A King's Ransom (29 page)

Godfrey de Lucy, Bishop of Winchester, was the next to speak. “Madame, my lord archbishop. Has there been any word from the Holy Father?”

Gautier de Coutances seemed to sigh. “No, my lord bishop, not yet.”

The silence that followed his terse reply was fraught with all that none dared say. After a few moments, the archbishop began to speak of the need to defend Richard’s kingdom in his absence. It was agreed that oaths of fidelity to Richard would be demanded throughout the realm and measures taken to protect the ports. They moved on then to the question of the king’s ransom, although the discussion was tentative since they could not be sure a ransom would be demanded. Finally, they chose two men to travel to Germany and find their king, the abbots of the Cistercian abbeys of Boxley and Robertsbridge.

Eleanor did not know either man, but they seemed honored rather than daunted by the Herculean task that they had been given, and she took heart from that. It was heartening, too, to feel the outrage in the hall. She did not doubt that public opinion throughout Christendom would be on Richard’s side, possibly even in France and Germany. Nor did she doubt that public opinion meant absolutely nothing to Heinrich von Hohenstaufen.

T
HE SOLAR WAS FILLING
with shadows, save for a subdued spill of light cast by floating wicks in oil lamps and a brazier of glowing coals that did little to ease the chill of the chamber. William Marshal felt the cold more as he aged; he was in his forty-seventh year now, his youth long gone. He drew his mantle tighter, taking another swallow of wine as he watched his queen and the Earl of Leicester. They’d been talking for hours—or rather the earl was talking and the queen was listening. Will himself listened with half an ear, having heard Leicester’s stories already. Eleanor was rapt, though, for he was telling her of Richard’s time in the Holy Land, sharing with her the man a mother could not know—the battle commander, the soldier, the Lionheart. Will thought it only natural that Eleanor would be curious. But as he observed how engrossed she was in Leicester’s words, it occurred to him that she was storing up memories of her son, memories to hold fast if he did not return from his German captivity. And he found that to be unutterably sad.

Will’s destiny had long ago entwined with that of the Angevin House. He’d loved Hal, his knightly pupil, and it had broken his heart to see all that bright promise tarnished, to see what Hal became. He’d respected Hal’s father, staying loyal to Henry until his death at Chinon Castle. He thought his own future died with the old king, for when they’d fled from Richard and the French king at Le Mans, he had publicly shamed Richard, unhorsing him to cover Henry’s escape, and Richard was not a man to forgive a humiliation like that. Yet Richard
had
forgiven him, saying dryly that it was not in his interest to discourage loyalty to the king. Then Richard had given him the wife Henry had only promised, Isabel de Clare. Isabel was an earl’s daughter, a king’s granddaughter, and a great heiress. Even now, after more than three years of marriage, Will still marveled at his luck, for she’d brought him more than vast estates in England, South Wales, Normandy, and Ireland; she’d brought him a happiness he’d never known. Each time she smiled at him, each time he gazed upon the two sons she’d given him, he felt grateful to the man who’d made it possible, the man who was now held in a German prison.

But his deepest loyalties had always been to the queen. The younger son of a minor baron, he’d first met Eleanor and Henry while in the service of his uncle, the Earl of Salisbury. They’d been escorting the queen along the Poitiers Road when they’d been ambushed by the de Lusignans, a notorious clan of malcontents whose meat and drink was rebellion. They’d managed to gain Eleanor time to escape, but at a high price: Will’s uncle was slain and Will taken prisoner. A penniless knight, he’d thought himself doomed—until the queen paid his ransom and took him into her household, setting him onto the path that would lead to Isabel de Clare. There was nothing he would not do for this woman. Her pain was his, her anger his, and her resolve to rescue her son his, too.

Leicester had at last exhausted his repertoire of crusader stories. Rising, he refilled their wine cups. “Do you think we’ll hear soon about the French king’s pact with your son, Madame?”

“I am sure of it. Archbishop Gautier boasts that he has an exceptionally skillful spy at the French court, and indeed he does,” Eleanor said, and then her lips curved in a slight smile. “But I have an even better one.”

Leaning back in her chair, she smiled again, warmly this time. “My son has been well served by the men who accompanied him to the Holy Land. I would ask one more thing of you, my lord earl. It is difficult to take the measure of a man without meeting him. I regret that I was denied the opportunity to meet the French king, for he sailed from Messina on the very day of my arrival. I would have thought he’d be curious to see the woman who’d been wed to his father,” she said wryly, “but apparently not. So you have the advantage of me, Lord Robert.” Her hazel eyes met his blue ones. “Tell me about Philippe Capet.”

He’d been expecting such a question and had given it some thought. “Well . . . he has not yet reached thirty, but I think he was born old. He never gambles or curses. He is bored by hunting and disapproves of tournaments. He has no interest in music and you’ll find no troubadours at the French court. I am not sure he is as craven as your son thinks, but he does have a nervous disposition and frets constantly over his health. He goes nowhere without bodyguards and he is the only man I’ve ever known who dislikes horses. He is quick to anger and whilst he may forgive, he never forgets. He is prideful, convinced that it is his divine destiny to restore the French court to greatness. And he is very cunning. We would forget that at our cost, Madame.”

