A King's Ransom (11 page)

Her husband did not reply, though, instead giving her an odd look, one she could not interpret, and she had a sudden sense of unease. “Engelbert? What are you not telling me? Richard did not escape, did he?”

“No,” he said, and she heaved a sigh of relief, until he added, “I let him go.”

“You did
what
?”

She sounded so incredulous, so horrified, that color rose in his face. “I let him go,” he repeated, this time sounding both defensive and defiant. “It was the right thing to do, Methildis. He’d taken the cross, was under the Church’s protection. Nor had he done anything to deserve being detained. No state of war exists between England and the empire.”

Methildis was so dumbfounded that she could only blurt out the first objection to come to mind. “How can you say he does not deserve to be detained? What about your uncle’s murder?”

His mouth twisted down scornfully. “You did not truly believe that, did you? If there is any man in Christendom who’d do his own killing, for certes it is Richard of England. Conrad counted a day misspent if he did not make at least one new enemy, so he finally reaped what he’d sown.”

Methildis opened her mouth, shut it again. She’d erred by mentioning Conrad. She should have known better, for he’d abandoned his first wife, Engelbert’s aunt, when the opportunity presented itself to wed the sister of the Emperor of the Greeks in Constantinople. “Do you not realize what you’ve done, Engelbert? You’ve defied the Emperor Heinrich!”

“I had no other choice! The Holy Church’s position on this could not be clearer. Men who take the cross to fight the infidels are not to be harmed. Suppose I attempted to seize him, he resisted—as, of course, he would—and he was slain? I could be excommunicated by the Pope, could face eternal damnation!”

“By the current Pope? That timid old man? He’d never dare to challenge Heinrich!”

“He might not have the courage to excommunicate Heinrich, I grant you that. But me? I’d make the perfect sacrificial goat. And I am not about to jeopardize my immortal soul just to keep Heinrich happy!”

“I cannot believe you truly think it is more dangerous to offend the Pope than Heinrich! You could not be that blind, that foolish!”

“I am done talking about this,” he warned. “I followed the dictates of my conscience and no man can do better than that. I’ll say no more on it—and hear no more on it from you. Is that clear?”

Methildis had a much more combustible temper than her husband; it kindled quickly and burned itself out just as quickly. Engelbert’s rare flare-ups of fury were quite different, difficult to ignite and difficult to extinguish. She saw now that she’d poked and prodded a cold hearth until the ashes and embers caught fire, for she recognized that obdurate expression on his face. She’d learned that she could only wait for his anger to cool on its own. But time was the one luxury she did not have; every hour that passed would take the English king farther from Görz. She was a proud woman, the daughter of a count and the sister of a duke, and she’d never been one to play the role of a docile, biddable wife. With so much at stake, though, she had no choice.

Reaching out, she put her hand on his arm. “I ask your pardon, my lord husband. I was indeed in the wrong to speak to you so shrilly. Will you forgive me?”

He half turned toward her, and she could see surprise on his face, but suspicion, too. “You are not usually so quick to make amends,” he said, sounding skeptical. He did not pull away from her touch, though, and she took encouragement from that. He was not as confident as he’d have her believe; if he was not harboring doubts, why had he been unable to sleep?

“I know,” she conceded. “I can be a shrew, I admit it. But this is different, Engelbert. We must face this danger together, united against it. I truly do understand why you acted as you did,” she lied. “You are a far more honorable man than Heinrich. If you are unwilling to discuss this further, I will abide by your wishes—just as I will support whatever decision you make, as your wife and your countess. I entreat you, though, to answer two questions, just two. After that, I promise to hold my peace.”

He drew back into the deeper shadows cast by the bed hangings and she could no longer see his face. “Very well,” he said, after an endless silence that had her digging her nails into her palm. “Ask your questions.”

“Thank you,” she said, thinking that he’d owe her a huge debt for making her humble herself like this—mayhap that splendid ruby ring he’d been given; she loved rubies. “My first question is this: Do you think the English king will be able to escape capture, to make his way to safety in Hungary or Saxony?”

“No,” he said, after another interminably long pause. “No, I do not.”

“Nor do I,” she agreed quickly. “And when he is taken prisoner, what do you think will happen then?”

“How would I know that?”

You know,
she thought,
you are just loath to admit it.
She carefully kept any anger or resentment from her voice, though. “Once he is in the emperor’s power, it will all come out. How you could have seized him in Görz and did not. When Heinrich learns that you let him go, do you think he will forgive you for that?” That was three questions, but she was sure he was no longer counting, for that third question went to the heart of the matter, was likely the one that had been robbing him of sleep.

He was quiet for so long that she feared he would try to avoid answering. But he finally said, very low, “No, I know he will not.”

Methildis shut her eyes in a silent prayer of thankfulness that he’d regained his senses. “You followed your conscience and gave the English king a chance to escape. But now you must protect yourself, Engelbert. You did your duty as a Christian. Now you must do it as the emperor’s liegeman. On the morrow you must send word to your brother, Meinhard, that Richard of England was reportedly seen in Görz. If he is captured elsewhere, it is not your doing and not your fault. He is in God’s hands, as are we all.”

