A King's Ransom (25 page)

T
HE CHAPEL OF
S
T
J
OHN THE
E
VANGELIST
was the reason that Eleanor preferred to stay at the Tower of London rather than the royal palace at Westminster. The top floor of the keep was split into two large rooms, a great hall and a spacious bedchamber that offered a private entrance into the chapel. On nights when sleep would not come, Eleanor could wrap herself in a fur-lined cloak and slip silently into the oratory to be alone with God and her own thoughts. In her long life, she’d endured many a wretched Christmas—some as the bored, unhappy wife of the French king, many more as Henry’s prisoner, unsure that she’d ever regain her freedom. But none had been as miserable as this past one, presiding over her Christmas Court with a composed demeanor and a brittle smile, daring one and all to believe the vile rumors her own son was spreading: that Richard was dead.

The stone walls of the chapel had been recently whitewashed and in the soft candlelight, they glowed like polished ivory. During the daylight hours, the sun turned the stained-glass windowpanes into resplendent jewels; now they gave off a muted shimmer, an occasional flicker of emerald or ruby or royal purple. The scent of incense hung in the air; Eleanor found it a comforting aroma, reminding her of the rich spices of Sicily and Poitou. Prayer cushions were scattered about on the gleaming tile floor, but her aging bones needed more cosseting and she’d had a wooden bench installed along the east wall. She sat down upon it now, easing an embroidered pillow into place against the small of her back. One of her greyhounds had followed her into the oratory, but she hadn’t the heart to banish the beast. If the Almighty watched over even the sparrow, why should He not watch over dogs, too?

She’d not come to pray on this rainy January night; she’d already sent more prayers winging their way to the Almighty’s ear than there were stars in the skies. “Ah, Harry,” she said softly, “do they weep in Purgatory? Do they mourn their loved ones who’ve come to grief? I do not believe he is dead. I think I’d know if that were so. Surely I’d feel it?”

Yet would she? She’d had no premonitions for Hal or Geoffrey or her daughter Tilda, just the shock of hearing that she must bury yet another child. But she understood Richard as she’d not always understood his brothers. Theirs was a bond that went beyond blood. They shared so much—a deep, abiding loyalty to the duchy he’d expected to rule, a love of music and pageantry and distant, exotic places; risk-taking, too, although she’d learned to temper that urge with a dose of caution as she’d aged. She saw in Richard the best of her House, worthy heir to that long line of Dukes of Aquitaine, tracing their descent to the mighty Charlemagne. She saw in him, too, bittersweet flashes of his father, the young, dashing duke who’d seemed destined for greatness from their first meeting on a hot August day in Louis’s Paris palace. No, if Richard were dead, she’d know.

But where was he? What had happened? Each passing day put his kingship more in peril, for if men believed that he’d not be coming back, they’d have no choice but to turn to John. She’d always thought she’d fight tooth and nail for the survival of their dynasty, but could she support John if he claimed the crown over his brother’s dead body? She’d never fully forgiven him for betraying Harry on his deathbed. How could she forgive him now for betraying Richard, too? Suddenly she felt bone-weary, felt each and every one of her sixty-eight years. “What if we never know what befell him, Harry?” she whispered. “If his ship was caught in a storm at sea . . .”

“Madame?” Dame Amaria stood in the doorway, her anxiety conveyed in the stiffness of her posture and the slight quiver in her voice. “The Lord of Châteauroux is here, asking to see you. He apologizes for the lateness of the hour, but he says it is urgent.”

Eleanor froze. André de Chauvigny was blood-kin, for his mother was her maternal aunt. He was far more than Richard’s cousin, though; he was her son’s closest friend, so close they could finish each other’s sentences and communicate volumes with the exchange of a single glance, theirs the bond that Richard had lacked with his own brothers. But André had never set foot on English soil, joking that it had bad weather, worse wine, and virtuous women, all of which were good reasons to stay away. Yet now he’d braved a dangerous January crossing of the turbulent channel called the Narrow Sea. What had he heard? “Of course I will see him, Amaria.” She still sat there on the bench for a few moments more, sensing that her world was about to change in ways she dreaded to contemplate.

