A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  It was a hot afternoon; even though October was just four days away, there was no hint of autumn in the air. The road that Philippe would be following was cracked and dry, for it had not rained in weeks, and before his army came into view, they were preceded by waves of billowing yellow dust. The French banners hung limply, for there was not a breath of wind. Philippe was mounted on a dark brown gelding known to be of docile temperament, and Richard’s men snickered at the sight, for theirs was a world in which a dislike of horses was incomprehensible to most. Their foes plodded on, uncomfortable in the heat, sweating in their armor, unaware that they were being watched.

  Richard expected them to ford the Epte, for his army was on the opposite side of the river. When they kept marching north, he began to reassess his assumption. If they did not mean to confront his army at Dangu, what were they up to? He pondered it for a while and then it came to him, so suddenly that he laughed aloud.

  “They are heading for Courcelles,” he told his knights. “He does not know we took it so quickly and he’s coming to relieve the siege.” That made sense to them, for the French were heading north, straight as an arrow toward Courcelles. Richard was rapidly reconsidering his options now that he realized what Philippe had in mind. “We have a God-given opportunity,” he said, “for if we attack them whilst they are marching, they are likely to panic and flee.” He added scornfully, “That is what Philippe always does.” His men were in enthusiastic agreement, and after he sent one of the knights back to Dangu with orders for Mercadier to join them, they resumed their shadowy surveillance, keeping to the woods that bordered the road.

  They were in high spirits, caught up in the thrill of the hunt, for their quarry was close at hand, but utterly unsuspecting. Richard’s excitement communicated itself to his destrier and Argento fought the bit, wanting to run. “Soon, boy, soon,” Richard crooned, reaching over to stroke the horse’s neck. “There will be plenty of stallions for you to fight. And for me, a king ripe for the plucking.” He indulged himself then, imagining how Philippe’s capture would forever change their world. The French threat would be trampled into the dust like its fleur-de-lys banners, the country bled white to pay for their king’s ransom, one that would make Heinrich’s demands seem paltry and trifling. Assuming the French would want Philippe back. Why should they? He’d shamed himself by fleeing the Holy Land, shamed himself again at Fréteval and Vernon, made a fool of himself at Issoudun. God’s blood, the French might well pay to keep Philippe off the throne! Richard laughed again, and his men laughed, too, for they were never happier than when they were riding the whirlwind with him.

  But as the afternoon wore on, Richard felt some of his confidence ebbing away. The French were not that far from Courcelles now. There they would learn that the castle was in his hands and realize their danger. If he hoped to catch them by surprise, it had to be soon. If he waited for his reinforcements, they were likely to slip out of the trap.

  Signaling for a halt, he waited until his men had reined in within sound of his voice. “They are going to get away,” he said, “unless we act now. If we want to attack them whilst they are marching and at their most vulnerable, we cannot wait.”

  He saw that they were taken aback, some of their eagerness blunted by unease, for they would be greatly outnumbered. “I think it best that we wait for Mercadier and his men,” Jean de Préaux said, for he had fought beside Richard often enough to have earned the right to speak his mind. His brother Guilhem also counseled caution, as did Morgan and several of the others.

  Richard heard them all out. “Of course it would be better if we had more men,” he agreed when the last one was done speaking. “But time is not our ally. With each mile, our hopes dim. Can any of you deny that we need to stop them from reaching Courcelles?”

  While none could, Richard knew their silence did not mean he’d vanquished their misgivings. “Yes, there are more of them,” he said. “But they are French.” They were amused by that, and he saw some frowns replaced by reluctant smiles. He tightened Argento’s reins when he noticed that the stallion was eyeing another destrier, and then rose in the stirrups so they could all hear him.

  “Victory will be ours, I promise you. Why? Because we have the benefit of surprise. Because we are fighting Philippe Capet. And,” he added with a sudden grin, “because we have me.”

  As was so often the case, his cockiness proved contagious. They were all laughing by now, and when he said that for years to come, men would be telling stories around campfires of this day, they believed him.

