A King's Ransom

  “He’s been sleeping, God be praised,” he said in a low voice. “That is the only respite he gets from the pain. . . .”

  André took the abbot’s seat beside the bed. Richard seemed to have aged ten years in the weeks since they’d last met. Pain had etched deep grooves around his mouth and his hollowed cheekbones showed he’d lost an alarming amount of weight in the week since he’d been wounded. His face was so bloodless that André thought it was like gazing down at a carven marble effigy, drained of all life and color. But his body offered tragic testimony to the mortality of men: the skin on his chest was swollen, blistered, and turning black; his shoulder poultice oozing a foul-smelling pus. André was never to know how long he sat there, watching the rapid rise and fall of that rib cage, almost as if he were willing every breath into the other man’s lungs. But then Richard’s lashes flickered.

  “André . . .” His voice was a husky whisper, this man who’d been able to shout down the wind, and André had to lean closer to catch his words. “A favor . . .”

  “Anything . . .” André’s own words came out as a croak and he had to repeat himself. “Anything . . .”

  “No saying ‘I told you so,’ Cousin. . . .”

  André could not speak, his throat having closed off, and he could only nod.

  “I sent for my mother, hope she’s hurrying. . . .” Richard glanced toward a wine flagon by the bed and André poured with a shaking hand, tilting the cup to Richard’s lips. “We’ve tried to keep it quiet . . . giving Johnny time to get away. . . .” His eyes looked badly bruised and had a glazed, feverish sheen, but he seemed quite lucid to André. His words were halting, though, with long pauses as he fought for breath. “You know where . . . where that damned fool is? Brittany . . .”

  “That damned fool,” André echoed, not even knowing what he said.

  “If the Bretons hear first, Johnny’ll have . . . have shortest reign in history. . . .”

  “My liege?” The abbot had come to stand beside André. “I am confident your lady mother will soon be here. Are you sure you do not want us to send for your queen?”

  “Too late. . . .”

  The abbot apparently knew that was true, for he did not argue. “Is there a message you’d have me deliver to her, sire?”

  Richard’s lashes swept down, veiling his eyes. “That I am . . . sorry . . .” When he asked for wine again, André hastily obliged. The abbot had stepped away from the bed and his next words were pitched just for André’s ear. “Women . . . always think men owe them apologies for something. . . .”

  André nodded again, and somehow managed to keep his voice steady as he said, “True enough. Apologies, like charity, cover a multitude of sins.”

  After that, they were silent for a time. André could tell whenever the pain got worse; Richard would shut his eyes, shudder, and bite down on his lower lip until it bled, so determined was he to stifle any groans or cries. Watching his suffering was as difficult as anything André had ever done, but he meant to keep vigil as long as Richard could get air into his laboring lungs.

  “Fauvel . . . He’s yours, Cousin. Do not . . . not let Johnny steal him. . . .”

  “No . . .” André knew by now what was expected of him, what Richard wanted as his life ebbed away, one waning heartbeat at a time. “So you entrust your kingdom to John, but not your horse?”

  A ghost of a smile found the corner of Richard’s mouth. “Kingdoms come and go. . . . A stallion like Fauvel is special. . . .” He winced then, turning his head aside as if seeking the shadows that held sway beyond the smoldering lamplight. “André . . . give Argento and my sword. . . .”

  “Your son?”

  “Yes . . . for Philip . . .” It was little enough to leave the lad. Had he only been born in wedlock . . . Richard had never experienced the sort of severe pain he’d endured since the gangraena had struck, but there was an odd sort of mercy to it, for it kept him from dwelling upon what lay ahead for his Angevin empire. With Johnny at the helm, how long ere he ran the ship up onto the rocks? Yet Arthur would have turned the tiller over to Philippe straightaway. At least Johnny would not be the French king’s puppet. . . . At least he’d not be that.

