A King's Ransom (47 page)

By now the sky was darker than midnight, stars glimmering like distant campfires in an alien world. Eleanor gazed up at those pinpoint white lights, hoping that her son was able to look upon them, too, on this tranquil spring evening. When she thought of his time at Trifels, shut away from the sun and sky and untainted air, she felt a tightness in her chest, a heaviness that would be with her until the day he regained his freedom. And if he did not . . . ?

Her ladies sensed her mood and remained subdued. She was sure she would not be able to sleep. Not knowing what else to do, she let them get her ready for bed. But as she feared, once the candles had been snuffed out and the bed hangings drawn, her control began to crumble and hot tears stung her eyes. She’d been living with fear for so long, from the day that Richard sailed from Sicily for the Holy Land. Many of his subjects had doubted that he’d ever come back, and there were dark nights when she’d shared their doubts. He’d somehow survived it all, though—the savage storms in the Greek Sea, the pestilent fevers, the bloody battles, even his own reckless need to be in the thick of the fighting—only to discover that he faced greater dangers on his way home than any in Outremer. Once again she’d found herself holding a death vigil. Learning that he was a prisoner had kindled enough rage to keep the fear at bay—except at night. But then Hubert Walter had brought her news of Richard’s triumph at Speyer and the fear finally retreated, shrinking away from this blazing, bright infusion of hope. She’d let herself believe that the worst was over, that her son would soon be home. So her defenses were down when she most needed them, blown apart by the mere mention of Trifels Castle.

No matter how she sought to summon sleep, she was at the mercy of her own memories. Her fears for her grown son were hopelessly entwined with mental images of the boy he’d once been. As she tossed and turned, she could see him at age twelve, coaxing his older brother, Hal, into letting him try the quintain and being knocked from his horse into the mud, only to bounce back up laughing, eager to try it again. She smiled through tears as she remembered the time he and Geoffrey had smuggled a snake into her bed. Closing her eyes, she could hear his voice, asking her to listen as he performed the first song he’d composed, insisting that she tell him the brutal truth, adding with a grin,
Unless you do not like it, Maman, then lie to me!

She’d sometimes thought this was a curse peculiar to mothers, being condemned to grieve twice over—until Harry had confided that whenever he dreamed of their dead son Hal, he was always heartbreakingly young. They’d buried too many of their children, she and Harry. The loss of their firstborn had been the hardest to endure, for she’d had to watch helplessly as the little boy cried in pain and fought for breath, dying after a week of suffering, just two months from his third birthday. She’d not known when Hal was stricken with the bloody flux, not until he was dead. Geoffrey’s tournament death had come as a shock, too. In the morning, she’d awakened thinking he was alive and well; by nightfall, he was gone, erased from her life if not her heart. She’d had no warning when a fever had claimed Tilda, either, not learning of her loss until six weeks after her daughter had breathed her last. Time had not blurred the sharp edges of that memory, nor the memory of having to tell Tilda’s children. Richenza, newly wed to Jaufre of Perche, had been able to cry in her husband’s arms, but it had been left to her to comfort Otto and little Wilhelm, too young to comprehend the awful finality of death.

Her mourning for Hal and Geoffrey had been steeped in guilt, too, for she was tormented by harrowing regrets for past mistakes and missed opportunities. She and Harry had often failed as parents, but she would not—could not—fail Richard now. She must not give in to despair, must remember that the endearing, youthful ghost haunting her tonight was a man of thirty-five, so fearless on the battlefield that she’d heard it said his men would wade through blood to the Pillars of Hercules if he asked it of them. A man capable of inspiring such loyalty was capable of surviving any ordeal that the German emperor could devise. But at what cost? She knew firsthand the wounds that captivity could inflict upon the soul.

No, she could not dwell upon these fears, for she’d drive herself mad if she did. She must somehow put from her mind those images of her son shackled and feverish and defenseless, must not think of the even greater horrors that might await him in a French dungeon. She would gain his freedom, and then she would help him take his vengeance upon the unworthy, cowardly men who’d dared to imprison a king. “I swear it, Richard,” she said softly, “I swear it upon the life of your wretched, faithless brother.”

She thought this night would never end; eventually her aging body yielded to exhaustion, though, and she slept. She awoke just before dawn, not able to recall her dreams, but knowing she’d found no peace in them, for her pillow was wet with tears.

W
HEN
H
EINRICH DEPARTED
H
AGENAU
at the end of April, he had Richard escorted to the free imperial city of Worms, where he was given comfortable quarters in the palace, but kept under close watch. By mid-May, the emperor was staying at the Augustinian monastery of Mosbach on the River Neckar, which was only a two-day ride from Worms in case he needed to check upon his prize prisoner. On this mild Whitsunday evening, he’d been playing chess with his seneschal, Markward von Annweiler, when he was interrupted by a message from one of his Sicilian spies. He was not happy with what he read, for the man he called “that lowborn usurper” was continuing to strengthen his hold on Sicily. Tancred had gotten that gutless Pope to recognize his claim, and now he was negotiating a marital alliance for his eldest son with the daughter of the Greek emperor in Constantinople. Heinrich was disgusted that Emperor Isaac Angelus would agree to a marriage with a bastard’s spawn, but he was concerned, too, for Tancred’s attempts to legitimize his kingship were bearing fruit. Time suddenly seemed to be on Tancred’s side, not his, for he could take no action until those accursed rebels were dealt with.

He’d gone back to the game, but he was unable to concentrate and Markward began to study the board carefully, seeking an unobtrusive way to throw the game, for his emperor did not like to lose. When a knock sounded on the door, Markward welcomed it. A squire hastened over and, much to Heinrich’s surprise, his wife entered. He could not remember the last time she’d come to his bedchamber. Since the beginning of their marriage, he’d always been the one to go to her when he wanted to claim his conjugal rights; that way he could return to his own bed afterward, for he preferred to sleep alone.

Constance nodded coolly to Markward, who was not one of her favorite people, and then smiled at Heinrich. “My lord husband, this is Master Fulk de Poitiers, the English king’s clerk.” She stepped aside, revealing the man who’d followed her into the bedchamber. “I happened to be in the guest hall when he arrived from Worms, and when I learned he had an urgent message from King Richard, I thought you’d want to see him straightaway.”

Fulk had actually sought her out and was impressed now by how smoothly she lied. He thanked her very politely and then knelt respectfully at her husband’s feet. “I am here at my king’s behest. He requests that you grant him an audience, my lord emperor, as soon as it can be arranged.”

“What does he wish to discuss with me, Master Fulk?”

Hoping he could lie as convincingly as Constance, Fulk shook his head regretfully. “I do not know, my lord.” He frowned, trying to look like a man vexed that his king had not confided in him. “He said only that it is a matter of great importance to you both.” He held his breath then, waiting to see if Heinrich would take the bait.

Heinrich studied him dispassionately, but curiosity won out. Turning to Markward, he ordered the seneschal to go to Worms on the morrow and bring the English king to Mosbach. Glad to escape the chess game, Markward rose, offering to find the hosteller and get Fulk a bed for the night. Constance politely bade her husband farewell and would have followed the men had Heinrich not reached out and put his hand on her arm. “I will come to you later, my dear.”

She did not show her surprise; she’d long ago learned to hide her true feelings from this man. “You are always welcome in my bed, my lord husband,” she murmured, giving him a smile as meaningless as the life she led. She could remember a time when she’d been eager to pay the marriage debt, so desperate to conceive that she’d willingly have embraced Lucifer himself. Her hunger for a child was all-consuming in the early years of her marriage—not for Heinrich, but for Sicily. As much as she wanted her birthright—the Sicilian crown—she dreaded it, too, for she well knew that her beloved homeland would not fare well under her husband’s iron rule. If only the Almighty had given her a son, even a daughter, there would have been at least a glimmer of hope for the Sicilians. But her own hopes had withered on the vine long ago, forcing her to face a bitter truth—she was that saddest and most useless of creatures, a barren wife.

H
EINRICH WAS ATTENDED BY
Count Dietrich, his brother Conrad, Markward, and his marshal, Heinz von Kalden, and Richard was accompanied by Fulk and his chaplain, Anselm, who’d recently been freed from confinement. Once the courtesies had been exchanged and wine served, the emperor leaned back in his chair, with the suggestion of a smile. “So . . . what is this ‘matter of great importance,’ my lord king?”

“It can fairly be said that you and I are in the same leaky boat, my lord emperor, for we both are facing challenges to our sovereignty. In my case, the threat is posed by my liege lord, Philippe Capet, and my own brother, a betrayal twice over. Your danger is greater, though, for even in captivity, I am still a consecrated king, whereas your enemies can do what mine cannot—elect another emperor. Indeed, I’ve heard that they intend to do just that, and since more than half of your vassals are now in rebellion against you, this must be a matter of grave concern to you. Were I in your stead, it would be to me, for certes.”

Heinrich’s complacent smile had vanished as soon as Richard had begun to speak. “I cannot believe you requested an audience merely to tell me what I already know, my lord. What is your point?”

“The longer this rebellion drags on, the more likely it is that other malcontents will join it. You need to take the initiative, to stop an insurrection from becoming a civil war, and I am in a position to help you do that.” Richard paused to take a swallow of wine, keeping his eyes on Heinrich all the while. “If you are willing to make enough concessions, I think I can negotiate a settlement to end the rebellion ere it flares into a conflagration that could end Hohenstaufen rule.”

“And why would they listen to you when they’ve so far spurned my offers to talk peace?”

Richard resisted the temptation to point out that he had greater credibility than Heinrich. “My brother by marriage and my nephew are amongst the leaders of the rebellion, and England has long enjoyed cordial relations with Cologne, an important trading partner for English merchants. Moreover, I think you will agree that at Speyer, I proved I can be quite persuasive.”

Heinrich’s brother Conrad and Dietrich did not like what they were hearing and, abandoning Latin for German, they both lodged what were obvious protests to Richard. The emperor ignored them. “Even if I did grant some concessions, what makes you think they’d be satisfied with that?”

“Because I can speak about combat with an authority that none could question. When I tell them that a battle commander’s last resort ought to be an all-or-nothing war, they might well heed me. If I can convince them that their victory is not a certainty, they are likely to come to terms with you rather than risk losing everything.”

Before Heinrich could reply, Dietrich launched another diatribe, speaking with considerable animation. By the time he was done, Heinrich’s icy smile had come back. “Count Dietrich does not trust you and thinks you are up to no good. Mayhap you’d like to explain to him what you would gain from this, my lord king?”