  THE FRENCH ARMY HAD been on the march for hours and they were spread out by now, with many stragglers. When Richard’s knights shifted their lances from their fautrés, couched them under their right arms, and charged from the woods, the assault created pandemonium in the French ranks. Some of their knights tried to rally their men, but there was so much confusion that their commands went unheeded. The local levy was the first to break, for they lacked the experience of battle-seasoned soldiers and had never faced a cavalry charge of armed knights. Riding stirrup to stirrup, Richard’s knights swept over the road like a wave, engulfing all in their path as the march disintegrated into chaos.

  Richard was shouting a new battle cry, one meant to proclaim that he owed his kingship only to God, and the cries of “Dieu et mon droit!” rose above the clamor, drowning out the few answering shouts of “Montjoie Saint Denis!” Ahead of him a knight on a chestnut destrier was trying to quell the panic, yelling, “Fall back! To me!” as he sought to gather enough men for a countercharge. Richard gave Argento his head, and the stallion’s scream was one of primal fury as he spotted the chestnut. Richard’s target swung toward the sound and couched his lance as he saw Richard bearing down upon him. But his horse sidestepped at the sight of Argento, just enough to spoil his aim. His lance struck Richard’s shield a glancing blow and then he was flung back against his saddle cantle by the force of Richard’s lance. Argento screamed again, lunging toward the other stallion, and when the chestnut reared up, his rider had no hope of retaining his seat, slamming into the ground with enough force to stun him. When he opened his eyes moments later, his horse was gone and he was staring up at the English king, who had his lance leveled at his throat.

  “Do you yield?” Richard preferred an iron cap with a nasal guard that did not hinder his vision and permitted his foes to know whom they were facing. The French knight was wearing one of the new great helms that hid his identity and it was only when he wrenched it off that Richard realized he’d just unhorsed one of his crusading companions.

  Mathieu de Montmorency had been only sixteen at the time of their arrival in the Holy Land, but he’d grown to manhood fighting the Saracens, and Richard had become fond of him. The eager youth he remembered was a man now of twenty-four, and no longer an ally. But he still had that jaunty spirit, for he mustered up a game smile, saying, “If I must yield, I am glad it is to you, my liege, for there is no disgrace in being unhorsed by the Lionheart.” He got to his feet rather unsteadily, for his head was still spinning, unsheathed his sword, and offered it to Richard. “Will my word be enough?”

  “I would take the word of a Montmorency in a heartbeat,” Richard assured him, waving aside the offer of the sword, and they regarded each other in silence for a moment, remembering a time when Mathieu had fought for God, not the French king. Richard’s lance was still intact and he saluted the younger man with it now, knowing he could trust Mathieu to honor his parole. And then he turned back to the battle, which was already showing signs of becoming a rout.

  ANY CHANCE the French might have had of staving off defeat ended when Philippe chose to retreat rather than rally his men. As he fled toward the closest refuge, his castle at Gisors, the best and bravest stayed behind to buy with their blood enough time for him to escape. Most of the French were fleeing after Philippe, but a number of his knights formed a rearguard to protect their king, offering up their lives and their freedom because he was their liege lord, because they
knew no other way. Over a hundred of them would be taken prisoner by Richard and his men, and when Mercadier eventually arrived upon the scene, he seized another thirty knights. Men-at-arms were captured, too, and, as Richard would later report to the Bishop of Durham, two hundred warhorses as well, many of them protected by armor. Once again Richard had defied the odds and the fates and emerged triumphant. But the victory was tarnished by his failure to capture the French king.

