A King's Ransom (60 page)

In Wales, he explained, a marriage could be ended by mutual consent. Moreover, a husband could disavow his wife if she claimed to be a virgin and he learned on their wedding night that she was not, or if he found her in compromising circumstances with another man, or if her marriage portion fell short of what was promised. Longchamp and Anselm shook their heads disapprovingly, but the men enthusiastically embraced laws that made it easier to get rid of an unwanted wife, for the Church allowed a marriage to be dissolved only if an impediment had initially existed—consanguinity, a spiritual affinity, a coerced consent, or the inability to consummate the marriage through impotence.

They were shocked, though, when Morgan said that a Welsh wife could shed an unwanted husband, too, able to end the marriage if he contracted leprosy, if he had foul breath, if he was unfaithful three times, or if he was incapable in bed. That went against the natural order of things, confirming their suspicions that Wales was a wild, mysterious land with downright peculiar customs, although they liked Morgan well enough. But when Morgan told them about the Welsh test for impotence, which compelled the husband to spill his seed upon a clean white sheepskin, they shouted with laughter at the thought of Philippe enduring such a humiliating ordeal to prove his manhood.

Richard had not laughed so much in months. This had indeed been a day of surprises, he thought. The news that Adolf von Altena was the new Archbishop of Cologne was more important, of course. But there was such sweet satisfaction in Philippe’s plight. “The French king is now the laughingstock of Christendom,” he declared, “and best of all, it is his own doing.”

T
HAT EVENING,
Richard was in his bedchamber with the men who now composed his inner circle: Longchamp, Fulk, Morgan, Guillain, Baldwin, Warin, and the de Préaux brothers. He was working on a song he called his “prison lament,” while they were chatting among themselves and Arne was glaring at Hans; the German youth was one of the servants Heinrich had provided and Arne greatly resented anyone but himself tending to his king’s needs.

“How does this sound?” Richard struck a chord on his harp as the others looked toward him. “Feeble the words, and faltering the tongue, wherewith a prisoner moans his doleful plight. Yet for his comfort, he may make a song. Friends have I many, but—”

He got no further, for just then the door burst open and Anselm rushed into the chamber. “My liege, I was just talking to Master Mauger,” he blurted out, naming one of Richard’s recent guests, the Archdeacon of Évreux. “He is returning to Normandy at week’s end, and he says he’d be happy to continue on into Poitou and deliver letters to your queen and sister. By the time he gets there, they ought to have reached Poitiers.”

He beamed at Richard, but his smile faltered when Richard shook his head. “I’ve already written to them, giving letters to the courier they sent from Rome.”

“I know that, sire. But surely your lady would be happy to hear from you again—”

“I said no, Anselm!” Richard had not meant to raise his voice, but his chaplain’s well-meaning meddling had struck a nerve. He’d labored over those earlier letters for hours, unable to find the right words, and he did not want to go through that again. What was he supposed to write to Berenguela? Tell her about the weather in Worms? The dreams he had about being buried alive in French dungeons blacker than any pits of Hell? How he’d had to make yet another shameful concession to that whoreson Heinrich and betray the monks of Glastonbury?

Anselm was looking at him in dismay, and his bewilderment only added to Richard’s frustration. If even Anselm did not understand, how in God’s name could Berenguela? He rose, no longer in the mood for music, aware of the silence, the stares. Deliverance came from an unexpected source—the parrot, which suddenly said, with surprising clarity, “Ballocks!” The men burst into startled laughter, and the awkward moment was gone, if not forgotten.

H
UGH DE
N
ONANT,
Bishop of Coventry, was living proof that outer packaging could be quite deceptive. He was stout and ruddy-cheeked, his balding head resembling a monk’s fringed tonsure, his blue eyes wreathed in what looked like laugh lines, and at first glance, he seemed good-natured and benevolent, even grandfatherly. But his benign, innocuous appearance and easy smile were camouflage; the man himself was cynical, shrewd, ambitious, untrustworthy, and utterly ruthless in pursuit of his own ends.

For once, he was off balance, though, his courtly poise ragged around the edges. “The sight of you gladdens these aging eyes, my liege,” he murmured, but the unctuous greeting fell on deaf ears and he seemed to sense that, for he no longer met Richard’s gaze.

“You took your time in responding to my summons, my lord bishop,” Richard said, glazing each word in ice. “I began to suspect that you’d joined my brother when he fled to the French court.”

“Indeed not, sire! You have been led astray if you’ve come to doubt my loyalty.” The bishop turned to glare at the chancellor, saying it was all too easy to guess who’d been slandering his good name. Longchamp glared back, his body rigid, black eyes combative.

“My chancellor has earned my trust. You have not.”

“My liege, that is most unfair. Your lord brother is the heir to the throne should evil befall you, and I gave him the respect due his rank, no more than that. My loyalty to you has never wavered, not even for a heartbeat.”

