A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The pain was making Richard feel queasy again and he was inclined to agree with Mercadier’s harsh assessment of the surgery. “You’re right . . . but if we hang that fool for mangling my shoulder, then we’d also have to hang the other fool, the one who tried to pull the bolt out on his own.”

  Guyon’s shoulders sagged with the easing of tension, but Morgan decided they’d best keep a close eye upon him lest he flee when the first opportunity presented itself. Even a second-rate surgeon was better than none at all, for they knew Richard’s life still hung in the balance.

  Mercadier had risen to his feet. “Châlus will be yours, my liege. May I burn in Hell Everlasting if I fail you in this.”

  Richard would normally have retorted that Mercadier was likely to burn in Hell Everlasting no matter what he did or did not do at Châlus. But he had no energy for such banter and he merely nodded, keeping silent until the routier reached the door. “Mercadier, wait.” The other man turned, his hand on the latch. “When you hang the garrison, do not hang the crossbowman.”

  Morgan thought he’d rarely heard a command so chilling. Mercadier obviously felt so, too, for he smiled.

  THERE WAS DISAGREEMENT as to when a new year began. Some argued for Christmas, the Nativity of the Christ Child. William the Bastard, England’s first Norman king, had chosen the Circumcision of Christ, January 1, the occasion of his own coronation. Others recognized Lady Day, March 25, as the date to start anew, while a minority insisted upon Easter. But for the small, select group aware of Richard’s peril, they counted time from Friday, March 26, the night of his surgery, knowing that his fate would be determined in the days that followed.

  On Sunday evening, Master Guyon was hovering outside the priest’s house, scrutinizing the men passing by. Finally seeing the one he sought, he hastened over to intercept the king’s cousin. “My lord, may I have a word with you?”

  Morgan and Guy de Thouars paused to allow him to catch up with them. Morgan had last seen Richard just an hour ago, but he knew how rapidly a wound could fester, and he frowned, glancing around first to be sure no others were in hearing range. “What is it, Master Guyon? He has not taken a turn for the worse?”

  “No . . . He seems to be feeling better, and that is the problem. I can give him herbal remedies mixed in wine. I can change his poultice and I can offer prayers for his recovery. But he must do his part, too. When I visited him earlier today, I found him propped up in bed, consulting with Geoffrey de la Celle, his seneschal for Gascony, ordering assaults upon the viscount’s castles at Nontron and Montagut. He ignored my protests and would not let me examine his wound, telling me to come back once he was done speaking with his seneschal!”

  He sounded so indignant that Morgan and Guy had to smile, for they were very familiar with Richard’s bad behavior whenever he was injured or ill. “If it is any consolation, Master Guyon, there is nothing personal about his disdain. He has been the bane of physicians for as long as I’ve known him.”

  “So I’ve heard,” the surgeon said tersely. “But if he does not remain abed, rest, and heed my advice, he is putting his life at even greater risk. I tried to make him see that, to no avail. I only made matters worse, for I angered him by telling him he must listen to me. He cursed me then, saying ‘must’ was not a word he recognized. He said that if it pleased him, he’d be taken out to the siege on a litter tomorrow, as he’d done at Acre, and he might even have Mercadier bring him a few whores to pass the time tonight!”

  Guyon was not sure how much help he’d get from these men, but he’d not expected to be laughed at, and they both were grinning widely. “Do you not understand? If he were to take a woman into his bed, it could well-nigh kill him!”

  The fear in his voice sobered their amusement. “We were laughing,” Morgan explained, “because we know the king is not going to do anything so foolhardy. When he is angry, he often says things he does not mean, raving and ranting and uttering bloodcurdling threats that he never carries out. His lord father was the same.”

  Guy saw that the surgeon was not convinced and, because he sympathized with the man’s plight, he offered an anecdote from his own past. “When I was about seventeen, I was wounded in a tournament, my leg gashed to the bone in the mêlée. I daresay you remember how it is for lads at that age; they fill their every waking hour with lustful daydreams about naked women. But until my leg healed, I could have been a monk, so circumspect were my thoughts. And the king’s injury is far more serious than mine was. It is that painful shoulder he’ll be heeding, not any stirrings of his cock.”

