A King's Ransom (17 page)

Someone must have found an axe, for the wood suddenly splintered and the door’s hinges gave way. The chamber was poorly lit and the intruders halted in the doorway, blinking as their vision adjusted to the shadows. Their eyes swept past Morgan—not tall enough—lingered for a moment on Guillain, and then fastened upon Richard; as dirty and shaggy as his hair was, it was still the color of copper, as distinctive as his uncommon height.

They were yelling at him, waving their swords. But none of them moved into the room, and as he looked from face to face, Richard was astonished by what he saw—fear. He and Morgan and Guillain were hopelessly outnumbered, as helpless as fish caught in a weir, with only one outcome if they resisted, yet these men were afraid of him. That realization proved to be his salvation. His brain began to function again. He did have some leverage, after all—his reputation. It had happened more and more toward the end of his stay in the Holy Land—Saladin’s emirs and Mamluks, men of proven courage, veering away rather than cross swords with him. And these Austrian knights were no more eager to fight him than the Saracens. They respected his prowess, and that understanding gave him the courage to do what he had to do, to take that first, frightening step into the unknown.

“I will yield only to your duke,” he said, greatly relieved that his voice sounded as it always did, giving away no hint of his inner anguish. They looked at one another, then flung more German at him, and he tried again, this time in Latin. When it was obvious they did not comprehend, he said, “Morgan,” remembering that his cousin had picked up a smattering of German from Arne.

Morgan felt as if his brain had gone blank, but with a great effort, he managed to dredge up a few words.
“Herzog! Herzog Leopold!”
They reacted at once to their duke’s name, and he added,
“Hier,”
gesturing around the room to indicate Leopold was to come here. They seemed to think this was a very good idea, for several were nodding and saying,
“Ja,”
with obvious enthusiasm. “They understand,” Morgan said, with a sigh of relief. “They’ll fetch Leopold.”

The Austrians stayed by the door, swords drawn, but seemed content to wait. They were all staring at Richard, nudging one another, and he heard the word
“Löwenherz”
being repeated. He’d guessed its meaning even before Morgan translated it as “Lionheart.” Crossing to the bed, he retrieved his frayed, stained mantle and draped it around his shoulders as if it were royal robes of state.

The bravado of that gesture brought tears to Morgan’s eyes. He’d initially been wary of Richard, for his allegiance had been pledged to Richard’s brother Geoffrey and his father, the old king. But he’d come to know Richard well in the past two years, and now he felt the depth of the other man’s desperation and despair, the proudest of the proud shamed before enemies he’d scorned. He did not doubt that Richard would have found it easier to be taken prisoner by Saladin. Watching as Richard braced for whatever humiliation and danger lay ahead, preparing to brazen it out, he found himself remembering Guilhem de Préaux, who’d claimed that he was Malik Ric to save Richard from capture. He would have made that sacrifice, too, had it only been in his power—not just because Richard was his king or his cousin, but because theirs was a bond only those who fought together and faced death together could fully understand.

He saw his own misery reflected on Guillain’s face. There were tears in Guillain’s eyes, too, as he said softly, “I am sorry, sire.” Richard shook his head, letting his hand rest for a moment on the knight’s arm. Morgan found his own mantle and untied his money pouch from his belt. He knew the soldiers would take every pfennig for themselves and he was determined to get the money to the alewife if he could; better she should have it than Leopold’s lackeys. His eyes lingered for a moment on Arne’s bedding. He hated to think what might have befallen the boy in Vienna.

Much too soon, they heard the noise outside that signaled Leopold’s approach. Richard had never dreaded anything more than what was to come. This was likely to be their last moments alone, and he reached out to embrace Morgan, then Guillaume. “I’ll be damned if I’ll wait cowering, like a fox run to earth,” he declared, sheathing his sword, and then starting toward the door. The soldiers moved aside to let him pass, so hastily that it was almost comical.
Like Moses parting the Red Sea,
Morgan thought irreverently as he and Guillaume followed close behind.

There was a crowd waiting as Richard emerged from the alewife’s house into the pallid winter sunlight, soldiers, villagers, and a large contingent of knights who’d accompanied their duke. Leopold was mounted on a magnificent white stallion and was just as magnificently garbed, his hat and mantle trimmed with sable fur, his scabbard studded with gemstones, his hands adorned with several jeweled rings. His appearance did not fully match Richard’s memory of him, and then he realized why: this was the first time he’d ever seen Leopold smile.

Leopold did not dismount at once, for that enabled him to look down upon the man who was some inches the taller of the two. “When they told me about the boy they’d picked up in the marketplace, I confess I had my doubts,” he said, still smiling. “But by God, it is you.”

Richard regarded him stonily, before saying tersely, “My lord duke.” He stayed where he was until Leopold swung from the saddle, only then stepping forward and unsheathing his sword. Most of Leopold’s men already had their weapons drawn, and they brought them up quickly then. Ignoring them, Richard held out his sword, hilt first, to his captor, saying nothing.

Leopold accepted the sword, then subjected Richard to a deliberate, slow scrutiny, taking in the tangled hair, long beard, mud-caked boots, and begrimed mantle, which only partially covered the once-white Templar’s tunic, now streaked with dirt and sweat. “You do not look very kingly now, do you, my lord Lionheart? Indeed, you look like a man we’d expect to find in a hovel like this. How true that
Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall
.”

Richard welcomed the fury that now surged through his veins, sweeping away all shame and fear. “Since you’re quoting from Scriptures, you’d do well to remember another verse.
God is not mocked, for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.
There will be no forgiveness for harming men who’ve taken the cross, neither from the Church nor Almighty God. You’d best think upon that whilst there is still time. Is this petty revenge worth eternal damnation?”