  He and his men pursued the French almost to the gates of Gisors. He had no siege engines with him, so he could not lay siege to the castle, and the fleeing French soldiers knew that they’d be safe once they reached Gisors. The loss of this great stronghold had been a bitter blow to Richard, for its castellan had treacherously turned it over to Philippe during his German captivity. For a time he’d used the man’s name as an obscenity, and even now the sight of its soaring stone battlements caught at his heart. His stallion was lathered and both he and Richard were blood-splattered, but none of it was theirs. It had been a glorious day for Richard, one in which he could do no wrong, supremely sure that he would prevail. He’d unhorsed two more knights before his lance shattered and he’d switched to his sword, cutting a path through the French king’s desperate defenders with such ferocity that many of them veered off as Argento charged toward them. But his hope of overtaking Philippe died as soon as Gisors came into view.

  Richard reined in, for further pursuit was useless. Too late! Once again that paltry milksop had gotten away. He was soon joined by some of his knights and then Mercadier. They were all jubilant, their spirits soaring higher than hawks, for they’d won some rich ransoms this day; even better, they were still alive to savor their victory. Sensing Richard’s mood, they sought to cheer him with such savage mockery of the French king that some of his anger began to cool, to be replaced by a genuine sense of bafflement.

  “I could not imagine abandoning my army, leaving my men to fend for themselves as I sought to save my own skin. Not only does Philippe have no honor, he has no sense of shame. He must—Jesu!”

  The bridge spanning the River Epte was crowded with men and horses, and as more and more of the refugees from the battle swarmed onto the wooden span, it began to creak ominously, swaying under the weight of so many soldiers. As Richard and his knights watched, openmouthed, several of the arches gave way and the bridge collapsed. There was a huge splash, and then screams. Some of the men managed to flounder to shore; others clung to the broken pilings or snatched frantically at the swimming horses. But many drowned within moments, dragged down by their armor. Richard had seen a bridge break apart like this once before, as his and Philippe’s armies were crossing the Rhône. He had quickly organized a rescue effort and they’d lost only two men to the river. It was obvious, though, that the French would not be so lucky on this September Sunday afternoon, drowning within sight of the castle that was to have been their salvation.

  Men who’d not yet made it onto the bridge willingly surrendered to Richard’s knights, for captivity suddenly seemed the lesser evil. On the far side of the river, soaked, shivering men were being pulled to safety, some vomiting up brackish water, others breathing their last. One man clinging to a horse’s tail was dragged into the shallows, only to then lose his footing and be swept away by the current. There were no bodies visible, for the dead had been anchored by their armor. The last battle of the day was won by the river.

  Richard had turned Argento away when he was called back by a shout from Mercadier. “Look, my lord!” He was pointing toward the far bank, but Richard saw only half-drowned soldiers being assisted toward the castle. He’d often joked that Mercadier’s vision could put a gyrfalcon to shame, and the routier proved it now by gesturing again. “That one surrounded by those gabbling priests—it’s the French king!”

  Richard squinted, shading his eyes against the glare of sun on water. “God’s legs, Mercadier, I think you are right!”

  Mercadier had no doubts. “I saw several men plunge into the river to swim to his rescue and I wondered why one drowning man would matter so much that other men would risk their lives to save him. Once they had fished him out, I recognized that bald pate of his.”

  Richard was still embittered that Philippe had escaped him. But as he stared across the river at his bedraggled, waterlogged rival, a smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth. “He does not look as if he enjoyed his bath in the Epte, does he? He always acted as if he was sure he could walk on water. It must be a great disappointment to find he is a mere mortal after all.”

  But his true feelings were expressed in an aside to Morgan as he signaled for his men to move out. “If there were any justice under God’s sky, the bastard would have drowned.”

  CONSTANCE DE HAUTEVILLE HAD celebrated her forty-fourth birthday on All Soul’s Day, but she knew it would be her last. She was dying. She’d been ill for months, and not even the doctors of the famed medical school in Salerno had been able to offer either hope or relief from the pain. She’d been very bitter at first, for she’d had little more than a year of freedom, a year to rule Sicily, to rid her kingdom of the Germans, to have her son with her—a privilege that Heinrich had denied her, for he’d given Friedrich into the care of the Duchess of Spoleto soon after his birth. One year, one month, and twenty-seven days to have been a queen, a mother, and, God be praised, a widow. Not enough time. Not nearly enough.

  She’d faced it as she’d faced every crisis in her life, without flinching, without self-pity or panic. What mattered was her son, still a month shy of his fourth birthday. She’d done all she could. She’d exiled Markward von Annweiler, who’d been made Duke of Ravenna and Romagna by Heinrich. In May, she’d had Friedrich crowned as King of Sicily, letting Otto and Heinrich’s brother Philip fight over the imperial crown. And she’d turned to the only man powerful enough to protect her son, the new Pope, Innocent III. In her last will and testament, she’d named Innocent as Friedrich’s guardian until he came of age. Now, in what she knew to be her last hours, she could only pray that it would be enough: that her son would be kept safe, his rights defended by the Church, and that he would not forget her too quickly.

  JOHN HAD NOT ATTENDED his brother’s Christmas Court at Domfront, for now that Otto was no longer a rival, he did not feel so much pressure to please Richard. But a summons from his mother was not to be ignored. As soon as he was ushered into her private quarters at Fontevrault Abbey, he sensed that something was wrong. She was alone, and although a fire was burning in the hearth, the chamber seemed very cold to him.

  “So you’ve come. I was not sure you would.”

  “Of course I came. You sent for me, did you not?” John’s smile faded. “What is amiss? Why do you look at me like that?”

  “As if you do not know!” Eleanor had stood motionless by the hearth as John crossed the chamber. But as soon as he moved within range, she took two quick steps forward and struck him across the mouth. “You fool! You utter fool!”

  John gasped, grabbed her wrist when she raised her hand as if to strike him again. “Christ Jesus, Mother, what is the matter with you? Why should you be wroth with me?”

  “Why, indeed? Betrayal is as natural to you as breathing. More fool I, for imagining it could ever be otherwise!” Eleanor jerked her wrist free, began to pace. “More than four years without a misstep, four years of fidelity. You showed Richard that you were not as worthless as he once thought, that you could do more than intrigue and plot and scheme. All for naught. Name of God, why? What demon possessed you to throw it all away?”

  “I do not know what you are talking about. Just what am I supposed to have done?”

  “Oh, enough! We know. Philippe betrayed you, and how ironic is that? He sent Richard a message that you’d been plotting against him again, that you’d offered an alliance with the French Crown.”

  “And Richard believed this? You believed it?” John was incredulous. “I am not surprised that Richard is so quick to suspect the worst of me. But you, Madame . . . God’
s truth, I’d have expected better of you!”

  “Philippe claims to have a letter that proves your complicity in this intrigue, a letter in your own hand.”

  “Oh, for the love of Christ! What better proof of my innocence could you ask for than that? If I were involved in some scheme to betray Richard, do you truly think I’d ever be so stupid as to incriminate myself in writing?”

  Eleanor felt the first flickers of doubt. “Your denial has the ring of truth to it. But then your denials always do, John.”

  “If you and Richard believed this lunatic accusation, it can only be because you wanted to believe it, Madame. You yourself said it—I’ve devoted years to regaining Richard’s goodwill. You think I enjoyed being at his beck and call, enduring the scorn of his friends, knowing he’d have chosen Arthur if the Bretons had not been such fools? Or that I’d gamble those four years on something so worthless as Philippe’s word? Christ on the Cross, Mother! What would I gain by intriguing with Philippe? We both know he has no hope of ever defeating Richard on the field!”

  He was as angry as Eleanor had ever seen him, too angry for either artifice or discretion. His was not a defense calculated to endear. But there was a cold-blooded, unsparing honesty to it that was, to Eleanor, more persuasive than any indignant avowals of good faith. It was the very amorality of John’s argument that carried so much conviction.

  “Where is Richard now? Is he still at Domfront?”

  Eleanor no longer doubted. There could be no better indication of John’s innocence than this, that he would willingly seek Richard out. When he was in the wrong, the last thing he ever wanted was to face his accusers, to confront those he’d betrayed.