“I hope the monks of Christchurch Priory are more receptive to your choice this time,” he said instead, for Richard’s last attempt to select an archbishop had failed. He’d wanted the monks to elect the Archbishop of Monreale, having been impressed by the Sicilian prelate during his stay in Messina. But the Canterbury monks had balked and, finding it easier to defy the king at a distance, they’d declared they would not elect a “foreigner.” Instead they’d chosen the Bishop of Bath, Reginald Fitz-Jocelyn, the uncle of the current Bishop of Bath, Savaric, who’d maneuvered to secure his uncle’s election so he might gain the Bath bishopric for himself. The new archbishop had died within a month, however, and the post had remained vacant since then.
“I was very tactful—for once—in my letter to the Christchurch monks,” Richard assured Hubert, “writing only that they are to hold an election with the advice of the queen and William de St Mère-Eglise. My mother will diplomatically inform them of my choice, but in such a way that they never realize they are being herded where she wishes them to go.” He smiled, saying, “My mother is very good at that. My lord father, on the other hand, preferred a more direct approach. He actually wrote to the monks of Winchester that he ordered them to hold free elections, but forbade them to elect anyone but his clerk!”
Hubert joined in his laughter, but it sounded forced to Richard. A master of suspense—a trait he’d inherited from his father—he’d planned to drag the announcement out. Realizing how nervous the bishop was, though, he took pity. “I have told my mother that I want you as the next Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Hubert had been bracing himself for disappointment and, for a moment, he could only stare at the other man. “I am deeply honored, my liege,” he managed, “more than I can say.”
“I do not want you to think that I chose you because you were willing to brave a winter crossing of the Alps on my behalf.” Richard’s mouth twitched and then he grinned. “Although I will admit it definitely did not hurt your chances.”
Hubert’s teeth worried his lower lip as ambition warred with conscience. The latter won, for the Archbishop of Canterbury was the head of England’s Church. “I need to know that you are sure about this, my liege, sure that I am the right man. I feel compelled to tell you that there are others better educated than I, and my Latin is not as fluent as I would wish.”
Richard started to joke about the advantages of not speaking Latin, stopping himself when he realized that Hubert was not responding with the modesty expected of a candidate for such a prestigious post, but was sincere. “I could find a hundred clerks who speak Latin as if it were their native tongue. I am not looking for a linguist, Hubert. I want a man of integrity, honor, courage, and intelligence—qualities you showed in abundance during our time in the Holy Land. I’ve known for months that you were the best choice, and had my voyage home been as uneventful as I’d hoped, you’d already have been consecrated by now.”
“Thank you, my lord king!” Hubert would have knelt had Richard not stopped him.
“I have no doubts whatsoever that you will be a superb archbishop. Now . . . the sooner you get to England, the sooner you embrace your destiny and the sooner I gain my freedom.” Richard smiled and then gave Hubert the same blessing he’d gotten from Hadmar von Kuenring. “Godspeed, my lord archbishop.”
THE CISTERCIAN ABBOTS HAD LEFT after Easter, but Hubert Walter and William de St Mère-Eglise had delayed their departure until the last day of March. Richard had not realized how much comfort he’d taken from their presence until they’d gone, and he had a restless night. He was not pleased, therefore, to be awakened early the next morning by Johan, the guard who spoke a smattering of French.
The youth kept stammering and repeating the words “the emperor,” and Richard could only conclude that he’d been summoned by Heinrich. A knight was standing by the door, arms folded, and looked blankly at Richard when he spoke a few words of Latin. As much as he resented being dragged out of bed like this, he realized there was nothing he could do about it and he flung the covers back.