Richard did not bother to disguise his skepticism, for he wanted Nonant to squirm, to feel in the very marrow of his bones the fear of losing royal favor. “If that is so, then I expect you have brought with you a generous contribution to my ransom.”

Nonant’s florid complexion reddened still further. “Sire . . . that was indeed my intention. I left London with a sizable sum of money. But we were ambushed on the road and robbed of every last farthing.” He turned then, pointing an accusing finger at Longchamp. “And it is all this man’s doing!”

Longchamp looked astonished and then outraged. Before he could make an indignant denial, Richard put a restraining hand on his arm. “You’ll have to do better than that, my lord bishop. The chancellor has been with me since he arranged a truce with the French king in early July. I can assure you he was not prowling English roads as a highwayman.”

“I did not mean he was the one leading the bandits, my liege. But I have no doubt they were sent by his sister’s husband, the castellan of Dover Castle!”

One glance toward Longchamp was enough to assure Richard that the chancellor knew nothing of this. “You have proof of this, of course?”

“I had the man excommunicated, my lord, so sure am I of his guilt.”

“That may be your idea of proof, my lord bishop, but it is not mine. You are fortunate that I do not have a suspicious nature, or else I might have doubted this very convenient robbery of yours.” Richard stared at the bishop until he became visibly uncomfortable, sweat beading his forehead and his breath quickening. “I have been blessed with a good memory, and you may be sure of this—that I will remember who proved themselves to be loyal during these difficult times, and who did not.”

“I
am
loyal, sire, I swear it!”

Longchamp would normally have taken great pleasure in his enemy’s discomfiture, but he was too uneasy himself to enjoy Nonant’s desperate attempts to placate his king. Once the bishop had been dismissed, the chancellor eyed Richard nervously. “Sire, I know nothing of this alleged robbery.”

“I know that, Guillaume.” Despite that reassurance, Richard’s expression was inscrutable. “Do you think your brother-in-law is capable of so rash an act?”

Longchamp hesitated, but he was not going to lie to his king. “It is possible,” he said at last.

“Well . . . I think it might be a good idea if your brother-in-law made a generous donation to my ransom fund, then.”

This time Longchamp caught the glint of amusement and he smiled broadly. “My thoughts exactly!”

“You need not fear for your position with me, Guillaume—even if you cannot rein in your more impulsive relatives. I will never forget what you did for me at Trifels. I have my vices,” Richard said with a quick smile, “but ingratitude is not one of them.” The smile vanishing as swiftly as it had come, he said, with the utmost seriousness, “I spoke the truth to that knave, Nonant. I always pay my debts.”

Especially blood debts,
Longchamp agreed silently. He thought it all too likely that Heinrich would escape earthly punishment for the grievous wrong he’d done the English king. But the French king and Richard’s treacherous brother would not be so lucky.

T
HE
D
UCHESS OF
B
RITTANY
had ridden for hours in silence, for she was dreading the coming confrontation with her husband.
Husband.
Even after five years of marriage, it seemed strange to call Randolph that. Constance had not wanted to wed him, had been still grieving for Geoffrey. But she’d been given no choice, for her father-in-law had insisted; Henry was determined to marry her off to a man whom he could trust. Ironically, that had not been true for his own son, for Geoffrey had been conspiring with the French king at the time of his death. Henry had expected that Geoffrey would be a puppet prince, governing Brittany according to his will. But Geoffrey had a mind of his own and he’d put Brittany’s interests before his father’s Angevin empire, winning over the hostile Breton barons and winning over Constance, too.

It had been seven years since Geoffrey had died in that accursed tournament, and there were times, especially at night, when the wound still bled. If only he’d not taken part in that mêlée. How different her life and the lives of their children would have been. But “what if” and “if only” were games for fools. In her heart, she was still Geoffrey’s widow. In the real world, she was the wife of Randolph de Blundeville.

It had not been a disparaging marriage, for Randolph was the Earl of Chester, holder of vast estates on both sides of the Channel, cousin to the king, not an unworthy match for the Duchess of Brittany. Nor was he a brute or a lout. But their marriage had probably been doomed from the first, she thought, remembering that nervous eighteen-year-old youth, wed to a woman nine years his senior, a woman of greater rank, a woman who did not want him. He’d been humiliated by spilling his seed too soon, and any chance they may have had of reaching an accommodation had ended with that clumsy wedding-night coupling. They’d shared a bed less and less often as time went on, for she was luckier than most reluctant wives. She ruled a duchy and had vassals eager to make her alien husband feel very unwelcome. Nor did she need him to get her with child, for she had Geoffrey’s son and daughter to ensure the Breton succession: six-year-old Arthur and nine-year-old Aenor.

Yet Geoffrey had taught her too well, showing her what pleasures could be found in a man’s arms, and her bed was lonely and cold. She’d occasionally considered taking a lover; she’d never done so, though. She told herself it was because even the most discreet liaison still posed serious risks, and while that was true enough, it was also true that the only man she wanted was buried in a marble tomb at the cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris.