ONE
Henry VI, emperor of a vast portion of Christendom that stretched from the Low Countries in the north to Sicily in the south, was growing tired of waiting. Initially, having the king of England in a castle dungeon where no one would ever find him had been a delightful distraction. Henry had mulled over endless ideas about what to do with his captive, but the truth was that he couldn’t simply leave the king incarcerated forever. The doddering old fool Celestine had already excommunicated Leopold for having captured the king of England in the first place, and Henry suspected the Pope would eventually get around to excommunicating him as well. Such expulsion could be reversed, of course, with the right sort of abasement to God and the Church, but Henry had enough crises to address already.
The duke of Saxony, Henry the Lion, was—once again—making trouble in the north. Lion, the lackluster younger brother of Richard, was spending too much time in Paris, making plans with Philip, the king of France. And now the bastard Tancred had crowned himself the king of Sicily. Land that was Henry VI’s by right of marriage!
This was the eternal problem with ruling such a vast domain. An emperor never slept well; he could never be sure his borders were secure. And if he wasn’t being vexed by sons of a previously vanquished enemy who had managed to raise an army to take back what had been stolen from their fathers, then it was some unexpected dearth of coin in his treasury.
Maintaining an empire was expensive.
Ransoming Richard back to England had been a masterful idea, but it was a plan that was taking much too long to come to fruition. That was the problem with insisting on such a fantastic amount—one hundred thousand silver marks—to ensure the release of the English king. It took time to assemble that much coin.
Henry had some reason for celebration, though. He had received word from his spies that England had finally assembled more than half of the ransom. Of course, he had also heard disturbing rumors that Philip was quite aware of England’s progress in gathering the funds to rescue Richard. His spies suspected Philip was contemplating some sort of counterproposal.
Henry thought his spies weren’t nearly devious enough in their estimation of what Philip was considering.
There was a sharp double rap on the door to his room, and his steward, Wecelo, entered. Wecelo was tall and thin, and his robe fit him badly enough that he reminded Henry of a wounded bird. Wecelo stepped aside, holding the door, and a second man entered.
The visitor was shorter and broader than Wecelo—neither of which was very difficult—and the man’s face was burdened with a large nose that had been broken several times. As he reached the center of the room, the man dropped to one knee and touched his fist to his forehead.
“Ah, Otto,” Henry said, “I have a delicate matter for your attention.” Otto Shynnagel was not the sort of commander who swayed men with his beauty or bearing, but what he lacked in countenance and charm, he made up for in loyalty and single-mindedness.
“I am at your disposal, Your Majesty,” Otto replied, remaining on one knee, though he raised his head and gazed intently at a spot near Henry’s ankles.
“Several weeks ago, I sent several ambassadors to England, inquiring after the money that Queen Eleanor is seeking to raise for the safe return of her son. Last night I received word that the ambassadors were preparing to return to my court, along with a portion of the money.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Otto said.
“Queen Eleanor is sending a contingent of guards, of course, augmenting the men accompanying the ambassadors,” Henry said. “The silver will be well guarded, though I suspect France might try to intercept the company as it returns to Speyer.”
“And you wish me to intercept this ambush?”
“Not in the slightest,” Henry said with a smile. “I hope the French are successful in stealing this cargo.”
Otto’s brow furrowed. “I do not understand, Your Majesty.”
“Philip wants me to keep the king of England here until the fall. He wants another six months to conquer more of Richard’s holdings in Normandy, and frankly, such aggression is not unwelcome to the Holy Roman Empire. But I cannot condone such action outright. Nor can I openly facilitate such an opportunity for France. But Philip thinks he can sway me with a counteroffer of an equal amount of silver—even though I know he does not have that sort of coin at his disposal. Where might he get such funds?”
“From English wagons,” Otto replied, a hint of a smile on his lips.
“Precisely. If England fails to deliver this first portion of the ransom, then I am not beholden to return their king. Philip’s offer suddenly becomes much more interesting to me, does it not? Such funds would be useful to us in our efforts against Tancred.”
Otto squared his shoulders and nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“But why should I let Philip steal this money and then try to give it to me anyway, while exacting concessions from me?” Henry asked. “I think it is much better for the empire if England lost their ransom and it was clear that the thieves were French, but the money was never recovered. At least, not by France or England. Do you understand?”
“I do, Your Majesty.”
“I can certainly be horrified by this turn of events—this barbaric thievery by the French king—and, showing great generosity, release the king of England to address this most heinous injury against his country by the French.” Henry allowed himself to smile. “My attention would be on Sicily anyway”—he waved a hand at Otto—“where my newly hired army was confronting Tancred.”
“It would be an honor to lead that army,” Otto said. He grinned openly now, a smile made lopsided by his flattened nose. “I will ready my men,” he said, touching his fist to his forehead once more. “We will depart immediately.”
“Very good,” Henry said.
Otto stood, spun on his heel, and strode out of the chamber. Wecelo paused, hand on the door, staring at Henry with a noncommittal expression. “You are not informing Duke Leopold of our decision, are you?” Wecelo asked.
“Of course not,” Henry snorted. “He’ll want his half. I can’t give him half of something I never received, can I?”
“That would be impossible, Your Majesty,” Wecelo said.
“A pity about his excommunication, though,” Henry said.
“Yes, Your Majesty. A tremendous pity.”
“I suspect he’ll manage to find a way to have it lifted. Taking the crusade, perhaps.”
“For a second time,” Wecelo pointed out.
Henry laughed, delighted with that realization.
For a king in captivity, King Richard was well rested, well fed, and well groomed. He sat on a wooden bench near the pond in the center of the garden, a plank across his lap. A white swan glided slowly across the placid surface of the pond, leaving few ripples in its wake. The king’s right hand was moving carefully across the plank, sketching the swan with a piece of charcoal. He wore a dark-green tunic trimmed with brown fur, and his hair and beard were neatly groomed. Hung on a gold chain around his neck was the official seal of England, and on his right hand was a silver ring with a heavy crimson stone.
Maria trailed a few steps behind Richard’s manservant, a stiff-backed young man who, to her eyes, appeared out of place within the imperial court. They had spoken briefly when she had presented herself to see the king, and he spoke German like a native, but he didn’t strike her as being from the local gentry. He hid his common origins well, but she was adept at sensing the tiny hesitations and imperfections that revealed a nonaristocratic heritage.
“Your Majesty,” the manservant said without preamble as they reached the pond. The swan swiveled its head toward them at the sound of the servant’s voice, eyeing Maria more. Knowing who was the interloper of the pair.
Maria curtsied as Richard looked up, and she noted that the manservant did little more than nod toward Richard. A strange familiarity, she thought. It was not unlike the relationship she had with Richard’s wife, Queen Berengaria of Navarre, but she had attended to the queen for many years.
“Hello, Feronantus,” Richard said, his eyes straying to Maria. “Who is that with you?”
“Maria of Navarre, on behalf of Queen Berengaria,” Feronantus said.
“Ah, my dear wife, worrying about me.” Richard’s gaze dropped to the letter Maria was holding. “What news from Rome?” he asked, his attention returning to his drawing, dismissing her before he even heard her answer.
“She isn’t in Rome any longer,” Maria said, her words coming more quickly and more distempered than she had intended. “Concerned about the enormous ransom demanded by the Holy Roman Emperor, she returned to Navarre to assist England—and your mother—in raising the funds.”
Richard’s hand stopped moving on the drawing; then, very deliberately, he smudged a line with the edge of his thumb. Maria held her breath, and the only noise in the garden was the sound of the swan rustling its wings.
“Is there anything else in that letter?” Richard asked quietly.
“She misses you, Your Majesty, and languishes greatly without your presence. She hopes, God willing, that you may be returned to her soon.” Maria punctuated her summary with another curtsy. She had written the letter at Berengaria’s request, and she knew there was no coded message beyond what lay on the page. While she had carried secret messages for the queen before, such was not the case this time. The queen had simply wanted someone she could trust to report on Richard’s well-being at the Holy Roman Emperor’s court.
Arrogant as ever was Maria’s private assessment.
“God willing,” Richard echoed. He looked at her again, and this time he actually studied her face. “Have we met?”
“No, Your Majesty,” Maria lied.
Richard’s eyes narrowed and she thought he was going to challenge her claim, but he set the piece of charcoal down and held out his hand. “Let me see the letter,” he said.
She relinquished it to the king, and he broke the seal to peruse the neat lines inscribed on the parchment. “This isn’t her handwriting,” he noted.
“No, Your Majesty,” Maria said.
“Yours?”
Maria nodded.
“Do you speak it, too?” Richard asked, referring to the language in which the letter was written.
“I have a passing familiarity with the language of your countrymen, Your Majesty,” Maria said in English.
“You have less of an accent than I, and it is my mother tongue,” Richard laughed. “Queen Berengaria has sent someone to spy on me.”
