The chamber was cold, filling with the night mountain air, and when Richard sat down on the pallet, he saw that he’d been provided with one thin blanket. Leaning back against the wall, he tried to make sense of his plight. Ought he to have seen this coming? Yet how could he have imagined a betrayal of such magnitude? It was obvious now that Heinrich had been biding his time, waiting until the Imperial Diet had dispersed. But did Heinrich truly believe his treachery could be hidden away at Trifels? Why not, though? Only Almighty God knew what bloody secrets had been shrouded behind these stone walls. And how would anyone even know that he was here? His friends were on their way back to England, believing that terms had been struck for his release. How long would it be ere his disappearance became known? Weeks? Months?
When he rose from the bed, his guards at once went on the alert. They showed no overt hostility, but what he saw in their hard-eyed stares was worse—indifference. He did not know if they were routiers or unfree ministeriales, but he did not doubt that these were men who’d cut a baby’s throat without qualms if told to do so by their lord. He’d had many bad moments since he’d looked out the window of the alewife’s house in Ertpurch and seen the trap about to be sprung. But never had he felt as defenseless as he did now, utterly at the mercy of a man without honor or conscience or even prudence, a man so arrogantly sure of his own power that he’d dared to kill a prince of the Church.
Compline had been rung in the town’s churches before a servant brought a tray into the chamber. He set it on the floor and hastily retreated. Richard stared down at the bread and cheese and ale, understanding that he was being sent a message with this meager meal, letting him know that his rank had been stripped away as soon as he’d ridden into the castle bailey. This was prisoner’s fare, not what would be served a highborn hostage, much less a king. He forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls, then pushed the plate aside. Not long afterward, Markward von Annweiler returned.
He was not alone. Richard’s earlier introduction to the castle burgrave had been a terse one, for the ministerialis spoke neither Latin nor French. He was a big, burly man, the sort who might one day run to fat, with receding fair hair, watery blue eyes, and a stolid, phlegmatic mien; Richard had immediately assessed him as one who’d never disobeyed an order or had an original thought of his own. They were accompanied by more guards, so many that some had to wait out in the stairwell. Richard was already on his feet, intending to demand answers even if he did not expect to get them. It was then that he saw what one of the men was carrying—an armful of chains.
“You cannot think I will submit tamely whilst you put me in irons!”
“Actually, I did not,” Markward conceded calmly, “so I asked the emperor what we should do if you resisted. He merely smiled. I took that to mean we can use as much force as needed. But I would hope it will not come to that. This is not a fight you can win, my lord king. Surely you see that. In your speech to the Imperial Diet—and a fine one it was, too—you argued convincingly that it would have been madness to assault Jerusalem when defeat was a certainty.”
He nodded then to the burgrave, who uttered a command, and the guards began to fan out, with the obvious intent to encircle Richard. If they were daunted at the prospect of taking on such a celebrated soldier, it did not show on their faces; several were smiling as if they relished this opportunity. Markward was smiling, too, sounding almost friendly as he said, “You’ll gain nothing by resisting. You’ll merely prolong the inevitable whilst giving these lads a chance to brag in the local alehouse about subduing the English Lionheart. I am not a king, of course, but if I were one, I think I’d have too much pride to let myself be thrashed by lowborn louts.”
Markward paused then to give Richard time to consider what he’d said. He could almost feel the rage radiating off the other man, but he could see that Richard was listening, and he was pleased by that. He was perfectly willing to give the command to beat the English king bloody, but he was practical by nature and preferred the easy way whenever possible.
“Suppose I make your cooperation worth your while,” he said affably. “It has been a long day and I have a soft bed and a ripe wench awaiting me, so I would rather we do this sooner than later. If you submit to the manacles, I will forgo the leg shackles. What could be fairer than that?”
Richard did not trust himself to speak or even to move, sure that if he took so much as a single step, he’d launch himself at Markward’s throat, consequences be damned. But the part of his brain not on fire realized that the German had spoken no less than the truth. Unless he wanted to force them to kill him, all he’d gain by resisting was pain and humiliation. And he was not yet ready to abandon all hope.