“Nevertheless, I will find a way, sire. I promise you that upon the surety of my soul.” Richard didn’t reply, his lashes drifting down to veil his eyes, and the even rhythm of his breathing soon told the chancellor that he slept. He planned to depart for the emperor’s court at Hagenau at first light, so he knew he ought to be abed himself. But he found it hard to leave. Although he’d browbeaten the burgrave into giving Richard a second blanket, he could still feel the cold night air seeping through those open arrow slits, and he removed his own mantle, tucking it securely around the sleeping man.
His had not been an easy life, in some ways made more challenging because his disabled body housed a first-rate brain. He’d been brutally taunted as far back as he could remember, for theirs was an age in which physical deformity was often seen as the outer manifestation of inner evil. He’d soon realized that he was far more intelligent than his tormentors, and from an early age, he’d determined to show them all. Burning to prove himself superior to fools with handsome faces, healthy bodies, and empty heads, he’d looked to the Church as his only avenue of escape. Having neither charm nor good looks nor family ties to recommend him, he’d had only his exceptional intellect to rely upon, and it eventually earned him a clerkship with the old king’s baseborn son, Geoff, and then a post in the chancery. His career would likely have stalled there if not for a chance encounter with Richard, then the young Duke of Aquitaine.
They could not have been more unlike—a prince blessed with the best their world had to offer and a puny misfit—but to Longchamp’s amazement, Richard had been indifferent to his physical frailty, able to penetrate his cripple’s guise and recognize the finely tempered steel of a blade-sharp mind. He had become Richard’s chancellor and, when Richard was crowned, England’s chancellor. Richard had elevated him to the bishopric of Ely, named him chief justiciar, secured for him a papal legateship, and entrusted his kingdom to Longchamp when he departed for the Holy Land.
Never had Longchamp’s ambitions soared so high; he’d even dared to dream of the ultimate prize, the archbishopric of Canterbury. He’d taken advantage of his newfound power to provide for his family, to humble the enemies who’d scorned him for so long, and to give justice to those who so rarely received it whilst safeguarding his king’s throne. But somewhere along that road, he’d lost his way. He’d antagonized men whose support he needed, let his disdain for the English and their Godforsaken isle show too nakedly, and then fallen into the trap set by the king’s brother, who was far cleverer than he’d first thought. During his months in exile, he’d done little but reassess and relive his dizzying fall from grace, concluding that ungodly pride had led him astray.
Even more than his personal humiliation, he’d grieved for having let down his king, the one man who’d shown faith in him. His loyalty to Richard had long been the lodestar of his life, almost spiritual in its selfless intensity, rooted almost as much in Richard’s acceptance of his physical flaws as in the tangible benefits of royal favor. It had not been tarnished by his disgrace; if anything, it burned all the brighter during the dark days of the past year. He yearned to make amends for his mistakes, knowing all the while that second chances were rarely given in this life, especially to those such as him. But he saw now that God had been more merciful than he’d dared hope.
“I failed you once, sire,” he said softly. “I will not fail you again.”
RICHARD KNEW BETTER THAN to take his chancellor’s passionate promise as anything but what it was—a welcome expression of loyalty and outrage. But after Longchamp’s visit, he was in better spirits. He’d been touched to find the bishop’s mantle wrapped around him when he awakened the next day, and he was thankful for the timing of Longchamp’s arrival, sure that the apothecary’s potions had warded off a serious illness. Most important, the world would soon know that he’d been incarcerated in the emperor’s notorious stronghold. However many bodies had been buried at Trifels, his would not be one of them.
He’d lost track of the days, but once he learned that Longchamp had reached Trifels on the eighth day of his imprisonment, he determined to keep count. Each morning, he managed to mark the wall by rubbing the edge of one of his manacles against it; he refused to let himself think a time might come when he’d have filled up all of the space within reach of his chain. He occupied his hours by composing songs in his head, compiling lists of men who now owed him a blood debt, and trying to anticipate what exorbitant and outrageous demands were likely to be made of him when he was eventually summoned by the emperor. He did not think it would happen for some weeks, though. If that weasel Beauvais could be believed, Heinrich would want to give him enough time to become desperate and in utter despair.