A King's Ransom (82 page)

It seemed to many that Heinrich had Lucifer’s own luck that year; the vast ransom he’d extorted from the English king had financed his invasion of Sicily and Tancred’s death had made his victory inevitable. Then, to the astonishment of most of Christendom, Heinrich’s forty-year-old wife, long thought to be barren, became pregnant, and as Heinrich planned his coronation in Palermo, Constance prepared for her lying-in in the small Italian town of Jesi.

But if Heinrich’s touch seemed to be golden in that year of God’s grace, 1194, the Duke of Austria’s fortunes continued to plummet. That June, Pope Celestine had ordered Leopold to return his hostages to the English king, to repay his share of the ransom, and then to go to the Holy Land in expiation of his sins, spending the same amount of time in the service of Christ as King Richard had been held in captivity. When Leopold defiantly refused to accept any of these terms, the Pope ordered the Archbishop of Verona to excommunicate the Austrian duke and to place his duchy under Interdict.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

DECEMBER 1194

Chinon Castle, Touraine

R
ichard had a playful competition going with his mother as to which of them had the most effective spy. Eleanor insisted none could surpass Durand de Curzon, whom she’d implanted in John’s household to keep track of her wayward son. But Richard was sure that there was no one better than the man who called himself Luc and had served the English Crown faithfully for more than twenty years, continuing to serve Richard after Henry’s death. When he was told now that a man was seeking an audience and heard the code word that identified Luc, he abruptly interrupted the council and then hastened from the great hall for a private word with his spy.

As his absence dragged on, the men in the hall grew restless. Guillaume de Longchamp attempted to discuss Church matters with the Archbishop of Rouen and the Bishop of Lincoln, but Archbishop Gautier continued to snub the chancellor at every opportunity, and he made a conspicuous show of rising and moving away. Longchamp could only fume. He’d clashed with the Bishop of Lincoln, too, but Bishop Hugh at least accorded him the courtesy one prelate owed another. Thanking the Almighty that he need never set foot again on Richard’s benighted island kingdom, Longchamp was making polite conversation with the other bishop when a loud burst of laughter caused him to frown.

Gathered by the open hearth, the Viscount of Thouars, Hugh de Lusignan, and William de Forz, the Count of Aumale, had been exchanging bawdy jests about the unlikely pregnancy of Heinrich’s empress. Viscount Aimery’s brother Guy had been listening in growing discomfort, but he’d so far held his peace. Guy was protective of women, so much so that his brother had dubbed him “the veritable soul of chivalry,” which was not meant as a compliment. He did not think it right to mock a woman who’d soon be facing the dangers of the birthing chamber at the advanced age of forty. But as a younger brother, he’d gotten into the habit of deferring to Aimery, and he knew that if he objected now, he’d become the target of their ridicule instead of Constance. After a particularly crass comment by the Count of Aumale, Guy edged away when he saw that they’d attracted the disapproving attention of the Bishop of Ely, not wanting to be judged by the company he kept.

“Such comments are highly unseemly, my lords,” Longchamp said coldly. He did not like women, but he made a few exceptions—for his own kin, for the king’s remarkable mother, and for the Empress Constance.

The men were not at all discomfited by his rebuke. “What did we say that was not true, my lord bishop?” Aimery grinned. “We were merely marveling that a barren woman could suddenly and miraculously conceive.” But when Count William compared Constance’s womb to a “withered pear,” Longchamp felt a flare of real anger.

“If you’d bothered to learn Scriptures, you’d know that Sarah, the wife of Abraham, gave birth to a son decades after her childbearing years were over. If it is God’s Will, a woman can conceive at any age.”

That quieted Aimery and Hugh de Lusignan, but William de Forz did not like to be scolded by a cripple.
That bishop’s miter does not make you a man, you misshapen dwarf,
he thought indignantly. Aloud, he said skeptically, “Well, if the empress is indeed with child, that will rank as one of God’s greatest miracles.”

Longchamp reached for a more dangerous weapon than a clerical reprimand. “You’d do well, my lord count, to remember that the Empress Constance is very dear to Queen Joanna, the king’s beloved sister.”

