A King's Ransom (111 page)

He passed the rest of the evening discussing battlefield tactics with Richard, impressing the younger lords like Otto and William Longespée with his swagger and swapping memories with the men who’d shared Henry’s death vigil with him. Inevitably, the talk turned to Richard’s miracle, for even his enemies marveled that he could have constructed such a formidable, innovative castle in just two years.

Richard soon discovered that Renaud was quite knowledgeable about Castle Gaillard, for the French were keeping it under close surveillance. Renaud had even heard of the episode of the blood rain, in which the castle had been splattered by a sudden shower of red rain. “Most men would have seen that as a portent of coming calamity,” he said. “How did you keep the workers from panicking, sire?”

“I told them that it was not an ill omen, but rather one that foretold victory, that it signified the blood of our enemies. No offense,” Richard said dryly, “but I predicted it would be French blood.”

“No offense taken,” Renaud said, just as dryly. “Of course, the French king chose to see it as a sign of God’s anger with the Angevins. He is very irate about your new castle, my lord, wrathful that you’d dare to build it on the border of the French Vexin. He sees that as a deliberate provocation.”

“I would hope so,” Richard said, so nonchalantly that Renaud grinned.

“I do not doubt that it has given him some sleepless nights, for he often rants about it, cursing you and vowing to destroy the castle. He swears that he would take it if its walls were made of iron.”

Richard leaned back in his seat and, as his eyes met André’s, he murmured, “He makes it too easy. It is like spearing fish in a weir.” He signaled for silence then, for he wanted all in the hall to hear what he was about to say. The more men who heard, the more likely his words would reach the ears of the French king.

“Count Renaud has just told me,” he said loudly, “that the French king is boasting he would take Castle Gaillard if its walls were made of iron. Well, I could hold it if its walls were made of butter.”

S
OON AFTER
O
TTO HAD
returned to Poitou, he received an urgent summons from his uncle. He rode fast, reaching Richard’s new manor on the Île de Andely on a cool April afternoon. He was surprised to find the Bishop of Lincoln seated beside Richard in the great hall, for he knew Hugh d’Avalon was out of favor. That past December, Richard had demanded that the barons of England provide him with three hundred knights to serve in Normandy. Hugh alone had balked, insisting that the church of Lincoln did not owe military service to the king beyond the borders of England, and Otto knew that Richard had been infuriated by the prelate’s defiance. Yet here they sat in perfect harmony. He wanted to know how these two strong-willed men had resolved their differences, but he had to wait until later that afternoon to have his curiosity satisfied.

They were standing by the open window in the solar, gazing across the river at Richard’s “fair daughter.” A soft rain was falling and the ramparts of Castle Gaillard were wreathed in ghostly grey mist. To Otto, it looked as if the citadel were floating upon clouds, a place of magic and majesty, one that would never fall to the scorpion on the French throne. As he glanced over at his uncle, he was sure that Richard was thinking the same thing.

When he asked about Hugh’s presence, Richard shook his head admiringly. “That man is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. He fears nothing, not even an Angevin king’s just wrath. When he arrived at the castle, I was about to hear Mass in the royal chapel with the Bishops of Durham and Ely. I was in no mood to bid him welcome, and when he approached and asked for the kiss of peace, I ignored him. But he persisted, declaring I owed it to him since he’d come such a great distance to see me. I told him he deserved no kiss from me. Do you know what he did next? He grabbed my mantle and actually dared to shake me, saying he had the right to the kiss and would not take no for an answer. I could not help myself, began to laugh. So he got his kiss of peace and I forgave him, for courage like that must be rewarded.”

Otto smiled, for he, too, respected courage. “Why did you send for me, Uncle? Has that French weasel stirred up more trouble?”

“The trouble does not come from the ‘French weasel’ this time, but from your homeland. Count Emicho of Leiningen sought me out a fortnight ago; you’ll want to speak with him later. Some of the princes convinced Philip of Swabia that he ought to make his own claim for the German throne, and they elected him as King of Germany in Erfurt last month.”

Otto did not know Philip, for he’d lived in England and Normandy since he was five years old. He did not doubt that Heinrich was burning in Hell with his other two brothers, both of whom had been murdered, one by the husband of a woman he’d raped. From what he’d been told, though, Philip, the youngest, shared neither their cruelty nor their contempt for the rule of law, the only Hohenstaufen prince without blood on his hands or his conscience. But that did not mean Otto wanted to see him as the next emperor; his loyalty was to his elder brother.

