This has been a golden year for him—first the capture of the Bishop of Beauvais, then the French king’s humiliation by the Count of Flanders, and now the German emperor’s demise.”

  “It is not luck,” Berengaria said suddenly. “It is God’s Will. These men dared to imprison a king who’d taken the cross. And look what has befallen them. The Duke of Austria died a truly wretched death. The Bishop of Beauvais has forfeited his freedom. And now the German emperor has been struck down, too. The day of the Lord is great and very terrible, and who can abide it?”

  Richard could not help thinking that “the day of the Lord” had been a long time coming. But now that it was here, he hoped that the French king would never know another peaceful moment. Leopold of Austria. Beauvais. Heinrich. How could Philippe not fear that he would be next to feel the wrath of God?

  FOUR DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS, Berengaria fulfilled a promise she’d made to the Almighty in gratitude for the divine justice He’d passed upon the German emperor. She had carts loaded with woolen blankets, sacks of grain and flour, firewood, candles, bolts of cloth, and jars of honey, and she and her escort then set off for the priory of Salle-aux-Puelles just southwest of the city. Only one of her ladies was brave enough to volunteer for the mission, as they would be visiting a lazar house, a hospital for highborn women stricken with the most dreaded of all diseases, leprosy.

  She was met at the gateway by the prioress and several of the sisters, who thanked her profusely for her generosity. She did not, of course, enter to mingle with the unfortunate inhabitants. Lepers were kept strictly segregated because their malady was thought to be highly contagious; some even feared it could be passed by breathing the same infected air. Berengaria could only marvel at the courage of the nuns and she resolved to add them to the list of those for whom she offered up prayers to the Almighty.

  Promising the prioress that she’d return again soon, she rode back to the city, where she had her knights take her to the great cathedral. There she lit candles for her parents, a childhood nurse, and those courageous nuns. She then prayed for the souls of all afflicted with leprosy. After that, she prayed for the Bishop of Poitiers, who’d died that past spring. Already there were reports of miracles performed at his tomb, and she hoped that he would eventually be canonized; it was very humbling to think that she’d been on such friendly terms with one so holy. She ended her prayers with one for her husband’s father. Today was the anniversary of the death of the martyred Archbishop of Canterbury, and she made it a habit to pray for Henry on this day, feeling that he was likely in need of as many prayers as he could get.

  Upon their return to the castle, she knew that something was wrong as soon as she stepped across the threshold into the great hall. All of the Christmas joy was gone. There was little conversation, just a subdued silence. The few men in the hall were staring vacantly into space and the servants went about their tasks with the caution of people not wanting to draw attention to themselves. Richard was not present, nor was his mother or most of their highborn guests. Struggling with a growing sense of unease, Berengaria was looking around for a familiar face when the Countess of Aumale entered the hall and at once headed in her direction.

  “It is so tragic,” she said before Berengaria could speak. “I’ve just been with the queen. She is devastated, not only for his death but for the grief it will give his mother. And the king . . . well, he looked as if he’d been struck in the chest by a crossbow bolt. He—”

  “What is it?” Berengaria interrupted, caught up in the worst of fears, that of the unknown. “What has happened?”

  “You do not know? The king received a letter from the Archbishop of Tyre. His nephew Henri, the Count of Champagne, is dead.”

  Berengaria clasped her hand to her mouth. She was very fond of Henri, who’d been a Godsend to the women during their time in the Holy Land. Handsome, clever, courageous, rarely without a smile on his face, and utterly loyal to her husband, Henri had been one of the few French barons who’d refused to pay any heed to the conniving of the Bishop of Beauvais and the Duke of Burgundy. Suddenly shaky, Berengaria let Hawisa lead her toward the closest seat. Henri had been only thirty-one. How could such a vibrant, vital life be quenched like a candle’s flame?

  “What . . . what happened? Was he slain by the Saracens?”

  “No, it was an accident, a bizarre mishap that no one could have foreseen. He was killed in a fall from a balcony of the palace at Acre. Apparently it gave way without warning. . . .”

  “Jesu . . .” Now that the initial shock was over, she could think of others. Of Henri’s young wife, Isabella, Queen of Jerusalem. Of their little daughters. Of the Christians of Outremer, doubtless panicked by Henri’s death. Henri had not wanted to marry Conrad of Montferrat’s widow, for it would mean lifelong exile from his beloved Champagne. But he’d agreed to do so because the kingdom’s need was so desperate. And God had rewarded him by letting him fall in love with his new wife. Berengaria’s throat closed up as she remembered how happy Henri and Isabella had been. Five years . . . That was all the time they’d had together. Why would God let that happen? She knew it was not for her to question the will of the Almighty, but it was hard to understand, so very hard.

  “Joanna will be heartbroken. She loved Henri. We all did. . . .” Her husband, above all. Henri had been more like a brother than a nephew, only nine years younger than Richard, his comrade in arms during those difficult, dangerous months in the Holy Land. Wiping her tears away, she tried to put her own grief aside. She could mourn for Henri later. Now, Richard’s need was greater.

