A King's Ransom (105 page)

In addition to taking homage from Constance and the Breton barons, Richard had also accepted it from knights and lords of Champagne and Flanders, had won back several of the Norman barons who’d defected to Philippe during his time in Germany, and was in secret negotiations with one of Philippe’s most powerful vassals, Renaud de Dammartin, the Count of Boulogne. Most promising of all, he told Hubert, his spies at the Flemish court had reported that the unrelenting pressure he’d been putting upon the Flemish economy was finally paying off. They’d assured him that Baldwin, the young Count of Flanders, would be receptive to English overtures, and so he’d dispatched Will Marshal to meet with Baldwin, offering full restoration of trade privileges for the Flemish merchants and a “gift” of five thousand silver marks for Count Baldwin.

“So you see,” Richard concluded with a grim smile, “the noose is tightening around Philippe’s neck.”

Hubert was delighted, pleasing Richard with his heartfelt praise, for he respected few men as much as he did this one. But he had far less pleasant news to share and he put it off for a while, encouraging the archbishop to bring him up to date about English matters. When servants began to set up trestle tables in the hall, though, making ready for the evening meal, he realized he could delay no longer.

“I’ve heard from my friend, the Archbishop of Cologne,” he said abruptly. “You’ll not like what I’m about to tell you, Hubert. No man of honor would. Heinrich has been spilling enough Sicilian blood to flood the entire kingdom. He had Tancred’s brother-in-law, the Count of Acerra, dragged through the city behind a horse, then hung upside down. It took him two days to die. He had others flung into the sea or flayed alive. And then he exacted vengeance upon the men he’d imprisoned at Trifels Castle after his coronation. He had Admiral Margaritis and the brother of the Archbishop of Salerno blinded and the counts of Marsico and Carinola put to death.”

Hubert frowned. “That is very unjust, for they could have played no role in the rebellion; they’ve been his prisoners for nigh on three years.”

“You’ve not heard the worst of it yet. He ordered Tancred’s young son blinded and castrated, and the boy—who was about seven—died as a result of it.”

Hubert shook his head slowly and then made the sign of the cross. “The Devil truly walks amongst us.”

Richard was gazing broodingly into the depths of his wine cup. “There were times during my German captivity when I wondered if Heinrich was mad. But instead of terrifying the Sicilians into submission, Heinrich’s brutal measures incited them against him and a new conspiracy was formed this spring. Heinrich was to be ambushed whilst out hunting and slain. But he was warned in time and fled to Messina. The rebels were defeated in the field and Catania was taken by assault. Heinrich then took a bloody revenge upon the conspirators, having many of them executed in extremely painful ways. The most gruesome fate he saved for Jordan Lapin, the Count of Bouvino, who was killed by having a crown nailed to his head.”

Hubert had met some of these men during their stay in Sicily, and even if he did not consider them friends, he did not think they deserved this. “A man who could devise such a barbaric punishment is one who enjoys inflicting pain. You were lucky, Richard, all things considered.”

“The story is not done yet, Hubert. Adolf says that Constance was involved with the conspirators.”

The archbishop’s jaw dropped. “Blessed Mother of God! Can that be true?”

Richard shrugged. “According to Adolf, she and Heinrich quarreled bitterly after he executed the Count of Acerra and so many others, then mutilated Tancred’s son. Few women would not have been horrified by that. And at least one of the men killed was kin to her. Adolf even claims that the Pope knew of the conspiracy and approved, or at least gave tacit approval by his silence. As for Constance, whether her involvement is true or not, Heinrich apparently believed it. He forced her to attend the execution of Jordan Lapin, who was also her kinsman, and to watch as the crown was nailed to his head.”

“Jesu!” Hubert was a worldly churchman, a politician, a seasoned soldier, and he was not easily shaken by evidence of mankind’s capacity for cruelty. But he was appalled by what he’d just learned of life in the once-peaceful kingdom of Sicily. “Does Lady Joanna know of this? I remember how fond she was of the empress.”

“I have not told her yet. Her baby is due this month and I thought it best to wait, for she’d be bound to fear for Constance’s future. Heinrich has his heir now, so he no longer needs Constance to legitimize his claim to the Sicilian throne. He could rule through Friedrich, who is not yet three.”

Richard lapsed into another brooding silence, thinking of his sister’s distress when she learned of Constance’s peril, thinking of Tancred and his doomed little lad, remembering Heinrich’s smug smile when he’d had to kneel in the great hall at Mainz and do homage to the German emperor. “What I do not understand,” he said, with some bitterness, “is why the Church does not do more to rein this man in. He was implicated in the murder of the Bishop of Liege. He has held the Archbishop of Salerno prisoner at Trifels for nigh on three years. The Bishop of Catania was one of those he ordered blinded. Why does the Church not defend its own?”

Hubert had no answer for him, not one that did not compromise his rank as the head of the English Church. Celestine was too fearful to challenge the German emperor openly, remembering when Heinrich’s father had sent troops into Rome, forcing a Pope into French exile. But Hubert did not think it seemly for a prelate to speak disrespectfully of the Holy Father, however lacking he might be. Reminding himself that his first loyalty must now be to the Church, not the English king, he offered a perfunctory defense of the elderly Pope. “He has protested those outrages in the strongest language possible. But he is an old man, past ninety. . . .”