Even that would not have been enough to daunt the count, but Bishop Hugh then added his voice to Longchamp’s, reminding de Forz that it was not for mortal man to question the ways of the Almighty. Although he’d spoken mildly enough, there was an aura of sanctity about the bishop that gave his most casual utterance great weight, and de Forz lapsed into a sullen silence, equally irked with both prelates.

Guy, falling back into his familiar role of peacemaker, sought to steer the conversation into a more innocuous channel and asked where the Lord of Châteauroux was, for he knew that André de Chauvigny had been with the king continuously since the latter’s release. Will Marshal had just moved toward the fire to warm himself and he was the one to answer, saying that André had left to spend Christmas at Déols Castle with his pregnant wife and young son.

Guy’s well-meaning intercession only vexed de Forz even more, for he disliked both André de Chauvigny and Will Marshal. Upon Richard’s accession to the throne, he’d rewarded all three men with marriages to great heiresses. Isabel de Clare, the granddaughter of an Irish king, had brought the Marshal lands in Normandy, England, South Wales, and Ireland. André’s marriage to Denise de Déols had given him the barony of Châteauroux, making him one of the most powerful lords of the Poitevin Berry border region. And de Forz was wed to Hawisa, the Countess of Aumale, who held vast estates in Normandy and Yorkshire. While de Forz had envied the Marshal’s prize, he’d still been delighted to become Count of Aumale and have such riches at his disposal.

His pleasure had soon curdled, though, for he’d been saddled with an unwilling wife. The prideful bitch had balked at marrying him, had to be coerced into it by the king. He’d been incensed by her reluctance, for his was an old and proud Poitevin family and he’d been Richard’s naval commander in the war against the Saracens. He’d discovered that Hawisa was outrageously outspoken for a woman, stubborn and reckless. Even after he’d been provoked into disciplining her as she deserved, she’d remained rebellious. Blood dripping from her nose and mouth, she’d regarded him defiantly, warning that if he ever struck her again, he’d pay for it with his life. He’d laughed, of course, pointing out that no weak woman could match a man’s strength. But she’d given him a chilling smile, saying there were many ways for a wife to rid herself of an unwanted husband, that he could be taken ill at dinner or set upon by brigands as he reeled out of a tavern one dark night or thrown from his horse when the saddle cinch suddenly broke. Although he’d forced another scornful laugh, he’d been genuinely shocked, and he’d not hit her again. At least she’d been able to perform a wife’s primary duty and give him a son. But so had Isabel de Clare and Denise de Deols, and he was sure they were proper wives, obedient and deferential.

Looking resentfully now at the Marshal, begrudging him the good fortune that could have been his if only he’d been given Isabel de Clare instead of Hawisa, he gave a harsh laugh, saying, “Well, de Chauvigny can have a dull family Christmas by the hearth, but I prefer to attend the king’s Christmas Court at Rouen. Wives are not likely to be welcome there, thank God.”

De Forz realized at once that he’d gone too far, for he was suddenly the target of all eyes, none of them friendly. Will Marshal; Longchamp; that self-righteous Hugh of Lincoln; the king’s crusty clerk, Master Fulk; and those paltry knights who’d been with the king in Germany and were taking shameless advantage of it—that Welsh whelp, Warin Fitz Gerald, and Guillain de l’Etang. Even the Earl of Chester was giving him a disapproving look, and all knew Chester and his Breton shrew of a wife had not exchanged a civil word in years. Still, he could see how the king might take his comment amiss, for he knew Richard was not likely to make common cause with him over their unwanted wives. Would any of these royal lackeys dare to go blabbing to the king? That was a troubling thought, and he jumped nervously when the hall door banged open then, admitting a blast of cold air and the king.

