A King's Ransom (34 page)

Richard stalked back toward the dais, pointing accusingly at the Bishop of Beauvais. “This man sought only to sabotage me during our time in the Holy Land and he then slandered my name throughout Christendom. Yet those are not his greatest crimes. Scriptures tell us that we must forgive those who sin against us, for then we will be forgiven by the Heavenly Father. But I will never be able to forgive Philip de Dreux, the Bishop of Beauvais, for his refusal to help us rescue those trapped at Jaffa.”

Richard’s eyes swept the hall before returning to those on the dais. “I daresay you have all heard about the two battles that I fought at Jaffa. But you may not have heard of the treachery of the men who were supposed to be my allies. We had returned to Acre and I was planning to attack Beirut, the last port still under Saladin’s control, when we received a desperate appeal from Jaffa. Saladin had launched a surprise assault upon the city and they did not know how long they could hold out. There were more than four thousand people in Jaffa, many of them soldiers recovering from war wounds—and a goodly number of them were French. Yet when we told the Bishop of Beauvais and the Duke of Burgundy that Jaffa was under attack, they refused to join the rescue mission. Their hatred of me mattered more than the lives of their own countrymen! Then they dared to accuse me of betraying my Christian brethren when the true guilt was theirs.”

Beauvais had seemed on the verge of interrupting several times in the course of Richard’s defense, but each time he’d been silenced by Heinrich. Now he started to rise to his feet, only to sink back in his seat at the emperor’s terse command.

“There may be some in this hall who are loath to believe what I have said about the Duke of Burgundy and the Bishop of Beauvais. But you need not take my word for it. Sir Druon de Mello was with us in the Holy Land, and he is an honest man. If you ask, he will confirm what I’ve said.”

Druon de Mello’s head jerked up. He looked horrified to be the center of attention, and his obvious misery spoke volumes without a word being said. Hadmar was translating again, and when he was done, Richard drew the rolled-up parchment slowly and deliberately from his belt.

“But if you want further evidence that I’ve spoken the truth, I give you this. I would have willingly answered for any offenses I may have committed at the court of the French king, for he is my liege lord. He would never have dared to summon me, though. How do I know that? Because of this,” he said, holding the parchment aloft so all could see.

“Philippe Capet has done everything in his power to destroy my honor and my good name, and now that I am entrapped in his web of lies, what does he do? At a time when he knows I am powerless to defend myself or my domains, he declares war upon England.” Richard got the response he’d hoped for—expressions of shock and disgust on the faces of these German bishops and lords.

“But one of the accusations made against me by the French is true. They say that my war was a failure, and they are right. I have explained why I believed we could not recapture the Holy City. Yet that was the aim of our quest. I swore an oath to Almighty God that I would liberate Jerusalem from the Saracens, and I was unable to do it. My oath means more to me than the French king’s oath did to him, though. So I promised Queen Isabella and my nephew and the Poulain lords that once I dealt with my faithless brother and treacherous liege lord, I would return to Outremer to fulfill my vow.”

Looking about him, Richard was gratified to see that his words had resonated with the audience. “Now you have heard my account of what truly happened.” He was tempted to end with a proud
Make of it what you will.
He realized, though, that arrogance was an indulgence he could not afford, and so he forced himself to strike a more conciliatory note. “I would hope that you give greater weight to my actions than to my enemies’ lies and render justice this day to a man sorely in need of it.”

There was a brief silence when he was done speaking, and then the hall erupted into applause and cheers. Men were standing and Richard soon found himself surrounded by Heinrich’s lords and bishops, some of them with tears in their eyes. The stranger who’d sent him the wine introduced himself as Adolf von Altena, the Provost of Cologne’s great cathedral, and showed himself to be a man of courage by saying loudly that the king of the English had been cruelly maligned. All of the bishops had joined the circle by now, even the Bishop of Speyer, and Richard had a fleeting moment to wonder if the prelates were seizing this opportunity to show their disapproval of their emperor’s flouting of Church law. But then they were moving aside, clearing a path for Boniface of Montferrat.

The marquis came to a halt in front of Richard. “Do you swear upon the salvation of your immortal soul that you played no part in my brother’s death?”

“I do so swear.”

Boniface’s pause was deliberate, for he shared Richard’s flair for drama. “I believe you,” he said at last, and that set off another bout of cheering.

Richard was dazed by his own success, for this had exceeded his wildest expectations. The small English contingent was laughing through tears and Hadmar had materialized at his side, a wide grin on his face. But Leopold remained seated, his rigid body language conveying his disappointment and anger. As Richard turned toward the dais, so did others, until the hall had grown quiet and all eyes were upon the emperor.

It was easy enough to read the emotions of the men flanking Heinrich. The Bishop of Beauvais looked as if he were in danger of strangling on his own bile. Heinrich’s uncle seemed to share Leopold’s dismay, while Heinrich’s brothers were grinning behind his back, sibling rivalry apparently proving stronger than family solidarity. But Heinrich could have been carved from ice, so little did his face reveal of his thoughts.

When Richard started to walk toward the dais, it was so still that his footsteps echoed sharply on the tiled floor. For a long moment, his eyes held Heinrich’s and then he knelt before the throne. There was a muted sound from the audience, almost like a collective catch of breath, which at once gave way to wild cheering. The hall quieted, though, when Heinrich got to his feet.

“We have been led astray by false tales. I see now that the English king has been unfairly accused and defamed.” Reaching out, he signaled for Richard to rise and then, solemnly and formally, Heinrich gave the other man the kiss of peace.

