A King's Ransom (104 page)

Otto sought to lighten the mood then, with more cheerful news. Heinrich had suffered another setback, he said, with a sudden smile that reminded André how young this solemn lad was, not yet twenty. André had doubtless heard that last spring Heinrich had pressured the German princes and bishops into agreeing to make the imperial crown hereditary. But at a second Diet in Erfurt that past October, the Archbishop of Cologne had rallied the opposition and they’d held firm, insisting the crown remain elective. “Heinrich was said to have lost some of that vaunted control of his. How he must hate Archbishop Adolf! But the archbishop does not fear him, and because he does not—”

Otto broke off abruptly, for Richard was returning to the dais and they knew before he said a word that something was very wrong. He’d lost color and when he raised his head, they saw tears clinging to his lashes. “Longchamp is dead. He took ill of a sudden when they reached Poitiers and died ere the week was out. . . .”

André and Otto expressed their condolences and, as word spread, other men approached the dais to do the same, somewhat awkwardly, for the chancellor had remained a controversial figure. Acknowledging that now, Richard said, almost accusingly, “There will be few to mourn him.”

Since that was true, no one knew what to say. It was Otto who finally found the right words. “But
you
will mourn him, Uncle, and that is what would have mattered to him.”

Richard was silent for a time, thinking of Trifels Castle and the small, stooped figure kneeling by his bed, the most unlikely of saviors. “Yes,” he said, “I will. . . .”

R
ICHARD HONORED THE MEMORY
of his nepotistic chancellor in the way that Longchamp would have most appreciated, by arranging for his brother Robert, Archdeacon of Ely, to be chosen as abbot of the prestigious abbey of St Mary’s in York.

Longchamp’s traveling companions, the Bishop of Lisieux and the Bishop-elect of Durham, continued on to Rome, where Pope Celestine heard their arguments and those presented by the Archbishop of Rouen. Ruling in Richard’s favor, he lifted the Interdict and advised the archbishop to accept Richard’s offer to swap the port of Dieppe and other manors for Andely, which he grudgingly did.

B
ALDWIN DE
B
ETHUNE’S MEN
were pleased when their lord set out to join the English king in his assault upon the Bishop of Beauvais’s castle at Milly-sur-Thérain, for they’d missed out on his April raid upon Ponthieu. Richard had burned the port of St Valéry and seized five English ships in the harbor, confiscating their cargo and hanging the ships’ captains as a warning to others who defied his embargo upon trade with France and Flanders. As he’d also carried off holy relics and carts loaded down with booty, Baldwin’s men regretted not taking part in this raid; Richard was renowned for generously sharing such plunder with his soldiers. They knew his assault upon Milly-sur-Thérain would not be as rewarding, but they still welcomed this opportunity to profit at the bishop’s expense. It was a disappointment, therefore, when they reached the siege on May 19 and found that they were too late, that Richard had already captured the castle.

B
ALDWIN WAS SEATED IN
the king’s command tent, listening with keen interest to Richard’s account of the stronghold’s fall, for the hero of the hour was his old friend Will Marshal.

“When we put up the ladders, so many knights started to climb up one of them that it became overloaded and some of the rungs broke, sending men plummeting down into the ditch below.” Richard paused until Baldwin had been served wine before continuing. “One of the Flemish knights, Sir Guy de la Bruyère, was trapped on the top of it, unable to go up or down. He would not have been long for this world if Will had not rushed to his rescue.”

“I did no more than any man would have done,” Will protested, with appealing if unconvincing modesty, for all knew he took great pride in his battlefield prowess.

Richard ignored the interruption. “Will jumped into the ditch and clambered up the other side, then scrambled onto the ladder using the unbroken rungs, sword in hand. Truly a sight to behold,” he said, grinning over at the Marshal. “After freeing Sir Guy, he made a one-man stand atop the battlements, defending himself so fiercely that his foes were soon in retreat. It was then that the castellan, Sir William de Monceaux, reached the ramparts. When he charged forward, Will struck him so powerful a blow that his sword cut right through his helmet, separating his coif from the hauberk and piercing his head. Not surprisingly, none were eager to take Will on after that.”

“Well done, Will!” Baldwin said, also grinning at the Marshal.

“The story is not over yet, Baldwin. Since Will is not—how should I put it—in the first flush of youth, he was understandably weary after all this activity. The castellan had fallen at his feet, unconscious, but showed signs of stirring. So to make sure he stayed put, Will sat on him as he awaited the rest of our men. He made himself so comfortable that I am surprised he did not take a quick nap.”

Richard raised his wine cup in a playful salute and the tent resounded to enthusiastic cries of “To the Marshal!” Glancing fondly at the other man, he said, shaking his head in mock dismay, “But it is not right for a man of such eminence and proven valor to have to exert himself like this. You ought to leave that to the young knights who still have to win their reputations, Will, for your own fame is already secure.”