Summoning the others back to the table, Richard dropped down into his chair, glancing from Will Marshal to Longchamp. “I’d hoped to have news about Leicester. I sent one of my best agents to find out how he is being treated at Étampes, but he had no luck. He says the earl is allowed no visitors and those guarding him are as closemouthed as deaf mutes. Even buying them drinks at the local tavern did not loosen their tongues.” The other men tried to assure him—and themselves—that the French king would respect Leicester’s high birth, rank, and service in the Holy Land, but his own experience left Richard unconvinced. He did not want to dwell upon his fears for the earl now, though, and he turned toward his chancellor, about to resume the council, when Will Marshal suddenly sprang to his feet with a jubilant shout. “Baldwin!”

Several men had just entered the hall. It was December 12, but Richard felt as if Christmas had come early, for the one in the lead was Baldwin de Bethune. He rose as quickly as Will had and they both hastened toward the Fleming, with the other men right on their heels.

“I knew Leopold would release the hostages once he found himself excommunicated! Are the others with you? Wilhelm?” Richard’s gaze shifted toward Baldwin’s companions, but none of them were familiar. When he glanced back at his friend, his joy congealed at the sorrowful expression on the other man’s face.

“Leopold has not yielded, sire. He remains defiant. I am here because he entrusted me with an urgent message for you. He said to tell you that if you do not send your niece and the Damsel of Cyprus to Vienna straightaway, he will execute all of your hostages.”

“Jesu!” Richard stared at Baldwin, torn between horror and disbelief, for he’d never even heard of a case in which hostages had been put to death. “Has he gone mad?”

“Not mad, desperate.” Baldwin was suddenly aware of how exhausted he was, and was grateful when the Bishop of Lincoln grasped his arm and steered him toward the warmth of the hearth, where he slumped down on a stool, stretching his frozen feet toward the flames. “It has been a bad year for Austria, sire. First there was heavy spring flooding when the snows melted, then destructive forest fires caused by lightning that burned villages and farms, too. When pestilence began to rage, some of the people began to whisper that God was punishing their duke for seizing a king who’d taken the cross. And then the Archbishop of Verona lay Austria under Interdict and put the curse of anathema upon Leopold himself.”

Someone handed Baldwin a cup and he drank in gulps. “So far the Austrians have supported Leopold, as have the clergy—however reluctantly. But Leopold is no fool and he understands how quickly that can change. When bodies cannot be buried and marriages cannot be made and people cannot hear Mass, it will not take long for them to start asking why they must suffer for Leopold’s sins. He has already spent twenty-five thousand marks fortifying the walls of Vienna, Hainburg, and Wiener Neustadt, has only four thousand still unspent, and so he cannot afford to repay the ransom as the Pope demands. He is cornered and he knows it. But he is a stubborn, angry man, and now a bitter one. I do not know why he is so set upon these marriages. To reward his sons, to prove he is not Heinrich’s puppet, to punish you, to show the Austrians that he will not be cowed by kings, emperors, or popes? I can only tell you that I think he means it when he says he’ll kill the hostages. Mayhap not the little lad. I would hope to God that his madness would not take him that far. But the others . . . Yes, I think he would.”

There was a shocked silence when he was done. Richard turned aside, fighting back a rising tide of fury. How could this be God’s Will? He was no longer a prisoner, so how could he still be so powerless?

Will reached over and rested his hand on the Fleming’s shoulder, a gesture that brought a weary smile to Baldwin’s face. A smile that vanished when William de Forz told him how lucky he was. His head jerking up, he stared at the other man. “And why is that, my lord count?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

“Why? Because you’re here and safe, not trapped back in Vienna with those other poor sods.”

Baldwin got to his feet, and although he was normally imperturbable, not easily angered, Will made ready to intervene in case his friend lunged for de Forz’s throat. “I gave my sworn word,” Baldwin said, slowly and deliberately, as if speaking to a child or lack-wit, “that I would return with the king’s answer. I intend to honor it.”

The count was astonished that the Flemish lord could be such a fool. But he sensed the other man’s outrage, even if he did not fully understand it. He could see that the Marshal shared it, and however little he liked that man, he was wary of offending him, for Marshal had been quick in the past to challenge men who’d insulted his honor. He was thankful, therefore, when Richard drew all attention back to himself.