There was silence after he’d stopped speaking. He’d been telling himself that freeing the king was all that mattered, but he realized now that he needed them to acknowledge what a truly remarkable accomplishment his was. And he did get what he sought—from Eleanor’s young grandson. “The Almighty must have sent you to Trifels,” Otto exclaimed, “knowing how great my uncle’s need was!”
Hubert and Will exchanged glances and they, too, then echoed the boy’s praise; almost as if they were shamed into it, Longchamp thought sourly. Eleanor merely offered a simple “Thank you, my lord chancellor,” but he was quite satisfied with her response. He’d argued that only King Richard could strip him of his office, yet he’d still been compelled to surrender the royal seal and his enemies insisted he was no longer England’s chancellor. So to hear his title spoken now by the queen was to him a vindication of sorts, and he returned to his lodgings in much better spirits. Let the jackals nip at his heels. He had what they could only envy—the utter trust of his lord the king and the wholehearted gratitude of the queen mother.
THE OTHER MEN HAD not lingered after Longchamp’s departure, for they’d been badly shaken to learn of Richard’s ill treatment at Trifels. Will was highly indignant that a king should be cast in irons as if he were a common felon and Hubert was appalled by Heinrich’s treachery, wincing to think how cheerfully he’d parted from Richard at Speyer, convinced that his release was ensured. Eleanor’s grandson insisted upon escorting her back to the queen’s hall built for royal visitors. Smiling, she rested her hand upon his arm as if he were a man grown. They did not have far to go, but as they approached the door, Otto’s steps slowed.
“Granddame, I am quite willing to be a hostage for Uncle Richard. I’d do anything to help win his freedom. And I do not want you to worry about my little brother when we are sent to Germany. I will take good care of Wilhelm, and will do my best to keep him out of trouble, too,” he promised, with the gravity that set so surprisingly on such young shoulders. He had inherited his father’s dark coloring, but he was going to be taller than his sire, even as tall as Richard in time. Like his sister, he’d been blessed with a share of his mother’s beauty, and his sudden, sweet smile never failed to remind her of her daughter, who’d died after a brief illness, only thirty-three.
“Keeping Wilhelm out of trouble will have you occupied night and day, Otto,” she pointed out, and he grinned, kissing her on the cheek before he headed off toward the abbey guest hall. She stood by the door, watching him go. She’d become very fond of Otto, more like her daughter than his spirited sister Richenza and his mischievous nine-year-old brother. All three of them had been raised at the English court, arriving with their parents when Heinrich der L?we and Tilda had been banished after falling out of favor with the Holy Roman Emperor, and remaining even after Der L?we and Tilda and their eldest son, Henrik, had been permitted to return to Saxony three years later. Wilhelm, who’d been born at Winchester during his mother’s exile, and Otto, who’d only been five when they’d left Saxony, spoke French rather than German as their native tongue, and when they reached Germany, they’d be strangers in a foreign land. Eleanor would have given a great deal to spare them that, but she knew she could not; Heinrich von Hohenstaufen was insistent that they be included, for their father and elder brother were among the rebels threatening his throne.
By now the sky was darker than midnight, stars glimmering like distant campfires in an alien world. Eleanor gazed up at those pinpoint white lights, hoping that her son was able to look upon them, too, on this tranquil spring evening. When she thought of his time at Trifels, shut away from the sun and sky and untainted air, she felt a tightness in her chest, a heaviness that would be with her until the day he regained his freedom. And if he did not . . . ?