A King's Ransom

  “Already?” He sounded incredulous and then euphoric, kissing her exuberantly, laughing, and kissing her again. “It must have happened on our wedding night, and what better proof can we have of God’s favor than that?”

  She laughed, too. “I am not sure if that was the night, although it must have been soon afterward,” she said, explaining that she’d had her last flux the week ere their wedding day. “I remember, for I was relieved that I need not worry about it coming at an inopportune time. When I missed November’s flux, I tried to rein in my hopes, knowing it was too early. Now I’ve missed December’s, too, for it should have come a fortnight ago. I resolved to wait until the third month to tell you. But tonight in the cathedral, I felt this sense of peace, this utter certainty, as if the Blessed Mother herself was smiling upon me, upon us. When we return to Toulouse, I’ll seek out a midwife. I have no doubts, though, none at all. I am bearing your child.”

  “It has been sixteen years since my daughter was born,” he said softly, “sixteen years. I did not lie when I told you I did not believe our marriage would be barren. I just never imagined it would be so soon. . . .” Reaching under her mantle again, he laid his hand gently, almost reverently, upon her abdomen. “When?”

  “I will have to see what the midwife says, but I think he will come in the summer.” Joanna put her own hand over his, as if they were cradling their baby, protecting him from the dangers waiting outside the safety of her womb. She was sure it would be a boy, as sure as if God had whispered it in her ear, and she resolutely refused to think of all that could go wrong, of that small tomb in Monreale Cathedral. Giving Raimond a smile he would remember for the rest of his life, she said, “Soon enough to have people counting on their fingers—July.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  FEBRUARY 1197

  Castle Gaillard, Normandy

  Richard’s new stronghold was recorded in the Pipe rolls as the Castle of the Rock, although he and others called it by the playful name he’d given it soon after construction began—Castle Gaillard, French for “saucy” or “bold.” But Richard had in mind far more than the strategic placement of a river fortress. He was building a new walled town, Petit Andely, below the castle, and had dammed two streams to form a protective lake between it and the town claimed by the Archbishop of Rouen, now renamed Grand Andely. The Île d’Andely, an island in the Seine, was to be the site of a fortified royal palace, and a fort was to be constructed upon a smaller island, Boutavant. In an even more ambitious undertaking, a double stockade would block the river traffic. And on the steep white cliff three hundred feet above the River Seine would rise the towering walls of Castle Gaillard, the beneficiary of all that Richard had learned in twenty-five years of constant warfare, the citadel he fondly called his “fair daughter,” meant to be as impregnable as Heaven’s own gates.

  André was very familiar with his cousin’s audacious vision of what Les Andelys would become. He admired Richard for daring to dream so big, although he did wonder if the king’s white-hot enthusiasm would burn so brightly as the years passed; he expected it to take at least a decade for Richard’s grand design to be transformed into reality. He was stunned, therefore, on this blustery February afternoon to see how much had been done since his last visit.

  A village of wooden buildings and barracks had been erected to house the workers, guards, and supplies, and everywhere André looked, he saw frantic activity. Men were hacking away with pickaxes, chisels, and hammers, carving deep moats out of solid rock. Others climbed up scaffolding to scramble onto walls covered with tarps to protect against the winter frosts. Smiths were busy forging tools, carpenters supervising the cutting of logs, hodmen staggering under heavy loads, barrowmen carrying away soil and stones, youths hastening over in response to thirsty shouts for “Water, lad!” It was, André, thought, like watching an anthill that had been knocked over, with ants scurrying in all directions.

  “We cannot mix mortar again until the weather warms up,” Richard said, sounding as if he bore a personal grudge against nature for interfering with his plans. “But we can still excavate the ditches. The moat around the outer bailey is going to be thirty feet wide and twenty feet deep. Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”

  Hoping that did not involve climbing up on the scaffolding, André gamely followed as Richard led him across a bridge into the outer bailey. It was triangular and he saw at once that it would function very effectively as a barbican. Even assuming that the attackers got this far—and he doubted they would, for the site was protected on three sides by sheer chalk cliffs—they’d still be cut off from the middle bailey by a second deep moat and a high wall flanked by two round towers.

  After they crossed another bridge, Richard pointed out the well in a corner of the middle bailey, saying the chapel and stables would be located here, too. The inner bailey was to be encircled by still another moat, but its most impressive defense would be the thick, corrugated walls, with round towers spaced every nine feet, making it impossible for enemy sappers to dig mines without exposing themselves to fire from above. Richard showed André where a square gatehouse would be situated, and they crossed another bridge into the inner bailey.

  There André was astonished to see that work had already begun on the great keep, which was to have a rare cylindrical shape, with a beak like the prow of a ship, similar to the keep that Richard was building at Issoudun. He marveled that it was actually built right into the bailey wall, never having seen that before, and he was impressed, too, when Richard showed him another innovation: the long sloping plinth at the foot of the keep, which would allow rocks and weapons dropped from the battlements to ricochet off it, causing even greater injury to the attackers while deterring would-be sappers.

  Nor was that all, Richard added proudly. There would be hoardings on the inner bailey walls, of course, those temporary wooden structures angled out from the top of castle ramparts to allow the defenders to drop rocks and hot liquids through openings in the floor. But the hoardings on Gaillard’s keep were to be different. He called them machicolations, saying they’d be permanent, made of stone to defy fire arrows, and when André—who’d never heard of such a thing—asked how their weight could be supported, Richard told him more about corbeled arches than he needed or wanted to know.

  “A pity you were born a king’s son,” he joked, “for you’d have made a right fine master mason!”

  Richard grinned. “That is what Master Sewale says, too,” he confided, naming the chief clerk in charge of the castle expenditures. “According to him, I am wasting money on a master mason since I am doing most of his work myself.”

  “Well, you’re not only a master mason, Cousin, you’re a magician. How in the name of all that’s holy have you managed to get so much done so fast?”

  “What is the most powerful inducement?”

  “A knife at a man’s throat?”

  “Money, André, money. When men are paid and paid very well for their labors, they are also highly motivated. Master Sewale claims that I’ll have spent over eleven thousand pounds on motivation when all is said and done.”

  André stared at him openmouthed, for Richard had recently complained that since his coronation, he’d had to spend seven thousand pounds on the maintenance of his English castles—all of them. Richard had turned toward the scaffolding that encased a partially completed wall, and André reluctantly followed, thinking he was getting too old to be clambering about like a mountain goat. But the wall seemed to offer solid footing; the rubble packed between the ashlar faces was covered with straw, dung, and a canvas tarp. When he looked down, André discovered a spectacular view. Far below them lay the new walls of Petit Andely, a raised causeway over the lake connecting it with Grand Andely. Beyond it, the River Seine flowed majestically toward the Narrow Sea, moss green in the wan February sun. André tried to imagine that surging current challenged by a wooden stockade—tried and failed, although he did not doubt that Richard would see it done, even if he had to help ha
mmer in the posts himself.

  “Did I take your tongue away with that vast sum?” Richard asked, with another grin. “You know why I am willing to spend so much, do you not, André?”

  André nodded. “Castles are built for defense. Not Gaillard, though. Oh, it will be of great value in protecting Rouen and the Norman border. But that is not why you are so smitten with this ‘fair daughter’ of yours. You intend to take the offensive against the French king, to use it as a base to reclaim the Vexin.”

  Richard was still smiling, but his eyes had focused on the southern horizon, taking on a glitter that André had seen before—on the battlefield. “How much sleep do you think Philippe will get,” he said, “knowing that Castle Gaillard is a three-day ride from Paris?”

  THE SKY WAS SOON obscured by lowering clouds and, much to Richard’s vexation, a chill, steady rain began to fall. He reluctantly ended the day’s work and, as the men sought shelter, he and André mounted and rode down into Petit Andely, then across the bridge onto the Île d’Andely. By now, André was expecting miracles to be an everyday occurrence and so he felt no surprise to find that the isle was already walled in, with comfortable living quarters for his cousin the king.

