A King's Ransom (16 page)

“I doubt that your master told you to buy ribbons for pretty wenches. He ought to be told that his servant is so high-handed with his money.”

Arne had won the crowd’s favor by standing up to the peddler, and a few of them now came to his defense, telling the men to “let the lad be.” Arne’s interrogator scowled, but his companions seemed to be losing interest, one of them saying, “Get his master’s name, Jorg, and let him go. It’s colder than a witch’s teat and if we stay out here much longer, I’m going to freeze the body part I’d least like to lose.”

Some of the bystanders laughed and Arne began to breathe again. Jorg was still frowning, though, and reached for his arm. “Come over here, boy, and tell me more about your master.” His grip was painful, hard enough to leave a bruise, and Arne instinctively recoiled. As he did, his mantle was caught by a gust of wind, revealing the gloves tucked into his belt. Most of their audience did not notice. Jorg did, seeing enough to spark his curiosity, and he yanked Arne’s mantle back.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Grabbing the gloves, he held them up so his companions could see the soft leather and fur lining, and that changed everything. Arne’s throat constricted, cutting off speech. Surrounded by these predatory, cold-eyed men, he began to tremble, a lamb cornered by wolves.

T
HIS TIME
A
RNE HAD
fallen into the hands of the duke’s men, for they took him straight to the castle and up into a chamber over the gatehouse. Shoving him down in a chair, they deliberately let the suspense build before Jorg said abruptly, “Are you ready to tell us about these gloves, boy?”

Arne had realized at once that he could not use his earlier cover story, for no knight or minor lord would have gloves like these. Nor could he claim he’d found them, for if he was suspected of theft, he’d be hanged. All he could think to do was to fall back upon Richard’s original disguise, and he told them haltingly that he served a rich merchant and the gloves were his. “My master was taken sick and stopped at Holy Cross Abbey, sending me on ahead to Vienna to buy supplies for him. He . . . he is a kind man and let me borrow his gloves because it was so cold. . . .”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Jorg backhanded him across the face. His head whipped back, blood streaming from his nose as the knight reached out and grasped the neck of his tunic, shaking him roughly. “Do not lie to me, whelp. These are no merchant’s gloves. They were made for a bishop . . . or a king.”

Arne swallowed, tasting blood on his lips from his broken nose. He could not wipe it away for another of the men had seized his arms and was binding them behind his back. “I . . . I am not lying, I swear it. . . .”

Jorg used his fist now, burying it in Arne’s stomach. Gasping for breath, he had to fight back nausea, and could only shake his head as Jorg snarled, “You serve the English king, churl, admit it!” His mute denial earned him another blow, this one to his face again. His head was spinning, and he’d never been so frightened. But when they demanded he tell them where the king was, he swore he did not know of any king, and sobbed, knowing he’d pay in pain for his loyalty. He could not betray Richard, though. Richard trusted him, and as the blows rained down, he clung to that, as his only lifeline in a world gone mad, that he must prove worthy of the king’s trust.

“Let me have a try.” This was not Jorg’s voice. “Look at me, boy,” he said, not unkindly. “We do not want to hurt you. But we know you’re lying. How do we know? You’re carrying a king’s gloves. You have a pouch filled with coins, including bezants from the Holy Land. And word came from Friesach that the men arrested there had been seen with a German-speaking lad.” He paused, and when Arne kept silent, he said, “You are being very foolish,” sounding almost friendly. “What is your name?”

Arne could barely see this new interrogator, for one eye was already swollen shut and his other eye was blurred with tears. “Arne . . .”

“Well, that is a start. Arne, listen to me. You will tell us what we want to know. By being stubborn like this, you are only prolonging your suffering. Answer our questions and you’ll not be hit anymore. We’ll even fetch a doctor to tend to your hurts. Now . . . where is the English king?”

“I . . . I do not know,” Arne croaked. “I do not know!”

Someone laughed harshly; he thought it was Jorg. The second man shook his head and shrugged. “So be it. He’s all yours, Jorg.”

Arne squeezed his eye shut, as if not seeing the horror might make it go away. But then Jorg grabbed his hair and wrenched his head up. “You see this, boy? Look at this blade. Damn you, look at it! If you do not start giving us honest answers, I swear I will take it and cut your lying tongue out!”

Arne was crying softly, hopelessly, and when Jorge put the dagger to his throat, he shuddered and sobbed again. When the blade sliced his cheek, he cried out. But he did not answer any of the questions Jorg was shouting in his ear, and a third man intervened, drawing Jorg away. Arne sagged against the ropes binding him to the chair, grateful for this brief reprieve from the pain. They were soon back, though. “One last chance, whelp.” When Arne only whimpered, Jorg turned away to take something from the other man. Arne was suddenly aware of heat and he squinted to see a fire iron only inches from his face. His hair was being held again, his head pulled back, and then there was nothing but the sickening stench of burning flesh and agony and screaming.

R
ICHARD WAS REGARDING THE DISH
in front of him without enthusiasm and Morgan hid a smile, sure this was the first time he’d ever eaten boiled cabbage, which was unlikely to have made an appearance on the royal table. “Els is getting very motherly,” he said cheerfully, “for she insisted upon sharing some of the leftovers from her boys’ dinner. She told Arne we were much too thin and needed to eat more hearty fare. I daresay she’s right.” He knew from the way his clothes fit that he’d lost weight in these past few weeks and he thought his cousin looked downright gaunt. When Richard put the dish aside, Morgan hoped it was because he found the cabbage’s odor unappealing and not because of his fever. He had been taking the aqua vitae and herbs dutifully, even drinking the barley water, but Morgan knew what he really needed was a few more days of bed rest.

