A King's Ransom

  Despite some concessions on Richard’s part, there was little in this proposed treaty that Philippe found easy to swallow, for he’d be losing much that he’d gained during Richard’s captivity in Germany and be totally shut out of Berry. He continued to listen in a stony silence as Richard said he’d accept the switch in loyalties of one of his vassals, Hugh de Gornai, but that if Philippe’s ally, the Count of Toulouse, did not want to be included in the peace, the French king could not offer him any aid in a war with England. When Richard demanded, though, that the Earl of Leicester be freed, that was too much for Philippe’s self-control, and he said sharply, “I will not agree to that!”

  “You have no choice,” Richard said, just as sharply, “for that is not open to negotiation.” He maneuvered his stallion alongside Philippe’s bay mount, a more docile animal than the fiery Fauvel. The bay shifted nervously when Fauvel pinned his ears back and Philippe glared at Richard, thinking the English king was trying to show up his poor horsemanship before their watching men. But Richard had no thoughts to spare for a skittish horse. “You’ve been punishing Leicester because he made a fool out of you at Rouen, but it ends now. Your grievance is with me, and if you find these terms unpalatable, we can settle our differences here and now, on the battlefield, and let God decide who is in the right.”

  Their armies were not close enough to hear what was being said and could only wait tensely to see if they would fight that day or not. Even the most bloodthirsty of soldiers shrank from a pitched battle, which was so rare that most had never taken part in one. So when the two kings eventually dismounted and gave each other the formal kiss of peace that signified an agreement had been reached, both sides erupted in cheering, grateful that none would die this day, less than three weeks until the Nativity of the Holy Saviour.

  ELEANOR WAS DELIGHTED that Richard had chosen her favorite city for his Christmas Court. She’d missed so many family Christmases during her years of confinement that she would never take one for granted again. She’d been given an enthusiastic welcome into the city, for she’d always been popular with the townspeople, who were proud that she had worn the crowns of two realms. In the splendid great hall of the royal palace, she eclipsed her daughter-in-law without even trying, and some of the women guests pitied Berengaria, knowing that she would not be England’s queen as long as Eleanor lived.

  After a meal as bountiful as the Advent diet would allow, Eleanor joined Richard on the dais and, as music and spirits soared, he shared with her news both personal and political, telling her his chancellor had brought back word from Germany that her grandson Henrik and his bride were the proud parents of a healthy son. “You are now a great-grandmother twice over,” he teased, and smiled when she pointed out that he was now a great-uncle. “I had not considered that,” he admitted. “I doubt that we’ll ever meet Henrik’s little lad, but Richenza and Jaufre will be bringing their son to the Christmas Court.”

  “Jaufre is coming?” Eleanor asked in surprise, and he explained that Jaufre felt it could be risked since a truce now existed between England and France, with the final treaty to be signed in January. “I was not thinking of him fearing Philippe’s wrath, but yours,” she responded, and was surprised again when he said that he’d forgiven Jaufre for his defection to the French king.

  “I declared his English lands forfeit to teach him there is a price to be paid for disloyalty. But I returned them to him earlier this year, for a king needs to mix the sour with the sweet.”

  Richard then told her that he’d succeeded in getting his former clerk Master Fulk de Poitiers elected as Bishop of Durham, and Eleanor found herself thinking that he’d been very generous to the men who’d been with him in Germany. “I was astonished to learn that Heinrich had agreed to remit the rest of the ransom and free some of your hostages,” she said, and Richard glanced around to make sure they could speak freely.

  “Longchamp deserves the credit for that miracle,” he said. “But I suspect that Leopold’s gruesome fate may have played a small role, too. There were times when I wondered if Heinrich was mad. Yet even a madman must fear God’s wrath, and I daresay there were many German churchmen to whisper that in Heinrich’s ear.”

  He paused to take a swallow of wine. “It looks as if there’ll be no marriage between Aenor and Philippe’s son, for that idea seems to have died when Philippe rejected the earlier peace. Did I tell you, Maman, that Philippe’s envoys hinted during those summer negotiations that he might be interested in another marriage, one with Joanna?”

  “No, you did not!”

  “It was never a formal proposal, just put out there to see how we’d react to it.”

  “I can well imagine how Joanna reacted,” she said, and he laughed.

  “She vowed that she’d sooner wed Saladin’s brother! After the way Philippe has maltreated Ingeborg, he’ll find few men willing to offer their daughters or sisters to him. Even if a father cares little for his daughter, he’d not want to risk being shamed the way Ingeborg’s brother was.”

  “Speaking of marriages . . .” Eleanor glanced meaningfully across the hall toward the Countess of Aumale and her new husband. “Hawisa and Baldwin seem to be getting on. At least she is smiling. Whenever I saw her with William de Forz, she looked as if she’d just eaten something that disagreed with her.”

  Richard had given Hawisa and Baldwin a lavish wedding, but hadn’t thought much about their marriage after that. “Baldwin seems content enough,” he said, “though he’s not one to complain. For certes, they are happier than Constance and Chester.”

  Eleanor followed his gaze and found the young Earl of Chester, standing alone as he watched the dancers. “He does not look as if he is enjoying himself,” she agreed. “Constance is not with him?”

  “No. Her barons chased him out of Brittany again, and he is very bitter about it.”

  “So he’ll be of no help in convincing Constance to send Arthur to your court,” Eleanor mused and Richard shrugged. But her words caught the attention of her younger son. John had drifted toward the dais, always on the alert to overhear something useful. He did not like the sound of that, for if Arthur was raised at Richard’s court, his brother might well conclude that the boy would make a satisfactory heir.

  Richard had signaled for a servant to refill their wine cups. Eleanor clinked hers playfully against his, saying, “Shall we drink to the peace with Philippe? How long do you expect it to last?”

  “Just long enough,” he said, and she gave him such an easy, intimate smile that John, watching, felt a twinge of envy.

  Eleanor sipped her wine as the dancers spun in a carol, remembering how difficult it had been to get Henry to dance, remembering Christmas Courts past, when their marriage had still been a source of pleasure to them both; four of their children had been conceived during the holiday revelries. Those memories were bittersweet, and she turned back to Richard. “I heard a remarkable story recently, that the chieftain of the Assassins sent Philippe a letter absolving you of blame in Conrad of Montferrat’s murder. Is that true, Richard?”

  “Well, it is true that Philippe got such a letter.” Much to John’s annoyance, Richard lowered his voice so that only Eleanor could hear. “Even after I was exonerated at Heinrich’s court, Philippe continued to accuse me of the murder. I’ll admit it angered me, for not only was it a slur on my honor, it was an insult. As if I’d need to resort to hired killers if there was a man I wanted dead!”

  Richard moved his chair closer to his mother’s seat before continuing. “Longchamp knew it vexed me that Philippe was still muddying the waters, so he suggested that the Old Man of the Mountain write and tell Philippe that I played no part in Conrad’s death.”

  “Ah, I see. . . . I confess I was puzzled why a Saracen bandit would take the trouble to clear a Christian king.”

  “You’re much more astute than Philippe, Maman. That was a question he’d never thought to ask. Of course, Longchamp composed such a convincing letter that I half believed it mys
elf,” he said with a grin. “It seems to have convinced Philippe, for he has stopped accusing me of the murder. That makes me think the damned fool really thought I’d hired Assassins to murder Conrad. And I know who is to blame for that—his cousin. That bastard Beauvais probably told Philippe that I was found standing over Conrad’s body with a bloody knife.”

  Richard’s amusement faded as soon as he mentioned the bishop’s name. Swallowing the rest of his wine, he got to his feet. “I’ve not yet danced with my wife, so I’d best remedy that.” He paused, though, before starting toward the steps. “At times I think I do not deserve absolution of my sins,” he said, so softly that she could barely hear him, “for I cannot do as God demands and forgive my enemies. Even if it imperils my immortal soul, I can never forgive Heinrich, Philippe, and Beauvais.”

