“I have, my lady. I found the king at Trifels Castle—” He got no further, for there were exclamations from all corners of the hall, from those who knew the sinister significance of that German mountain citadel. Eleanor paled noticeably and Hubert Walter gave an audible gasp. Taking advantage of the sudden stillness, Longchamp quickly assured Eleanor—for he was speaking only to the queen now—that Richard was no longer being held at Trifels, explaining that he’d been able to persuade Emperor Heinrich to return the king to the imperial court. There was some scoffing at that, but he did not care if they thought he was boasting; he was prouder of freeing Richard from Trifels than he was of anything else he’d ever done.
“I bring letters, Madame,” he said, stepping forward to hand them to her. There was a private one from her son, meant for her eyes alone; one in Latin, meant for his justiciars and council; and then one from the Emperor Heinrich, sealed with the golden chrysobull used by the Holy Roman Emperors, claiming he and Richard were now “upon terms of concord and lasting peace,” and pledging that he “shall look upon injuries done to King Richard as offered to ourselves and our imperial crown.” And as Eleanor passed the public letters to the archbishop to be read aloud, Longchamp felt a savage satisfaction that these men who’d mocked him so mercilessly would soon hear their king describe him as “our most dearly beloved chancellor” and give him full credit for the escape from Trifels.
THE REST OF THE COUNCIL MEETING was not as contentious. When Longchamp relayed Richard’s instructions for selecting the needed hostages, the Bishop of Coventry started to make a sarcastic comment about trusting him with other men’s sons, only to be sharply silenced by Hubert Walter. Now that they knew a huge ransom would indeed be required to gain the king’s freedom, they wasted no time. It was determined that a tithe would be assessed against laymen and clergy alike, a quarter of their income for the year, that each knight’s fee would be charged twenty shillings, that the churches would have to contribute their gold and silver, and the Cistercians, who were forbidden by their order to possess costly chalices, must give their wool clip for the year. The money collected was to be stored in chests in St Paul’s Cathedral, placed in the custody of Hubert Walter, the Bishop of London, and the earls of Arundel and Surrey, under the seals of the queen and the Archbishop of Rouen. It would be a mammoth undertaking, imposing a great burden upon a kingdom already drained by the Saladin tithe, but Longchamp did not doubt the money would be raised—the queen would see to it. As he watched Eleanor coolly discussing what must be done to free her son, his private letter unopened on her lap until the council was ended, he thought that King Richard had been blessed by the Almighty in many ways, but above all in the woman who’d given him life.
ABBOT WARIN TOLD LONGCHAMP that the abbey’s guest house and lodgings were already filled and he must seek shelter elsewhere. The chancellor supposed it might be true, for St Albans was overflowing with highborn guests summoned for the council. But he could not help remembering how differently he’d been treated when the king had visited St Albans the week after his coronation, how lavish the entertainment, how bountiful the abbot’s hospitality. He made no protest, though, and sent his men to find rooms in the town. They eventually were able to rent a chamber in a private house, not up to Longchamp’s usual standards of comfort. He was too exhausted to quibble and was making ready for bed when he received a message from the queen, summoning him back to the abbey.
LONGCHAMP WAS ESCORTED INTO Abbot Warin’s parlor, where he found the queen attended by Hubert Walter, William Marshal, and her grandson Otto, the fifteen-year-old son of her deceased daughter, Tilda, the Duchess of Saxony. They greeted him with courtesy, if no warmth, and after a word from Eleanor, Otto offered his chair to the chancellor, sprawling then in a window-seat with the boneless abandon of the very young.
“My son told me in some detail how you convinced Heinrich that he should not be kept at Trifels. He was rather vague when it came to his own experiences there, though. I hope you will be more forthright, my lord bishop. I want you to tell me how bad it was for him.”
Longchamp was relieved that Richard had not thought to swear him to silence, for there was no way he could have refused this tense, resolute woman; he’d never seen eyes as penetrating as hers, could almost believe she was able to see into the inner recesses of his soul. “It was very bad, Madame,” he said, and then proceeded to tell her exactly how bad. When he described how he’d found Richard, chained up and ailing, Hubert Walter and William Marshal expressed outrage and Otto’s eyes widened in shock. But Eleanor neither flinched nor spoke, keeping her gaze unblinkingly upon Longchamp until he was done, until they knew the worst.