A King's Ransom (41 page)

“When we reach Hagenau, Heinrich will want to discuss the new terms of your release. I have no doubts whatsoever that he will not agree to free you without payment of a very large ransom. I know how hard it will be for you to agree to this, but you truly have no choice, and I need to be sure you understand that.”

Richard was silent for so long that the chancellor began to become uneasy. “I do,” he said at last. Staring across the gardens at the red sandstone walls of the castle, he said grimly, “And that is not the worst of it. After Trifels, we know Heinrich cares naught about his own honor, which means that his word is worthless.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

APRIL 1193

Hagenau, Germany

A
s soon as he entered the great hall of the imperial palace, Richard felt all eyes upon him. There was no overt hostility, mainly curiosity, and he assumed word had spread of his exoneration in Speyer. Trailed by his guards, he started toward the dais, slowing his step so his chancellor could keep pace. Longchamp gave him a grateful, sideways glance, appreciative of these small acts of kindness that need not be acknowledged. As they approached the dais, Longchamp said a silent prayer that his king would be able to hold his temper, no matter the provocation.

Having vowed that he’d be damned ere he knelt again to this shameless swine, Richard compromised with a brief bow. Heinrich was regarding him with a cynical smile. “It pleases us to welcome the king of the English to our court. It is our earnest hope that we will soon be able to celebrate our friendship with a treaty of amity between England and the empire.”

Richard bared his teeth in a smile of his own. “I value that alliance fully as much as you do, my lord emperor.”

“Yes,” Heinrich said complacently, “it is good that we are in such accord.”

Richard turned then toward the woman seated beside Heinrich. Constance de Hauteville had married late in life, at age thirty-one, for her nephew, the King of Sicily, had been in no hurry to make a match for her. She was eleven years older than Heinrich and in the seven years they’d been wed, her womb had not quickened. Richard thought Heinrich would never put her aside as barren, though, for his claim to Sicily rested upon her slender shoulders. Joanna had told him Constance was lovely, but he thought she was too thin, the skin tightly drawn across her cheekbones, hers a mouth no longer shaped for smiles. He could see glimpses of the beauty she’d once been in the sapphire-blue eyes. Yet they were opaque, giving away nothing. She put him in mind of a castle long under siege, determined to hold out until the bitter end.

“Madame, it is my pleasure to meet you at last,” he said, kissing her hand and getting a murmured courtesy in return. He was turning to greet Heinrich’s uncle Konrad, the Count Palatine of the Rhine, when he was accosted enthusiastically by the Bishop of Bath.

“My liege, how it gladdens me to see you here at Hagenau!”

“I’d have been here sooner, but the emperor wanted to show me his castle at Trifels first.”

While Richard got no response from Heinrich, he’d not expected one. He did catch interesting reactions from the others. An expression of surprise crossed Konrad’s face. The corners of Constance’s mouth curved ever so slightly. And Savaric Fitz Geldwin hastily averted his gaze. So Konrad had not known about his sojourn in Trifels. But the bishop did. Why would Heinrich have confided in this sly, pompous schemer?

Heinrich had leaned forward in his seat, his eyes intent upon Richard’s face. “Now that we are to be allies, I have been thinking how best to demonstrate my goodwill. And then it occurred to me. I am in a position to do you a very good turn, my lord king.”

Richard felt the brush of his chancellor’s mantle as he edged closer. “And what is that, my lord emperor?”

“It has been called to my attention that your archbishopric of Canterbury has been vacant for more than two years. As it happens, I have the perfect candidate at hand—my cousin, the Bishop of Bath.”

Richard’s first reaction was not anger; it was disbelief. He stared at the other man, incredulous that even Heinrich would dare to meddle so blatantly in English affairs. “How kind of you to take such an interest in the English Church. I will give the Bishop of Bath’s candidacy all the consideration it deserves.”

“I knew you would appreciate my interest. But surely there is no need for consideration. My cousin is well qualified, after all. I will be pleased to provide you with my own scribe so that you may write to your justiciars in England, informing them of your wishes in this matter.”

Longchamp surreptitiously touched his king’s arm, hoping to convey a wordless warning. But one was already echoing in Richard’s ears.
Do whatever it takes to keep Heinrich from selling you to the French.
“If it pleases my new ally, then it pleases me,” he said tonelessly.

Heinrich nodded, with another of those hinted smiles. “It is good that we understand each other, my lord king. That bodes well for our future endeavors.”

“Sire, how can I ever thank you?” Dropping dramatically to his knees before Richard, Savaric Fitz Geldwin gazed up euphorically at the king. “Such a great honor! I promise you that you will have no regrets. I will be loyal to you until my last mortal breath.”

