Richard rose to his feet so quickly that his guards reacted with alarm, hands dropping to sword hilts. “Then in Outremer, he did all he could to make sure our holy war would end in failure. He abandoned the Almighty and his own allies and would have taken the French army with him had they not valued their oaths more than he did. But the Bishop of Beauvais and the Duke of Burgundy did his dirty work for him, sabotaging me at every turn, whilst Philippe tried to get the Pope to absolve him of his promise not to attack my lands as long as I was in the Holy Land. Last year he would have invaded Normandy if his lords had not balked. For those crimes alone, I’d see the bastard burn in Hell for a thousand years!”
It was a great relief to let his rage blaze up like this, to be able to speak the absolute truth for the first time in months. “And that only takes us through God’s Year, 1192,” he said bitterly. “Since then, Philippe and his lapdog Beauvais have done their best to destroy my reputation and my honor, with remarkable success. He has seduced my lack-witted brother into treason and even as we speak, a French army is laying waste to my duchy of Normandy. And as if that were not enough, he is now pressuring you to hand me over so he can cast me into a Paris dungeon. He’d not even have the decency to make my death a quick one. No, he’d want me to suffer . . . and all for what? Because I am twice the man that sniveling, cockless milksop could ever hope to be!”
They’d all been riveted by his outburst and when he finally paused for breath, Markward and Conrad grinned and applauded, while Heinrich summoned up another of his chilly smiles, saying dryly, “You really do not like the man, do you?”
“Can you blame me?” Richard reclaimed his seat and finished his wine in several gulps. His face was still flushed and his breathing uneven, for he’d not feigned his anger. To convince Heinrich, he knew he’d have to show passion that none could doubt, hatred hot enough to make it credible that he could overlook these months of captivity and humiliation, even Trifels Castle. For it was not enough that Heinrich agreed to let him try to make peace with the rebels. Even success would not be enough. Ending the rebellion was no guarantee of his safety, not with a man who knew no more of gratitude than he did of honor. Heinrich had to believe that his long-term interests lay with England, not France.
Heinrich signaled for a servant to refill Richard’s wine cup. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll set up a meeting for you with the rebels.”
“You will need to offer genuine concessions,” Richard warned. “You must make it worth their while to end the rebellion. Are you willing to do that?” Dietrich frowned, obviously not liking that he dared to speak so bluntly to the emperor. But he could display the silver-tongued eloquence of God’s own angels and it would count for naught if Heinrich would not offer terms the rebels could accept.
Heinrich did not reply at once. “Yes, I am willing,” he said at last. “I want this over and done with.” He smiled then, again without humor. “If you can make this happen . . . Well, let’s just say that you hold your fate now in your own hands.”
Richard smiled, too, for although it was clearly meant as a threat, it was not one to unnerve him. He’d held his fate in his own hands every time he’d ridden out onto a battlefield.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MAY 1193
Frankfurt, Germany
It took over a fortnight to make the arrangements for the peace conference, as the rebels insisted that the emperor provide hostages as guarantees of their safety. It was eventually agreed upon that Richard would meet them at the imperial palace in Frankfurt while Heinrich took up residence at the castle of Hanau, ten miles away. Accompanied by his clerk, Fulk de Poitiers, his chaplain, Anselm, and his ever-present guards, Richard reached the riverside city on the last day of May. Several hours later a commotion in the inner court indicated the arrival of the rebel lords. Soon afterward, his door flew open and before the guards could react, his nephew burst into the chamber and embraced him exuberantly.
“Uncle, how glad I am to see you!”
Richard was very glad to see Henrik, too. It had been three years since they’d last met and the young man had matured considerably in that time. No longer a gangling clean-shaven youth of seventeen, he was several inches taller and now boasted a well-trimmed golden beard, for he was the only one of Tilda’s children to inherit her fair coloring. He’d returned to Saxony with his parents when their exile ended, but he’d spent enough time in the Angevin domains to form close ties with his mother’s family. He at once launched into an indignant attack upon Richard’s gaoler, assuring him that most Germans were shamed by the emperor’s outrageous maltreatment of a man under the protection of Holy Church.
“What of your father, lad? Is he here, too?”
“No, he refused to come. He said he’d sooner sup with the Devil than talk peace with a Hohenstaufen.”