Crowner's Crusade (12 page)

By morning, the Lionheart had recovered somewhat, when pale and silent, he climbed on his horse and led them off once again. Some time back, they had bought saddles at a horse fair in one of the villages they had passed through, so the riding was easier. The boy still clung on behind Gwyn, but now he had a folded blanket to sit on behind the cantle.

Richard still had to stop at intervals and strain himself behind a bush at the side of the road. That afternoon, he was spectacularly sick, vomiting the bread and cheese bought for their dinner.

‘We must get a decent bed for him tonight, not burrow into a heap of straw like rats,' growled John to his henchman. ‘Whatever the risk we must seek a hostelry somewhere.'

Scraping together his pitifully few words of Latin, aided by gestures, he managed to convey this to Joldan while the king was again crouched in the undergrowth. The sharp young fellow nodded his understanding and an hour later left them in a copse of alder while he ran off to a village seen a mile ahead of them.

They could see the smoke of a city ahead of them, with a large river to their right meandering past it in a number of channels.

The king, pale and shivering, but determined to put on an air of normality, gestured to the distant collection of wooden buildings, with a vaguely seen palace in the centre. ‘That has to be Vienna, standing on such a river,' he muttered. ‘A miserable-looking place, not even a city wall to protect that bastard Leopold's court!'

Had he but known it then, a city wall would soon be built, paid for with Leopold's share of Richard's ransom money.

As far as John could make out from the German boy, the village was called Erdberg, one of the several hamlets dotted around Vienna. This southern one, near the western bank of one of the river channels, seemed to consist mainly of a large market, a cattle pound and a wooden church, surrounded by a few dozen mean dwellings. Judging by the tattered condition of the thatched roofs and the squalid middens between the cottages, Erdberg had very little civic pride.

There were several inns and taverns, consistent with the village's function as a place of agricultural business, much of which was transacted in alehouses. Under cover of twilight, Joldan led them to an inn in a side lane off the main street. It was a poor place, one big room with a central firepit inside a ring of whitewashed stones. A few rough-looking men were standing around the fire, drinking from pottery mugs and they made way for the newcomers when they entered. Joldan had already told the landlord, a remarkably thin man of consumptive appearance, that the guests were three French pilgrims returning home – and that the leader was ill with a flux of his bowels. Richard certainly looked ill, even worse than the ailing landlord. Two of the patrons at the fire dragged a bench forward and gestured for Richard to sit near the warmth, recognizing that he was seriously sick. They attempted to talk to him, but their thick German only caused him to smile wanly at them and shrug his non-comprehension. Joldan stepped into the breach and even John could gather that he was telling them that their master was ill, after the long journey from visiting holy shrines in the East.

At this, a fat woman waddled from a back door leading to the yard behind. She caught the lad's explanation and in a motherly fashion, pointed to the door, obviously telling him where the privy was situated, whenever he was in dire need of it. Through Joldan's request, the woman brought them some food, though all the king could eat was some hot potage and some bread. The others sat at a trestle and wolfed down a large meal of boiled beans, mutton and onions, followed by bread and cheese.

After they had eaten, their young translator had a long conversation with the fat woman, who turned out to be the emaciated landlord's mother. Given the poor state of Richard, she told the lad that his master could sleep alone in the hay above the stables, where their own three horses were now confined, rather than in the communal loft over the taproom.

John saw him safely up the wide steps and got him bedded down in the soft hay, though the landlady, who had become maternal over the plight of the handsome foreigner, brought him a hessian sack to stuff with hay and a coarse blanket. When their sovereign was as comfortable as possible, they left him, but Gwyn announced his intention of spending the night in the stall with the horse below, to make sure that nothing unwelcome occurred during the night. John offered to share the vigil with him, but Gwyn was adamant.

‘I'll be quite happy alongside my old gelding here,' he said with an amiable grin. ‘I've got quite fond of the old nag after all these miles – and when our master needs the privy, he may need a helping hand down those stairs, the state he's in.'

In fact, the night passed uneventfully, though Gwyn reported that he had to make a few journeys with the King of England to the stinking shanty that housed the privy pit. By morning, Richard was still weak, but able to eat some gruel. He went back to the stable loft and lay quietly for the rest of the day, Gwyn taking him some more food about noon. Later, he sat drinking the passable ale with de Wolfe in the barroom, though the bar was nothing more than a plank laid across two empty casks.

‘The last thing we needed was for our lord to fall ill like this,' growled Gwyn, using the back of his hand to wipe the ale that dripped from his drooping moustaches. Though he normally had no beard, the privations of the past weeks had allowed a profuse ginger growth to sprout from his lower jaw.

John glumly nodded his agreement. ‘With Christ knows how many hundreds of miles between us and home, it was bad enough with a fit man. How we are going to manage it now, I just do not know!'

‘He seems better today after resting,' observed Gwyn, hopefully. ‘Thank Saint Christopher that we have the boy with us – without him, we would never have got this far, let alone contemplated getting all the way to England.'

John took a large swallow of ale and looked out of the street door, which had just opened to let in a farmer who smelt strongly of pigs. Beyond him he could see that it was beginning to snow. ‘That's another problem – Joldan! What's going to happen to him? We said we would drop him off at a town way back nearer Moggio. We've already brought him to this damned Vienna place – are we going to drag the poor lad all across Europe with us? Perhaps your good wife would like to adopt him when we get to Exeter!'

Gwyn shrugged. ‘He seems quite content to tag along with us. Where is he, by the way? I haven't seen him since we ate at first light?'

John squinted through the slatted shutter at the big white snowflakes whispering to the ground. ‘I trust he will be safe in this weather. He said he was going to get some provender for our journey, hoping that we can set off again tomorrow. He said the market should have some dried meat, as well as cheese and oatmeal.'