She held her breath then, waiting for him to argue, to protest. When he did not, she felt such relief that she sank back, exhausted, against the pillows, feeling as if she’d staved off disaster by a hairsbreadth. Reaching for his hand, she gave it a squeeze. “You will send a messenger to Meinhard?”

“I will.” It was little more than a whisper, but it was enough for her. It was quiet after that, and as his breathing steadied and slowed, she could tell that he was drifting toward sleep. She’d given him this peace of mind, she thought, a way to reconcile his conflicting loyalties. She was growing drowsy, too. But then she remembered.

“Engelbert. The ruby ring . . . Where is it?”

“Wha . . .” he mumbled, yawning. “I gave it back to them. . . .” He slid easily into sleep then, never hearing his wife’s quick intake of breath, as sharp as any blade.

CHAPTER FOUR

DECEMBER 1192

Udine, Friuli

A
fter fleeing Görz, Richard and his men took shelter that night in a charcoal burner’s hut. The man and his family were terrified by the sudden appearance of these armed foreigners, and not comforted by Arne’s attempts at reassurance. None of them drew an easy breath until the men rode on in the morning, and then they could only marvel at their good fortune, for the knights had left a generous sum for their reluctant hospitality, more coins than they’d ever seen. Laughing and hugging one another, they vowed to pray for these mysterious strangers, beseeching Saint Christopher, who was said to protect travelers, to keep them safe as they faced the perils of the mountain roads.

T
HE ALEHOUSE WAS SMALL
and shabby, its trampled floor rushes reeking of spilt ale and mouse droppings, its dingy walls yellowed by smoke and streaked with dirt. It was very crowded, for the day had been a cold one, the leaden skies threatening snow, and Richard and his men had trouble finding seats. The food was not any better than the surroundings, but they ate it without complaint, for hunger was a good sauce and this was their first meal since they’d left Görz.

During their brief stay with the charcoal burner, they’d concluded the danger was so great that Hungary was now beyond their reach, and they’d have to head north toward Moravia, ruled by the brother of Duke Ottokar of Bohemia, where they hoped to receive a friendly welcome. On their arrival in the town of Udine, they avoided the castle, not willing to risk another safe-conduct fiasco. After arranging to stable their horses, they took rooms in a nearby inn, and then went in search of a tavern or alehouse that served meals. As they scooped up the beans and salted herring with stale bread, they tried not to remember the four-course dinner thrown for them by Archbishop Bernard and Count Raphael; it was less than a fortnight since they’d sailed from Ragusa, but already it seemed a distant part of their past.

All around them swirled familiar sounds: laughter and good-natured squabbling and shouts for more ale to the harried servingmaids, who were kept as busy fending off groping hands as they were pouring ale. They could have been back in any alehouse or tavern in their own homelands if the language had not been German, occasionally interspersed with Italian dialects. They ate in silence themselves, not wanting to attract attention by speaking French, small, gloomy islands in a cheerful, boisterous sea of ale-soaked camaraderie. Arne had just gone to find the privy when Guillain de l’Etang rose and took the seat he vacated, settling onto the bench next to Richard.

“I think we are being followed,” he said, very softly. “In the corner by the ale keg, the man in the green woolen mantle and felt hat.”

Richard shifted slightly so he could see Guillain’s suspect. He looked to be in his forties, of average height, his brown hair and beard closely clipped, with a thin white scar creasing his forehead above thick brows and heavy-lidded dark eyes. He was well dressed, obviously a person of means, and he wore the sword at his hip like a man who’d feel naked without one. He’d been nursing an ale while regarding the other customers with studied disinterest, but when Richard glanced his way, he drew farther back into the shadows.

“I saw him first at the stables,” Guillain confided, pitching his voice for Richard’s ear alone. “He was entering as we were leaving. I saw him next when we were looking for an inn, loitering in the marketplace. And then he turns up here. Udine is not Paris, but it is no small village, either, and it seems odd that every time we look around, there he is.”

Richard agreed with him. After a low-voiced exchange with Guillain, he waited until Arne returned and then rose without haste, dropping coins on the table for the servingmaid. Following his lead, his companions drained the last of their ales and pushed away from the bench, trying to cloak their urgency in nonchalance. Once they were out in the street, Guillain slapped a few backs as if jovially parting from friends and disappeared into an alley that overlooked the alehouse. The others broke up into smaller groups and took different routes back to their inn.

A brisk wind had sprung up as the daylight ebbed, and the inn’s sign was creaking and swaying with each gust.
Der Schwarz Löwe.
The Black Lion. The beast was crudely drawn and looked grey in patches where the paint had flaked away, but it was not a sight to give them comfort, for the black lion was the emblem of the House of Hohenstaufen. The inn itself was as dilapidated as its sign, and the innkeeper had been astonished and delighted when they’d taken two rooms, for privacy was a luxury few could afford and most travelers not only shared rooms with strangers, they shared beds, too. His curiosity and his avarice aroused in equal measure, he made a pest of himself upon their return, offering wine, more candles, extra blankets, even female company if they wished, swearing he could provide them with women who were young, pretty, and free of the pox. Having been so ill-served by his merchant disguise in Görz, Richard had decided to pass as a Templar, a more plausible identity for a man whose very walk had a soldier’s swagger, and Arne finally got rid of the insistent innkeeper by telling him they were all Templar knights and sergeants, sworn to vows of chastity.