RICHARD WAS PLAYING A dice game with his guards, mocking their comical efforts to speak French and his equally halting attempts to master German. His new warders were friendly, respectful, and curious, playful sheepdogs rather than the hungry wolves of Trifels; one of them could even string together more than a few words of French. But he knew they were Markward’s spies, even if they did not see their duties in that light, and so he was determined to show no signs of despair or desperation before them. Since he had no money to wager, he told them he’d offer English knighthoods as his stakes, and they thought that was hilarious, calling one another Sir Herman and Sir Wilhelm with clumsy court bows. They joked in turn that they would smuggle in a whore called Lena for him, whose favors they all seemed to have enjoyed.
When Richard actually found himself half tempted by that offer, he realized he’d been far too long without a woman in his bed. That brought his wife to mind, for the first time in weeks. He felt confident that she was coping with his captivity, for her faith was unwavering, as steadfast as any saint’s. He was more concerned for his mother and Joanna, thinking that memories of their own confinement would have been stirred up by his plight. And what of his son? Philip was twelve now, caught in that unmapped, alien land between childhood and manhood. He tried to remember how it was for him at twelve. How would he have reacted had his father been imprisoned? Surely with utter disbelief. But he’d have been able to turn to his mother for answers, for reassurance. Philip had no mother; she had died years ago.
In midafternoon, he was surprised and delighted to be given a letter; the seal was broken, of course, but any communication with the outside world was a cause for celebration. Once he read it, though, he was both saddened and shaken, for this unexpected death proved how little he understood what the Almighty intended for him. Leaning back in the window-seat, open to the warm May air, he struggled to comprehend the incomprehensible. Scriptures said that a man’s heart plans his way but the Lord directs his steps. So God had guided him to this place, away from the Holy Land. But why? He watched as the letter slipped from his grasp, fluttering to the floor at his feet. Nothing made sense anymore.
A sudden knock at the door interrupted this brooding reverie. The guard dubbed Sir Wilhelm by his friends opened the door wide, admitting Markward von Annweiler. Richard tensed at the sight of the ministerialis, whom he’d always associate with that frigid cell at Trifels and those heavy iron manacles. But then the German was forgotten. “I do not believe it!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet as Fulk de Poitiers followed Markward into the chamber.
The clerk quickly held up his hand. “If you must hug me, sire, try not to break a rib!”
Richard burst out laughing and embraced the older man joyfully, not as king and clerk, but as fellow shipwreck survivors, and when he stepped back, he saw the usually stoic cleric was actually blinking away tears. Markward had not lingered, sauntering out with a jaunty wave before they even noticed he was gone. Richard at once began to bombard Fulk with questions. Was he the only one freed? Where were the others? How had they been treated? Had he seen Guillain and Morgan, the lad Arne? Were they all well?
“You have to stop talking ere I can begin to answer, my liege,” Fulk protested, with a fair imitation of his usual grumpiness. “I am afraid you’ll have to make do with just me for now.” The others were still in Regensburg, though they’d been promised they’d soon be released. Of course, promises were easy to offer, not always easy to spend. Whilst no one would ever mistake their German hosts for angels unaware, they’d not been maltreated. He’d been held with those arrested at Friesach, knew nothing of Guillain and Morgan or the boy. He had heard that the Templars and crossbowmen had been set free, though. He thought Anselm would be the next one released, being a priest, but Baldwin de Bethune was likely to be held till the last, highborn enough to qualify as a hostage.
By now they were sitting in the window-seat and the sunlight was not kind, telling Fulk more about his king’s captivity than any words could have done. “You do not look well, sire,” he said bluntly. “I can see that you’ve lost weight, and sleep, too. That cocky German who escorted me here said you’d passed some days at Trifels Castle. Can that be true?”
“Sixteen days, to be precise,” Richard said laconically, but he was willing to go no further than that. Fulk knew him well enough not to push, confident that when he was ready to talk about his ordeal, he would. That it had been an ordeal, Fulk did not doubt, for he was familiar with the sinister reputation of Heinrich’s imperial prison. On the road from Regensburg, he’d been reassuring himself that the king’s rank would have been respected, but that hope had vanished as soon as he’d heard the name of Trifels Castle.
“Obviously we have much to talk about,” he said briskly. “I suspect you are better informed than us about what has been happening in England and Rome. I suppose it is too much to hope that the Holy Father has found the ballocks to take the emperor on.”