A King's Ransom (27 page)

Hubert stalled for time by reaching for a wafer he had no intention of eating. While he might normally have dreaded female hysteria, he knew both women well enough to be sure they’d not lose control. Knowing how devastated they’d be, though, by what he had to tell them, he wished he could delay the moment of truth even longer. “He was fit when I last saw him, Madame,” he said, glad that he could at least assure Richard’s wife of that much. “But I do have news of the king. Whilst I was still with the Pope, a courier arrived with an urgent message from the Archbishop of Cologne. I deeply regret that I must be the bearer of such ill tidings. King Richard was captured near Vienna by the Duke of Austria and, according to the archbishop, he will soon be turned over to the Emperor Heinrich.”

Joanna had tensed with his first words of warning, and she thought she was braced for whatever he had to reveal. Now she discovered it was not so, for his news struck her like a physical blow. All the air seemed to have been expelled from her lungs and she found herself struggling for breath. When she glanced toward her sister-in-law, she suffered a second shock, for Berengaria was gazing raptly at the bishop as if he were one of God’s own angels, her face glowing.

“Gracias a Dios!”
She turned toward Joanna then, her smile radiant. “He is alive, Joanna, he is alive!”

“And a prisoner of the German emperor!”

“Not for long, though. The Holy Father will never tolerate such an outrageous breach of Church law. He will force Heinrich to release Richard and to make amends for daring to defy the Church and for treating a king, a man who fought for God in the Holy Land, with such disrespect.” Berengaria reached over, covering Joanna’s hand with her own. “I can confess now,” she said, “how fearful I was. I kept remembering those savage storms, how the sea seethed and raged, how the gales were said to be even more violent during the winter . . . but I ought to have had more faith. The Almighty would never abandon Richard.”

Joanna had opened her mouth, but she caught her words before they could escape. By now all in the hall had gathered around them as word spread, and Hubert related what little he knew—that Richard’s ship had been driven onto the Istrian coast during a storm and he had apparently been trying to reach his nephew’s lands in Saxony. “If he got as far as Vienna, he almost made it, too, for he’d have been safe once he’d crossed into Moravia. What I do not understand is why he had so few men with him. According to the archbishop, less than twenty, and only three with him when he was finally caught.”

That horrified Joanna almost as much as the news of Richard’s capture, for she had a vivid imagination and could envision all too well what those desperate weeks on the run must have been like for her brother. Mariam had drawn near and took advantage of the sudden silence to ask Bishop Hubert if the Archbishop of Cologne’s messenger had known the names of those twenty men. When he shook his head, she said nothing, but she soon slipped unobtrusively from the hall, her passing noted only by Joanna, who knew she was terrified for Morgan’s safety. She loved Mariam as a sister and was very fond of her cousin Morgan, but for now she could think of no one but Richard, facing the greatest danger of his life.

Berengaria withdrew as soon as she could politely do so, and as she exited the hall with her ladies, Joanna was sure she was going to the nearby church of Santa Maria in Capitolo to give thanks for Richard’s deliverance. Anna had accompanied her, as eager as Berengaria to believe the worst of Richard’s ordeal was over, taking Alicia with her.

Their household knights began to break up into smaller groups to discuss this momentous news and what its ramifications would be. Finally Joanna found herself alone with Hubert Walter and Stephen de Turnham, the English lord who’d been entrusted by Richard with the safety of his women on their homeward journey. From the corner of her eye, she saw Beatrix hovering nearby, as she’d done for every crisis of Joanna’s twenty-seven years, and she was grateful that she’d be able to turn to Beatrix for support, knowing Mariam, so often her mainstay, would be thinking only of Morgan. And she could expect no help from her sister-in-law, not as long as Berengaria clung to her belief that the Pope could bring a man like Heinrich to heel like a cowed dog.

She took her time, choosing her words with care, for she did not want to offend Hubert Walter, who was, after all, a prelate of the Church. “I fear I do not have as much confidence as my sister by marriage in the Holy Father’s ability to influence the emperor.”

