A King's Ransom (113 page)

“I could not imagine abandoning my army, leaving my men to fend for themselves as I sought to save my own skin. Not only does Philippe have no honor, he has no sense of shame. He must—Jesu!”

The bridge spanning the River Epte was crowded with men and horses, and as more and more of the refugees from the battle swarmed onto the wooden span, it began to creak ominously, swaying under the weight of so many soldiers. As Richard and his knights watched, openmouthed, several of the arches gave way and the bridge collapsed. There was a huge splash, and then screams. Some of the men managed to flounder to shore; others clung to the broken pilings or snatched frantically at the swimming horses. But many drowned within moments, dragged down by their armor. Richard had seen a bridge break apart like this once before, as his and Philippe’s armies were crossing the Rhône. He had quickly organized a rescue effort and they’d lost only two men to the river. It was obvious, though, that the French would not be so lucky on this September Sunday afternoon, drowning within sight of the castle that was to have been their salvation.

Men who’d not yet made it onto the bridge willingly surrendered to Richard’s knights, for captivity suddenly seemed the lesser evil. On the far side of the river, soaked, shivering men were being pulled to safety, some vomiting up brackish water, others breathing their last. One man clinging to a horse’s tail was dragged into the shallows, only to then lose his footing and be swept away by the current. There were no bodies visible, for the dead had been anchored by their armor. The last battle of the day was won by the river.

Richard had turned Argento away when he was called back by a shout from Mercadier. “Look, my lord!” He was pointing toward the far bank, but Richard saw only half-drowned soldiers being assisted toward the castle. He’d often joked that Mercadier’s vision could put a gyrfalcon to shame, and the routier proved it now by gesturing again. “That one surrounded by those gabbling priests—it’s the French king!”

Richard squinted, shading his eyes against the glare of sun on water. “God’s legs, Mercadier, I think you are right!”

Mercadier had no doubts. “I saw several men plunge into the river to swim to his rescue and I wondered why one drowning man would matter so much that other men would risk their lives to save him. Once they had fished him out, I recognized that bald pate of his.”

Richard was still embittered that Philippe had escaped him. But as he stared across the river at his bedraggled, waterlogged rival, a smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth. “He does not look as if he enjoyed his bath in the Epte, does he? He always acted as if he was sure he could walk on water. It must be a great disappointment to find he is a mere mortal after all.”

But his true feelings were expressed in an aside to Morgan as he signaled for his men to move out. “If there were any justice under God’s sky, the bastard would have drowned.”

C
ONSTANCE DE
H
AUTEVILLE HAD
celebrated her forty-fourth birthday on All Soul’s Day, but she knew it would be her last. She was dying. She’d been ill for months, and not even the doctors of the famed medical school in Salerno had been able to offer either hope or relief from the pain. She’d been very bitter at first, for she’d had little more than a year of freedom, a year to rule Sicily, to rid her kingdom of the Germans, to have her son with her—a privilege that Heinrich had denied her, for he’d given Friedrich into the care of the Duchess of Spoleto soon after his birth. One year, one month, and twenty-seven days to have been a queen, a mother, and, God be praised, a widow. Not enough time. Not nearly enough.

She’d faced it as she’d faced every crisis in her life, without flinching, without self-pity or panic. What mattered was her son, still a month shy of his fourth birthday. She’d done all she could. She’d exiled Markward von Annweiler, who’d been made Duke of Ravenna and Romagna by Heinrich. In May, she’d had Friedrich crowned as King of Sicily, letting Otto and Heinrich’s brother Philip fight over the imperial crown. And she’d turned to the only man powerful enough to protect her son, the new Pope, Innocent III. In her last will and testament, she’d named Innocent as Friedrich’s guardian until he came of age. Now, in what she knew to be her last hours, she could only pray that it would be enough: that her son would be kept safe, his rights defended by the Church, and that he would not forget her too quickly.

J
OHN HAD NOT ATTENDED
his brother’s Christmas Court at Domfront, for now that Otto was no longer a rival, he did not feel so much pressure to please Richard. But a summons from his mother was not to be ignored. As soon as he was ushered into her private quarters at Fontevrault Abbey, he sensed that something was wrong. She was alone, and although a fire was burning in the hearth, the chamber seemed very cold to him.

“So you’ve come. I was not sure you would.”

“Of course I came. You sent for me, did you not?” John’s smile faded. “What is amiss? Why do you look at me like that?”

“As if you do not know!” Eleanor had stood motionless by the hearth as John crossed the chamber. But as soon as he moved within range, she took two quick steps forward and struck him across the mouth. “You fool! You utter fool!”

John gasped, grabbed her wrist when she raised her hand as if to strike him again. “Christ Jesus, Mother, what is the matter with you? Why should you be wroth with me?”

“Why, indeed? Betrayal is as natural to you as breathing. More fool I, for imagining it could ever be otherwise!” Eleanor jerked her wrist free, began to pace. “More than four years without a misstep, four years of fidelity. You showed Richard that you were not as worthless as he once thought, that you could do more than intrigue and plot and scheme. All for naught. Name of God, why? What demon possessed you to throw it all away?”

