A King's Ransom (38 page)

R
ICHARD SLEPT POORLY,
for every time he shifted position, he was awakened by the tension in the chain. The manacles were made of iron and surprisingly heavy; they fit tightly and already his wrists were being rubbed raw. He did not feel thankful that his ankles were not fettered, too, just a burning sense of outrage that a consecrated king should be subjected to such degrading maltreatment. He welcomed the fury, did all he could to feed the flames, clinging to his anger as if it were a shield in a vain attempt to keep the shame at bay. Last night, he’d told himself that he had no choice but to submit, that at least he could spare his pride by doing so. In the cold light of day, it seemed to him that in salvaging his pride, he’d sacrificed his honor.

Being chained up did not even rid him of the guards. There were only a few now and they squatted in the shadows, passing the time by telling jokes, or so he assumed, since they laughed often. But their continued presence salted his wounds, for he’d not been alone for even a few moments since his capture on December 21, not once free from prying, inquisitive eyes.

In midmorning, sounds from the inner bailey floated up through the arrow slits. By listening intently, Richard concluded that Markward von Annweiler was departing, doubtless returning to report to the emperor that he was securely caged at Trifels. He felt no relief, though, that the
ministerialis
was gone. Now he was surrounded by men who spoke not a word of French or Latin, unable to communicate with any of them.

The hours dragged by. Richard passed the time by recalling every memory of the past thirteen days, beginning with his first meeting with Heinrich in the chapter house. There must be a pattern, something he’d missed. Heinrich was not a man to act on impulse. He’d proved that by pretending to accept the verdict of the Imperial Diet. So what did he want? What did he hope to gain by this betrayal? Did he think he could strike a new deal with a man desperate enough to pay any price to escape Trifels? Or had he concluded that there was nothing to be gained now that he’d been outwitted and outmaneuvered at Speyer? Richard could still hear that cool, dispassionate voice.
If you do not agree, then you’re of no value to me, and I have no reason to keep you alive.
Had he been sent to Trifels to break his spirit? Or to suffer for daring to make a fool of Heinrich before his own court? He did not know the answer, but he would be given it by day’s end, and from an unexpected source.

He’d been served another scanty supper, a cup of weak ale, more bread and cheese, when the door opened and the burgrave entered, followed by several men carrying torches. The sudden brightness caused Richard to avert his gaze, for once night had fallen, his cell quickly filled with shadows. When his eyes had adjusted to the glare of those flames, he found himself looking into the face of Philip de Dreux, Bishop of Beauvais.

The bishop was grinning. “Have I ever seen a sight so sweet? No, I think not. You’re looking rather bedraggled, Lionheart, and it’s only been two days. Imagine what a pitiful state you’ll be in after you’ve enjoyed the emperor’s hospitality for a month or two.”

Richard got slowly to his feet. “I have you to thank for this, Beauvais?”

“I would love to be able to claim all the credit. But the emperor already had it in mind to send you here. He did not like how easily you beguiled his vassals and decided that you’d cause less trouble at Trifels. I agreed, of course. I explained, though, that it was not enough to keep you secluded, for you’re stubborn, Lucifer proud, and badly in need of a few lessons in humility. Heinrich does not want you dead, if that be any comfort. He wants you broken, and time spent at Trifels usually breaks men like twigs. When you’re ready to beg him for your freedom, then he may be willing to talk about new terms. As for me, I hope you hold out for a while. It gives me great pleasure to think of you cold, hungry, dirty, and fettered like a common felon.”

“You are a dead man, Beauvais, I swear it!”

The bishop laughed. “I am quaking in my boots; can you tell? You still do not see, do you, Richard? Heinrich would sell you to the Caliph of Baghdad if the price was right. Yes, he wants you to be miserable during your stay at Trifels, but he wants the money even more. You think your mother and friends will empty England’s coffers to rescue you, and I daresay you’re right. But hatred is a far more powerful force than love, and my cousin Philippe hates you as much as I do. He was not happy to learn that Heinrich and Leopold had agreed upon terms for your release at Würzburg without giving him a chance to put in a bid of his own. I am going back to Paris on the morrow to deliver the good news that he now has another chance. Whatever the English can offer, he will match it and more, and not just for the pleasure of seeing you rot in a French dungeon. He is no fool and knows full well that it will be a lot easier to take Normandy and Anjou away from your brother than from you. So it is safe to say that he is greatly motivated to outbid your doting mother. Think on that during those nights when sleep will not come.”

He waited to see if Richard would respond, and then signaled to the burgrave to open the door. “Farewell, my lord Lionheart,” he said mockingly. “May the next time we meet be in Paris. And if you think these accommodations are lacking, wait until you see what awaits you in the royal dungeons of the French king.”

R
ICHARD THOUGHT HE’D HIT
his lowest point while having to endure the bishop’s taunting. But the next day he began to cough and it got steadily worse. He was soon sure that he was running a fever, for the chamber no longer seemed as cold. He was already helpless in the hands of his enemies. If he was being punished for past sins, was that not enough? Must he sicken now, too, stricken with the chills and fever that had laid him low in the past? In the past, though, he’d been amongst friends and had doctors to tend to him. Even then he’d almost died of quartan fever at Jaffa. How long would it take for Death to claim him in this frigid, barren cell? Mayhap in time he’d come to see Death as an ally, but not yet. He was not ready to concede defeat, willing to suffer far greater deprivations than this to thwart those misbegotten, conniving caitiffs on the German and French thrones. Whatever he may have done to displease the Lord God, surely he was more deserving of Christ’s mercy than Heinrich and Philippe.

