The knight grinned. “I’m glad to see you’re finally up, for I have news you’ll want to hear straightaway.”
“Unless you’ve come to tell me that Heinrich has agreed to turn Richard over to Philippe, I am not interested.”
Durand was unfazed by the grumbling, for he knew how much John enjoyed gossip. “Not as good as that, I grant you. But you’ll still find it of interest. The coronation went as planned, although Philippe was squirming like a man with a stick up his arse during the entire ceremony, looking dour even for him. Some of us had begun to joke that his little Danish tart must not have been to his taste. Yet no one expected what came next. He announced that the marriage was over and he planned to seek an annulment as soon as possible.”
“He did what?” John stared at the other man, incredulous. “Is this a joke, Durand? Why would he do that?”
“The entire court is asking that, too, my lord. When one of the Danish envoys explained what had just happened to the bewildered little bride, she looked as if she’d been hit on the head by a hammer. Needless to say, the Danes are outraged and Philippe’s clerics are dismayed, seeing a God-awful fight looming with the papacy, since no one thinks he has grounds for annuling the marriage.”
John started to shake his head, then decided that was not a good idea. “And I missed all that? Just my luck.” He sat down on the bed, fighting back laughter. “Philippe must have gone stark, raving mad. You’ve seen the girl, Durand. Would you kick her out of your bed?”
“Not bloody likely. I’d have been glad to swive her for him if he was not up to it,” Durand said, with another grin.
John grinned, too, marveling that Philippe, of all men, should have blundered so badly. For one so cautious and calculating, this defied belief. “That must truly have been the wedding night from Hell!”
RICHARD ENJOYED GREATER LIBERTY once he’d agreed to Heinrich’s exorbitant terms in late June. While he was still kept under surveillance, it was no longer so blatantly intrusive. Heinrich had even agreed to let him go hawking occasionally and Henry Falconarius, one of the royal falconers, hastened to Worms with several goshawks and a favorite peregrine falcon. And he had a steady stream of welcome visitors. He took great pleasure in the company of his friends and was grateful that so many churchmen and highborn vassals would make that long journey from England or Normandy. He knew it impressed the Germans and reinforced his status, showing Heinrich that even as a captive king, he retained the loyalty of his subjects. For he never forgot for a moment how precarious his position still was, at the mercy of a man who could decide on the morrow to accept the French king’s offer.
If he’d had any doubts that he was balancing on the thinnest of wires, like the rope dancers so popular at local fairs, they were dispelled in mid-August by Heinrich’s unexpected arrival at Worms. While their meeting was outwardly amiable, it swirled with undercurrents deep enough to drown in. Heinrich began by giving Richard unwelcome news: after being stricken with a serious illness, Archbishop Bruno of Cologne had resigned his archbishopric, choosing to spend his remaining days as a simple monk at the monastery in Altenberg. Richard did his best to hide his dismay, for the elderly archbishop had been one of his strongest supporters. Now he could only hope that the monks would elect a prelate who’d also be sympathetic to his plight.
Heinrich was not one for making idle conversation and he soon revealed the purpose of his visit. The Bishop of Bath had been grievously disappointed to learn that the Christchurch monks had disregarded Richard’s wishes and elected Hubert Walter as the new Archbishop of Canterbury, he reported, adding that he’d been surprised, too, by their defiance. Richard expressed his own surprise and offered his sympathies for the bishop’s thwarted hopes, all the while bracing for whatever was coming next.
“I was sure that you’d share our disappointment,” Heinrich said smoothly. “So I daresay you’ll be pleased to hear that there is a way to compensate my cousin for his loss. He tells me he wants to annex the abbey at Glastonbury to his See of Bath.”
“Does he, now?” It took all of Richard’s self-control to remain impassive, for Glastonbury was one of the most important English abbeys, and since the recent discovery in the monastery cemetery of the graves of King Arthur and his queen, Guinevere, it had become an even more popular pilgrimage site. He could well understand why Savaric wanted to get his greedy hands on such a prize. “I doubt that the monks would take kindly to that, my lord emperor.”
Heinrich dismissed the monks’ objections with a negligent wave of his hand. “Savaric will deal with their complaints. What he proposes is that he grant you the city of Bath in exchange for the abbey, with the two churches united as one. I told him that I felt confident we could count upon your cooperation, my lord king. So . . . can we?”
