A King's Ransom (108 page)

T
HIS WAS
B
ERENGARIA’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 eyes.

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.

R
ICHARD 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.

T
HE 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 that 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.

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?
”