A King's Ransom (36 page)

“What about Anna? Is she pretty? How old is she?”

“Fifteen. And very pretty indeed, Leo, with long fair hair and blue eyes. She is also lively and quick to speak her mind, so if you expect a docile little lamb, you’ll be disappointed.”

“I fancy a lass who shows some spirit,” Leo said loftily, for all the world as if he had vast experience with spirited girls, and Richard hid a smile. He was still angry at being forced to make these marriages, but it did help that both boys were so likable.

“You called her ‘Aenor,’” Friedrich interjected. “I thought her name was Eleanor?”

“It is. Aenor is the Breton form. Geoffrey named her after our lady mother,” Richard explained, thinking that this was one of the few times when he’d been pleased with his brother, for their father had been quite vexed by that, just as Geoffrey had intended.

“Breton?” Friedrich pondered that for a moment. “Is that what she speaks . . . Breton?”

“No, she speaks French, for that is the native tongue of the Breton dukes. I do not think her mother, Constance, speaks any Breton at all.” For the first time, Richard thought about his sister-in-law’s reaction to the marriage. She’d be furious, but he was not overly concerned about that. He had no fondness for Geoffrey’s widow, thinking she’d proved herself to be quite untrustworthy during her marriage to his brother, urging him to ally with the French king and to lay claim to Aquitaine.

Leo had little interest in his brother’s bride and wanted to know now what languages Anna spoke. He looked pleased when Richard said Anna spoke Greek and Armenian, and her French had improved dramatically since she’d joined his sister Joanna’s household. “Very good! I speak some Greek, too. Our grandmother was the daughter of the Greek emperor in Constantinople and our father insisted that we learn it, saying we should be proud of that, being able to claim an emperor in our family.”

Leo had straddled a chair, clearly planning to stay for a while, but he rose reluctantly to his feet when Hadmar reminded him that their lord father planned to depart within the hour. As they went charging into the stairwell like young colts, Hadmar lingered for a moment to say his own farewell to the English king.

Richard had not seen the Austrian
ministerialis
since he’d been transferred from Leopold’s custody to Heinrich’s, and he was pleased to have this opportunity for a few words. “You made my confinement more bearable than it might otherwise have been, Hadmar, and I will not forget that. I thank you for your courtesy, your kindness . . . and your advice,” he added, with a slight smile. “I would hope that you’ve not lost favor with your duke because of it.”

“He was not pleased with me after your trial, for he thought I welcomed your vindication too enthusiastically. But it passed, as he knows I would be loyal to him till my body’s final breath. And he knows, too, that I do what few dare—I always tell him the truth, and every ruler needs such a man.”

“Yes, they do, indeed.” Richard found himself thinking of his own truth-teller, Fulk de Poitiers. The Bishop of Speyer had assured him that his men would soon be freed, and he hoped so, for he’d missed his irascible, shrewd, and sarcastic clerk, a man as loyal to him as Hadmar was to Leopold. Did Heinrich have any such men? He very much doubted it.

Hadmar bowed, but then hesitated, his hand on the door. He had nothing that would justify his suspicions, much less constitute proof. It was just that he’d never known the emperor to yield so easily. But Heinrich had given the English king the kiss of peace, witnessed by every man present at the Imperial Diet. Would he dare to disavow that? Could he be so careless of his own honor? No, surely not. Why burden Richard with his own misgivings when they were likely no more than shadows and smoke?

“Godspeed, my lord Lionheart,” he said, and moved into the stairwell after his duke’s sons.

H
UBERT
W
ALTER HAD BEEN
horrified when Richard confided that for the first weeks of his detention, he’d been watched at all times by men with drawn swords, and the bishop was reassured now to see that his new German guards were playing a dice game, yet more proof that the king’s circumstances had changed for the better. “I’d hoped they’d have been removed altogether,” he admitted.

Richard had hoped so, too, but he merely shrugged. “They are polite and seem to think it is an honor to be guarding a king. The Bishop of Speyer even found one who speaks a little French; very little, if truth be told. Still better than my German, though.” Gesturing toward the table, he said, “There are the letters I want you to take to England. William already has his. Did I tell you I have a scribe now? According to the bishop, the emperor thought it was not fitting that a king should be writing his own letters and kindly provided one for me.”

Hubert smiled, for Richard’s voice had been dripping with sarcasm. “I was trying to think,” he continued, “who’d make a better spy than a scribe. Aside from a royal confessor, no one.”

“Jesu forfend,” Hubert said, only half jokingly, for violating the sanctity of the confessional was a serious sin. “I assume the letters are to the queen and your justiciars.”

Richard nodded. “You’ll be able to tell them all that I thought best not to commit to parchment.” He gave the bishop a sidelong glance and a mischievous smile. “You’ll be most interested, though, in one of the letters I entrusted to William, telling my lady mother that we need to address the vacant archbishopric of Canterbury. It has been over two years, after all, since Archbishop Baldwin died at Acre. I’d say it is long overdue to fill it, no?”

Hubert nodded, hoping that his inner agitation was concealed beneath his matter-of-fact demeanor. As much as he yearned for the archbishopric, he’d never discussed it with Richard, too proud to campaign for a post that he might be judged unqualified for. Hubert had received extensive administrative and legal training in the household of his uncle, King Henry’s chief justiciar, and had gained considerable experience serving as a justice of the Exchequer Court before Richard had approved his elevation to the bishopric of Salisbury. But he lacked the formal education expected of a prince of the Church, and was self-conscious about his inadequate command of Latin; he’d had to rely upon William’s whispered translation in order to follow Richard’s speech to the Imperial Diet. Fearing that if he asked Richard and was refused, it might damage a relationship he valued greatly, he’d never sought to plead his own case before the king. Nor would he do so now.