‘Has he got money? I've not yet touched any of that which the king divided between us.'

John nodded. ‘Richard gave him coins from his own pouch. Too lavishly, as usual. He seems to have no idea of how much things cost.'

Hours later, Joldan had not returned and Gwyn fretted over him so much that John sent him out to look for the lad. He returned an hour later, saying that there was no sign of him, even though he had walked every lane and alley in Erdberg. ‘There seems nowhere for him to have vanished into. Apart from miserable dwellings and a few alehouses, the only other places are the market hall and a long building, which seems full of hunting dogs, by the noise coming from it.'

They went out to the stable to report the loss of their guide to the king. Richard was concerned, as the boy was their only means of communication with the locals. ‘We must wait another day, to see if he returns,' he decided. ‘I am feeling much improved, thank God. We must move from here first thing the day after tomorrow, whether he returns or not.'

By means of gestures and miming, they managed to tell the buxom landlady that Joldan had gone away, and that they would stay two more nights. In the morning there was still no sign of him and reluctantly, they gave up any hope of seeing him again.

‘No doubt the attractions of the dismal city have seduced him,' grunted John. ‘I suppose we must be grateful to him for getting us as far as this.'

When they went to tell the Lionheart about the loss of their young navigator, Richard decided he was well enough to get up and sit near the fire in the taproom. ‘I'll have to be up and about by tomorrow,' he declared. ‘We must be on our way, it's but four days to Christ Mass now. At this rate, it will be Easter before we reach home.'

When they reminded him that Joldan had gone out to buy food for the journey, Richard advised them to do the same, ready for their departure next day. Again he gave them a dozen silver coins from his scrip, disregarding their protests that they could buy half the village with that number.

Rather reluctantly, they left him near the fire, where the motherly landlady thrust a wire fork into his hand and some slices of mutton, to grill against the embers. Though Gwyn secretly grinned at the sight, de Wolfe looked rather shocked at the sight of the monarch of the richest lands in Europe being turned into a kitchen boy.

They checked on their horses in the stable and found that John's grey mare had a loose shoe. After some pantomime with the ten-year-old who mucked out and fed the beasts, he led them through a powdering of snow on the ground to a farrier in a nearby lane where they left the horse to have the shoe renailed, while they went to the market. This was a large ramshackle shed in the main street, filled with a chaotic jostling of workmen, wives and urchins, all bargaining and buying a variety of produce. Some was being sold from stalls and booths, but mostly from peasants and old women sitting on the ground, with their wares all about them. Live geese, ducks and hens were alongside cheeses, river fish, meat, rye bread, bags of rough-milled flour and some winter vegetables.

With much pointing and gesturing, together with the display of quartered coins, Gwyn bought bread, cheese, and smoked beef and pork that would keep for many days in this cold weather. Together with a small skin of local wine, which like the food, was probably double the cost to them as foreigners, they made their way back to the farrier and picked up their mare, now with a restored hoof.

As they walked the animal back along the back lane towards the inn, Gwyn suddenly stopped. ‘I hear harness jingling and men shouting!' he said, his big head tilted to catch the sounds. Since Udine, such noises had a sinister significance. ‘I'll go ahead and see what's going on!'

De Wolfe put out a hand to stop him. Giving him the bridle of his mare, he pulled up the hood of his grey cloak to shield his face. ‘No, that red hair and bush of a beard stands out a mile! I'll go, you stay in the shelter of this hut and wait.'

With an ominous presentiment of disaster in his mind, John crossed the lane to another muddy alley opposite and made his way back towards the tavern from another direction. Standing unobtrusively on the corner, he looked down towards the inn and his worst fears were confirmed. A dozen mounted men and a similar number on foot were clustered outside the front door. They all had some sort of uniform, short green jerkins and brown breeches, with round iron helmets on their heads. The ones on horses carried swords or maces and the foot soldiers had
guisarmes
, like a billhook on a pole. To the rear of the armed men, two more elaborately dressed courtiers sat on horses, one each side of an august, portly man on a white mare. He was dressed in a fur-trimmed cloak and had a gold chain around his neck.

John's horror was increased when he saw that one of the soldiers was holding Joldan, gripping him by the hair and forcing him to look towards the entrance to the inn. The lad had a black eye and bruises on his face and it was all John could do to restrain himself from a hopeless attempt to rescue the boy.

There was much shouting and jostling amongst the gape-mouthed onlookers who had materialized from somewhere. Then a more concerted shout went up and the soldiers stepped back a little from the doorway as two more men, one with a wide, flat cap with a large feather, came out, escorting an all-too-familiar figure between them. An icy hand seemed to reach inside John's chest as he saw it was his king. A feeling of utter failure swept over him as he saw Richard, standing erect and proud, being taken to a waiting horse. The man with the feathered cap attempted to help him into the saddle, but the Lionheart pushed him aside imperiously and, in spite of his previous weakness, hauled himself up on to the horse's back.

All the escort now closed around the prisoner and the whole group moved off towards the main street, roughly pushing the gaping crowd out of the way. As they disappeared from view, John de Wolfe was left standing in bitter anguish, the realization of his own failure weighing down his conscience like a ton of lead. He berated himself silently. He should have been there to save his king, to fight to the death if need be. Never would he forgive himself for leaving the great man alone, especially when he was ill. With leaden feet, he turned and trudged back to his squire.

‘Our king is taken, Gwyn! I should have stayed to fight them, though there were more than a score!'

The Cornishman was too aghast to answer and stood staring at his master, his normally ruddy face pale as John spoke again.

‘So we are alone, good friend! We must make the best of it, as there is nothing we can do for him now.'

On 28 December 1192, the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry the Sixth of Germany, sent the following letter to King Philip Augustus of France: