A King's Ransom (44 page)

D
AME
M
ARTHE WAS GROWING
frantic for she’d searched much of the castle without finding her mistress. While the Lady Alys was kept under discreet surveillance, she was not strictly guarded, the castellan treating her more as a guest than what she really was—a hostage. Marthe supposed she could have slipped out through a postern gate, but where would she have gone? Marthe had served Alys since she’d been sent to the English court at age nine, and could not have loved her more if she’d been Marthe’s own child. That love did not blind her to her lady’s nature, though. Alys was sweet and good-hearted and trusting, yet she lacked spirit, had nothing in her of the rebel. She would never have run away, never even have ventured out into the city on her own, no more than a bird bred in captivity would dare to leave the security of its cage.

Marthe had long known Alys would never be England’s queen, for on the few occasions when she’d actually been in Richard’s company, he’d shown her nothing more than polite indifference. She’d said nothing, though, for her lady remained convinced that the marriage would come to pass, and she realized that Alys needed that hope, needed to believe that she would have her happy ending. Alys kept faith long after another woman would have recognized the reality of her precarious position, right up until the moment when Marthe had to tell her that Richard had wed Berengaria of Navarre.

Having checked the great hall and the solar and chapel, even the kitchen, Marthe halted in the middle of the inner bailey, not knowing where else to look. She still remembered how Alys had wept, remembered trying in vain to comfort her, all the while cursing the men who’d failed her so spectacularly. But once Alys was forced to abandon her girlhood dream of a golden crown and a handsome husband renowned for his courage, she’d shown surprising resilience and embraced her new future at the French court as wholeheartedly as she’d once clung to her English destiny. She’d soon convinced herself that the brother she’d not seen since he was four years old would be her loving protector, that he would find a highborn husband for her, one worthy of a king’s daughter. Once the English king—she no longer called him Richard—came back from the Holy Land, she would return to Paris and reclaim her life.

Marthe had no more confidence in the French king than she’d had in the two English kings. As before, she’d held her peace, though, not willing to deprive Alys of her dreams. But again, nothing had gone as expected. Instead of returning to England and setting Alys free, the English king was a prisoner in Germany. Only the Blessed Almighty knew when—or if—he would regain his own freedom, and Alys, now in her thirty-third year, was trapped with him as surely as if she, too, were Heinrich’s hostage. She’d begun to despair—until a French army had appeared before the walls of Rouen.

Marthe suddenly knew where her lady was. She was no longer young and somewhat stout, and by the time she emerged onto the castle battlements, she was panting heavily. The sentries greeted her cheerfully, sharing wineskins to celebrate their town’s reprieve. She soon saw Alys, a slender figure wrapped in a blue cloak, standing as far away from the guards as she could get. She did not turn, even when Marthe called her name, continuing to stare out at the abandoned French camp. Reaching her side, Marthe entreated, “Come inside, my lamb. You will take a chill out here.”

Alys did not seem to hear. “They have gone, Marthe,” she said, her blue eyes welling with tears. “They have gone and left me here.”

A
FTER RETREATING FROM
R
OUEN,
Philippe’s army seized several important castles in quick succession, and gained some satisfaction in capturing Pacy-sur-Eure, for it belonged to the Earl of Leicester. It was not compensation, though, for his failure to take Rouen. Philippe was usually quick to anger, quick to forgive. But what he neither forgot nor forgave was being made to look like a fool, and he now bore Leicester a bitter grudge.

R
ICHARD WAS PLAYING A
dice game with his guards, mocking their comical efforts to speak French and his equally halting attempts to master German. His new warders were friendly, respectful, and curious, playful sheepdogs rather than the hungry wolves of Trifels; one of them could even string together more than a few words of French. But he knew they were Markward’s spies, even if they did not see their duties in that light, and so he was determined to show no signs of despair or desperation before them. Since he had no money to wager, he told them he’d offer English knighthoods as his stakes, and they thought that was hilarious, calling one another Sir Herman and Sir Wilhelm with clumsy court bows. They joked in turn that they would smuggle in a whore called Lena for him, whose favors they all seemed to have enjoyed.

When Richard actually found himself half tempted by that offer, he realized he’d been far too long without a woman in his bed. That brought his wife to mind, for the first time in weeks. He felt confident that she was coping with his captivity, for her faith was unwavering, as steadfast as any saint’s. He was more concerned for his mother and Joanna, thinking that memories of their own confinement would have been stirred up by his plight. And what of his son? Philip was twelve now, caught in that unmapped, alien land between childhood and manhood. He tried to remember how it was for him at twelve. How would he have reacted had his father been imprisoned? Surely with utter disbelief. But he’d have been able to turn to his mother for answers, for reassurance. Philip had no mother; she had died years ago.

In midafternoon, he was surprised and delighted to be given a letter; the seal was broken, of course, but any communication with the outside world was a cause for celebration. Once he read it, though, he was both saddened and shaken, for this unexpected death proved how little he understood what the Almighty intended for him. Leaning back in the window-seat, open to the warm May air, he struggled to comprehend the incomprehensible. Scriptures said that a man’s heart plans his way but the Lord directs his steps. So God had guided him to this place, away from the Holy Land. But why? He watched as the letter slipped from his grasp, fluttering to the floor at his feet. Nothing made sense anymore.