  “Nor will he demand to be carried out to watch the assault on the castle,” Morgan reassured the surgeon. “He wants his injury kept secret, at least till he is on the mend. Once he regains some of his strength, he might insist upon that, but by then Mercadier will have taken the castle.”

  “Thank you, my lords, for easing my mind. The king . . . He is a challenging patient,” Guyon said, which made them laugh outright, appreciating his fine flair for understatement. “I fear, though, that he is still wroth with me. I would be most grateful if you would accompany me to see him.” And he felt a flutter of relief when they showed themselves willing to humor him.

  Guyon was relieved, too, to find Richard was with the Abbot of Le Pin, his almoner and a trusted confidant, for he thought Abbot Milo would be an ally if need be. “My liege,” he said, hoping his anxiety was not too obvious, for he knew Richard had no respect for men who were timorous, fainthearted. “How are you feeling?”

  That question had earned him a scathing “Filled with bliss” earlier in the day. They were all taken aback now by the candor of Richard’s response. “My shoulder seemed better this morning, but it has gotten worse in the last few hours. Master Guyon, I have a question to put to you. And do not lie to me. Do you expect me to regain the full use of my arm?”

  “I . . . My liege, I would hope so. But it will take time and you will have to be patient, which does not come easily to you.”

  Richard studied the other man’s face, deciding that he was telling the truth. Or was it that his need for hope was strong enough to drown out his doubts? “I never held patience to be a virtue,” he conceded. “I suppose I shall have to change my thinking about that.”

  And grow angel wings whilst you’re at it, Guyon thought skeptically, for he considered that equally as likely as the king’s embrace of patience and forbearance. “I need to change your poultice, my liege,” he ventured, not sure how far to trust Richard’s current cooperation. “I am going to add honey to the mixture, for it has proved very effective in healing wounds.”

  “Do what you need to do.” Richard’s gaze shifted to the other men. “Whilst Master Guyon tends to my wound, I want you to tell me how the siege is going.”

  They were happy to do that and began to describe the ferocity of Mercadier’s bombardment of the castle as Guyon carefully unwrapped the poultice. While there was more swelling than there’d been earlier, that was to be expected. But when he lifted the poultice to expose the wound, he sucked in his breath, for a red line now showed clearly on the king’s skin, surrounding the affected area like a border of blood. A quick glance told him that Morgan, Guy, the abbot, and Arne did not understand the significance of what they were seeing. But Richard did, for he had tensed, one hand clenching into a fist.

  “Gangraena,” he said softly.

  The surgeon felt as if time had stopped. All he could think was that this Latin word was too dulcet a sound for such an ugly ailment. When his eyes met Richard’s, he could not look away. By now the other men had realized something was very wrong, but neither Richard nor Guyon heard their agitated questions. They were aware only of that spreading red streak, as ominous as the Mark of Cain.

  “It does not necessarily mean . . .” Guyon gave up the attempt, let his words die along with his hope.

  “Tell me this.” Richard struggled to a sitting position, ignoring the pain that effort cost him. “I know you’ve treated many men whose
wounds festered. Did any of them survive?”

  The surgeon had buried all but one of his patients who’d been stricken with gangraena. The sole survivor had lived because the infected arm had been amputated in time. He could not offer false hope, though. The king had told him not to lie.

  Guyon’s stricken silence gave Richard his answer, one that shook him to the core. He was quiet for a long time, but when he finally spoke, it was with a touch of his familiar bravado. “Well, I shall have to be the first, then.”

  ARNE WAS JOLTED FROM sleep the following morning by a sound that chilled him to the bone, a loud groan from his king. He was on his feet at once, lunging toward the bed, a despairing prayer on his lips. Merciful God, let it be a bad dream! For only those harrowing memories of Ertpurch and Trifels had ever been able to wrest such a cry from Richard. But if it was not a dream?

  Richard was trembling, his mouth contorted, his breath coming in ragged gulps. When Arne leaned over the bed, he clamped his hand upon the youth’s arm, gasping, “Christ’s blood, I never felt pain like this, never. . . .” And Arne began to weep.

