A King's Ransom (19 page)

A
FTER CROSSING THE
D
ANUBE,
they headed west along the river. They encountered few other travelers, for most people preferred to detour off the road when they spotted a large band of armed men in the distance. The knights were commanded by the man with the detached demeanor and cynical eyes; by now, Richard had learned his name was Gunther. He spoke neither French nor Latin, but he managed to communicate with Richard when need be, using the universal language of soldiers—gestures, sardonic smiles, and the instinctive understanding of men who’d shared the same experiences, albeit on different battlefields.

They set a fast pace and by sunset, they’d covered more than thirty miles. Richard never knew the name of the small town where they passed the night, taking over a ramshackle inn that reminded him of the Black Lion in Udine. Once they were settled in, Gunther directed men to take turns guarding Richard and then removed the ropes. They grumbled among themselves; Richard guessed that they were complaining they’d not have to keep watch if he was kept tied up, but none of them protested to Gunther. Richard ate little of the meal provided by the innkeeper, and slept even less, lying awake as most of the knights snored loudly and his guards watched him with the intensity of cats at a mouse hole. Had he spoken any German, he could have told them that they were worrying for naught. He was well aware that escape was an impossibility, although that did not stop him from occupying those long, wakeful hours by considering each and every one of those impossible escapes. Better to do that than to think about what awaited him at Dürnstein, or the men he’d lost since their shipwreck, or how the news of his capture would affect those who mattered the most to him: his mother, sister, wife, his cousin André, his young son back in Poitiers.

The next morning, Gunther paused, holding out the ropes and raising an eyebrow questioningly. Richard understood what was being asked and very much wanted to agree; it had not taken long for him to regret spurning Leopold’s offer. But pride would not let him retreat from his defiant stand and he shook his head. Gunther shrugged and lashed his wrists together, although Richard thought he could detect a reluctant gleam of respect in the knight’s eyes, the sort of admiration men reserved for behavior that was stubborn, brave, and foolhardy.

Clouds were gathering as they continued on the next day, and the air had the feel of coming snow. As the temperature plunged, so did Richard’s spirits. He’d begun to fear that his fever was spiking again, that he might be vulnerable to another attack of quartan fever. He could not imagine anything worse than to be gravely ill and helpless in the hands of his enemies; he’d always found it difficult enough to be ill amongst his friends. And if he did sicken again, God help him if he was thrown into a Dürnstein dungeon, for he’d not last long in a cold, dark, and damp cell. He’d been unable to forget Father Otto’s somber warning, replaying in his mind his two tense encounters with Leopold. For certes, he’d not given the Austrian duke any reason to think kindly of him. Would Leopold seek to take revenge now that he was away from public view? Had he been treated harshly in Vienna, word would have gotten out, and Leopold was already on very precarious ground with the Church. But who would know what happened behind the stone walls of a remote, inaccessible fortress like Dürnstein?

Govern your tongue,
the priest had said. God knows he’d not done that, he thought ruefully, and a memory suddenly surfaced—listening as their father rebuked his brother Hal for some forgotten misdeed. Hal had been making matters worse, of course, blustering and trying to put the blame on others until Henry had interrupted, saying that when a man fell into a deep hole, it was usually a good idea to stop digging. The memory was so vivid and so unexpected that it evoked a brief smile, albeit a grim one. He would indeed do better to put his shovel aside. He knew that full well. But he knew, too, that pride was his only shield, all that he had to fend off fear and utter despair.

B
Y LATE AFTERNOON,
they could see castle walls in the distance. Even before Gunther pointed toward it and said, “Dürnstein,” Richard knew that he was looking at Leopold’s “impregnable stronghold.” It cast a formidable shadow over the valley, perched high on a cliff above the Danube, as rough-hewn, ominous, and impassable as the surrounding mountains. Richard would normally have assessed it with a soldier’s eye, seeking its weaknesses and weighing its strengths. Now he saw only a prison.

D
ÜRNSTEIN WAS TO HOLD
several surprises for Richard. The first one was waiting in the outer bailey to greet them, for he was a man Richard knew—Hadmar von Kuenring, an Austrian knight who’d accompanied Leopold to the Holy Land. Richard had shared a meal with him one hot July night before Acre fell, and he remembered swapping bawdy jokes with Hadmar, something he could not have imagined doing with Hadmar’s prickly, proper duke, Leopold the Virtuous.

Hadmar was a
ministerialis
; when Richard had first heard that term, he’d assumed it meant Hadmar was a court official. He’d been astounded when Hadmar had confided over several flagons of wine that
ministeriales
were of the knightly class but they were unfree. They served their lords in a variety of ways just as English and French knights did, and some of them—like Hadmar—enjoyed noble status. But they could not wed without their lord’s permission, nor could they leave his service, for they were bound to him in the way that an English serf was bound to the land. Upon recognizing Hadmar, Richard’s unease intensified, for how could a
ministerialis
heed his own conscience?