When he emerged into the garth, trailed by his guards, Richard saw that he already had an escort waiting, yawning as they slouched by their horses. He was surprised to see how early it was, the sky just beginning to lighten toward the east. He recognized the man in command, for Hadmar had pointed him out on several occasions: Sir Markward von Annweiler, an imperial ministerialis and Heinrich’s seneschal. He came forward at once, introducing himself with a deferential bow and displaying the command of Latin that a court official would need. He was no longer young, into his fifth decade, but he appeared fit and energetic, his reddish-brown hair showing no grey yet. Unlike many of the Germans, he was clean-shaven, with striking moss-green eyes, and he had an unexpectedly charming smile. Richard thought cynically that he’d probably been able to seduce far more than his share of women with that smile—unless a woman had been vigilant enough to notice that the smile never reached his eyes.
“The emperor wants to see me?” Richard asked, and Markward confirmed it, signaling for a horse to be brought forward. There was so much that Richard had missed in the three months and ten days since his capture at Ertpurch. He missed having a woman in his bed, missed the easy camaraderie he’d enjoyed with his soldiers and the knights of his household, missed the people who mattered the most to him, missed his music and books and his favorite falcons, the sense of purpose that had driven all of his days. But he’d not expected how much he would miss riding a purebred stallion, that sensation of being one with a spirited creature eager to outrun the wind. The mount he was offered now was a horse he’d never have chosen for himself, a docile gelding that could not hold a candle to Fauvel, the magnificent Cypriot destrier that he’d ridden to so many victories in the Holy Land. This one had no bridle and reins, of course, just a halter with a lead attached, the ultimate symbol of his impotence.
Inwardly seething, he swung up into the saddle just as Markward told his guards that they would not be needed. Their disappointment was so obvious that Richard assumed they’d been looking forward to a rare opportunity to be called into the emperor’s presence. “Consider yourself lucky, Johan,” he said, but the young German did not understand, of course, and watched in puzzlement as the English king rode out of the precincts of the episcopal palace with his new guards.
The city was just coming awake and the streets were still deserted. Richard thought it passing strange that Heinrich should summon him at such an hour, yet he did not become suspicious until they turned into the street that led to the Old Gate, the main entrance to Speyer from the west. It was still barred, but a curt command from Markward sent the guards scrambling to open it. Richard took advantage of the brief delay to call the ministerialis by name, too loudly to be ignored. “I thought you said we were going to the imperial palace!”
Markward responded with another of those beguiling smiles. “Ah no, my lord king. You misunderstood. We ride to the village of Annweiler, where I was born.”
“Why?”
“I do not question my emperor,” Markward said blandly. “But I know your safety is of great concern to him. You are a very important guest of the empire, after all.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed on the other man’s face. “I was told that I would be accompanying the emperor to his palace at Hagenau. Surely I’d be safe enough there.”
The other man’s shoulders twitched in what may have been a shrug. By now all of Richard’s survival instincts were on full alert. None of this made sense to him, but he did not like it, not at all. The best soldiers had a sixth sense when it came to danger and he’d long ago learned to pay heed to his. “What sort of game is Heinrich playing?”
Those green eyes shone now with open amusement. “His favorite game, my lord king,” Markward said cheerfully. “The one where he gets to change the rules.”
THEY TRAVELED AT A fast pace, reminding Richard of the urgency with which he’d been rushed to Dürnstein. He did not believe he was being taken to Annwei
ler; why would Heinrich want to send him to some paltry German village? The position of the sun told him that they were heading west, but he knew no more than that. With every mile they rode, though, his misgivings kept pace. His guards were of a different sort from the men who’d watched him at Dürnstein or the Bishop of Speyer’s palace. He’d seen their ilk before, had hired some of their brethren himself—routiers whose swords were for sale to the highest bidder, untroubled by qualms of conscience and usually very good at what they did, which was to unleash hell at the command of the lord who’d paid them. He found it even more troubling that the lord giving those commands was Markward von Annweiler, for any man who’d gained Heinrich’s trust was not one to be overly burdened with scruples himself. But no matter how he tried to untangle this Gordian knot, he made no progress. Heinrich had professed belief in his innocence in front of his own Imperial Diet. The German bishops and lords knew of the terms agreed upon for his release. Richard did not see how the emperor could disavow such a public commitment. So what did Heinrich hope to gain? Where was he being sent and—more important—why?