  André was pleased to see Otto in attendance upon Richard, not as pleased to see John, but the latter was on his best behavior these days and greeted André with cousinly goodwill. Remembering that he’d not eaten since breaking his fast that morning, Richard ordered a meal, and it was only after they’d dined that it occurred to him to ask André why he’d made such a long winter’s journey from Berry into Normandy. Seeing the shadow that crossed André’s face at the question, he dismissed the other men, leaving them alone on the hall dais. “Cousin? What is amiss?”

  André took a gulp of wine. “I wanted to let you know that I am going to Rome as soon as the alpine passes are open in the spring.”

  Richard blinked in surprise. “Rome? Why?”

  André took another swallow and grimaced, even though they were drinking a fine red wine from Cahors. “Do you remember when I told you I’d been having trouble with the Abbot of Déols? He’s quite the strutting peacock, is our abbot, bound and determined to be king of his own little dunghill.”

  He was mixing metaphors with abandon, but Richard forbore to tease him about it, realizing that the older man was truly worried. “I remember,” he said. “He accused you of encroaching on the liberties of his abbey, no?”

  “To hear him tell it, my sins are legion. The truth is that the pompous fool does not like it that Denise has a husband willing to defend her rights. He’s gone so far as to claim our marriage is invalid, insisting we are within the forbidden degree of kinship.”

  Richard was astonished. “That is nonsense! We checked for any consanguinity problems ere the marriage took place.”

  “I know,” André said morosely, “but that has not stopped the wretch from asking the Archbishop of Bourges to excommunicate me and declare our marriage null and void. Denise is understandably distraught about it, especially now that she is breeding again, so I promised her that I would appeal to the Pope.”

  “The Archbishop of Bourges?” Richard sat up straight, staring at his cousin. “Holy Christ! If the archbishop is involved, this is Philippe’s doing, André, for they are spokes on the same wheel.”

  André began to curse, long and loudly. He’d been infuriated that a minor dispute over privileges could have erupted into an ugly quarrel that threatened his very marriage, but he’d been dumbfounded when the archbishop had taken the abbot’s side, for it made no sense. Now it did. He was heartened that Richard shared his outrage, gratefully accepted the offer to write to the Pope on his behalf, and they spent the next quarter hour damning the French king and his partners in crime to the hottest regions of the netherworld.

  Once their anger had cooled, Richard remembered to congratulate André on Denise’s latest pregnancy, adding that he had happy news of his own. “Joanna is with child, too. And I’ve made a good match for Philip; he’s to wed the Lady Amelie, heiress to the barony of Cognac.”

  André was pleased for Joanna and delighted that Richard had provided so well for Philip’s future, for he’d become quite fond of the boy. “How old is he now—nigh on sixteen, no? Of an age to wed for certes,” he said, although his smile vanished as his gaze strayed across the hall, where John and several knights were playing a boisterous dice game. He thought it a great pity that Richard’s only son was bastard-born and John likely to be his heir since his queen was barren. Denise had taken issue with him about that, arguing that Berengaria might still get with child. But André did not think so, nor did he blame his cousin for neglecting his marital duties. Whilst he liked Berengaria well enough, bedding her must be like bedding a nun.

  His smile came back then, as he thought of his own wife, who was as eager for their bed sport as he was, and had been ever since their bridal night. She’d been sixteen, already a widow, and he’d been very grateful to Richard for giving him such a wealthy heiress. But she’d brought him far more than lands. From the first, she’d shown a common sense that belied her youth, realizing how it benefited her to have a husband in such high favor with the new king, and their marriage had gotten off to a good start, even though he was more than twenty years her senior. She was with child ere he left for the Holy Land, had given him three healthy sons and a happy home life, one he was not going to lose, by God. He’d promised her he’d deal with it, and if that meant traveling all the way to Rome to appeal to that lickspittle on the papal throne, so be it.