Hadmar seemed slightly uncomfortable and Richard wondered if he remembered that night in the siege camp at Acre, too. “My lord king,” he said, with a wry half smile. “I’d usually say ‘Welcome to Dürnstein,’ but that seems ridiculous under the circumstances. I suppose we’ll just have to muddle through this as best we can. You must be tired and hungry—”

He broke off then, for he was close enough now to see Richard’s bonds. Drawing his dagger, he cut through the ropes, and then gave Gunther a look as sharp as his knife blade. After rubbing his wrists to restore the circulation, Richard swung from the saddle, saying, “Sir Gunther was merely following the duke’s orders, Sir Hadmar.”

They’d been conversing in Latin, but Gunther seemed to understand that the English king had just come to his defense, for as their eyes met, he nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching in what was almost a smile. Hadmar was frowning, clearly taken aback to learn that Leopold had ordered Richard bound, but then he nodded, too, and said briskly, “Whatever needs to be said can be said inside, by a fire. Come with me.” And he turned, starting to walk toward the inner gatehouse, taking it for granted that Richard would follow.

R
ICHARD’S SECOND SURPRISE WAS
the room where he was to be confined, for it was a bedchamber much more comfortable than he’d have dared to expect. It had a real bed, one laden with pillows and fur-lined coverlets, a charcoal brazier heaped with smoldering coals, woven wall hangings to block out the December chill, a trestle table and two chairs, an abundance of candles and several oil lamps, even fresh floor rushes. Glancing around, he wondered who’d been evicted from this chamber for his benefit, and he wondered, too, how Leopold would react to Hadmar’s generosity.

As he moved farther into the room, he stopped so suddenly that one of his guards bumped into him, astonished by what he saw in the corner behind the bed: a large wooden tub, with padded rims and a stool. The rest of his guards had followed him into the chamber, so he assumed he was to be kept under constant surveillance here, too. They did not interfere as he prowled the confines of his new prison, watching him with more curiosity than hostility, not objecting even when he unshuttered one of the windows. It offered a spectacular view of the mountains and the swift flowing waters of the Danube, but no chance of escape, not unless a man was desperate enough to commit self-slaughter, ending his earthly suffering, but at the cost of eternal damnation. Richard closed the shutters and was warming his hands over the brazier when a knock sounded on the door and his guards admitted servants lugging large buckets of heated water, an armful of towels, and even a bowl of liquid soap. Thinking that Hadmar von Kuenring was deserving of an English earldom, Richard began to strip off his clothes.

Having done his best to scrub off several weeks of grime, he was still soaking in the tub, luxuriating in the feel of the hot water upon his aching, constricted muscles, when Hadmar entered. “No offense meant,” he said with a slight smile, “but I assumed you’d be in dire need of a bath by now.”

“No offense taken, for I was.”

“I’ll send a barber to you tomorrow to cut your hair and beard.” Hadmar beckoned to another servant, who deposited a pile of clothing upon the bed. “We’ll find you something suitable to wear, but for now these garments will have to do. You’re too tall to wear any of mine.” Looking down at the filthy tunic, shirt, braies, and torn chausses that Richard had scattered about the floor, he said, “With your permission, I’ll get rid of these. I doubt you’ll want to see them again, much less wear them.”

Richard almost asked if Leopold would like them as keepsakes, like a wolf pelt or the antlers of a slain stag, but he caught himself before he reached for the shovel and suggested that Hadmar’s almoner could find a use for them. The Austrian was clearly trying to make the best of a difficult situation, forced into the dual role of host and gaoler, and so when he turned to go after saying a meal would be sent up soon, Richard gave him what he would never have offered Leopold—courtesy. “Thank you,” he said, as if he were a guest expressing his appreciation for Hadmar’s hospitality, and the other man smiled, looking pleased and relieved that they’d been able to evade the first pitfall in a road strewn with them.

R
ICHARD WAS KEPT ISOLATED
from the members of Hadmar’s household, seeing only the guards who watched him day and night and Hadmar himself, who paid brief visits to make sure his needs were being met. He was provided with the best meals he’d eaten since leaving Ragusa, clothing, even a few books and a lute, for Hadmar had remembered that the English king was a musician. While he was appreciative of these amenities, they were ointments offered for a bleeding internal wound. He could not imagine how his mother had endured sixteen years of confinement with her wits intact. After just a week, his nerves were fraying like well-worn hemp. Not knowing what his future held was intolerable. He did not try to interrogate Hadmar about Leopold’s intentions, feeling that would be a poor way to repay the older man’s small kindnesses. Even if Hadmar knew what Leopold had in mind, he’d hardly confide in his prisoner, so such a conversation would only embarrass him.