Will did not mind the teasing, for how many men of fifty would have been able to equal the feats he’d performed that day? “Well, sire, the same could be said of you, for I heard that your knights had to keep you from being the first one into the breach.”

Richard laughed, conceding the Marshal the honors in that exchange, and when Will then offered him the castellan, who would bring a large ransom, he shook his head. “No, you well deserve this right. I appoint you his lord and warder.”

Will smiled in return, savoring his triumph all the more because he knew there would not be that many more of them; age always won out in the end. “We took many prisoners,” he told Baldwin, “so there will be enough ransoms for all of us.”

Will paused then, for a sudden uproar had broken out in the camp. The men were instantly on alert, but relaxed when they heard the sound of raucous cheering. “Mercadier must be back,” Richard said, telling Baldwin that he’d been out on a raiding expedition. They’d begun to discuss the ransoms when the entry flap was pulled aside and John plunged into the tent.

All formality forgotten, John shoved his way toward his brother, his face flushed with excitement, eyes as green as any cat’s. “Richard, you’re about to get an early birthday present, mayhap your best one ever! I wish I could claim the credit, but it was Mercadier’s doing. At least I got to witness it.”

By now the tent was abuzz with curiosity and speculation. Before John could make his dramatic revelation, though, Mercadier was there. It was not always easy to tell when he was smiling, for the corner of his mouth was contorted by that disfiguring scar. But there was no mistaking his mood now. His usual demeanor—cynical, wary, faintly mocking—was utterly gone; he looked fiercely triumphant. He was followed by several of his routiers, who shoved a prisoner into the tent, forcing him to his knees.

Even before the man raised his head, Richard knew his identity, for there could be no other explanation for John and Mercadier’s unholy glee. The Bishop of Beauvais was chalk white, with a darkening bruise on his forehead, sweat beading his temples, dirt streaking his face, and flecks of dried blood in his beard. He made an attempt at bravado, though, saying defiantly, “Need I remind you that I am a prince of the Church?”

He got no further, for Richard had begun to laugh. “Is this what priests are wearing now to say Mass?” he jeered, gesturing toward the bishop’s mail hauberk and empty scabbard.

Beauvais’s jaw muscles clenched, his chin jutting out. “I am a consecrated bishop, and the Holy Father in Rome will not tolerate my ill treatment.”

Richard was still laughing. “I do not doubt that the Holy Father in Rome will accord you all the protection he gave me when I was held prisoner in Germany.”

Beauvais started to rise, only to be stopped by Mercadier’s men. “Get your hands off me, you lowborn churls!” he blustered, but they paid him no heed, forcing him back onto his knees. Hectic splotches of color now burned across his ashen cheekbones, giving him the look of a man on fire with fever. “Name your ransom,” he said, his voice rasping, his dark eyes desperate, “and I will pay it.”

Richard ignored him, glancing around at the other men, all of whom were grinning widely, relishing this moment almost as much as Richard did. Reaching out, he clasped Mercadier’s arm. “Thank you, my friend,” he said simply, and for just a moment, Mercadier lowered his guard to show a very human reaction—genuine pleasure. Richard exchanged smiles with John, and then turned back to Beauvais.

“Do you remember what you said to me that night at Trifels? I do. You told me how much pleasure you’d derive to think of me ‘cold, hungry, dirty, and fettered like a common felon.’ You’ve forgotten that, have you?”

Beauvais ran his tongue over dry lips, swallowing with a visible effort. “You would not dare! Harm me and you’ll forfeit your eternal soul!”

Some of the men began to mutter at that, angered by his insolence, for Beauvais found no defenders even among the most devout. But Richard merely smiled, a smile that chilled the bishop to the marrow of his bones.

“I promise you this,” he said. “I will show you the same mercy that you’d have shown me had I ended up in a Paris dungeon.”

T
HE
A
RCHBISHOP OF
C
ANTERBURY
had been given the obligatory tour of Castle Gaillard; it gave Richard great pleasure to watch his guests marvel at what he was building at Les Andelys, especially men like Hubert Walter and André, men who could understand and appreciate what a lethal weapon was now aimed at the heart of the French king’s domains. He doubted that Philippe fully comprehended it yet. But he would, and soon.

They were back at his new palace on the Île d’Andely now; as much as Richard enjoyed his on-site supervision of the ongoing work, he and Hubert had a lot of catching up to do, for there’d been some dramatic developments on the diplomatic front in June. He’d made peace with the Bretons, agreeing to restore the lands he’d seized during last year’s rebellion, pardoning the Breton barons, offering terms generous enough to win over the powerful de Vitré family, and getting the Earl of Chester to end Constance’s captivity. In return, Constance and her lords abandoned their alliance with Philippe and did homage again to Richard. Arthur was still at the French court, but Constance pledged homage in his name, and Brittany was once more a domain of the Angevin empire—at least for now. Richard was realistic enough to know how elusive peace was in their world.