  THE MAN SHOVED ROUGHLY over the threshold was frightened, but defiant, his the courage of utter despair. There was so much hatred in the chamber that he could barely breathe; the very air seemed seared with its heat. Mercadier’s men thrust him forward, one of them seizing the chance to kick him in the ribs as they forced him to his knees. He darted a quick glance over his shoulder, saw nothing but hostile faces; even a man clad in the bleached robes of the White Monks was regarding him with accusing eyes. Raising his head, then, he stared challengingly at the man in the bed. It was no small feat to slay a king, especially this one. Did it count for less that he’d not known he was aiming at the Lionheart?

  Richard turned to another man standing close by, saying something too low to be heard, then waited as pillows were propped behind him so that he could look upon the prisoner. Death was not only in the chamber with them, it was perched on the edge of the bed. But when he spoke, his fading whisper was belied by the intensity of his gaze. “Your name?”

  “Sir Peire Basile of Pouyades.”

  “A knight?”

  “I am,” he said proudly, but no more than that, for he’d vowed he’d not beg for his life. That would serve for naught, only bring shame to his name, his family.

  Richard regarded him for what felt like several centuries. “Your life is . . . forfeit, you think. . . . You’re wrong. . . . I bear . . . bear no grudge. You . . . are free to go, Peire Basile. . . .”

  The other men were no less stunned than the crossbowman and there was an immediate outcry. Only André was not shocked by Richard’s astonishing act of clemency. The audience for this last act of his cousin’s play was reacting as he would have expected them to do. He found approval on the faces of Morgan, Guy, and the abbot, for the former worshipped at the Church of the Chivalric Faith and the churchman had often preached the divine virtues of forgiveness. But William de Braose, Guillain, and Richard’s seneschal were not at all happy with this reprieve, and Mercadier looked utterly outraged.

  Peire Basile would later wish he’d said something, anything. But shock and disbelief had stolen his powers of speech, and before he could recover, his guards had dragged him to his feet and pushed him toward the door. André quickly gestured for the others to follow, for he knew Richard had no interest in hearing them debate his decision. Yet one more mystery for the ages, he thought, gazing down at the dying man. Men would long wonder what he’d have done had he survived this wound. Would Peire Basile have lived or died then? André honestly did not know, for Richard was capable both of great magnanimity and the utmost ruthlessness.

  Arne had gone over to close the door after the last of the men departed. André was amused, yet touched, too, by the conflicted expression on the squire’s face—pride that his king had spared his slayer’s life like one of the knights in a troubadour’s tale, but disappointment that the man would also be spared earthly punishment for a crime so great.

  Leaning over the bed then, André murmured, “Well done, Cousin. You burnished the Lionheart’s legend whilst earning yourself some much-needed credit with the Almighty.”

  Richard did not seem to have heard, for he did not open his eyes, nor did he speak. But André thought he caught the hint of a smile.

  ELEANOR WAS TERRIFIED that she would not arrive in time. A horse litter was too slow, so despite her age, she rode a fast mare. But although she pushed her body to the utmost and beyond, managing as much as twenty-five miles from dawn till dusk, it still took over five and a half days to cover the one hundred forty miles of eternity stretching between Fontevrault Abbey and Châlus. The nights were the worst, for she slept only in snatches, and when she did dream, her son was in great danger—sometimes in a German dungeon, sometimes at the Châlus siege camp—and she could not help him.

  They reached Châlus at
midmorning on April 6. As soon as she was assisted from her saddle, the Abbot of Le Pin and her son’s Welsh cousin came hurrying toward her. They greeted her warmly, saying the king would be so pleased to see her. Understanding that they were playing to an audience—the soldiers who did not know how seriously Richard had been wounded, even French spies—she smiled, saying she was on her way south to visit her daughter in Toulouse. Only when she was sure none were within earshot did she dare to ask softly, “Does he still live?” And when they nodded but said nothing, she knew it would not be for long.

  She was not surprised to find André there; he was the brother Richard ought to have had. It was Mercadier who shocked her, for as he bent over her hand, she thought she saw tears in the routier’s icy eyes. As Morgan reached for the door latch, she realized how much she feared crossing that threshold.