The road wound through a dark, primal forest that stretched as far as the eye could see. The patches of sky visible above the sentinel spruce and bare branches of silver beech were now splattered with clouds. Expecting to meet Heinrich at the imperial palace, Richard had chosen the more elegant of the two mantles he’d been given in Dürnstein, and he soon wished he’d selected the warmer one, for the April air had a wintry chill. They rode in silence, stopping only to rest the horses briefly and to allow the men to relieve themselves, and as soon as he’d dismounted, Richard found himself ringed by drawn swords again. His attempts to pry answers from Markward proved futile; the other man merely smiled, saying they had not much farther to go, that Annweiler was only twenty or so miles from Speyer. And with that, Richard had to be content.
The sun had begun its slow slide toward the west, haloing the clouds in crimson and gold, when the mountain peaks came into view, three rocky crags still glazed with snow at their summits. All three were crowned with castles, but only one held Richard’s gaze, for it seemed to be floating on the mists swirling about its lower slopes. Backlit by the dying sun, its sandstone walls and towers rose up against the sky like a bloodred scar, and Richard’s first thought was this was a fortress impregnable to assault, even more formidable than Dürnstein.
Markward signaled for a halt and then turned his horse, reining in beside Richard, who at once said sharply, “Do not tell me that is Annweiler.”
“The town is below in the valley,” Markward said amiably, “hidden in the mist. But you can see the castle quite clearly, even at this distance. That is Trifels. Mayhap you’ve heard of it, my lord?”
Richard had, for the notoriety of that red sandstone stronghold had spread well beyond the borders of Germany. Trifels was where prisoners of state and the most dangerous enemies of the empire were held.
CHAPTER TWELVE
APRIL 1193
Trifels, Germany
Richard felt a surge of relief when he saw that he was not to be thrust into one of the castle’s notorious dungeons, said to be black holes of Hell. But the best that could be said of his new lodging was that it was not an underground oubliette. The chamber was small and stark, containing only a pallet and a chamber pot. There were no windows, only several arrow slits, no source of heat, and a lone sputtering oil lamp. And he was again being guarded by men with drawn swords.
The chamber was cold, filling with the night mountain air, and when Richard sat down on the pallet, he saw that he’d been provided with one thin blanket. Leaning back against the wall, he tried to make sense of his plight. Ought he to have seen this coming? Yet how could he have imagined a betrayal of such magnitude? It was obvious now that Heinrich had been biding his time, waiting until the Imperial Diet had dispersed. But did Heinrich truly believe his treachery could be hidden away at Trifels? Why not, though? Only Almighty God knew what bloody secrets had been shrouded behind these stone walls. And how would anyone even know that he was here? His friends were on their way back to England, believing that terms had been struck for his release. How long would it be ere his disappearance became known? Weeks? Months?
When he rose from the bed, his guards at once went on the alert. They showed no overt hostility, but what he saw in their hard-eyed stares was worse—indifference. He did not know if they were routiers or unfree ministeriales, but he did not doubt that these were men who’d cut a baby’s throat without qualms if told to do so by their lord. He’d had many bad moments since he’d looked out the window of the alewife’s house in Ertpurch and seen the trap about to be sprung. But never had he felt as defenseless as he did now, utterly at the mercy of a man without honor or conscience or even prudence, a man so arrogantly sure of his own power that he’d dared to kill a prince of the Church.
Compline had been rung in the town’s churches before a servant brought a tray into the chamber. He set it on the floor and hastily retreated. Richard stared down at the bread and cheese and ale, understanding that he was being sent a message with this meager meal, letting him know that his rank had been stripped away as soon as he’d ridden into the castle bailey. This was prisoner’s fare, not what would be served a highborn hostage, much less a king. He forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls, then pushed the plate aside. Not long afterward, Markward von Annweiler returned.