“The Pope is indeed outraged, Madame, as are all at the Holy See. But if I may speak candidly, I very much doubt that he will dare to use the Church’s most powerful weapon against Heinrich, and nothing less than excommunication and anathema will compel the emperor to set the king free.”

Joanna rallied then, for to give in utterly to despair would be to fail Richard in his time of need. “Heinrich will seek to ransom Richard, as any common bandit would do. Whatever he demands, we will raise it. My mother will see to that.” Forcing a smile, she said, “And I would back her against Heinrich any day of the week.”

They smiled, too, as desperate as she for hope. But then the bishop showed Joanna just how much their world had changed by saying that it would be best if she and Berengaria remained in Rome indefinitely. It was too dangerous to pass close to the territories of the empire, for if they fell into Heinrich’s hands, he could use their captivity to force further concessions from Richard. “We must not labor under the delusion that we are dealing with a man of honor,” he said grimly. “There is nothing he will not do to enhance his own power, and we forget at our peril that he is utterly unfettered by scruples or moral boundaries.”

Joanna bit her lip, knowing he spoke the truth. She found herself imagining what it must be like for Richard, at the mercy of such a man, and she could not suppress a shiver. So caught up was she in her own dark thoughts that she did not at first hear Hubert’s question and he had to repeat himself. “I am sorry, my lord. You were saying something about letters?”

“I will be leaving Rome by week’s end. I thought that you and Queen Berengaria might wish to give me letters to deliver.”

“Letters . . . for my mother? Of course.”

“No, letters for the king. I am not going back to England. I am going to Germany.”

Joanna felt tears stinging her eyes. “Bless you for that.”

He reached over and patted her hand. “You must never forget that there are men beyond counting who’d willingly offer up their own lives for the king.”

“For certes, any man who ever fought beside him,” Stephen de Turnham interjected.

Joanna smiled at them both, but her smile was as fleeting as that moment of hope. “Richard also has enemies beyond counting,” she said, thinking of the French king and her own brother.

“Yes, he does,” the bishop agreed, paying her the compliment of giving her the same brutal truth he’d have given to a man. “And now that they think he may have been dealt a mortal blow, the vultures will be circling.”

Joanna’s head came up, green eyes narrowing. “Let them. No vulture can bring down a lion.” But the men knew better than that, and so did she.

T
HE
W
ELSH STRONGHOLD OF
C
ARDIFF
was over a hundred years old, built on the site of an ancient Roman fort. It had once been the prison of a king’s brother; for thirty years, the Duke of Normandy had languished there at the command of the first King Henry. That was not a comforting thought to the current king’s brother John, Count of Mortain, and he reminded himself that Cardiff was his now, come to him by his marriage to the wealthy Gloucester heiress.

Pushing away from the table and an interrupted chess game with one of his knights, Sir Durand de Curzon, John moved restlessly about the chamber before going to the window and unlatching the shutters. The storm continued unabated, rain slanting sideways, turning the inner bailey into a muddy quagmire, while the wind tested the castle defenses like an enemy army probing for weaknesses. John watched for a while longer before saying sulkily, “Does the sun never shine in this accursed country?”

His audience had no interest in discussing the weather. His mistress yawned and stretched like a sleek, pampered cat. Although it was midmorning, she was still abed. Sitting up, she let the sheet dip, giving Durand de Curzon a partial glimpse of her breasts. He was sure it was deliberate. He’d seen more beautiful women than Ursula, but never one who radiated such raw, smoldering sexuality. He doubted that even the most celibate of priests could look upon that wanton red mouth, those smoky grey eyes, that mane of lustrous flaxen hair, and that lush, ripe body without feeling the throb of forbidden desire. Hellfire and damnation, the woman was a walking, breathing mortal sin.