“A pity popes do not retire,” Richard said caustically. “Whilst I was in Germany, the Archbishop of Cologne did just that, believing himself too old and enfeebled to fulfill his duties, thus opening the door for his nephew Adolf to take his place. But popes cling to power the way barnacles cling to a ship’s hull, so I suppose we can only hope that the Almighty calls that spineless old man home soon.” It had occurred to him that the indecisive Celestine might take the easy way and find against André and Denise rather than overrule one of his own archbishops.

“The Pope did find in your favor, though, in your case against the Archbishop of Rouen,” Hubert said mildly. This talk of the papacy had reminded him of an unpleasant duty that lay ahead of him, and he reluctantly asked if he could see the king in private.

“
Y
OU CANNOT BE SERIOUS?”
Richard stared at the archbishop in disbelief. “You are defending that treacherous, foul hellhound? If Beauvais is a pious son of the Church, then I’m bidding fair to reach sainthood!”

“I am not defending him,” Hubert said hastily. “I am simply saying that we cannot ignore the fact that he is a prelate of the Holy Church, however little we may like it. I had a letter from Pietro of Capua, the papal legate. He is on his way to the French court and he is expressing outrage that you’ve imprisoned a bishop, is threatening to lay Normandy under Interdict—”

“What are you asking, that I release him? Not even for the surety of my own soul!”

“No, I am not asking that, Richard. But Beauvais’s continuing captivity could cause a strain between England and the papacy. You need to bear that in mind.”

“And I have so much reason to be grateful to the papacy! I owe my mother and my vassals and subjects for buying my freedom. I owe the Pope nothing!”

Richard was so angry that Hubert no longer argued, seeing it would be to no avail. But his silence did nothing to quench the king’s temper. His face flushed, mouth set, he glared at his old friend as if he were the enemy. “Beauvais is the man responsible for the time I spent at Trifels in chains. He urged Heinrich to treat me harshly in order to break my spirit. He came to mock my misery, took joy in dwelling upon all that I’d never experience again, telling me that I’d never see the sun or feel the rain on my face, that I’d never swive a woman or ride a horse or hear music, that I’d be left to rot alone in the dark—”

Richard stopped suddenly, cutting off his words in midsentence. Had Beauvais truly taunted him like that? Or was he borrowing from the harrowing, dreaded dreams that still haunted his nights even now? He found those dreams so troubling because they seemed so utterly and mercilessly real. But never before had they spilled over into the daylight like this, and he was shaken to realize what a blurred line separated the present from the past. Turning his back on Hubert, he moved to the open window, staring up at the dark silhouette starkly outlined against the reddening sky, the castle created solely by his will, each chiseled stone proof of the power he still exercised over other men, the vagaries of war, and his own fate.

Hubert said nothing, silenced by the raw emotion in Richard’s voice as he’d railed against the Bishop of Beauvais. When he moved away from the window, his anger still smoldered but was no longer in full flame. “Beauvais slandered me the width and breadth of Christendom. At Speyer, I found myself entrapped in a web of his lies, and when I was able to free myself, he did all he could to make sure I would die in a French oubliette. I will never forgive him. Never.”

“Nor would I ask you to,” Hubert said quietly. “It is my understanding that you have agreed to ransom Sir Guillaume de Mello and the other knights taken captive that day by Mercadier, but not Beauvais. I heard that you turned down a ransom offer of ten thousand marks. Is that true?”

“It is. I will never set him free.”

“I understand,” Hubert said, “I do. I ask only that you ease the conditions of his imprisonment. As long as he is being held in such harsh confinement, the controversy about his captivity will continue. Not for his sake, but for the pallium he has the right to wear.”

Richard was not moved by the appeal. “Mercadier did not burst into a church and drag him away from the altar, Hubert. He was taken on the battlefield, leading an armed force to raise the siege at Milly-sur-Thérain. He is a false priest, a godless man who knows no more of piety than a wild boar.”

“I’ll not argue that point,” Hubert said with a faint smile. “I ask only that you think upon what I’ve said.”

Another silence ensued. When Richard at last agreed to do so, Hubert suspected that it was a grudging courtesy, no more than that. But he was satisfied, feeling that he’d discharged the duty so unwillingly imposed upon him by the papal legate.

Both men were relieved by the sudden knock at the door, wanting to put this uncomfortable conversation behind them. At Richard’s command, his squire entered the solar. Hubert had not seen Arne in several years, and was surprised by how much he’d changed; he was eighteen now, and had left the awkwardness of adolescence behind. He greeted the archbishop with the confidence gained during four years in the king’s service, and then smiled at Richard.

“I know you were eager to hear from my lord marshal, sire.”

A
S SOON AS
R
ICHARD
returned to the hall, he knew that Will’s Flemish mission had been successful before a word was said, for the man at Will’s side was one Richard recognized, Simon de Haverets, the marshal of the Count of Flanders. Glancing toward Hubert, he said jubilantly, “First Toulouse and now Flanders. Philippe has just lost his last ally.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO