A King's Ransom (46 page)

L
ONGCHAMP’S APPEARANCE SET
the council into an uproar. From the dais, where he was seated beside the queen and Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Rouen recoiled as ostentatiously as a man who’d just found a snake in his bedchamber. The justiciars showed a bit more restraint, but their body language made it abundantly clear that Longchamp was an unwelcome intruder. His nemesis, the Bishop of Coventry, was already on his feet, as was the Archbishop of York. Bristling with outrage, Geoff stalked over to intercept Longchamp before he could approach the dais. As tall as his half brother Richard, and as hot-tempered, he towered over the undersized chancellor as he angrily challenged Longchamp’s right to be there, saying scornfully, “I marvel that you’d dare to show your face again in England!”

“Run into any more lusty fishermen, Longchamp?” Hugh de Nonant said with a smirk, unleashing a wave of raucous laughter.

Longchamp flushed but stood his ground. Brushing past Geoff as if he were one of the stone pillars of the guest hall, he limped toward the dais. “Madame,” he said, bowing deeply to the queen, who acknowledged him with a nod. Straightening up, he met Gautier de Coutances’s cold stare without flinching.

“I come before you,” he said, “neither as justiciar nor papal legate nor chancellor, but as a simple bishop and a messenger from our lord the king.”

If he’d hoped to disarm his enemies with humility, he was to be disappointed, for his declaration was met with ridicule, his foes expressing disbelief that the king would ever trust him again. Normally it would have been for the chief justiciar to assert control, but it was obvious that Gautier de Coutances had no intention of coming to the aid of the man who’d once called him “the Pilate of Rouen.” It was Eleanor who put a halt to the mockery, merely by raising her hand. “You’ve seen my son?”

“I have, my lady. I found the king at Trifels Castle—” He got no further, for there were exclamations from all corners of the hall, from those who knew the sinister significance of that German mountain citadel. Eleanor paled noticeably and Hubert Walter gave an audible gasp. Taking advantage of the sudden stillness, Longchamp quickly assured Eleanor—for he was speaking only to the queen now—that Richard was no longer being held at Trifels, explaining that he’d been able to persuade Emperor Heinrich to return the king to the imperial court. There was some scoffing at that, but he did not care if they thought he was boasting; he was prouder of freeing Richard from Trifels than he was of anything else he’d ever done.

“I bring letters, Madame,” he said, stepping forward to hand them to her. There was a private one from her son, meant for her eyes alone; one in Latin, meant for his justiciars and council; and then one from the Emperor Heinrich, sealed with the golden chrysobull used by the Holy Roman Emperors, claiming he and Richard were now “upon terms of concord and lasting peace,” and pledging that he “shall look upon injuries done to King Richard as offered to ourselves and our imperial crown.” And as Eleanor passed the public letters to the archbishop to be read aloud, Longchamp felt a savage satisfaction that these men who’d mocked him so mercilessly would soon hear their king describe him as “our most dearly beloved chancellor” and give him full credit for the escape from Trifels.

T
HE REST OF THE COUNCIL MEETING
was not as contentious. When Longchamp relayed Richard’s instructions for selecting the needed hostages, the Bishop of Coventry started to make a sarcastic comment about trusting him with other men’s sons, only to be sharply silenced by Hubert Walter. Now that they knew a huge ransom would indeed be required to gain the king’s freedom, they wasted no time. It was determined that a tithe would be assessed against laymen and clergy alike, a quarter of their income for the year, that each knight’s fee would be charged twenty shillings, that the churches would have to contribute their gold and silver, and the Cistercians, who were forbidden by their order to possess costly chalices, must give their wool clip for the year. The money collected was to be stored in chests in St Paul’s Cathedral, placed in the custody of Hubert Walter, the Bishop of London, and the earls of Arundel and Surrey, under the seals of the queen and the Archbishop of Rouen. It would be a mammoth undertaking, imposing a great burden upon a kingdom already drained by the Saladin tithe, but Longchamp did not doubt the money would be raised—the queen would see to it. As he watched Eleanor coolly discussing what must be done to free her son, his private letter unopened on her lap until the council was ended, he thought that King Richard had been blessed by the Almighty in many ways, but above all in the woman who’d given him life.

A
BBOT
W
ARIN TOLD
L
ONGCHAMP
that the abbey’s guest house and lodgings were already filled and he must seek shelter elsewhere. The chancellor supposed it might be true, for St Albans was overflowing with highborn guests summoned for the council. But he could not help remembering how differently he’d been treated when the king had visited St Albans the week after his coronation, how lavish the entertainment, how bountiful the abbot’s hospitality. He made no protest, though, and sent his men to find rooms in the town. They eventually were able to rent a chamber in a private house, not up to Longchamp’s usual standards of comfort. He was too exhausted to quibble and was making ready for bed when he received a message from the queen, summoning him back to the abbey.

L
ONGCHAMP WAS ESCORTED INTO
Abbot Warin’s parlor, where he found the queen attended by Hubert Walter, William Marshal, and her grandson Otto, the fifteen-year-old son of her deceased daughter, Tilda, the Duchess of Saxony. They greeted him with courtesy, if no warmth, and after a word from Eleanor, Otto offered his chair to the chancellor, sprawling then in a window-seat with the boneless abandon of the very young.

“My son told me in some detail how you convinced Heinrich that he should not be kept at Trifels. He was rather vague when it came to his own experiences there, though. I hope you will be more forthright, my lord bishop. I want you to tell me how bad it was for him.”

Longchamp was relieved that Richard had not thought to swear him to silence, for there was no way he could have refused this tense, resolute woman; he’d never seen eyes as penetrating as hers, could almost believe she was able to see into the inner recesses of his soul. “It was very bad, Madame,” he said, and then proceeded to tell her exactly how bad. When he described how he’d found Richard, chained up and ailing, Hubert Walter and William Marshal expressed outrage and Otto’s eyes widened in shock. But Eleanor neither flinched nor spoke, keeping her gaze unblinkingly upon Longchamp until he was done, until they knew the worst.

There was silence after he’d stopped speaking. He’d been telling himself that freeing the king was all that mattered, but he realized now that he needed them to acknowledge what a truly remarkable accomplishment his was. And he did get what he sought—from Eleanor’s young grandson. “The Almighty must have sent you to Trifels,” Otto exclaimed, “knowing how great my uncle’s need was!”

Hubert and Will exchanged glances and they, too, then echoed the boy’s praise; almost as if they were shamed into it, Longchamp thought sourly. Eleanor merely offered a simple “Thank you, my lord chancellor,” but he was quite satisfied with her response. He’d argued that only King Richard could strip him of his office, yet he’d still been compelled to surrender the royal seal and his enemies insisted he was no longer England’s chancellor. So to hear his title spoken now by the queen was to him a vindication of sorts, and he returned to his lodgings in much better spirits. Let the jackals nip at his heels. He had what they could only envy—the utter trust of his lord the king and the wholehearted gratitude of the queen mother.

T
HE OTHER MEN HAD
not lingered after Longchamp’s departure, for they’d been badly shaken to learn of Richard’s ill treatment at Trifels. Will was highly indignant that a king should be cast in irons as if he were a common felon and Hubert was appalled by Heinrich’s treachery, wincing to think how cheerfully he’d parted from Richard at Speyer, convinced that his release was ensured. Eleanor’s grandson insisted upon escorting her back to the queen’s hall built for royal visitors. Smiling, she rested her hand upon his arm as if he were a man grown. They did not have far to go, but as they approached the door, Otto’s steps slowed.

“Granddame, I am quite willing to be a hostage for Uncle Richard. I’d do anything to help win his freedom. And I do not want you to worry about my little brother when we are sent to Germany. I will take good care of Wilhelm, and will do my best to keep him out of trouble, too,” he promised, with the gravity that set so surprisingly on such young shoulders. He had inherited his father’s dark coloring, but he was going to be taller than his sire, even as tall as Richard in time. Like his sister, he’d been blessed with a share of his mother’s beauty, and his sudden, sweet smile never failed to remind her of her daughter, who’d died after a brief illness, only thirty-three.

“Keeping Wilhelm out of trouble will have you occupied night and day, Otto,” she pointed out, and he grinned, kissing her on the cheek before he headed off toward the abbey guest hall. She stood by the door, watching him go. She’d become very fond of Otto, more like her daughter than his spirited sister Richenza and his mischievous nine-year-old brother. All three of them had been raised at the English court, arriving with their parents when Heinrich der Löwe and Tilda had been banished after falling out of favor with the Holy Roman Emperor, and remaining even after Der Löwe and Tilda and their eldest son, Henrik, had been permitted to return to Saxony three years later. Wilhelm, who’d been born at Winchester during his mother’s exile, and Otto, who’d only been five when they’d left Saxony, spoke French rather than German as their native tongue, and when they reached Germany, they’d be strangers in a foreign land. Eleanor would have given a great deal to spare them that, but she knew she could not; Heinrich von Hohenstaufen was insistent that they be included, for their father and elder brother were among the rebels threatening his throne.