Maria flushed, a reaction that only seemed to amuse Richard further. Feronantus looked mildly uncomfortable to be party to this entire conversation.
“So my queen has started to raise funds on my behalf, has she?” Richard said. “She is a lovely girl and means well, but does she know the enormity of the sum that the emperor has laid upon my release?”
“She would not be making this effort if it were a mere pittance, Your Majesty,” Maria pointed out.
“No,” Richard mused, “she certainly would not.”
The swan, sensing a lull in the conversation, chose this moment to rise up, flapping its wings. It was a beautiful bird, and they all stared at its broad white wings.
“Such an enormous amount of money would be very tantalizing,” Richard said in the wake of the swan’s interruption. “Henry wants to exchange hostages, both from England and from here in Germany, as assurance that neither side reneges on the ransom terms. However, I have heard rumors around Henry’s court that he is growing impatient. He has sent a delegation of ambassadors to my mother, in hopes of getting his hands on some of the coin sooner than later.”
Maria nodded absently. Such rumors had been heard at Queen Berengaria’s court as well. Gathering the ransom was taking a long time, and too many people—both high and low—were starting to dream about having such wealth.
“I do not trust Henry,” Richard said. “Nor my brother John.” He shook his head. “Nor the king of France. Too many men with access to mercenaries who would readily take orders for a bit of that silver.”
“Aye,” Feronantus said quietly, and Maria glanced between Richard and his servant, wondering what conversation between the two of them she had missed.
Richard sighed, and for a moment, his shoulders slumped. “This game has to be played,” he said, adjusting his posture and setting aside his weariness. “It serves me little to depart from the emperor’s court without the ransom being paid. My detractors will only increase their incessant braying about my honor, or lack thereof. Good Christian men will begin to doubt what I accomplished in the Holy Land.” Richard shook his head again. “Too many died to ensure access to Jerusalem. I will not let their deaths be wasted. I will abide by the terms of my captivity—that is my chivalrous duty—but I cannot sit by and do nothing while others plot to disrupt my mother and wife’s efforts on my behalf.”
He flipped over his sheet of parchment and began sketching in broad strokes on the blank sheet. “They’ll follow the river, won’t they?” he said. Maria assumed he was talking to Feronantus, for she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Aye,” Feronantus said, nodding. “If the emperor convinces Queen Eleanor to part with a portion of the ransom, they’ll come by boat from London. To Walcheren and Middelburg, and then up the Rhine.”
Richard’s head bobbed up and down as he continued to work. Beneath his hands, a twisting course of a river emerged, along with a coastline that she recognized as England and the continent—France and Normandy. “How far up the river?” Richard asked. “All the way?”
“It depends on the weather,” Feronantus pointed out. “If they leave England too late, there will be ice. It will slow the boats.”
“Henry won’t like the delay,” Richard said. “He’ll take the silver off the boats and bring it over land.” Some of Richard’s marks on the page were chevrons, and Maria guessed they were indicative of mountains. “If they travel on the north side of the river, that puts them close to Saxony, and the Lion of Saxony has no love for the emperor right now. On the south side of the river, they are closer to France.”
“But not that close,” Feronantus said.
“Close enough,” Richard mused. “The jingling sound of all that silver will carry far, and I suspect the king of France will be listening very intently.”
Feronantus shrugged, as if to say that such allure was lost on him.
“If that is the case, why would Philip wait?” Maria asked. When the two men looked at her, she blushed, but continued. “If I were to steal such an amount, I would not decide to do so on a whim.”
“I would choose the time and place,” Richard said, nodding. “I like your thinking, Maria of Navarre. It is a rare and wondrous gift. No wonder Berengaria sent you to visit me without the slightest inkling of what I am supposed to do with you. A solution presents itself readily enough, though, doesn’t it?”
“What solution?” Maria inquired.
Richard finished his drawing and held it up for the pair to examine it. Just past the first major curve of the river, Richard had drawn a series of narrow hills. “Here,” he said. “This is where I would lay an ambush. Plus”—he slapped a finger against the sheet—“I would force the issue. It doesn’t need to be ice on the river; it can be anything at all. Just enough of a crisis that the captain of the silver train decides to go overland.”
“That is a rather speculative observation,” Feronantus said dryly.
“I know,” Richard laughed. “Which is why I need to depend on you two to act as my eyes.”
“Us?” Feronantus and Maria said at the same time.
Richard grinned. “And if I am correct, you will need to be more than my eyes…”