Hot color flooded Leopold’s face and throat. “You’ve forfeited your right to Church protection by your crimes in the Holy Land!”

“I daresay I’d have heard had you been elected Pope. Celestine is the man on the papal throne and are you so delusional that you truly believe he’ll agree with you? When pigs fly!”

They’d been speaking in French, so only Morgan and Guillain could follow the accusations they were hurling at each other. Knowing that Richard had never learned to guard his tongue, Morgan took a quick step forward. While he did not think Leopold was a man utterly without honor like Heinrich, he’d still been willing to lay hands upon a crusader. What might he do behind his castle walls if Richard continued to bait him like this? Judging it a good time to intervene, he said, “My lord duke,” seeking to sound respectful and deferential. “What of Arne, the lad who was seized in the marketplace? Where is he?”

Leopold looked his way, seemingly debating whether the question deserved an answer. “I was told the boy was stubborn,” he said after a long pause, “and had to be persuaded to talk. But I doubt that his injuries are serious.”

Morgan forgot about placating the Austrian duke. “You tortured him?” Guillain was no less outraged and he glared at Leopold, calling him shameless and milk-livered, insults that, fortunately for him, were not heard by the duke, whose attention was focused upon the English king.

Richard was staring at Leopold with all of the considerable contempt at his command. “You are bound and determined to get to Hell, Leopold. The boy your men tortured took the cross, too, and is under the protection of Holy Church no less than we are.”

Leopold was as angry as Richard, but he was coming to realize that it was not advisable to continue exchanging insults with the English king. Even if his knights and men could not understand what was being said, there was no mistaking Richard’s defiant tone, and some might find it demeaning that he was allowing himself to be challenged by a man who was his prisoner, after all. “We are done here,” he said curtly and ordered horses brought up for the three men. “Are you going to mount on your own or shall we have to drag you back to Vienna like a common felon?”

As he expected, Richard had far too much pride for that, and he and his companions were soon astride horses fitted with halters and leads instead of bridles and reins. Richard still found himself surrounded by riders with drawn swords, for Leopold was taking no chances with his prize prisoner. As they rode out of Ertpurch, the villagers clustered in the road to watch them go, astonished that such high drama had occurred in their peaceful little hamlet. Els was already the target of jokes about her boarder, the king of the English, but they were good-natured jests; her neighbors were thankful that she was not being punished for the inadvertent role she’d played in aiding their duke’s great enemy. She said what was expected of her, expressed shock and dismay that she’d had such wicked men under her roof. But all the while, she could feel the money pouch hidden between her breasts, for Morgan had managed to slip it to her while gallantly kissing her hand in farewell. She did not doubt that Duke Leopold was a good man, a good ruler. She meant to pray, though, for the safety of the prisoners, a secret she’d share only with God. And she would pray, too, she decided, for the soul of her duke, for surely he would burn in Hell for what he’d done this day.

CHAPTER SIX

DECEMBER 1192

Vienna, Austria

T
he chamber was little bigger than a cell, containing only a pallet, a chamber pot, and a wooden stool. There was a small, shuttered window, though, and several torches smoldered in wall sconces. For all of his bravado, Richard felt relief; at least he’d not been cast into the suffocating blackness of a frigid, underground dungeon. As spartan as his new surroundings were, they were no worse than what he’d endured in the eleven days since their shipwreck. All he wanted now was time alone, time to come to terms with this shocking spin of Fortune’s wheel. But he soon saw that his guards did not intend to leave, that he was to be kept under constant surveillance by men with drawn swords. Under other circumstances, he might have seen the twisted humor in it; what did Leopold fear, that he could walk through walls or fly to safety like an eagle? Now he felt only a dulled throb of anger and despair. It did not bother him that he’d be watched even as he used the chamber pot; soldiers had no false modesty. But with so many eyes upon him, he could not let down his guard for even a heartbeat; he was determined that his enemies never know how deeply shaken he was by his capture.

There was no heat in the chamber and he was soon shivering. He was thirsty, too, for his mouth had gone so dry he had not even enough saliva to spit. But he’d be damned to eternal hellfire ere he’d ask them for anything. He’d not give Leopold that satisfaction. Unable to sit, he began to pace, and the guards kept bumping into one another as they sought to keep him at arm’s length. They reminded him of the crowds flocking to a bear baiting, at once fascinated by and fearful of the chained bear. He did not doubt the bear would prefer to die fighting, lashing out at the hounds tormenting him as long as he had strength in those massive paws.

They’d come so close—just fifty miles from the Moravian border! If not for his accursed fever, they’d be safe now. How could his body have betrayed him like that? How could this be the Almighty’s Will? He’d failed to take Jerusalem; he could not deny that. But he’d tried, Christ Jesus, how he’d tried, sabotaged time and time again by those French miscreants. And he’d stayed, he’d honored his vow even after learning that Philippe and Johnny were plotting to usurp his throne. He’d not given up and gone home as Philippe and Leopold had. What had he done to deserve this?

Minutes seemed to drag by like hours, hours like days. He thought he heard bells chiming in the town; calling parishioners to Vespers? Compline? When the door opened suddenly, he spun around, expecting that Leopold had come to gloat. But he found himself facing a grey-haired priest, flanked by two servants. As they moved into the chamber, Richard saw that they carried a tray of food and a pile of blankets. “I am Father Otto, the duke’s chaplain,” the priest said in quite good Latin, giving Richard one of those chained-bear glances and then looking quickly away. “I thought you might be hungry, my lord.”

“What of my men? Have they been fed?”

“I . . . I am not sure. But I will look into it,” the chaplain promised. He’d yet to meet Richard’s eyes and Richard wondered if his unease could be due to embarrassment. Who would know better than a man of God the gravity of Leopold’s transgression?