By the time she emerged from the chapel, André had already been admitted to her bedchamber. He was soaking wet, his mantle sodden and travel-stained, his boots caked with mud, his disheveled state offering further evidence that his need to see her was indeed urgent. But Eleanor saw only his haggard, grief-stricken face.

“No, not Richard. . . .” That uneven, faltering voice sounded so unfamiliar she did not even recognize it as her own. The room suddenly seemed to tilt, her treacherous body betraying her as her God had done. She’d never fainted, had always prided herself on her calm response in a crisis. Now, though, she felt alarmingly light-headed, her knees threatening to give way. But André and Amaria were already there, hastily guiding her toward the closest seat.

As she collapsed into the chair, André flung himself onto his knees at her feet, grasping her hand in his two icy ones. “No, Madame, no! He is not dead!”

Her eyes intently searched his upturned face. “You swear it is so?”

“Upon the life of my own son. I’ll not lie to you. It is bad, as bad as it could be. But he still lives.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, looking so aged and frail that he found himself wondering how much of the truth he dared to tell her. But when she spoke, it was in the voice of the queen, not the anguished mother. “Tell me,” she commanded. “Tell me all you know.”

“Richard was captured several days before Christmas by the Duke of Austria’s men, in a village near Vienna. Leopold put him under arrest and he is to be handed over to that hellspawn Heinrich, if it has not already happened.”

Eleanor’s hand clenched upon the arm of the chair. “How do you know this, André? How sure are you?”

“All too sure, Madame. I was going stark, raving mad at Châteauroux, waiting for word. I thought Archbishop Gautier would be amongst the first to hear anything, so I rode to Rouen after Christmas. I was still there when one of his spies arrived from the French court.” André shifted uncomfortably, his body aching from hours in the saddle, and Eleanor gestured for him to rise. As he sank down upon a nearby coffer, he gratefully accepted the wine cup Amaria was offering. “Whatever the archbishop is paying his man, it is not enough. He somehow managed to make a copy of a letter Heinrich had written to Philippe, revealing Richard’s capture.”

“You have it with you?”

“I do, a copy of the original and a translation into French.” Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a leather pouch. “Here is the archbishop’s letter to you, Madame, and here is Heinrich’s.” Not sure if she was familiar with Latin, an uncommon skill for most women, he handed her the French copy.

Eleanor waited until one of her ladies hurried over with a candlestick before she unrolled the parchment. The candle helped, but not enough. Eschewing false pride, she handed the letter back. “The lighting is too dim for my aging eyes. Read it aloud, André.”

He rose and carried the letter toward a large iron candelabrum that was suspended from the ceiling. Clearing his throat, he gave Eleanor a quick glance, as if apologizing for what she was about to hear.

“Heinrich, by the grace of God, emperor of the Romans and ever august, to his beloved and especial friend Philippe, the illustrious king of the Franks, health and sincere love and affection. . . . We have thought it proper to inform your nobleness that whilst the enemy of our empire and the disturber of your kingdom, Richard, King of England, was crossing the sea for the purpose of returning to his dominions, it so happened that the winds brought him to the region of Istria, at a place which lies between Aquileia and Venice, where, by the sanction of God, the king, having suffered shipwreck, escaped, together with a few others.

“A faithful subject of ours, the Count Meinhard of Görz, and the people of that district, hearing that he was in their territory, and calling to mind the treason and treachery and accumulated mischief he had been guilty of in the Land of Promise, pursued him with the intention of making him prisoner. However, the king taking to flight, they captured eight knights of his retinue. Shortly after, the king proceeded to a borough in the archbishopric of Salzburg, where Friedrich von Pettau took six of his knights, the king hastening on by night with only three attendants, in the direction of Austria. The road, however, being watched, and guards being set on every side, our dearly beloved cousin Leopold, Duke of Austria, captured the king in a humble house in a village in the vicinity of Vienna.”