Richard wondered if Savaric was truly so stupid that he did not realize there’d be a day of reckoning for this bit of banditry. He did not doubt that Heinrich knew it, but his concern was not with his foolish cousin’s future. He cared only about reminding his prisoner that he was one, whatever amenities and civilities he now enjoyed. Richard returned the emperor’s smile, although under the table, his hands had clenched into involuntary fists. “Of course,” he said, with a nonchalance that cost him dearly. “We are allies, after all.”
UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES, Richard was not looking forward to his thirty-sixth birthday on September 8; why would a prisoner celebrate one more day of captivity? To his surprise, it turned out to be an enjoyable occasion. The Bishop of Worms insisted upon hosting a festive birthday dinner for his royal guest and afterward, he engaged several of the German minnesingers to perform for them. Music always raised Richard’s spirits, and he was in a mellow mood even before the arrival of a messenger from one of his new allies, the Duke of Brabant.
The duke’s news could not have been better. The newly elected Archbishop of Cologne was the provost Adolf von Altena, who’d been very friendly with Richard since their first meeting during his trial at Speyer. He could not have asked for a more effective champion than Adolf, and Richard felt as if he’d been given an unexpected birthday gift.
After the meal and the entertainment, they went out into the palace gardens. Some of the men began to play a boisterous game of quoits, throwing horseshoes at a wooden hob. Richard was sitting on a turf bench, watching the game and bantering with Morgan and Warin Fitz Gerald when he was given a letter from the German emperor. At the sight of the imperial seal, it was as if the sun had suddenly gone behind a cloud, for any communication from Heinrich could not be good. Feeling as if he were about to lift a rock and find a scorpion lurking underneath, he broke the seal. Those closest to him also tensed, and were relieved when Richard looked up from the letter, for he seemed startled, not dismayed.
“Some of you may have heard that the French king agreed to wed the sister of the King of Denmark. My lady mother and my justiciars believe that Philippe hoped to get the use of the Danish fleet for an invasion of England. If that was indeed his motivation for this marriage, he has a most peculiar way of courting the Danes, for he disavowed his bride the day after the wedding.”
This astonishing news halted the quoits game and they clustered around him to hear more. Returning to the letter, Richard read rapidly and by the time he was done, he was grinning. “According to the emperor’s sources at the French court,” he said, careful to accord Heinrich the respect due his rank since there were Germans present, “Philippe privately contended that he’d not consummated the marriage, but he was reminded that nonconsummation alone is not enough for an annulment. His advisers must also have pointed out that if he made such a claim, people would naturally assume that he’d been unable to pay the marital debt.” Richard had been circumspect in his choice of words out of deference to the Bishop of Worms and the other clerics, but as he glanced up, he saw that there was no need for discretion. They were obviously as amused as his own men that the French king had gotten himself into such an improbable, embarrassing predicament.
Richard’s kindhearted chaplain, Anselm, felt pity for the repudiated bride and asked what would become of her now.
“Philippe had her taken from Amiens and she is being held at the monastery of St-Maur-des-Fossés near Paris. She is showing admirable spirit, balking at being sent back to Denmark like defective goods. She insists the marriage was indeed consummated and they are man and wife in the eyes of God and the Church. But the emperor’s spies—I mean his sources,” Richard corrected, with another grin, “say that Philippe plans to convene a council of bishops and barons to argue that the marriage is invalid because he and Ingeborg are related within the forbidden degree. Although that is not so, I’d wager the French bishops will pretend to believe it.” No longer smiling, he said, “And, of course, that bastard Beauvais is ready and willing to do Philippe’s bidding in this, for perjury is the least of his sins.”
There was no topic of conversation after that except the French king’s marital woes, and the jests got bawdier and cruder once the bishop and archdeacons departed. It was well known that Philippe had an aversion to horses, and men now joked that he must be particularly skittish at mounting mares. It was suggested that Philippe’s crown jewels were so meager that Ingeborg had been unable to find them, or that her first sight of a naked man may have stirred mirth instead of desire, especially if his flag was flying at half-mast. Warin speculated whether Philippe could have discovered she was not a maiden, and evoked loud laughter by adding, “Of course, would he have been able to tell?” Several wondered whether a lack of virginity could invalidate a marriage, and looked disappointed when Longchamp said it could not. But Morgan turned all heads in his direction when he said that it was one of the grounds for dissolution of a marriage under Welsh law.
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.”
THAT 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.
HUGH DE NONANT, 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 h
ave 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.”