  Richard had always read André with ease, and he saw now that the other man’s thoughts had taken a gloomy turn again. He was about to reassure his cousin that they’d get this lunacy sorted out, but it was then that he happened to notice the new arrivals being ushered into the hall. Recognizing one as the Archdeacon of Évreux, he got to his feet with a frown. “That’s passing strange. Master Mauger was part of the delegation I sent to Rome to appeal that accursed Interdict. Why is he back so soon?”

  Without waiting for the man to come to him, he strode across the hall. Content to stay where he was, André was finishing the rest of his wine when Otto strolled over to keep him company, bearing some very interesting news. Apparently there was new unrest in Sicily, serious enough for Heinrich to hasten there himself to quell it. According to their source, the Archbishop of Cologne, Heinrich had vowed to show no mercy to the rebels, determined that nothing would delay his departure for the Holy Land.

  André had heard that Heinrich had taken the cross, planning to lead a large German army to Outremer, and he very much hoped it would never come to pass. It was bad enough that Richard had been unable to fulfill his own vow to return and take Jerusalem because of the constant threat posed by the French king. How painful it must be to have to watch now whilst Heinrich sought to do what he could not. Sometimes it seemed to André as if the Almighty intended to test Richard as mercilessly as He’d tested Job.

  Otto sought to lighten the mood then, with more cheerful news. Heinrich had suffered another setback, he said, with a sudden smile that reminded André how young this solemn lad was, not yet twenty. André had doubtless heard that last spring Heinrich had pressured the German princes and bishops into agreeing to make the imperial crown hereditary. But at a second Diet in Erfurt that past October, the Archbishop of Cologne had rallied the opposition and they’d held firm, insisting the crown remain elective. “Heinrich was said to have lost some of that vaunted control of his. How he must hate Archbishop Adolf! But the archbishop does not fear him, and because he does not—”

  Otto broke off abruptly, for Richard was returning to the dais and they knew before he said a word that something was very wrong. He’d lost color and when he raised his head, they saw tears clinging to his lashes. “Longchamp is dead. He took ill of a sudden when they reached Poitiers and died ere the week was out. . . .”

  André and Otto expressed their condolences and, as word spread, other men approached the dais to
do the same, somewhat awkwardly, for the chancellor had remained a controversial figure. Acknowledging that now, Richard said, almost accusingly, “There will be few to mourn him.”

  Since that was true, no one knew what to say. It was Otto who finally found the right words. “But you will mourn him, Uncle, and that is what would have mattered to him.”

  Richard was silent for a time, thinking of Trifels Castle and the small, stooped figure kneeling by his bed, the most unlikely of saviors. “Yes,” he said, “I will. . . .”

  RICHARD HONORED THE MEMORY of his nepotistic chancellor in the way that Longchamp would have most appreciated, by arranging for his brother Robert, Archdeacon of Ely, to be chosen as abbot of the prestigious abbey of St Mary’s in York.

  Longchamp’s traveling companions, the Bishop of Lisieux and the Bishop-elect of Durham, continued on to Rome, where Pope Celestine heard their arguments and those presented by the Archbishop of Rouen. Ruling in Richard’s favor, he lifted the Interdict and advised the archbishop to accept Richard’s offer to swap the port of Dieppe and other manors for Andely, which he grudgingly did.

  BALDWIN DE BETHUNE’S MEN were pleased when their lord set out to join the English king in his assault upon the Bishop of Beauvais’s castle at Milly-sur-Thérain, for they’d missed out on his April raid upon Ponthieu. Richard had burned the port of St Valéry and seized five English ships in the harbor, confiscating their cargo and hanging the ships’ captains as a warning to others who defied his embargo upon trade with France and Flanders. As he’d also carried off holy relics and carts loaded down with booty, Baldwin’s men regretted not taking part in this raid; Richard was renowned for generously sharing such plunder with his soldiers. They knew his assault upon Milly-sur-Thérain would not be as rewarding, but they still welcomed this opportunity to profit at the bishop’s expense. It was a disappointment, therefore, when they reached the siege on May 19 and found that they were too late, that Richard had already captured the castle.