André paused then to take a swallow of wine, hoping to wash away the vile taste of the words in his mouth.
“Inasmuch as he is now in our power, and has always done his utmost for your annoyance and disturbance, we have thought proper to notify your nobleness, knowing that the same is well pleasing and will afford most abundant joy to your own feelings. Given at Rednitz on the fifth day before the calends of January.”

“It sounds as if Richard was trying to reach Saxony,” Eleanor said after a very long silence. “He had obviously been warned that he dare not land at any Italian, French, or Spanish ports. But how did he come to have so few men with him, André? He was riding into enemy territory with less than twenty men? What happened to all the knights with him when he sailed from Acre?”

André shrugged helplessly, no less baffled. “Mayhap they drowned when he was shipwrecked. But surely we’d have heard of so great a disaster? Madame . . . there is more. The archbishop’s spy was able to get his hands on a second letter, this one written by Philippe to Leopold after hearing Heinrich’s news. He accused Richard of arranging Conrad of Montferrat’s murder and cautioned Leopold that he was not to free Richard, not to do anything until they had a chance to confer.” His mouth contorting, he said bitterly, “That accursed swine on the French throne means to put in his own bid for Richard, and if he does . . .”

There was no need to finish the sentence, for Eleanor understood the consequences fully as well as he did. She was sitting up straight now, no longer slumped back in the chair as if her bones could not bear her weight, and he saw that color was slowly returning to her cheeks; that sickly white pallor was gone. As he watched, it seemed to him that she was willing her body to recover, finding strength from some inner source that defied her advancing years, and he felt a rush of relief. It had shaken him to see her looking so fragile, so vulnerable, so old. She was on her feet now, beginning to pace as she absorbed the impact of the emperor’s letter, and when she turned to face André, he saw that her hazel eyes had taken on a greenish, cat-like glitter, reflecting nothing at that moment but a fierce, unforgiving rage.

“They will not get away with this,” she said, making that simple sentence a declaration of war. “We shall secure my son’s freedom, no matter what it takes. And we will protect his kingdom until he can be restored to us, André.”

That was exactly what André needed to hear. “I will leave for Germany as soon as I can make the arrangements, Madame, and I will find him, that I swear to you upon the surety of my soul—”

“No, André. Richard will have greater need of you here. Philippe will seek to lay claim to Normandy now that he knows he need not fear Richard’s retaliation. You and those men loyal to my son must hold it for him until he can deal with that ‘accursed swine on the French throne’ himself.”

As much as André wanted to go to Germany on his own, to tear that wretched country apart in his search for Richard, he knew she was right. “I promise you, Madame, that Philippe will claim not a foot of Norman soil whilst Richard is gone.” He hesitated then, for John was still her son, but it had to be said. “It will be a two-pronged attack—Philippe in Normandy, John in England. I do not know John’s whereabouts, but he’ll soon learn of Richard’s capture and when he does—”

“John is in Wales, trying to hire routiers and not having much luck so far.” Eleanor did not explain how she was so well informed about her youngest son’s activities, instead giving André a level, almost challenging look from those mesmerizing green eyes. “You need not worry about John,” she said coolly. “I will deal with him.”

She turned then to Amaria, telling the woman to summon her scribe. “Word must go out on the morrow. Richard’s justiciars must be told, especially Will Marshal. Thank God for Will. We’ll have to send out writs for a great council, too. So much to do.” She seemed to be talking to herself rather than to André, even though she glanced from time to time in his direction. “The ports must be put on alert and the royal castle garrisons strengthened. And we must begin laying plans to raise the ransom.” Looking back at André, then, Eleanor was surprised to see that he was grinning.