  He did not wait for her response, stepped off the dais, and moved away in search of his queen. Eleanor stayed where she was, her expression so guarded that John could only speculate what had been said in that last, private exchange.

  AFTER A CHRISTMAS MASS, the king’s family and guests were served a feast of wild boar, roast goose, and stewed capon, and then watched a play, The Mystery of Adam, which was performed out in the open in front of the church of Notre-Dame; it was extremely popular because it was done in French instead of Latin, and it attracted a large audience, who cheered the actors, their king, and his mother with equal enthusiasm. Darkness had enveloped Poitiers by the time they returned to the palace.

  John was not enjoying himself, feeling like a tolerated trespasser rather than a welcomed guest. He was bored, too. The day’s festivities were drawing to an end and people were chatting amiably, waiting for the king to signal that it was time for them all to seek their beds. Until that happened, John could only roam the hall, eavesdropping at random.

  Feminine laughter drawing his attention, he glanced toward the women gathered around Will Marshal’s young wife. To judge from their exclamations, he guessed Isabel had just confided she was with child again. Would that be her fourth? Or her fifth? Since her marriage, she seemed to be perpetually pregnant. No wonder Marshal watched over her like an old bull with one prize heifer. John’s gaze shifted from the radiant Isabel to his sister-in-law. Berengaria was smiling, and he wondered what it cost her to look so happy for a girl who’d given her husband two sons within their first two years of marriage. Whilst he was deeply thankful that she was not as fertile as Isabel, he surprised himself by feeling a glimmer of sympathy for her now. He knew what it was like to be judged and found wanting.

  Nearby, his mother and his niece Richenza were engaged in an animated conversation, and he moved within hearing range. He thought he’d been unobtrusive, but Eleanor noticed him; he wondered sometimes if she slept with her eyes open so she’d not miss anything. “We were just talking about Otto, John, and the Scots king’s remarkable proposal.”

  John had heard rumors about that. Apparently despairing that his wife would ever give him a son, King William had suggested to Richard that Otto wed his two-year-old daughter, Margaret, a marriage that would make him the heir to the Scots throne. “So the story is true, then?” John asked. “But I seem to remember my father proposing a marriage between William and Richenza about ten years ago and the Pope would not permit it because they were related within the forbidden degree. If the Church would not let Richenza wed William, why would it allow Otto to wed William’s daughter?”

  “Different Pope,” Richenza said succinctly, sounding very much like her worldly grandmother at that moment.

  John expressed his hope that the marriage would come to pass, and he was not just being polite; he truly meant it. He liked Otto well enough and, looking ahead to a time when Richard’s crown might rest upon his own head, having his nephew on the Scots throne could be very advantageous.

  He soon lost interest in listening to Richenza praise her brother to the heavens, and excused himself. Richard was the center of attention, as usual, and as John wandered over, he found that his brother, André, and Morgan were telling Will Marshal and the other lords about their triumph at Issoudun. Their account was punctuated with much laughter, all at the French king’s expense, and Richenza’s husband was looking uncomfortable, for Philippe was Jaufre’s liege lord, too. John had already heard about the trap Richard had sprung on the French king; Richard was never shy about trumpeting his successes. He found some amusement, though, in Jaufre’s frozen smile and in the way his cousin Morgan kept glancing toward Joanna’s Saracen handmaiden when he thought no one was looking. John did not understand why Morgan was brooding over her refusal to marry him; that sounded like the ideal situation to him, a woman willing to share his bed without nagging him to the altar.

  He was about to move away when Richard suddenly changed the subject, saying that he had one less enemy now. That sparked John’s curiosity and he paused to listen as Richard told the other men he’d heard that Isaac Comnenus had died suddenly that summer. “Rumor has it that he was poisoned by an agent of the Greek emperor,” Richard revealed, “but however he died, the world is a better place without him.”