“I am sorry to hear that, Uncle. But the Archbishop of Cologne and the Rhineland princes will still support Henrik, surely?” And he was dismayed when Richard shook his head again.

“Henrik is still in the Holy Land, and they believe they dare not delay until his return to Germany. They need a candidate to oppose Philip now, and it looks as if it is going to be you, lad.”

“Me?”

Otto sounded so incredulous that Richard smiled. “Why not you? Your father was the Duke of Saxony, your brother is the Count Palatine thanks to his marriage, and you have a generous patron in the English king, one willing to spend whatever it takes to secure your election. You have the blood, you have the backing, and I’ll see to it that you have the money.”

Richard laughed then, utterly delighted by this unexpected turn of events. “Heinrich’s corner of Hell has just gotten hotter. And can you imagine Philippe’s horror when he hears that my nephew will sit on the throne of the Romans? Our alliance will guarantee that he never draws another easy breath.”

When Otto remained silent, Richard gave him a quizzical look. “You do want to be emperor?”

Otto hesitated. He loved being Count of Poitou. He loved Poitiers, which had fine wine and pretty women and a mild climate. He loved his uncle, who’d treated him as if he were a son. He thought of French as his native tongue and thought of the Angevin domains as home. Germany was an alien land to him now; even its language sounded foreign to his ears. But who could refuse an imperial crown?

“If it is God’s Will, then of course I will accept, Uncle.”

O
TTO WAS ELECTED
as king of the Romans in Cologne on June 6 and crowned in Aachen on July 12, while his rival for the German throne quickly made an alliance with the French king against Richard, Otto, the Archbishop of Cologne, and Baldwin, the Count of Flanders.

O
N
S
EPTEMBER 6,
the Count of Flanders and the Count of Boulogne invaded Artois and laid siege to St Omer. Philippe promised the citizens that he would come to their rescue by the end of the month, but he soon found himself fighting a war on two fronts and Richard kept him so busy in Normandy that the city would eventually surrender to Baldwin and Renaud on October 13.

I
N EARLY
S
EPTEMBER,
Philippe led a raid into the Norman Vexin and burned eighteen towns. Richard had only sixty men with him and hastily sent for reinforcements as he kept the French army under surveillance. As soon as he was joined by two hundred knights and Mercadier with a band of his routiers, he launched an attack. The French were looting and were caught by surprise, suffering many casualties as they fled toward Philippe’s castle at Vernon. Richard’s men captured thirty knights, forty men-at-arms, and thirty horses, and inflicted another wound to the French king’s reputation. But the war continued and took on an even greater savagery, with both kings ordering the blinding of prisoners, each one blaming the other for initiating the mutilation and thus forcing retaliation. Those caught in the middle of this firestorm of hatred knew only that Normandy had become a bloody killing field where Death held dominion, not the kings of England and France.

G
UILLAIN DE L’
E
TANG HAD
been very busy on his sovereign’s behalf, having been part of the diplomatic mission that Richard sent to Germany and then dispatched to Rouen. After that, Richard gave him some time off to visit his own estates, and he did not rejoin the king until September 28 at the border castle of Dangu, the day after Richard had made lightning attacks upon Philippe’s castles at Courcelles and Boury, taking them both by the time the sun had set.

Guillain found his king in a good mood and assumed it was due to such easy victories. But from Morgan, he learned that Richard had also gotten very welcome news from Toulouse; his sister had given birth to a healthy baby girl, named after her mother.

Guillain was pleased; Joanna was a great favorite with her brother’s knights. “It is always a happy time when a baby is born,” he said, and for a moment, he and Morgan shared the same sad thought—a heartfelt regret that Richard’s queen could not have been as blessed as Joanna. “I am sorry I could not take part in the capture of Courcelles. I missed the action at Vernon, too, so it has been too long since I’ve had a chance to clout someone. Life gets boring when it is too peaceful,” Guillain grumbled, only half in jest. But he brightened when Morgan assured him that a patrol was about to be sent out. “I volunteer! Who is leading the patrol?”