She knew his use of “we” was an attempt at tact; it was Richard he meant. Her son had a lamentable tendency to hold his enemies too cheaply. “What does he look like?”

“Not as tall as King Richard, not as short as Count John. Not so handsome that he’d be remembered if he were not a king, but for certes, not ugly. He has a ruddy complexion, the high color of those with hot tempers, and he used to have a full head of thick, unruly brown hair.”

“‘Used to have’?”

Leicester grinned. “When your son and Philippe sickened with Arnaldia during the siege of Acre, they both lost their hair; the doctors thought it was due to the high fever. Most of those stricken grew their hair back within a few months. King Richard did. But I’ve been told that Philippe did not, that he is now partially bald.” He grinned again. “I have no doubt, Madame, that he blames your son for that, too. If he stubs a toe, if he awakens with a bellyache, if his horse throws a shoe, he blames King Richard.”

“He hates Richard that much?”

“Oh yes, my lady. He is rather irrational when it comes to your son. He loathed being in the Holy Land, for he’d never wanted to take the cross. He hated the hot sun, the dust, the scorpions, the alien culture of Outremer. But above all, he hated the way King Richard overshadowed him at every turn. He surely knew he could not hope to compete with our king on the battlefield, but I do not think he realized that he’d be eclipsed in the council chamber, too, that he would be diminished on a daily basis. Nor did it help that King Richard held him in contempt and . . .”

He paused and Eleanor finished the sentence for him. “. . . and did not trouble to hide it.”

He nodded. “Indeed, he did not, Madame.”

Eleanor was quiet after that, not liking what she’d heard. She’d been able to “take the measure” of the Emperor Heinrich at Lodi, had marked him as a dangerous foe, ruthless and unscrupulous. Yet what she’d just learned convinced her that the French king posed an even greater threat to her son. Heinrich wanted to humiliate Richard and to profit by it. Since his hostility held no heat, he’d be guided by self-interest. Philippe’s hostility was far more dangerous, for it was white-hot, intense, burning to the bone. Did Richard realize that, though?

L
EICESTER HAD GONE OFF
to bed and Will was about to ask the queen if she had further need of him, for she looked very tired. It was then that a knock sounded on the door and he crossed the chamber to open it. The man standing in the stairwell was young, tall, and dark, with black hair and grey eyes. Will did not know his name, but he knew who he was. Every royal court had men like this, shadowy figures who came and went on mysterious missions for their king—or their queen. He stepped back so Eleanor could see the identity of this new arrival and she at once beckoned him into the solar.

As he knelt before her, she leaned forward, tension etched into every line of her body. “Did you find Durand in Paris?”

“I did, Madame.” He had been dreading this moment, knowing the pain he was about to inflict. “The news I bring is not good, my lady.”

“I did not expect it would be.” Gesturing for him to rise, she said evenly, “Tell me what you learned at the French court, Justin.”

“Durand was able to give me the details of Count John’s pact with the French king. He swore fealty to Philippe for Normandy and for all of King Richard’s lands that he holds of the French Crown. He agreed to put aside his wife and wed Philippe’s sister Alys. He agreed to yield Gisors Castle and to renounce any claims to the Vexin. In return, the French king promised to do all in his power to secure the English throne for Count John and to assist him in an invasion of England.”

He’d forced himself to meet her gaze as he spoke, but once he was done, he glanced away, for he’d just delivered a damning indictment of treason against the man who was still her flesh and blood, a child of her womb.

Eleanor’s face was a queen’s court mask, revealing nothing. She thanked him before sending him down to the great hall, saying her steward would see that he had a meal and a comfortable bed for the night. She sank back in her chair then, looking so exhausted that Will’s chest tightened. For a moment his eyes caught those of the queen’s man, and a silent message flashed between them, one of anger and unease. For none who served Queen Eleanor wanted to see her hurt and none who knew Count John wanted to see him as England’s king.

Will expected to be dismissed, too, and was startled when she said in a low voice, “I would have you stay a while longer, Will.”

“Of course, Madame.” As the door closed quietly, he took a seat beside her. He did not know what to say, what solace to offer. He tried to imagine how he would feel if his two small sons grew to manhood and turned on each other, as surely a vision of Hell as he could conjure up. Having no words, he was relieved to see that she expected none, that she sought only the comfort of his company. And so they sat together for a time, not speaking as night came on.

A
N EARLY
M
ARCH SNOWFALL
had powdered the inner bailey of Dürnstein Castle, and the noonday sun gave it a sparkling, crystalline sheen. Hadmar von Kuenring paused to watch as his two young sons pelted each other with snowballs, shrieking with excitement. Hadmar’s smile faded, though, as he continued on toward the tower where the English king was held, for he’d grown weary of being a messenger of ill tidings.