“Arne ought to be back from the town soon,” he assured Richard, “with food more to your liking.”

“That lad has been a blessing, for I do not know how we’d have fared without him. I will have to find a way to reward his loyalty. That goes for you, too, Cousin,” Richard said, with a quick smile. “I’d offer you an earldom if I did not fear you’d take it as an insult.”

Morgan grinned. “You’re joking, but King Henry did offer my father an earldom and he turned it down. It became a family jest, for he’d say that a Welshman with an English earldom was as unnatural as a bull with teats.” They both laughed at that and Morgan added lightly, “I had no choice but to accompany you, sire. I’d promised your sister that I’d not let you out of my sight and I feared her wrath far more than I fear Heinrich’s!”

“As well you should,” Richard agreed, with a grin of his own. “Joanna is a force to be reckoned with. She all but scorched my ears off when I told her I’d suggested to Saladin that we make peace by wedding her to his brother, al-Adil.”

Morgan had been about to take a swallow of ale, and nearly choked. “You did what?”

“Ah, I forgot you did not know about that. I still think it was one of my better ideas. It would have made al-Adil a king and so he had to be interested, for he was being offered both a crown and a beautiful bride. I was sure Saladin would refuse, and thought that might cause some rancor between the brothers. Joanna did not appreciate my diplomatic deviousness, though, and told me in no uncertain terms that she was not about to join a
harim
.” Richard was laughing now. “She reminded me that she grew to womanhood in Sicily, so she knew Muslims could have four wives. I then reminded her that she’d be a queen, so she’d have greater rank than al-Adil’s other wives, and she threw a cushion at me!”

Morgan was as amazed as he was amused. “I cannot believe you were able to keep this scheme so secret. Good God, think how the French would have reacted if word of it had gotten out!”

“That would have been awkward,” Richard conceded. “It was awkward, too, when Saladin accepted the proposal.”

Morgan’s jaw dropped. “He accepted it?”

“Yes, check and mate. I had to rewrite canon law, explaining that Joanna needed the Pope’s approval for such a marriage, being a widowed queen, and offered my niece in her stead if they were not willing to wait for the papal consent. Over dinner with al-Adil, I suggested that we could resolve the problem if he agreed to convert to Christianity, and he parried by proposing that Joanna become a Muslim.”

By now, Morgan was laughing so hard that he was on the verge of tears. “Passing strange,” he said, once he’d gotten his breath back, “that you got along so much better with your Saracen foes than with your French allies!”

“That is easy enough to explain. Saladin and al-Adil were men of honor, whereas the French . . . Well, if they are not in league with the Devil, it is only because he does not want them.” No longer laughing, Richard said pensively, “The terms I offered Saladin then were virtually the same as the ones he finally accepted after I’d retaken Jaffa—aside from Joanna’s participation, of course. We’d have saved so many lives if we’d only been able to make peace that November instead of the following September. Not to mention that we’d have been able to go home months ago. As interesting as this adventure has been, Morgan, I could have gone to my grave quite happily without ever laying eyes upon Ertpurch.”

Morgan agreed heartily and they shared a quiet moment, regretting what might have been. Soon afterward, Richard went back to sleep, and Morgan napped for a time, too; he doubted that any of them would ever take sleep for granted again. He was awakened when Guillain entered the chamber. There was no sign yet of Arne, he reported, but the horses had benefited from several days’ rest and the farrier had discovered that Morgan’s gelding was in danger of losing a shoe, which he’d replaced. They were keeping their voices low so Richard would not be disturbed, and frowned as sudden barking erupted outside. Richard did not stir, though, and Morgan began looking for the dice.

But the barking did not stop, was so loud now that it sounded as if all the dogs in the village were in full tongue. The two men exchanged uneasy looks and Guillain crossed to the window, unbarred the shutters, and peered out. “Holy Christ!” He slammed the shutters and whirled around, the blood draining from his face. “There are soldiers outside!”

Morgan reacted instinctively, crying out Richard’s name and dashing across the room to bar the door even as he realized the futility of it. The urgency in his voice awoke Richard at once. “Soldiers, sire,” Guillain said hoarsely and Richard was at the window in two strides. Opening the shutters just enough to give him a view of the alewife’s yard, he saw crossbowmen and men-at-arms taking up position. Els and her sons were standing out in the street, looking bewildered, as her neighbors emerged to see what was happening. Several knights had dismounted and, as Richard watched, they drew their swords and began to approach the house, shouting his name and one of the few German words he knew,
“König”
—king.

Richard latched the shutters again. His heart was thudding, his breath coming quick and shallow as his body reacted to the danger, while his stunned brain still struggled to accept what he’d seen. Morgan and Guillain looked just as shocked. None of them had truly believed that they’d be caught, for Richard’s self-confidence was contagious and they’d seen him defy the odds time and time again in the Holy Land. Now that his legendary luck had suddenly run out in this small Austrian village, it did not seem real to any of them, least of all to Richard.

He had his sword in hand now, but that was an unthinking response. For the first time in his life, he experienced what so many other men did in battle—pure physical panic. They were trapped, with no way out and only two choices—surrender or die. As he stared at the bedchamber door, hearing the thud of boots as the soldiers tried to kick it in, his emotions were in such turmoil that death seemed preferable to what awaited him outside this room.