The cheering began again, loudly enough to echo out into the city streets. Richard was not fooled by Heinrich’s dispassionate demeanor. He was close enough to the emperor to see the frozen fury reflected in those ice-pale eyes, and he gloried in it. For most of his life, he’d made a habit of defying the odds, turning likely defeats into improbable triumphs. But never had he experienced a victory as sweet or as satisfying as the one he’d just won in the Imperial Diet at Speyer.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MARCH 1193

Speyer, Germany

T
he mood in the chamber was subdued, with most of the men taking their cues from their emperor, who’d so far said very little. Leopold was just as taciturn, lapsing into a brooding silence after saying morosely to Heinrich, “I did warn you. The man can talk as well as fight.” Heinrich’s brother Conrad was currently holding forth, disgruntled that he’d been assigned the duty of placating the enraged Bishop of Beauvais, but few were paying heed to his complaints.

Count Dietrich von Hochstaden finally lost patience with Conrad’s grumbling and interrupted, his the confidence of one who stood close enough to the emperor to take such liberties. “I know who is to blame for this—Adolf von Altena. He was the first on his feet, the first to start cheering, and that set the other fools off. We ought never to have allowed him to attend.”

The Bishop of Speyer heard that as an implied criticism and was quick to take umbrage, for Otto von Henneberg was a prince as well as bishop, and not about to accept a rebuke from one he regarded as his inferior. “We had no choice. He was sent here by his uncle, the Archbishop of Cologne, to negotiate on behalf of the rebels, and you know that, my lord count.”

“‘Negotiate’? Spying is more like it,” Dietrich said with a sneer. “And since when do we negotiate with rebels? They deserve beheading, not cosseting.”

Before Bishop Otto could retort, Heinrich’s uncle rose to his feet. Konrad von Hohenstaufen had years of experience in navigating the sometimes stormy waters of imperial politics, and he was able to silence the squabbling merely by raising his hand. “This rebellion is not to be taken lightly, not when the Archbishops of Cologne and Mainz have joined it. What we must do now is to make sure that other prelates do not follow their example.” For a moment, his eyes rested upon Count Dietrich, for he knew the other man was never one to advocate compromise or conciliation. “I have overheard some foolish men saying that the emperor ought to have ignored the verdict of the Imperial Diet instead of embracing it. Nothing would have been better calculated to swell the ranks of the rebels than such an arbitrary act. My nephew, the emperor, handled it wisely and prudently, and I, for one, was proud of his conduct this day.”

He glanced then at Heinrich, marveling as always that the son should be so unlike the father. His brother, Friedrich Barbarossa, had been the embodiment of chivalry, a superb warrior, fearless in battle, shrewd, robust, genial, quick to laugh, and able to charm even his enemies, whereas Heinrich lacked all of those virtues. Heinrich did have an implacable resolve, extraordinary intelligence, and an unsettling ability to make decisions devoid of any emotional content, as Konrad thought he’d proved that afternoon in the Bishop of Speyer’s great hall. He found his nephew both admirable and repellent, single-minded in his determination to defend and expand their empire, but utterly unable to identify with the needs and desires that drove other men. Konrad was not yet sure if that would make him a great emperor or a monster.

He was thankful, though, that Heinrich had been astute enough to see he’d been backed into a corner by the English king and disciplined enough to accept it. Had Heinrich not acted so swiftly and decisively, Konrad was sure he’d have made enemies of most of the men in the hall, those under the thrall of the Lionheart and those who were seeking any excuse to join the rebels. And Heinrich already had more enemies than he could handle, thanks to that bloody, botched murder of the Bishop of Liege. Konrad did not think his nephew had given the command to have the bishop killed. He thought it more likely that some of his lackeys had acted in the belief he’d be pleased, and Konrad’s chief suspect was Count Dietrich von Hochstaden, brother of the man who’d contested that episcopal election. But he’d not asked Heinrich outright and knew he never would.

“I agree with the lord count,” Speyer’s bishop said firmly. “Word is already spreading of the English king’s convincing defense before the Diet. Now that he has cleared his name, the Church will begin agitating for his release. I say we end this as quickly as we can, putting the blame on the French king and—” He stopped himself, but not in time.

“And me?” Leopold was on his feet, glowering at the prelate-prince.

“Well, you were the one who first laid hands upon a man who’d taken the cross.”

“Because I was commanded to seize him by the emperor!”

The bishop shrugged and Heinrich’s brother, who had no liking for Leopold and enjoyed muddying the waters, said snidely, “I doubt you will be able to prove that when summoned before the papal curia, so I’d think of another defense if I were you, my lord duke.”

That outraged not only Leopold but all of the Austrians in the chamber. It also roused Heinrich from his private reverie, and he gave his brother a cold stare. Conrad had earned a well-deserved reputation at the imperial court for being truculent and difficult to deal with. He was not an utter fool, though, and the one person he never crossed was his older brother. He at once subsided, even mumbling a grudging apology when Leopold demanded it.

Heinrich shoved his chair back, saying, “We are done here for now.” The others at once rose, made their obeisances, and began to file out. As he looked over his shoulder, Hadmar saw that Heinrich had kept his seat, signaling for his marshal, Heinz von Kalden, and his seneschal, Markward von Annweiler, to remain. Shutting the door upon this confidential colloquy, Hadmar felt a prickling of unease, but the sight of Heinrich and his most trusted
ministeriales
often invoked that sensation. The unholy trinity, he called them, although that was an indiscretion he confided to no one, not even his wife. With another speculative glance at that closed door, he hurried to catch up with his still-irate duke.