A sudden knock at the door interrupted this brooding reverie. The guard dubbed Sir Wilhelm by his friends opened the door wide, admitting Markward von Annweiler. Richard tensed at the sight of the
ministerialis
, whom he’d always associate with that frigid cell at Trifels and those heavy iron manacles. But then the German was forgotten. “I do not believe it!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet as Fulk de Poitiers followed Markward into the chamber.

The clerk quickly held up his hand. “If you must hug me, sire, try not to break a rib!”

Richard burst out laughing and embraced the older man joyfully, not as king and clerk, but as fellow shipwreck survivors, and when he stepped back, he saw the usually stoic cleric was actually blinking away tears. Markward had not lingered, sauntering out with a jaunty wave before they even noticed he was gone. Richard at once began to bombard Fulk with questions. Was he the only one freed? Where were the others? How had they been treated? Had he seen Guillain and Morgan, the lad Arne? Were they all well?

“You have to stop talking ere I can begin to answer, my liege,” Fulk protested, with a fair imitation of his usual grumpiness. “I am afraid you’ll have to make do with just me for now.” The others were still in Regensburg, though they’d been promised they’d soon be released. Of course, promises were easy to offer, not always easy to spend. Whilst no one would ever mistake their German hosts for angels unaware, they’d not been maltreated. He’d been held with those arrested at Friesach, knew nothing of Guillain and Morgan or the boy. He had heard that the Templars and crossbowmen had been set free, though. He thought Anselm would be the next one released, being a priest, but Baldwin de Bethune was likely to be held till the last, highborn enough to qualify as a hostage.

By now they were sitting in the window-seat and the sunlight was not kind, telling Fulk more about his king’s captivity than any words could have done. “You do not look well, sire,” he said bluntly. “I can see that you’ve lost weight, and sleep, too. That cocky German who escorted me here said you’d passed some days at Trifels Castle. Can that be true?”

“Sixteen days, to be precise,” Richard said laconically, but he was willing to go no further than that. Fulk knew him well enough not to push, confident that when he was ready to talk about his ordeal, he would. That it had been an ordeal, Fulk did not doubt, for he was familiar with the sinister reputation of Heinrich’s imperial prison. On the road from Regensburg, he’d been reassuring himself that the king’s rank would have been respected, but that hope had vanished as soon as he’d heard the name of Trifels Castle.

“Obviously we have much to talk about,” he said briskly. “I suspect you are better informed than us about what has been happening in England and Rome. I suppose it is too much to hope that the Holy Father has found the ballocks to take the emperor on.”

Richard had rarely heard the words “Holy Father” invested with such sarcasm, and he laughed again, ridiculously happy to see his cantankerous clerk, hoping that his sudden sentimentality was a symptom of confinement and would not survive once he’d regained his freedom.

Fulk had noticed the dropped letter and instinctively reached for it, accustomed to taking charge of his king’s correspondence. As he started to hand it to Richard, his gaze fell upon the salutation and he gave an exclamation of surprise. “You heard from the Doge of Venice?”

Richard saw no reason not to indulge his curiosity. “Go ahead, read it,” he said, and Fulk at once held the letter up toward the light.

“To his most serene lord, Richard, by the grace of God, King of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Count of Anjou, Enrico Dandolo, by the same grace, Doge of Venice, Dalmatia, and Cherum, health and sincere and duteous affection. Know ye that it has been intimated to me, from a source that can be relied upon, that Saladin, that enemy of the Christian religion, died in the first week of Lent. And one of his sons, whom he is said to have appointed heir to the whole of his dominions, is at present in Damascus, while the other one is ruling at Egypt and Alexandria. His brother is in the vicinity of Egypt with a numerous army, and the greatest dissension exists between them. Farewell.”

When Fulk glanced up, Richard saw that he’d immediately grasped the significance of this momentous news. “With Saladin dead, my liege, and his empire in disarray, Jerusalem is a plum ripe for plucking.”

“And if I’d not been compelled to make a truce with Saladin so I could return to defend my own kingdom, I’d still be in Outremer, Fulk. Without the French to hinder us, Henri and I could have taken Jerusalem back from the Saracens.” Richard was on his feet now, striding back and forth. “The French king and my brother have much to answer for. And so does that scorpion on the German throne. Had I been able to reach England, it would not have taken me long to put Johnny and Philippe on the run. I could then have made plans to return to the Holy Land, just as I’d promised Henri and the Almighty. Now . . . who knows how long it will be ere I am free to fulfill my vow?”

He whirled suddenly, demanding of his clerk, “Does any of this make sense to you, Fulk? Why has God let this happen? Saladin’s death offers a rare opportunity to regain the most sacred city in Christendom and yet I cannot take advantage of it!”

The easy answer would be to say it was not for them to question the ways of the Almighty. But Fulk was not one to offer easy answers, nor would Richard have accepted them. “I do not know what to tell you, my liege. I do not understand, either.”

“Eventually Saladin’s brother will prevail, for he is much more capable than his nephews. Now would have been the time to strike, yet here I am, thwarted not by the Saracens, but by another Christian ruler!” Richard spat out a few virulent oaths, none of which eased his frustration or his fury. Sitting down again, he slumped back wearily in the window-seat next to his clerk. “Saladin was a far better man than Philippe or Heinrich,” he said at last. “A man of courage and honor. It is a great pity that he must be forever denied the grace of God.”