“I do not know what you are talking about. Just what am I supposed to have done?”

“Oh, enough! We know. Philippe betrayed you, and how ironic is that? He sent Richard a message that you’d been plotting against him again, that you’d offered an alliance with the French Crown.”

“And Richard believed this? You believed it?” John was incredulous. “I am not surprised that Richard is so quick to suspect the worst of me. But you, Madame . . . God’s truth, I’d have expected better of you!”

“Philippe claims to have a letter that proves your complicity in this intrigue, a letter in your own hand.”

“Oh, for the love of Christ! What better proof of my innocence could you ask for than that? If I were involved in some scheme to betray Richard, do you truly think I’d ever be so stupid as to incriminate myself in writing?”

Eleanor felt the first flickers of doubt. “Your denial has the ring of truth to it. But then your denials always do, John.”

“If you and Richard believed this lunatic accusation, it can only be because you wanted to believe it, Madame. You yourself said it—I’ve devoted years to regaining Richard’s goodwill. You think I enjoyed being at his beck and call, enduring the scorn of his friends, knowing he’d have chosen Arthur if the Bretons had not been such fools? Or that I’d gamble those four years on something so worthless as Philippe’s word? Christ on the Cross, Mother! What would I gain by intriguing with Philippe? We both know he has no hope of ever defeating Richard on the field!”

He was as angry as Eleanor had ever seen him, too angry for either artifice or discretion. His was not a defense calculated to endear. But there was a cold-blooded, unsparing honesty to it that was, to Eleanor, more persuasive than any indignant avowals of good faith. It was the very amorality of John’s argument that carried so much conviction.

“Where is Richard now? Is he still at Domfront?”

Eleanor no longer doubted. There could be no better indication of John’s innocence than this, that he would willingly seek Richard out. When he was in the wrong, the last thing he ever wanted was to face his accusers, to confront those he’d betrayed.

Eleanor’s relief was inexpressible. Her easy acceptance of John’s guilt had been prompted as much by fear as by her son’s dismal record of broken faith and betrayals, the fear that she had misjudged him, after all, that he was not the pragmatist she’d thought him to be. Had he indeed been plotting again with Philippe, that would mean his judgment was fatally and unforgivably flawed, flawed enough to taint any claim to the crown. It was a conclusion she shrank from, for it would signify the end of all her hopes for an Angevin dynasty, and that was the dream that had sustained her even in the worst of times, just as it had sustained her husband.

She sat down abruptly in a cushioned chair. “Thank God,” she said simply, with enough feeling to soothe John’s sense of injury.

“But of course I accept your apology, Mother,” he said, very dryly. Righteous indignation was not an emotion indigenous to his temperamental terrain; he had too much irony in his makeup to be able to cultivate moral outrage, and now that he no longer feared being called to account for a sin that truly was not his, he was beginning to see the perverse humor in his predicament.
“Be not righteous over much,”
he quoted, and grinned. “But how can I help it? After all, how often have I been able to expose my conscience to your exacting eye . . . and live to tell the tale?”

Eleanor could not help herself, had to smile, too. “By what strange alchemy do you manage to make your vices sound so much like virtues?” She shook her head, gestured toward the table. “Fetch me pen and parchment. You’ll need to face Richard yourself, assure him that you are innocent—this time. But it will help if he knows I believe you.”

After he left, she leaned back in the chair, rubbing her fingers against her temples, for her head was throbbing. Richard would never get a son from Berengaria. Nor did he seem willing to put her aside. So John was all they had.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

MARCH 1199

Chinon Castle, Touraine

T
here was a chill in the air, the threat of winter lingering beyond its time. Lacking the patience to summon a servant, Richard crossed to the hearth and reached for the fire tongs, prodding the flames back into life. Returning to his seat then, he resumed the story of his January council with the French king, a meeting arranged by the new papal legate, Pietro di Capua.

“I’d taken a boat upriver from Castle Gaillard, but Philippe refused to join me on board. Apparently his bath in the Epte has made him leery of rivers, for he stayed on horseback and we shouted back and forth across the water. An utter waste of time and breath.”

“You did agree on a five-year truce, though,” Eleanor reminded him, and he shook his head wearily.

“And we know how much such truces mean—counterfeit coin, not worth a copper farthing. But the new Pope is bound and determined to make peace, so his legate came up with another proposal, suggesting that Philippe’s son wed one of my nieces.”

“Arthur’s sister?”

“No, one of Leonora’s daughters. I told them I’d consider these new terms once I return from Limousin.”

He’d already told Eleanor about his coming campaign. The Count of Angoulême and his half brother, the Viscount of Limoges, were conniving again with the French king, and he meant to teach them that there was a high price to be paid for such treachery. A lifetime of dealing with these rebellious southern barons had taught Eleanor that such lessons lasted as long as hoarfrost, and she was sure Richard knew it, too. But kings did what they must.