THE DAY PASSED AS slowly as if time itself had been paralyzed by the German emperor’s treachery. After darkness fell, some of the men crowding into Richard’s chamber departed to find meals or lodgings in the city, but his mother and friends had no more appetite than he did. He’d said very little after leaving the great hall, slouched in a window-seat or restlessly pacing the confines of the chamber. He was close enough for her to touch, yet Eleanor could feel the distance between them widening as the hours crept by, for he shared none of his inner turmoil. He’d said only that he would not endure another year in Heinrich’s prison, and what frightened her was that she thought he meant it. André and the men who’d suffered shipwreck and flight and captivity with him seemed to think he meant it, too; at least that was how she read their grim faces and brooding silence. But she doubted she could rely upon any of them to try to talk sense into her son if it came to that. They were much more likely to offer up their lives with his, blind followers of that mad male code of honor. She found it ironic that, even after marrying twice and raising four sons to manhood, the workings of the male brain remained such a mystery to her.
Compline had rung hours ago. Otto had reluctantly departed when it became obvious that his little brother could no longer stay awake. Fernando had amused himself for a while by playing with Richard’s parrot, but he’d finally gone off to bed, too. Of the clerics, only the Archbishop of Rouen remained, and most of the men had left with Hugh le Brun when he declared his intention to find a tavern and a wench and get roaring drunk. Morgan, with the resourcefulness of the Welsh, disappeared for a while and returned with a servant toting flagons of wine and German ale. Richard drained two of the flagons, but he still seemed sober to Eleanor, and she thought that in so many ways, he was very like his father. She was trying to remember if she’d ever seen Harry even tipsy in all the years of their marriage, when the door opened and Longchamp stumbled in.
He looked so exhausted that the Archbishop of Rouen, who detested him, nonetheless reached out to guide him toward a chair. Longchamp bristled and pulled away, for he was far too proud to accept aid from an enemy. “Nothing has been resolved, sire,” he said wearily. “Heinrich’s greed has blinded him to the truth—that Philippe and John could never raise the money they are promising. I pointed out that the annual revenues of France are less than half those of England and what money Philippe has will be needed for his Normandy campaign. I reminded him, too, that John’s rich English estates have been forfeited, so he has not a prayer in Hell of paying his share of this disgusting bribe.”
“Did he hear what you were saying, Guillaume?” Richard asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.
“I think it gave him something to think about, sire. But he is as stubborn as he is arrogant, and I fear it has now become more a matter of pride than money. You see, he stands alone in this. All of them—the three archbishops, the bishops of Worms and Speyer, the dukes of Brabant and Limburg, the Marquis of Montferrat, even Leopold and Heinrich’s own uncle and brothers—are insistent that he honor the terms agreed upon at Worms last June. I think his brothers are enjoying this rare opportunity to see him squirm, but the others are truly outraged. The only one to speak up for him was Count Dietrich, and since he is believed to have the blood of that murdered bishop on his hands, his words carried no weight with any of them. Archbishop Adolf had a very heated confrontation with Heinrich, the first time I’ve seen that bloodless snake show real anger. For the archbishop was fearless, saying that ‘the empire had been sufficiently defiled by the unworthy imprisonment of a most noble king,’ and warning Heinrich that if he did this, he’d be staining forever the honor of the empire.”
Richard smiled for the first time since the morning’s betrayal. “I’d have given a lot to see that. Adolf von Altena is a good man, worth a hundred of Heinrich. But do you expect them to prevail?”
“I am not sure,” the chancellor admitted, after a long hesitation. “When we adjourned for the night, Heinrich was still holding out against them. Emperors are accustomed to getting their own way and do not take kindly to opposition from those they see as lesser men. But they are no less adamant than he. We will resume in the morning. More than that, I cannot say.”
“You’d best get to bed, then,” Richard said, “for you’ll have another difficult day ahead of you. We all will,” he added, glancing over at his mother, who looked just as drained as his chancellor. Eleanor did not argue. Rising to her feet, she crossed the room and kissed her son good night before departing to her own chamber. But she got little sleep that night. All of them did.