Richard looked down at Savaric’s flushed, thrilled face, his own face expressionless. “You need not fear, my lord bishop. I know exactly what your loyalty is worth.”

T
HE FOLLOWING TWO HOURS
were very unpleasant ones for Richard. Many of those in attendance upon the emperor were eager to meet him or to renew acquaintances struck in Speyer, and he found himself having to smile and make small talk and act as if nothing were amiss. His new friends were primarily churchmen and he assumed they were grateful that they would not have to choose between allegiance to their emperor and their Pope now that he and Heinrich were supposedly reconciled. He did the best he could, but when he developed a pounding headache, he told Longchamp that he needed to end this farce straightaway.

Longchamp marveled that Richard had held out as long as this. “I will inform Heinrich that you are ready to depart,” he promised, and limped off toward the dais. Despite his tactful phrasing, Richard knew what he was really saying—that they could go nowhere without Heinrich’s permission—and that was just one more bitter drop in an already rancid drink. But as he waited for Longchamp to return, he noticed the empress standing a few feet away, conversing with the Bishop of Worms. As soon as the bishop moved off, Richard ended his own conversation with several archdeacons and crossed to Constance.

“Madame, may I have a word with you?”

“Of course, my lord king.” Correctly interpreting the glance he gave her women, Constance added, “My ladies speak no French, so I rarely get a chance to make use of my native tongue.”

Richard appreciated the subtlety of her assurance that they could speak freely. “My chancellor told me that you interceded on my behalf, getting him an audience with the emperor. If not for your kindness, I might still be enjoying the dubious comforts of Trifels. I wanted to tell you that you have a king in your debt—and I always pay my debts.”

To anyone watching, Constance’s smile was polite, impersonal, and as devoid of warmth as her husband’s own smiles. But Richard thought he caught a spark in those extraordinary sapphire eyes. “You owe me no debt,” she said softly, “for what I did, I did not do for the English king. I did it for Joanna’s brother.”

R
ICHARD’S CUTTHROAT
T
RIFELS GUARDS
had been replaced immediately upon his arrival at Hagenau with men who were much more polite and personable. They’d made themselves as inconspicuous as possible during his time in the great hall and were escorting him now to his new quarters, which Markward von Annweiler had blithely assured him would be “more to your liking.”

As they walked, Longchamp glanced at Richard from time to time. The other man was staring straight ahead, his face utterly blank. The chancellor knew he was still seething, though. “I am sorry, my liege. I never expected you to be ambushed like that.” He got no response, but he was too troubled to keep silent. “Sire . . . is there any chance those Christchurch monks might actually elect Savaric?”

“No.” After several more moments of silence, Richard said, “Heinrich provided me with a scribe at Speyer, too, but what he does not know is that I chose to write one letter myself, which William de St Mère-Eglise carried to London, in which I told my mother that I wanted Hubert Walter to be the next archbishop.”

Longchamp felt an involuntary pang for the death of a dream, even though he understood now how unrealistic it had been. The Christchurch monks might well have elected him, for he’d been on excellent terms with them, but the English would never have accepted him. “I am relieved to hear that,” he confessed, “for Savaric’s accession to the archbishopric would surely be one of the signs of the coming Apocalypse.”

“It would never have happened,” Richard said flatly, “even if I’d not already sent that letter choosing Hubert Walter. My mother knows me too well. She’d have realized that any letter written in support of Savaric Fitz Geldwin would have been done under duress.”

The chancellor gnawed his lower lip, understanding that Richard had never expected to do anything “under duress.” “I think you handled that outrageous demand as well as could be done,” he said, after another lengthy silence. “As long as we win the war, it does not matter if we lose a battle or two.”

Richard came to an abrupt halt, turning upon Longchamp such a burning look that he could not help flinching, even though he realized the king’s rage was not directed at him. “Good God, man, of course it matters!”

H
UBERT
W
ALTER AND
W
ILLIAM
de St Mère-Eglise traveled so swiftly that they reached London in just twenty days. They’d set such a fast pace that they’d arrived before the abbots of Boxley and Robertsbridge even though the latter had departed Speyer two days earlier, and so they had the pleasure of being the ones to bring the queen mother the news of her son’s bravura performance before the Imperial Diet. Now they were dining with Eleanor in the great hall of her quarters in the Tower. Freed of the constraints of Lent, Eleanor’s cooks had prepared an elaborate meal. As the season for roebuck had begun at Easter, the queen’s table was graced with roast venison, as well as lamb stew, capon pie, sorrel soup with figs and dates, and Lombardy custard. The guests were serenaded with harp music and a sound Eleanor’s household had not often heard in the past few months—her laughter.