“Enough!” Richard twisted around on the bench so he could look the other man full in the face. “See my hands,” he said, holding them out, palms up. “Do you see the blood of Conrad de Montferrat on them? Need I swear to you that I did not connive with Saladin to betray the Kingdom of Jerusalem? Well, you need not swear to me of your innocence, either. I know there is no truth to these charges, for I know you.”
Longchamp closed his eyes for a moment. Appalled by these accusations, which went far beyond any he’d ever anticipated, he’d found it mortifying even to give voice to them, but he’d felt honor-bound to let his king know that such rumors existed. “Thank you, my liege,” he said, so low that his words barely reached Richard’s ear.
“I agree that these charges are particularly foul, Guillaume, but you must bear this in mind—that they come from Hugh de Nonant. That in itself would cause men to doubt them, for his own sins are beyond reckoning. If even half of what is said of him is true, his only hope of gaining absolution will be to find a priest so drunken he’d shrive Lucifer himself. Few will believe him.” Richard knew better, of course; salacious gossip spread faster than any plague. But that was the only comfort he could think to offer.
Longchamp grasped at it like a drowning man, so desperate was he to believe none would give credence to the Bishop of Coventry’s slander. He even mustered up a wan smile at Richard’s barbed jest. “Sire . . . there is something else we need to discuss ere we return to the great hall. In my life, I have met many sinful men—greedy, envious, spiteful, overly proud.”
Richard cocked his head to the side, his smile quizzical. “If you are taking me to task for my own sins, it is not my fault that it has been so long since I’ve been shriven of them. And of the seven deadly sins, I refuse to claim more than three—wrath, pride, and lust.”
“I was not speaking of your sins, my liege. We all sin; it is in our nature. But I have met only two men whom I would judge as truly evil. One is that despicable wretch Hugh de Nonant. The other is Heinrich von Hohenstaufen.”
“I’d be the last one to dispute that. Where are you going with this, Guillaume?”
“When we reach Hagenau, Heinrich will want to discuss the new terms of your release. I have no doubts whatsoever that he will not agree to free you without payment of a very large ransom. I know how hard it will be for you to agree to this, but you truly have no choice, and I need to be sure you understand that.”
Richard was silent for so long that the chancellor began to become uneasy. “I do,” he said at last. Staring across the gardens at the red sandstone walls of the castle, he said grimly, “And that is not the worst of it. After Trifels, we know Heinrich cares naught about his own honor, which means that his word is worthless.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
APRIL 1193
Hagenau, Germany
As soon as he entered the great hall of the imperial palace, Richard felt all eyes upon him. There was no overt hostility, mainly curiosity, and he assumed word had spread of his exoneration in Speyer. Trailed by his guards, he started toward the dais, slowing his step so his chancellor could keep pace. Longchamp gave him a grateful, sideways glance, appreciative of these small acts of kindness that need not be acknowledged. As they approached the dais, Longchamp said a silent prayer that his king would be able to hold his temper, no matter the provocation.
Having vowed that he’d be damned ere he knelt again to this shameless swine, Richard compromised with a brief bow. Heinrich was regarding him with a cynical smile. “It pleases us to welcome the king of the English to our court. It is our earnest hope that we will soon be able to celebrate our friendship with a treaty of amity between England and the empire.”
Richard bared his teeth in a smile of his own. “I value that alliance fully as much as you do, my lord emperor.”
“Yes,” Heinrich said complacently, “it is good that we are in such accord.”
Richard turned then toward the woman seated beside Heinrich. Constance de Hauteville had married late in life, at age thirty-one, for her nephew, the King of Sicily, had been in no hurry to make a match for her. She was eleven years older than Heinrich and in the seven years they’d been wed, her womb had not quickened. Richard thought Heinrich would never put her aside as barren, though, for his claim to Sicily rested upon her slender shoulders. Joanna had told him Constance was lovely, but he thought she was too thin, the skin tightly drawn across her cheekbones, hers a mouth no longer shaped for smiles. He could see glimpses of the beauty she’d once been in the sapphire-blue eyes. Yet they were opaque, giving away nothing. She put him in mind of a castle long under siege, determined to hold out until the bitter end.
“Madame, it is my pleasure to meet you at last,” he said, kissing her hand and getting a murmured courtesy in return. He was turning to greet Heinrich’s uncle Konrad, the Count Palatine of the Rhine, when he was accosted enthusiastically by the Bishop of Bath.
“My liege, how it gladdens me to see you here at Hagenau!”