  BY THE TIME Richard admitted his surgeon, he had regained his composure and his control, for he would never let the rest of the world see what he’d shown Arne. Only Morgan, Mercadier, and Abbot Milo were permitted to enter with Master Guyon, and he could see on their faces the dread roused by his urgent summons.

  “I awoke in great pain,” he said, as matter-of-factly as if he were speaking of someone else’s suffering. “I think what we feared has come to pass.”

  The surgeon approached the bed with a leaden step. No one spoke as he began to unwind the poultice. Even though he was expecting to see it, he still felt a sinking sensation at the sight of that swollen, discolored flesh. Once gangraena laid claim to a man’s body, it moved with diabolic speed and Richard’s skin was a deep, raw red. It would soon take on a dark bronze color, and then it would blacken as his body rotted away from the inside. Guyon had no words; he knew there were none. But he still heard himself stammering, “I . . . I am sorry, my lord. . . . So sorry . . .”

  The abbot knelt and began to pray. Morgan sagged down onto a coffer. Arne was weeping again, silently this time. Mercadier’s hand dropped to his sword hilt and Guyon froze. But then the routier whirled, picked up the chair, and smashed it into the wall, again and again, until it was reduced to kindling.

  Richard paid none of them any heed. He’d known what the surgeon would find; nothing else could explain sudden pain of such intensity. But knowing it was not the same as seeing it, as looking into his open grave. He supposed he’d always known he would not make old bones. Scriptures spoke plainly enough on that. For all they that take up the sword shall perish by the sword. And he’d accepted it, for there were far worse ways to die. He’d just not expected it to happen here, in a siege of a Godforsaken rebel castle so far from the sacred battlefields of the Holy Land.

  There was much in his life that he’d taken pride in, exploits of daring, some of them quite mad, but gloriously so, feats that had dazzled his friends and infuriated his enemies. Yet he took as much pride in what he was able to do now, keeping his voice so dispassionate as he said, “No one can know that I am dying. My brother is in Brittany. If the Bretons hear of my mortal wound ere he does, my mother will lose two sons.”

  He paused, then, for the dragon was stirring again. He closed his eyes until the assault eased—all he could do. A pity that crossbowman’s aim had not been better. “How much time do I have?” He was not surprised when Master Guyon could not answer that. Will Marshal would have to be warned. Hubert Walter. His seneschals of Anjou, Poitou, Normandy; his castellans at Chinon and Gaillard.

  “Send for my mother.” She was at Fontevrault, though. Would she get here in time? “Send word to my cousin, too. And I’ll need a scribe, one I can trust.”

  Abbot Milo had always been able to offer aid both spiritual and secular, a pragmatic, capable churchman like Hubert Walter and Master Fulk, the sort of cleric who found greatest favor with Richard. He did not disappoint now, adjusting to this grim new reality faster than Morgan or even Mercadier. “I will pen your letters myself, my liege. And couriers will go out within the hour to your lady mother, to the Count of Mortain, and to your cousin; I assume Lord André is at Châteauroux?” He sounded admirably calm, but he kept his gaze averted from the bed. “Is it your wish that we summon your queen, too?”

  “No . . . We can arouse no suspicions until my brother is safely away from the Breton court. Word is bound to get out that I’ve not been seen in days and half the countryside is spying for the viscount or the French. My queen’s sudden arrival would attract too much attention, too much conjecture, for she’s never visited me at a siege camp.” There was truth in that and he hoped it would give Berenguela a measure of comfort. He’d not been much of a husband to her. But it was too late to make amends. He’d need all of his waning strength to keep Death at bay long enough to see Johnny recognized as his heir. A wronged wife could not compete with a kingdom at risk. Nor did he want to deal with her tears. Surely dying was penance enough for past marital sins.

  So was pain. By the time he drew his last breath, he’d likely have atoned for all of his own sins and those of his father, too, mayhap even Hal and Geoffrey’s as well. Knowing he’d need to fight the dragon alone, he said, “Leave me now. All but Arne.”