  John glanced back at the women, his gaze finding Isaac’s daughter, Anna. If she was grieving for her father, she hid it well. She was laughing at something Joanna had said, and she put John in mind of a ripe peach. He was tempted to find out if she tasted as sweet as she looked, but Brother Richard might take that amiss, and Joanna would for certes.

  Richard was still talking about Isaac, and John had a dangerous impulse to point out that Isaac was not the only enemy Richard had lost that year, for the Bishop of Coventry’s brother had died in a Dover dungeon. Robert de Nonant had been John’s sworn man, but he thought de Nonant had been a fool to defy Richard so publicly at the German court, on the very day that Richard regained his freedom. He ought to have known better; kings were never defied with impunity. He’d still been sorry to hear of de Nonant’s death, sure it had been a hard one, left alone in the dark as he slowly starved, for men did not thrive on bread and water. He did not give in to that reckless urge to mention de Nonant, though. The last thing he wanted to do was to remind Richard of his own dubious past. As he studied his brother now, he thought that de Nonant’s sad death might be a blessing in disguise, for he dared not forget that Richard was not as quick to forgive as he once was. De Nonant had found that out too late. God willing, he’d not make the same mistake.

  John smothered a yawn, hoping that Richard would soon bring the revelries to an end. His brother was in high spirits, though, enjoying himself, and not ready to call it a night. Seeing that Eleanor was now seated on the dais, he moved in her direction. Motivated by morbid curiosity, John followed. He got within earshot in time to hear Richard say, “There is something I want to discuss with you, Maman. I do not think anything will come of the Scots king’s plan to make Otto his heir.”

  Eleanor looked surprised. “But I thought Hubert Walter was in York to discuss it further with the Scots?”

  “He is, but it is likely to be a journey for naught. I’ve been told the Scots king’s barons are adamantly opposed to the idea.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, Richard.”

  “I was, too. Otto has the potential to be a good king. But since he’ll not be going to Scotland, I’ve been thinking about naming Otto as Count of Poitou. Would you be comfortable with that?”

  John’s breath stopped and, for a moment, he thought his heart had stopped, too. He’d not been genuinely alarmed to hear that Richard wanted to bring Arthur to his court, for he felt confident Constance and her barons would never agree; cutting off their noses to spite their faces was a favorite Breton sport. But naming Otto as Count of Poitou could be a first step toward making him Duke of Aquitaine, and if Richard would do that, he might well be willing to make Otto his heir. John waited tensely for his mother’s answer, but once again she disappointed him, saying that she thought it was a good idea. John bit his lip to keep from protesting, trying to take comfort in the reminder that Otto was hun
dreds of miles away at the imperial court and likely to remain there for years to come, too valuable a hostage for Heinrich to relinquish.

  By now Joanna and Berengaria had joined them, followed by André and Denise, Jaufre and Richenza, and Will Marshal and Isabel. John’s earlier suspicions were confirmed when Eleanor and Richard congratulated Isabel on her pregnancy, and he watched as Berengaria summoned up a heartbreaking smile. They were soon talking again about Richard’s victory at Issoudun and the treaty he’d forced upon the French king, and John hid another yawn.

  “It was a good day,” Richard acknowledged. “But it was only a beginning. I mean to strip away Philippe’s remaining allies, one by one, until he is utterly isolated and alone.”

  He sounded as if he had a plan in mind to do just that, and Joanna found herself feeling a sudden unease. Philippe’s most important allies were Baldwin, the new Count of Flanders, and Raimond, the new Count of Toulouse. While she’d always known that Raimond de St Gilles was an avowed enemy of her House, she realized now that she did not want to see her brother leading an army against Raimond. Was Richard seriously thinking of pushing Maman’s claim to Toulouse as her two husbands had done? She did not doubt that Richard would prevail if he met Raimond on the battlefield, but she hoped it would not come to that. She was loath to see the dogs of war unleashed upon the easygoing, pleasure-loving people of the sun-drenched South and their charming, controversial count. She turned away so no one could see her distress, hearing again a voice like melted honey, murmuring in her ear, Farewell, my beautiful coward.