A King's Ransom (14 page)

Both were grinning, but Morgan deferred to Arne, letting the boy be the one to break the good news. “That is Vienna and we went into the town and found a street peddler and brought back food for you!” Sliding off his horse, he triumphantly brandished a hemp sack. “We bought hot cheese tarts and roasted chestnuts, though they are not hot anymore. Sir Morgan and I ate ours in the town, but then we were challenged by men from the castle and . . .”

Arne finally ran out of breath, and Morgan took over the narrative. “Well, we do not know they were from the castle, but they were on the lookout for strangers, so we will have to seek shelter elsewhere. Vienna is much smaller than I’d expected and we’d have no chance of escaping notice.”

That was disappointing to Richard and Guillain, for they’d hoped Vienna would be a good-sized city, large enough to provide cover. “What did you do when they confronted you?”

Morgan’s grin came back and Arne laughed outright. “Sir Morgan was so clever, sire! He answered them in Welsh and they just gaped at him, not understanding a word he said!”

“I was tempted to try out my fledgling Arabic on them,” Morgan said with a chuckle, “but decided Welsh was safer since some of them might have seen service in the Holy Land.” His smile disappearing then, he said, “They were looking for strangers who spoke French. They had no idea what I was speaking, but since it was not French, they let us go.”

It was alarming to find out that Vienna was under such close surveillance; they’d hoped the Austrians had not yet heard the rumors that the English king had been spotted in Carinthia. Richard’s shoulders slumped as he thought of the long ride ahead of them. “So why do you both look so cheerful?” he asked, more sharply than he intended. “Your news does not sound very encouraging to me.”

“Oh, but we found us a place to stay, sire! Since we have to avoid Vienna, we stopped in a village on the outskirts of the town, called . . .” Arne frowned, trying to recall the name, and Morgan supplied it.

“Ertpurch. It is not much to look at, but it has an alewife and she was agreeable to renting us a room. She’s a widow with two sons, and she leapt at the chance to earn a few coins. She says we can stay in her bedchamber and she will sleep out by the hearth with her lads.”

“And the blacksmith said we could put our horses in his stable,” Arne chimed in again, “whilst the alewife said she would cook for us if we provided the food!”

The boy sounded as pleased as if they’d been invited to stay at a royal palace. But after what they’d endured for the past three days, the alewife’s house in Ertpurch sounded good to Richard, too. “We’re lucky that we sent you and Morgan on ahead to scout for us, Arne,” he said, and the youngster grinned from ear to ear, blushing at the praise.

“Very lucky,” Morgan said, but there was something in his tone that caused Richard to tense, suddenly sure there was more to their account of their visit to Vienna than he’d so far heard.

“Even if the townspeople were not so suspicious, we’d not have dared to enter Vienna.” Morgan’s dark eyes met Richard’s grey ones steadily. “I knew that as soon as I saw the red-and-white banner flying over the castle.”

“Leopold’s,” Richard said, sounding unsurprised, and Morgan nodded.

“It is pure bad luck that the duke is here and not at one of his other residences.” Leaving unsaid the rest—that not only did Duke Leopold bear Richard a lethal grudge, he was one of the few men who would recognize Richard at once, making it impossible to dispute his identity should it come to that.

E
RTPURCH WAS AS UNPREPOSSESSING
as Morgan had described, a cluster of single-story cottages with thatched roofs, a church, a smithy, a baker’s oven, a handful of shops, a cemetery, and fields that were covered now in snow. Beyond was the camp of men come to trade and sell horses; Arne explained that foreigners were not permitted to sell goods in Vienna and so did their business outside the town’s walls. Now that he was back in his homeland, he was chattering nonstop, proud that he could tell them so much about Vienna and the duke. He’d never been to Vienna until today, he confided, and had always imagined it was a goodly city, but it seemed downright meager after he’d seen Acre and Jerusalem. He was eager to share with them all the gossip he’d heard about Leopold, evoking amusement when he revealed that the duke was known as “The Virtuous,” but by then, they were approaching the alewife’s cottage and he had to save the rest of his stories for later, for they dared speak French only behind closed doors.

The alewife, a thin, fair-haired woman named Els, welcomed them warmly, and they understood why as soon as they entered her modest dwelling; it was obvious that the widow needed the money. Her young sons watched, wide-eyed, as she escorted the men into the house’s bedchamber. It was small and sparsely furnished, for she’d moved her bed out by the hearth, apologizing that she had so little bedding to spare. But it was the best shelter they’d had since escaping from Friesach and they had no complaints. She bustled about, finding a few blankets for them, a chamber pot, and several tallow candles, and then shared the leftovers from her family’s meal: boiled cabbage, barley bread, and a pottage of turnip greens, beets, and onions, washed down with some of her excellent ale.

They were grateful for her generosity, and Morgan played the gallant to great effect, kissing her hand and murmuring Welsh compliments that made her laugh even though she understood not a word of it. It was a huge relief, though, when she finally retreated, leaving them alone in the shabby bedchamber. Apart from the cheese tarts Arne had purchased in Vienna, they’d had nothing to eat for three days, and they fell upon the simple fare ravenously. Guillain cut trenchers from the loaf of bread and Arne ladled the pottage onto them, but when he turned to offer the first serving to the king, he got no response. Richard had stretched out on his blanket, wrapping himself in his mantle, not even bothering to take his boots off. When Arne bent over to set the food on the floor beside him, he was taken aback to see that the older man was already asleep.