  The chamber was stifling and shadowed, for it had to be shuttered against prying eyes. André moved a chair to the bed for her and she lowered herself onto it, wondering if she’d ever be able to rise again.

  Richard’s eyes opened when she took his hand in hers. He’d been sure she’d get there in time, for she had never let him down, never. “So sorry, Maman. . . .” So many regrets. That he’d not made peace with his father. That he’d not been able to free the Holy City from the Saracens. That Philip could not have been Berenguela’s. That the French king had not drowned in the Epte. That he’d not taken the time to put on his hauberk. That his mother must now watch him die.

  She held his hand against her cheek. “You’ve been shriven, Richard?”

  “Yes . . . So many sins . . . Took half a day . . .”

  He was dying as he’d lived, and that made it so much harder for those who loved him. But then she remembered what she’d been told about his father’s wretched last hours. After learning that John had betrayed him, he’d turned his face to the wall and had not spoken again. Only as his fever burned higher had he cried out, “Shame upon a conquered king.” An anguished epitaph for a life that had once held such bright promise. No, better that Richard laugh at Death than die as Harry had. His body was wracked with pain, but at least he was not suffering Harry’s agony of spirit. She could not have borne that.

  Richard’s breathing was so rapid that his chest was heaving. Talking was not easy, but there were things he must say. “I’ve made my will. . . . Three-quarters of my treasury to Johnny. The remainder . . . to feed the poor. . . . I want . . . want crown jewels to go to Otto. . . .”

  She nodded her head, squeezing his hand to let him know she understood.

  “Maman . . . I . . .” Richard made a great effort to say clearly and distinctly, “I want to be buried at Fontevrault, at my father’s feet. . . .”

  “I am sure he has forgiven you, Richard.”

  He did not think his father forgave as easily as that. “My Normans . . . always faithful . . . Bury my heart with them, at Rouen. . . . To the disloyal, treacherous curs of Poitou . . . I leave my entrails, all they deserve. . . .”

  “It will be done, all as you wish—” Her voice broke, for there had been a change in his breathing, a gurgling sound often called the death rattle.

  “Do . . . what you can for Johnny, Maman. . . .”

  She nodded again. Not trusting her voice, she reached out and gently stroked his hair. The odor from his wound was sickening. She did not care. She did not think she could endure this, counting each rasping breath, listening as his heart beat more and more slowly and then stopped. But she would. She would not leave his side. She would be with him until his last moment, and then she would grieve for him until the hour of her own death. This was a wound that would never heal.

  Time had no meaning any longer. She assumed hours were passing, but she refused all offers of food or drink. How long would God torment him like this? Leaning over, she kissed his forehead. “You can stop fighting now, my dearest. Your race is done.”

  He’d not spoken for some time and she was not sure he could hear her, but then he said, “Did . . . I . . . win?”

  “Yes, Richard, you did. You kept the faith.” She did not remember the rest of the scriptural verse. She would later wonder how she could have sounded so calm, so composed. But it was the last gift she could give him. “Go to God, my beloved son.”

  After that, he was still. They could hear church bells chiming in the distance. Somewhere Vespers was being rung, people were at Mass, life was going on. André had not thought there was a need for words of farewell, not between them. But now he found himself approaching the bed, suddenly afraid that he’d waited too long. “Richard.” He held his breath then, until the other man opened his eyes. “Listen to me,” he said hoarsely. “You will not be forgotten. A hundred years from now, men will be sitting around campfires and telling the legends of the Lionheart.”

  The corner of Richard’s mouth twitched. “Only . . . a hundred years?” he whispered, and André and Eleanor saw his last smile through a haze of hot tears.

  RICHARD DIED AT SEVEN o’clock on Tuesday, April 6, in Holy Week, with his mother at his side. He was forty-one and had reigned less than ten years. He was buried at Fontevrault Abbey at his father’s feet, as he’d requested.