  “Where is my husband? In his bedchamber?” When Hawisa shook her head, her shoulders slumped. Of course. Who else would he have turned to but his mother? “He is with Queen Eleanor?”

  Hawisa shook her head again. “We do not know where he is, my lady. He was as distraught as I’ve ever seen him. He rushed from the hall as if he were being pursued by all the hounds of Hell and no one has seen him for hours. He is not in the castle, that much we know.”

  “He went off alone?” Berengaria closed her eyes for a moment. Oh, Richard . . . “But someone must know where he’d have gone. Did he take a horse? Have men been sent out to search for him? Surely the queen would do that?”

  “The queen does not know yet. She took to her bed and we thought it best not to tell her. He’ll soon be found, after all. Rouen is a large city, yes, but he could not pass unnoticed. . . .”

  At the moment, Berengaria was more concerned with Richard’s safety than with her mother-in-law’s grieving. She told herself that if any man could look after himself, it was Richard. But she knew there were French spies in Rouen. If he were recognized . . . Would he have gone to a tavern? She’d never seen him drunk, but there was much of his life that remained hidden to her. “So you are saying that the king has been gone for hours and no one is out looking for him?”

  “No, I am not saying that,” Hawisa protested, not liking Berengaria’s accusing tone. “His cousin André de Chauvigny went in search of him. He said he thought he knew where the king would have gone. And no, he did not say more than that, rushed off without another word.”

  Berengaria was relieved to hear that. When Hawisa had shared her horrible news, she’d felt remorseful that she’d not been there. But she was deluding herself again. Her presence would not have mattered, for Richard would not have turned to her for comfort.

  “Please let me know if you hear anything,” she told Hawisa and then moved like a sleepwalker to her own bedchamber, where she silenced her ladies with unwonted sharpness and told them to withdraw. She curled up on the bed then and wept for Henri, for his grieving widow and fath
erless daughters, for the besieged Kingdom of Jerusalem. And she wept, too, for herself, for her missing husband, and for the mysterious ways of the Almighty, which were beyond the ken of mortal man.

  IT WAS AFTER DARK when André’s boat tied up at the dock on the Île d’Andely. His hunch was verified at once when he was told that the king had indeed arrived several hours earlier. He’d demanded a horse, refused an escort, and ridden across the bridge to Petit Andely. André now did the same. He did not bother searching for Richard in the town, instead turned his mount toward the southeast slope, the only approach to Castle Gaillard.

  The workers were already in their quarters, but guards quickly materialized from the shadows and gestured toward a tethered stallion when André questioned them. They were obviously curious, but he gave them no answers, handing his reins to the closest of the guards and taking the man’s lantern.

  Even with that light, it was dangerous going. There should have been a full moon, but it was shrouded in clouds. The middle bailey was deep in shadow, eerily silent, like a ghost castle, he thought uneasily. Holding the lantern at an angle so he could watch his footing, he continued on into the inner bailey, and there he found his cousin.

  Richard was seated on the ground, leaning back against the keep wall. He showed no surprise at the sight of André, as if it were perfectly natural for them both to be prowling about the castle grounds hours after the sun had set. Putting his lantern on a nearby wheelbarrow, André sat down beside Richard. “It was quite mad to come up here without a light,” he said after a time, and he thought Richard shrugged.

  “It was not dark when I got here.”

  “I did not think to bring one, either,” André admitted. “But I did remember this.” Unhooking the wineskin from his belt, he handed it to Richard, who drank and then returned it. They passed it back and forth until it was empty and André then flung it into the blackness beyond the faint glow of his lantern.

  Just then the moon broke through the clouds, giving him a glimpse of Richard’s profile. His eyes were reddened and bloodshot, but the corner of his mouth was curving in what was almost a smile. “I should have known you’d be the one to find me.”

  “In my next life, I’ll likely come back as a lymer hound.” André wished he’d thought to bring a second wineskin. If ever there was a night to get blind, roaring drunk, this was it. “Tell me you are not blaming yourself.”

  “No.” But after another long silence, Richard admitted, “I’ll never know, though, if it would have been different had I been able to return as I’d promised him. I hope to Christ he understood why I could not.”

  “Of course he did. We may have a few fools in our family tree, but Henri was not one of them.”

  Richard got suddenly to his feet. “You know who I blame for his death, André? That craven, contemptible hellspawn, that spineless viper on the French throne. If not for him, I’d have been able to return to Outremer. With Saladin dead and no French to thwart our every move, Henri and I could have taken Jerusalem.”