“I hope the monks of Christchurch Priory are more receptive to your choice this time,” he said instead, for Richard’s last attempt to select an archbishop had failed. He’d wanted the monks to elect the Archbishop of Monreale, having been impressed by the Sicilian prelate during his stay in Messina. But the Canterbury monks had balked and, finding it easier to defy the king at a distance, they’d declared they would not elect a “foreigner.” Instead they’d chosen the Bishop of Bath, Reginald Fitz-Jocelyn, the uncle of the current Bishop of Bath, Savaric, who’d maneuvered to secure his uncle’s election so he might gain the Bath bishopric for himself. The new archbishop had died within a month, however, and the post had remained vacant since then.

“I was very tactful—for once—in my letter to the Christchurch monks,” Richard assured Hubert, “writing only that they are to hold an election with the advice of the queen and William de St Mère-Eglise. My mother will diplomatically inform them of my choice, but in such a way that they never realize they are being herded where she wishes them to go.” He smiled, saying, “My mother is very good at that. My lord father, on the other hand, preferred a more direct approach. He actually wrote to the monks of Winchester that he ordered them to hold free elections, but forbade them to elect anyone but his clerk!”

Hubert joined in his laughter, but it sounded forced to Richard. A master of suspense—a trait he’d inherited from his father—he’d planned to drag the announcement out. Realizing how nervous the bishop was, though, he took pity. “I have told my mother that I want you as the next Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Hubert had been bracing himself for disappointment and, for a moment, he could only stare at the other man. “I am deeply honored, my liege,” he managed, “more than I can say.”

“I do not want you to think that I chose you because you were willing to brave a winter crossing of the Alps on my behalf.” Richard’s mouth twitched and then he grinned. “Although I will admit it definitely did not hurt your chances.”

Hubert’s teeth worried his lower lip as ambition warred with conscience. The latter won, for the Archbishop of Canterbury was the head of England’s Church. “I need to know that you are sure about this, my liege, sure that I am the right man. I feel compelled to tell you that there are others better educated than I, and my Latin is not as fluent as I would wish.”

Richard started to joke about the advantages of not speaking Latin, stopping himself when he realized that Hubert was not responding with the modesty expected of a candidate for such a prestigious post, but was sincere. “I could find a hundred clerks who speak Latin as if it were their native tongue. I am not looking for a linguist, Hubert. I want a man of integrity, honor, courage, and intelligence—qualities you showed in abundance during our time in the Holy Land. I’ve known for months that you were the best choice, and had my voyage home been as uneventful as I’d hoped, you’d already have been consecrated by now.”

“Thank you, my lord king!” Hubert would have knelt had Richard not stopped him.

“I have no doubts whatsoever that you will be a superb archbishop. Now . . . the sooner you get to England, the sooner you embrace your destiny and the sooner I gain my freedom.” Richard smiled and then gave Hubert the same blessing he’d gotten from Hadmar von Kuenring. “Godspeed, my lord archbishop.”

T
HE
C
ISTERCIAN ABBOTS HAD LEFT
after Easter, but Hubert Walter and William de St Mère-Eglise had delayed their departure until the last day of March. Richard had not realized how much comfort he’d taken from their presence until they’d gone, and he had a restless night. He was not pleased, therefore, to be awakened early the next morning by Johan, the guard who spoke a smattering of French.

The youth kept stammering and repeating the words “the emperor,” and Richard could only conclude that he’d been summoned by Heinrich. A knight was standing by the door, arms folded, and looked blankly at Richard when he spoke a few words of Latin. As much as he resented being dragged out of bed like this, he realized there was nothing he could do about it and he flung the covers back.

When he emerged into the garth, trailed by his guards, Richard saw that he already had an escort waiting, yawning as they slouched by their horses. He was surprised to see how early it was, the sky just beginning to lighten toward the east. He recognized the man in command, for Hadmar had pointed him out on several occasions: Sir Markward von Annweiler, an imperial
ministerialis
and Heinrich’s seneschal. He came forward at once, introducing himself with a deferential bow and displaying the command of Latin that a court official would need. He was no longer young, into his fifth decade, but he appeared fit and energetic, his reddish-brown hair showing no grey yet. Unlike many of the Germans, he was clean-shaven, with striking moss-green eyes, and he had an unexpectedly charming smile. Richard thought cynically that he’d probably been able to seduce far more than his share of women with that smile—unless a woman had been vigilant enough to notice that the smile never reached his eyes.

“The emperor wants to see me?” Richard asked, and Markward confirmed it, signaling for a horse to be brought forward. There was so much that Richard had missed in the three months and ten days since his capture at Ertpurch. He missed having a woman in his bed, missed the easy camaraderie he’d enjoyed with his soldiers and the knights of his household, missed the people who mattered the most to him, missed his music and books and his favorite falcons, the sense of purpose that had driven all of his days. But he’d not expected how much he would miss riding a purebred stallion, that sensation of being one with a spirited creature eager to outrun the wind. The mount he was offered now was a horse he’d never have chosen for himself, a docile gelding that could not hold a candle to Fauvel, the magnificent Cypriot destrier that he’d ridden to so many victories in the Holy Land. This one had no bridle and reins, of course, just a halter with a lead attached, the ultimate symbol of his impotence.