  RICHARD’S PARDON of the crossbowman was not honored. Once he was dead, Mercadier ordered Peire Basile to be flayed alive.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  APRIL 1199

  Beaufort-en-Vallée, Anjou

  Bishop Hugh of Lincoln was one of the few who’d known that Richard had been seriously wounded at the siege of Châlus, for he’d had a chance encounter with the abbess of Fontevrault Abbey, and she’d told him that the king was not expected to survive. He was at Angers when he got the grim news of Richard’s death and he set out at once for Fontevrault Abbey, where Richard was to be buried. But he took a detour off the high road to ride to the castle of Beaufort-en-Vallée, for he had not forgotten Richard’s widow.

  BERENGARIA CAME HURRYING OUT into the castle bailey to greet him. “My lord bishop, what a pleasure to see you!” Her smile was radiant and he felt a pang, knowing that he was about to unleash a storm that would render her world unrecognizable. But there was no point in delaying it, and he suggested that they go to the chapel straightaway. That aroused no suspicions in Berengaria, who thought it perfectly natural that he’d give priority to prayer. He sent his clerk and servant on into the hall, and followed Richard’s queen toward the chapel, accompanied by one of her women and her chaplain, for even with a godly man like Bishop Hugh, she paid heed to propriety.

  “MY LADY . . . YOU MUST be strong, for I bring you grievous news.”

  She stared at him, eyes widening. “Richard . . . ?”

  He nodded somberly. “He was wounded at the siege of Châlus. The wound festered and there was nothing the doctors could do.”

  She took a backward step and then spun away from them, leaning against the altar as if she did not have the strength to stand alone. Yet when the chaplain and her lady hastened toward her, she flung up her hand, holding them off. Bishop Hugh silently signaled to them, shaking his head. He could see the tremors that shook her slender body. He waited, though, until she turned to face them. Her face was wet, but she’d gotten her voice under control. “Was . . . was there time for him to be shriven?”

  “Ah yes, my lady. You need have no fears about that. He made confession to the Abbot of Le Pin, was absolved of his sins, and died in God’s grace. He even forgave the crossbowman who shot him.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, tears continuing to seep through her lashes. “Does the queen know?”

  He thought it sad that even Berengaria spoke of “the queen” as if there were only one. Knowing he was about to inflict yet more pain, he said, “She knows. She was with him when he died.”

  “I see,” she said softly. “So he sent for her.”

  But not me. Although she did not say it, the words seemed to echo in the air between them. Taking her arm, he drew her gently toward a cushioned bench along the wall, gesturing
to keep the others from following. “I know why he did not send for you, my lady. They were trying to keep it quiet for as long as they could. His brother was in Brittany, and they wanted to get word to him ere the Bretons found out that the king was dying.”

  She stared down at her clasped hands, at the dulled glimmer of her wedding ring. “And it would have attracted attention had I suddenly joined him at the siege.” Again leaving the rest unspoken—Because Richard and I spent so little time together. Whilst a visit from his mother would have seemed quite natural.

  “Yes, my lady, it would,” he said, for he believed the truth was always kinder than a lie. Better that she be shamed to realize her marital woes were known to half of Christendom than to believe that her dying husband had nary a thought for her. He hesitated, but remembering that she would have seen men die of such wounds during the siege of Acre, he said, “Then, too, he would not have wanted you to see him in such pain, Madame.”

  Her mouth trembled and he reached out, took her hand between his as he spoke of the healing power of God’s mercy, assuring her that she and Richard would be together again, and reminding her of the solace of prayer. She raised her head at that. “Will my husband have to endure much time in Purgatory, my lord bishop?”

  “I cannot answer that, my lady.”

  “But our earthly prayers can reduce a man’s stay in Purgatory?” And when he nodded, she expelled a ragged breath, closing her eyes again. She found a smile for him, though, when he offered to say Mass for her household. “Thank you, my lord bishop. I would like that very much.” Remembering her duties to a guest then, she offered him the hospitality of Beaufort.