  They obeyed, moving like men in a daze. He’d let Master Guyon come back later. They were a fine pair, he and Mercadier’s surgeon, between them making sure that March 26 would be the luckiest day of Johnny’s life. Was it too much to hope that the man might know of herbs that would dull some of the pain, but not his wits? He already knew the answer to that. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

  THE SKY WAS THE COLOR of sapphire, Eleanor’s favorite gemstone, and the few wisps of cloud seemed as delicate as handmade lace. Sitting in the window-seat, she savored the warmth of the April sunlight; she felt the cold more keenly now, and she was giving serious consideration to accepting Joanna’s invitation to spend next winter in Toulouse.

  When she said as much to her companion, the prioress flashed an impish smile. “Can you smuggle me into your horse litter, Madame? I’d dearly love to see Toulouse.”

  Eleanor returned the smile, for she’d become quite fond of Aliza since taking up residence at Fontevrault Abbey. “There is something I would discuss with you. One of my granddaughters is coming to Fontevrault as a novice.”

  The prioress already knew that; nunneries prided themselves upon attracting highborn young women, and Alix of Blois was a great catch. “I will be happy to keep an eye on her, Madame,” she promised, “and we will bend the rules a bit so that she can visit with you from time to time.”

  Before Eleanor could respond, Dame Amaria appeared in the doorway. “A messenger has just ridden in from the king, Madame. He says he must speak with you straightaway.”

  “Send him in, then,” Eleanor directed. The man ushered into the chamber soon afterward was one she knew and liked—one of Richard’s household knights—but her smile splintered at her first glimpse of his stricken face.

  “Madame, your son . . .” He sank to one knee before her, holding out the letter with a hand that shook. “He has been grievously wounded, and he . . . he bids you come to him at Châlus.”

  There were horrified gasps from the other women, but for Eleanor, there was no surprise, only an eerie sense of familiarity about this moment. It was as if she’d always known she would one day be standing here like this, listening to someone tell her that her son was dying. She swayed slightly and the prioress and Amaria moved quickly to offer support, but she shook their hands off. “Is there . . .” She swallowed convulsively. “Is there no hope?”

  He did not know which was cruelest—to offer false hope or to strip away every last shred of hope. “He . . . he is in a bad way, my lady.”

  Eleanor closed her eyes for a moment and then she raised her head, straightening the shoulders that felt too
frail to bear this latest burden. “I will be ready to ride within the hour.”

  ANDRÉ DID NOT BELIEVE Richard was dying. Despite the gravity of the message, he refused to accept it. On the hundred-mile ride between Châteauroux and Châlus, he thought of little else, convincing himself that his cousin would recover, as he always had in the past. But his faith in Richard’s powers of recuperation did not keep him from setting as fast a pace as possible. By changing horses, he managed to cover the distance in just two and a half days, a speed that royal couriers might well have envied, reaching Châlus before sunset on the first Friday in April.

  Upon his arrival at the siege camp, he took heart from the air of calm; surely there would be panic and confusion if the king were really dying. But soldiers were going about their tasks as if nothing were amiss. The trebuchets were pounding away at the castle walls, sending up swirling dust and rubble with each strike, and some of Mercadier’s men were erecting a gallows. When André asked for Richard, he was told that the king had set up quarters in the village and he was soon following a sergeant through the gathering dusk. Richard had always been careless of protocol, priding himself in being accessible to any soldiers who needed to speak with him. Now men-at-arms were stationed at the door of a small stone house and André was told that he must be given permission to enter.

  Waiting as one of the guards disappeared inside, André felt sweat begin to trickle down his spine, cold and clammy. When the door opened again, he found himself facing Richard’s cousin, and Morgan looked so heartsick that there was no need for words. Grasping André’s arm, he pulled the other man inside and, as their eyes met, he slowly shook his head.

  Standing before the bedchamber, André was suddenly afraid to go any farther, dreading what he now knew he’d find behind that door. What struck him first was the stench, one he was all too familiar with: the battlefield stink of rotting flesh, putrid wounds, and approaching death. The chamber was dimly lit by oil lamps. Arne was slumped in a corner and gazed up at André, a man he knew well, without a hint of recognition. Guillain de l’Etang rose as André entered. So did the Abbot of Le Pin.