Feeling his eyes upon her, Ursula regarded him with indifference that he wanted to believe was feigned. But he would not have lain with her even had she been willing. As long as John was bedding her, she was off-limits, for there was too much at stake to risk it upon a tumble with a wench, no matter how enticing her carnal charms. Still, though, she bothered him, like an itch he could not scratch. He could not decide if she was the ultimate cynic, disillusioned and jaded, or simply dull-witted. Even with John, she seemed remarkably nonchalant. A royal concubine usually stroked her lover’s pride as lovingly as his cock, hanging upon his every word as if they were as precious as pearls, laughing at all his jests, doing her best to make him believe she saw him as irresistible and clever and vigorous as he invariably saw himself. Not Ursula, though. Durand had never heard her compliment John, nor did she seem enthralled by his conversation, and his sardonic jests were as likely to earn an eye roll from her as an appreciative, sultry giggle. That John tolerated this dubious behavior only enhanced Durand’s certainty that the woman must be scorching hot in bed.

John was still grumbling about the foul Welsh weather and Durand could no longer ignore him. He had many duties as a knight in John’s household, some perfectly proper, others too dark to confess to any priest, but he was also expected to amuse his lord when called upon, to help John banish boredom, even if it meant playing endless games of chess or hazard or listening to John’s musings about life, women, and how unfairly he’d been treated by his father. John was very defensive about his relationship with Henry, occasionally boring Durand almost to tears as he explained why he’d had no choice but to abandon his dying father and why anyone in his place would have done the same thing. Durand knew that few others saw this side of John, for John was not a man who easily gave his trust. But he’d begun to share some of his secrets with Durand, confident that they would be kept. What he did not know was that Durand had secrets of his own.

John had not yet moved from the window, careless of the cold, damp air he was allowing to invade his bedchamber. “If this keeps up much longer, we’ll soon be building arks.”

Durand decided it was time to contribute to the conversation lest John think he was not listening. “I’ve heard that many of the Welsh have webbed feet.”

Unexpectedly, this stirred a rare flicker of curiosity in Ursula. “Truly?” When the men grinned, she scowled and sought to cover her faux pas by saying scornfully, “That sounds like the sort of nonsense you’d believe, Durand.”

“It is not as far-fetched as that, my lady,” he drawled. “Some people claim the English have long tails, but I’ve never had the opportunity to find out if there is any truth to it. Ah, wait, you were born in England, no? I daresay you’ve seen more naked Englishmen than I have. Any of them with tails?”

“I can tell you one English tail you’ll never get to see, Durand—mine.”

John turned from the window, clearly amused by their barbed byplay. “Now, now, children,” he said, in the pitch-perfect tone of a parent reprimanding squabbling siblings. But when a knock sounded at the door, they were forgotten and he strode swiftly over to open it. It was one of his household knights, Geoffrey Luttrell, bearing a sealed letter. John reached for it eagerly, dismissed the knight with a careless gesture, and moved toward the oil lamp to read the letter. Geoffrey lingered long enough to shoot a hostile arrow of a look in Durand’s direction. He knew the other knights resented his growing intimacy with John, had heard them grumbling about “those who got above themselves,” for Durand’s background, like his past, remained a mystery. A few days ago, he’d entered the hall just as one of them disdainfully called him “the count’s tame wolf.” They’d fallen silent when they realized he’d heard, for though they’d never admit it, there was something about Durand that other men found unsettling. But he’d laughed aloud, for he was not tamed, nor was he John’s wolf. He was Eleanor’s.

“It is from Hugh de Nonant,” John said, casting the letter onto the table. “He’s heard nothing about Richard. So why bother to send a messenger halfway across Wales just to tell me that?”

John seemed to be speaking the truth, but Durand would later see if he could manage to read the letter for himself, just to be sure. The Bishop of Coventry was as slippery as any eel, and while he’d so far proclaimed himself to be John’s man, Durand thought he’d jump ship if Richard suddenly turned up, alive and well and ready to avenge himself upon those who’d been so quick to believe John’s claim that he was dead.