R
ICHARD HAD BEEN TROUBLED
for hours by coughing fits, but he’d finally fallen asleep after midnight. He was not sure what awakened him, for at first he heard only the snoring of his guards and the keening of the wind. Shivering, he reached again for his blanket and mantle. It was then that he heard it, a voice close at hand, telling him to wake up. The words were in French and the voice was very familiar. He sat up so abruptly that his chain jerked him backward. Peering into the darkness beyond his bed, he thought he could discern a figure standing a few feet away. For once, he was utterly at a loss. Feeling like a fool, he said dubiously, “Are you a ghost?”

The laughter was hoarse and raspy and familiar, too. “You’d think I’d have better things to do in the afterlife than haunt my ungrateful son, would you not? Yet here I am.”

“No,” Richard said, “you are
not
here.”

“And you are not in a German dungeon,” Henry shot back. “Let’s assume that I got a safe conduct from Purgatory. I have something to tell you and for once I want you to heed what I say. Let’s begin with that bastard Beauvais. Even a blind pig can turn up an acorn occasionally and he was right when he called you stubborn. That stubbornness will be your undoing if you do not start recognizing your new reality.”

“And this reality involves chatting with a ghost?” Richard said dryly. “Well, why not? What should I be doing, then?”

“Start by admitting what you most fear.”

Richard forgot that this had to be a dream. “I fear nothing!”

His father laughed again. “If that were true, your mother would be an even worse wife than I thought, for no blood son of mine could be such a fool. We both know what you most fear, Richard—what any man with half a brain would fear—that you could be turned over to the tender mercies of the French king.”

He paused, as if daring Richard to deny it. “Say what you will of that German vulture, he is motivated by sheer greed. I daresay he is enjoying this chance to humiliate you, for you do have a rare gift for making enemies. But we’re still dealing with basic greed, which is why the French king is so much more dangerous. Philippe hates you with the only spark of passion ever to inflame that shriveled soul of his. Oh, he would also like to put Johnny on your throne, realizing that Johnny is much easier prey than you. I confess to being grievously disappointed in that lad.”

“So am I,” Richard said, having discovered that he was actually enjoying his eerie, improbable conversation with this sardonic spirit.

“But it is Philippe’s poisonous jealousy that would doom you. You do know what will happen if he ever gets you in his power, Richard? You’ll never see the light of day again and when death comes, you’ll welcome it.”

“Of course I know that! But in case you’ve not noticed, I do not have much control over events these days.”

“You have more control than you know, lad. Make the most of it. Do whatever it takes to keep Heinrich from selling you to the French.”

“Even if that means swallowing every last shred of my pride?” Richard demanded, with sudden bitterness.

“Yes, damn you, yes! You owe this to me, Richard. Save my empire. Do not let my life’s work become dust on the wind. Do not let Philippe and Johnny destroy it all.” It was very quiet after that. When Henry finally spoke again, the raw passion was gone from his voice, as was the ironic, detached amusement. “There is something else you need to remember whenever this new reality of yours becomes more than you think you can bear. You cannot gain revenge from the grave. Trust me on this; I know.”

Richard did not respond at once, for a fettered memory had just been set free—the last words his father had ever spoken to him. Compelled by Philippe to give his rebel son the kiss of peace, he’d done so, and then growled,
God grant that I live long enough to avenge myself upon you!
It was only then that Richard had realized Henry was truly dying.

“When I found myself a prisoner at Dürnstein, knowing I was facing a trial at Heinrich’s court, charged with crimes I’d never committed, I began to think that mayhap I was being punished for other sins. At the time, I did not consider them sins. I thought I was justified in defending my birthright and my mother. Now . . . I am not so sure. Is this why God has turned His face away from me? Because of my sins against you?”

Richard waited tensely for Henry’s answer. It never came. There was only silence.

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
the dream was still so vivid that it unsettled Richard, for he remembered hallucinating at Jaffa in the throes of fever, convinced that Philippe and his brothers John and Geoffrey were at his sickbed. Could he be hallucinating again? He was not on fire with fever, though, and he took comfort from that, deciding it was only a dream, nothing more.

He had another bad day, for his coughing was now so persistent that he sometimes felt as if he were strangling. He finally gained a brief surcease in midafternoon when he fell asleep. But when he awoke, his fear of hallucinations came flooding back as he stared at the three men by his bed. The burgrave did not look as stoic as before; he was flushed and clearly ill at ease. A rail-thin youth with red hair, freckles, and a friendly gap-toothed smile was at the burgrave’s side. And kneeling by the pallet was a man small and misshapen, cursed with a receding chin, flat nose, and crippled legs, so plain that his enemies cruelly called him “dwarf” and “imp” and “gargoyle,” England’s disgraced chancellor, Guillaume de Longchamp.