“He’s not hungry?” he asked, looking to the others for guidance. “Should we wake him up to eat? It’s been so long. . . .”

“Let him sleep, lad.” But they all kept casting glances toward Richard as they ate, and when they were done, Morgan rose and leaned over the sleeping man, putting his hand on his cousin’s forehead. He did not stir at the touch, and Morgan sank back on his haunches, nodding in response to Guillain’s silent query. “He’s feverish,” he said, confirming what they’d both suspected and feared for several days.

Arne gasped in dismay. “What will we do? We cannot seek out a doctor!”

“No, we cannot,” Morgan agreed grimly. “On the morrow, lad, you must go into Vienna, find an apothecary, and buy aqua vitae; I’ve always heard it is good for fevers. Buy blankets, too, for we’re like to freeze in here without them. Chicken is the best food for the sick, but no vendor will sell it during Advent, so get eggs and bread and garlic.”

“I will,” Arne promised solemnly. “Is there anything else I can do?”

Morgan glanced again toward Richard. “He’s more stubborn than any mule, and not only will he not admit he’s ill, he’ll insist upon getting on his horse tomorrow if we let him. But we cannot continue on until he is stronger, for another bout of the quartan fever could well-nigh kill him. So yes, there is something else you can do, Arne. When you go into Vienna, find a church and offer up a prayer for his quick recovery.”

A
RNE WAS GRATEFUL TO
Morgan for keeping the secret of his real age. But he had another secret that he did not share with his companions, for he felt vaguely guilty about it. How could he be enjoying himself so much when he knew they were suffering? Oh, there had been some scary moments—especially on shipboard and when they had to fight their way out of Udine—but most of the time, his excitement was stronger than his discomfort or anxiety. He felt very honored to be trusted by the English king, to be treated like an ally by these renowned knights, and he sensed that he was taking part in history, for surely men would be talking of King Richard’s bold escape for many years to come.

He was in high spirits as he rode into Vienna, feeling like a knight on a confidential mission for his king. He’d never had so much money before and it was easy to pretend he was a wealthy lord. He stopped to flip a coin to a ragged beggar and grinned when the elderly man cried, “Bless you, young sir!”

His first task was to find a moneychanger, for they’d spent most of the coins they’d changed in Görz. Fortunately, Vienna was a crossroads for men traveling to the Holy Land, for Russian traders and Italian merchants, and so there was a need for such services. He found a moneychanger’s stall by St Stephen’s Church, and smiled at the man’s sudden interest at sight of the gold bezants he slid across the table. “I want to change these for pfennigs,” he announced grandly, “and do not try to cheat me, for I am no ignorant foreigner, was born near Hainberg.”

In truth, he had no idea what a bezant was worth, but he watched closely as the man counted out the coins, and tried to look as if he were accustomed to such dealings. He felt an unexpected tug of sentiment as he scooped up the pfennigs, for he’d not seen the small silver coins for several years, and they reminded him of the life that had once been his, back when he’d never imagined he’d see so much of the world or serve a king.

He went next to the apothecary’s shop, where the apothecary noted his scruffy appearance and said curtly that aqua vitae was too costly for a lad like him. He changed his tune when Arne jingled his bulging money pouch, and after putting the aqua vitae phial in a sack, he brought out cinquefoil and wood sorrel, saying they were also very good for fevers. Unable to decide between them, Arne bought both.

It was not a market day, but he had no trouble finding a peddler’s cart. Arne bought the peddler’s best blankets, candles, and the lone pillow, pleased to find one for the king. He then bought soap and a wooden comb, thinking they’d want to tidy themselves up once they reached Moravia, a brass mirror and a pig’s-bladder ball as farewell gifts for the alewife and her sons, a set of bone dice for Morgan and Guillain, a jar of honey for Richard, and some candied quince for himself.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun, for never had he been able to spend without counting the cost. He got eggs from another peddler, two round loaves of bread from a baker, and then his eye was caught by a cook-shop sign across the street from the Judenstadt, where the town’s Jews dwelled. Here, as at the apothecary’s shop, he was eyed askance until he showed he had money, and then they were happy to sell him fish tarts, hot peas, and wafers drizzled with honey. Looking around the shop for delicacies to tempt the king’s poor appetite, he remembered a tale Warin had told him about a wondrous creature called a barnacle goose; because it was hatched in the sea, men said it could be eaten on fast days when meat was forbidden.

“What a pity you do not have a barnacle goose,” he said regretfully, eager to impress the cook-shop hirelings with the story of this legendary fowl. To his surprise, they were familiar with it, and told him that whilst they had no barnacle geese on hand, they did have a roasted beaver’s tail for sale; since it was covered with scales like a fish, it could be eaten during Advent with a clear conscience.

Arne bought it at once, not even flinching at the price, delighted to be able to bring meat back to the king. As he emerged from the cook-shop, burdened with all his purchases, he was going to retrieve his horse when he remembered he’d not said a prayer for Richard yet. He paused, looking around for the nearest church. It was then that a hand clamped down upon his shoulder, spinning him around, and a gruff voice demanded, “Not so fast, boy. We have some questions for you.”