He was not alone. Richard’s earlier introduction to the castle burgrave had been a terse one, for the ministerialis spoke neither Latin nor French. He was a big, burly man, the sort who might one day run to fat, with receding fair hair, watery blue eyes, and a stolid, phlegmatic mien; Richard had immediately assessed him as one who’d never disobeyed an order or had an original thought of his own. They were accompanied by more guards, so many that some had to wait out in the stairwell. Richard was already on his feet, intending to demand answers even if he did not expect to get them. It was then that he saw what one of the men was carrying—an armful of chains.
“You cannot think I will submit tamely whilst you put me in irons!”
“Actually, I did not,” Markward conceded calmly, “so I asked the emperor what we should do if you resisted. He merely smiled. I took that to mean we can use as much force as needed. But I would hope it will not come to that. This is not a fight you can win, my lord king. Surely you see that. In your speech to the Imperial Diet—and a fine one it was, too—you argued convincingly that it would have been madness to assault Jerusalem when defeat was a certainty.”
He nodded then to the burgrave, who uttered a command, and the guards began to fan out, with the obvious intent to encircle Richard. If they were daunted at the prospect of taking on such a celebrated soldier, it did not show on their faces; several were smiling as if they relished this opportunity. Markward was smiling, too, sounding almost friendly as he said, “You’ll gain nothing by resisting. You’ll merely prolong the inevitable whilst giving these lads a chance to brag in the local alehouse about subduing the English Lionheart. I am not a king, of course, but if I were one, I think I’d have too much pride to let myself be thrashed by lowborn louts.”
Markward paused then to give Richard time to consider what he’d said. He could almost feel the rage radiating off the other man, but he could see that Richard was listening, and he was pleased by that. He was perfectly willing to give the command to beat the English king bloody, but he was practical by nature and preferred the easy way whenever possible.
“Suppose I make your cooperation worth your while,” he said affably. “It has been a long day and I have a soft bed and a ripe wench awaiting me, so I would rather we do this sooner than later. If you submit to the manacles, I will forgo the leg shackles. What could be fairer than that?”
Richard did not trust himself to speak or even to move, sure that if he took so much as a single step, he’d launch himself at Markward’s throat, consequences be damned. But the part of his brain not on fire realized that the German had spoken
no less than the truth. Unless he wanted to force them to kill him, all he’d gain by resisting was pain and humiliation. And he was not yet ready to abandon all hope.
Interpreting his silence as surrender, Markward nodded again to the burgrave, who drew his sword, the signal for others to do the same. Only then did the guard with the chains come forward. Eyeing Richard warily, he handed the key to the closest man as he clapped the manacles onto the king’s wrists, then reclaimed the key to lock them. Richard exercised all of the self-control at his command to stand motionless as this was done. He was caught by surprise, though, when the man then fastened the chain to a bolt in the wall. He’d not expected to be tethered to the wall like this, and as he looked accusingly at Markward, he realized how easy it would be for them now to fetter him with the leg shackles, too.
As if reading his mind, Markward grinned. “I do not make a habit of it, but I occasionally do honor my word, and fortunately for you, tonight is one of those times. I’m sure we can find use for the shackles elsewhere; we never seem to run out of prisoners here. Sleep well, my lord king.” Opening the door, he smiled again. “Though I daresay my night will be a better one than yours.”
RICHARD SLEPT POORLY, for every time he shifted position, he was awakened by the tension in the chain. The manacles were made of iron and surprisingly heavy; they fit tightly and already his wrists were being rubbed raw. He did not feel thankful that his ankles were not fettered, too, just a burning sense of outrage that a consecrated king should be subjected to such degrading maltreatment. He welcomed the fury, did all he could to feed the flames, clinging to his anger as if it were a shield in a vain attempt to keep the shame at bay. Last night, he’d told himself that he had no choice but to submit, that at least he could spare his pride by doing so. In the cold light of day, it seemed to him that in salvaging his pride, he’d sacrificed his honor.