  “Yes,” André said, “I think you could have, Cousin.” He knew, though, that there was no comfort to be had in that belief. Watching as Richard stalked about the bailey, cursing every time he stumbled on a loose rock, he thought that it was not a good thing to hate as much as Richard now hated the French king. But it was even worse to be so angry with God.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  MARCH 1198

  Le Mans, Anjou

  Joanna paused in the doorway of the solar, savoring the tranquil scene that met her eyes. Her mother was seated in a window-seat with her granddaughter, Richenza. Berengaria was catching up with Anna, who’d chosen Joanna’s household over her own. Will Marshal’s Isabel was chatting with Denise and Hawisa and Loretta de Braose, the Earl of Leicester’s new wife, for Richard’s lords usually brought their wives to his Easter Court. There were a few exceptions. Joanna wondered if Johnny would even have recognized his wife, he’d seen her so rarely in the eight years since their wedding. The Earl of Chester was alone, of course, for it would have taken a sword to have gotten him and Constance into the same chamber. And Joanna’s sister-in-law, Ela, the Countess of Salisbury, was absent due to her youth; she was only eleven.

  Joanna’s gaze moved toward Ela’s husband, her half brother William Longespée. Richard had arranged a brilliant marriage for him two years ago, one that had gained him an earldom, but Joanna had not met him until her arrival at Le Mans. Although he was taller than their father, she thought he looked the way Henry must have looked at twenty-one, for like their other half brother Geoff, and like Richard himself, William had inherited the Angevin high coloring. Her eyes shifted to her nephew and other brother. Otto, too, was tall and powerfully built. Did Johnny mind being surrounded by kinsmen who towered above him? Most of the men were clustered around Richard, but John was sitting apart, sipping from a gilded wine cup as he watched the others laughing and talking. Like a man observing a play, Joanna thought, not part of the performance. She felt that he deserved to be isolated, for she doubted that she’d ever forgive him for his betrayal of Richard. Yet she was not entirely deaf to the whisper urging pity, reminding her of the little boy who’d shared her life at Fontevrault Abbey so long ago.

  A burst of laughter drew her attention back to the men. Raimond had just said something that they all found very amusing, and Joanna smiled, delighted that her husband and brother were getting along so well. This was the first time she’d been apart from their son and she missed Raimondet more than she’d have thought possible. He’d been too young, though, at nine months, to make a three-hundred-fifty-mile journey. Despite a yearning for Raimondet that was almost physical in its intensity, she was still glad to be at Richard’s Easter Court, and as she glanced about the solar, she thought how fortunate she was. The daughters and sisters of kings were usually wed to foreign princes, which meant lifelong exile from their homelands and families. That would have been her fate, too, if William had not died so unexpectedly, freeing her to return home and to find what had been denied her in Sicily—passion, love, and motherhood.

  Eleanor looked up then, saw her standing in the doorway, and beckoned with a smile. Richenza graciously yielded her seat and Joanna slid onto it, leaning over to kiss her mother on the cheek. She was in her seventy-fourth year, an age few reached, but her spirit still burned as brightly as in her youth, even as the body enclosing that spirit fought a battle she was doomed to lose. To Joanna, she seemed no different than she had at their last meeting nine months ago, and that was a great relief, for she knew her mother’s days were trickling away as inexorably as the sand in an hourglass.

  She was actually more troubled by her brother’s appearance. She’d not seen Richard for seventeen months, and she found herself thinking that he was showing the burdens of kingship more obviously these days. He’d not lost the weight he’d gained during his convalescence from his knee wound, and although he carried it better than most because of his height, it did age him. He seemed very tired to her, too, like a man who was starved for sleep, and once Richenza moved away, she said in a low voice, “Richard does not look well, Maman. Has he been ailing?”

  “He is constantly on the move, Joanna,” Eleanor said, just as quietly, “rarely spending two nights under the same roof. Like Harry, he pushes himself mercilessly, making demands upon his body that flesh and blood cannot always meet. Harry was not always at war; there were periods of peace during his reign. But Richard has lived under a state of siege since regaining his freedom.”

  “I would be hard-pressed to say which of those despicable demon spawn I loathe the most, Maman—Heinrich or Philippe. Raimond says that is like choosing between an adder and a viper, and I daresay he’s right.”

  “I would choose Heinrich,” Eleanor said, her eyes taking on the cold glitter of emerald ice, “for if not for his treachery, Philippe would never have been able to pose such a threat to Normandy. Richard has won back almost all that was lost during his captivity, but it has not
been easy. Four years of constant warfare can wear a man down, even Richard.”

  They were interrupted then by a servant offering wine. Watching her mother, Joanna realized that motherhood stretched from the cradle to the grave, that fear for a grown son was just as sharp as concern for a toddler. Upon their arrival last night, they’d been greeted with news of death. The elderly Pope had finally gone to face his own Judgment Day, and the new Holy Father, Innocent III, was more than fifty years younger, far bolder and more energetic, making them wonder what might have happened had he been on the papal throne at the time of Richard’s capture. But the other death was personal. Eleanor’s daughter by the French king, Marie, the Countess of Champagne, had died on March 11, at age fifty-three. Her sister Alix, the Countess of Blois, had died the year before, but it was Marie’s death that brought grief to the Angevin court, for she’d been quite close to Richard, who’d dedicated his prison lament to her during his German captivity. Joanna had hoped that she’d one day get to meet Marie and she knew her mother had also hoped for a reunion with the daughter she’d not seen since her marriage to Louis had ended.

  “I am so sorry, Maman,” she said; no more than that, but Eleanor understood.